Chapter III: Conclusion (1)

WE look forward hopefully to a day when art-education will be extended to all ranks; when a knowledge of the beautiful will be added to that of the useful; when good taste, based upon real knowledge and common sense, will dictate our fashions in dress as in other things. We have schools of art to reform our taste in pottery, hardware, and textile fabrics, not to speak of the higher walks of art, painting, sculpture, and architecture. The handle of a jug, the stem of a wine-glass, the design for dress silks or lace veils, will form the subjects of lectures to the students of the various schools of design; disquisitions are written on the important question whether the ornamental designs should represent the real form of objects, or only give a conventional representation of them, while the study of the human figure, the masterpiece of creation, is totally neglected, except by painters and sculptors. We hope that the study of form will be more extended, that it will be universal, that it will, in fact, enter into the general scheme of education, and that we shall hereafter see as much pains bestowed in improving by appropriate costume the figure which nature has given us, as we do now in distorting it by tight stays, narrow and high-heeled shoes, and all the other deformities and eccentricities of that many-faced monster, fashion. The economy of the frame, and the means of preserving it in health and beauty, should form an integral part of education. There can be no true beauty without health, and how can we hope to secure health if we are ignorant of the means of promoting it, or if we violate its precepts by adopting absurd and pernicious fashions?

Surely it is not too much to hope that dress-makers will hereafter attend the schools of design, to study the human form, and thence learn to appreciate its beauties, and to clothe it with appropriate dress, calculated to display its beauties to the greatest advantage, and to conceal its defects--the latter with the reservation we have already noticed. We hope, also, that the shoe-maker will learn to model the shoe upon the true form of the foot.

Manufacturers are now convinced of the importance and utility of schools of design, and whether the article hereafter to be produced be a cup and saucer, a fender, a pattern for a dress or for furniture, for a service of plate or diamond tiara, it is thought proper that the pupil, as a preliminary course that cannot be dispensed with, should commence with the study of the human figure. Yet, is not dress an art-manufacture as well as a cup and saucer, or a tea-board? Are there less skill and talent, less taste required to clothe the form which we are told is made after God's own image, than to furnish an apartment? Why should not dressmakers and tailors attend the schools of design as well as those artisans who are intended to be employed in what are now called art-manufactures? Why should not shoe-makers be taught the shape and movements of the foot? If this were the case, we are satisfied that an immediate and permanent improvement would be the consequence in our style of dress.

We believe that many portrait painters stipulate that they shall be allowed to dictate the dress, at least as regards the arrangement of the colors, of their sitters; the reason of this is that the painter's selection of dress and color is based upon the study of the figure and complexion of the individual, or the knowledge of the effects of contrast and harmony of lines, tissues, and colors, while the models which are presented for his imitation too frequently offer to his view a style of dress, both as regards form and color, which sets the rules of harmony at defiance. Now, only suppose that the dress-maker had the painter's knowledge of form and harmony of lines and colors, what a revolution would take place in dress? We should no longer see the tall and the short, the slender and the stout, the brown and the fair, the old and the young, dressed alike, but the dress would be adapted to the individual; and we believe that, were the plan of study we recommend generally adopted, this purpose might always be effected without the sacrifice of what is now the grand desideratum in dress--novelty.

The reasons why the art of dressmaking has not hitherto received the attention which it deserves, are to be sought for in the constitution of society. The branches of manufacture which require a knowledge of design, such as calico-printing, silk and ribbon-weaving, porcelain and pottery, and hardware manufactures, are conducted on a large scale by men of wealth and talent, who, if they would compete successfully with rival manufactures, find it necessary to study and apply to their own business all the improvements in science with which their intercourse with society gives them an opportunity of becoming acquainted. It is quite otherwise with dressmaking. A woman is at the head of every establishment of this kind a woman generally of limited education and attainments, from whom cannot be expected either liberality of sentiment or enlarged views, but who possibly possesses some tact and discrimination of character, which enable her to exercise a kind of dictatorial power in matters of dress over her customers; these customers are scarcely better informed on the subject than herself.

The early life of the dressmaker is spent in a daily routine of labor with the needle, and, when she becomes a mistress in her turn, she exacts from her assistants the same amount of daily labor that was formerly expected from herself. Work, work, work with the needle from almost childhood, in the same close room from morning to night, and not unfrequently from night to morning also, is the everlasting routine of the monotonous life of the dressmakers. They are working for bread, and have no leisure to attend to the improvement of the mind, and the want of this mental cultivation is apparent in the articles they produce by their labor. When one of the young women who attend these establishments to learn the trade thinks she has had sufficient experience, she leaves the large establishment and sets up in business on her own account. In this new situation, she works equally hard, and has therefore no time for improving her mind and taste. Of the want of this, however, she is not sensible, because she can purchase for a trifle all the newest patterns, and the thought never enters her poor little head that the same fashion may not suit all her customers. This defective education of the dressmakers, or rather their want of knowledge of the human form, is one of the great causes of the prevalence of the old fashion of tight-lacing. It is so much easier to make a closely-fitting body suit over a tight stay than it is on the pliant and yielding natural form, in which, if one part be drawn a little too tight, or the contrary, the body of the dress is thrown out of shape. Supposing, on the other hand, the fit to be exact, it is so difficult to keep such a tight-fitting body in its place on the figure without securing its form by whalebones, that it is in vain to expect the stays to become obsolete until the tight-fitting bodice is also given up.

This will never take place until not only the ladies who are to be clothed, but the dressmakers shall make the human form their study, and direct their efforts to set off their natural advantages by attending to the points which are their characteristic beauties. A long and delicate throat, falling shoulders, not too wide from point to point, a flat back, round chest, wide hips; these are the points which should be developed by the dress. Whence it follows that every article of dress which shortens the throat, adds height or width to the shoulders, roundness to the back, or flatness to the chest, must be radically wrong in principle, and unpleasant and repulsive in effect. In the same manner, whatever kind of dress adds to the height of a figure already too tall and thin, or detracts from the apparent height of the short and stout, must be avoided. These things should form the study of the dressmaker.

As society is now constituted, however, the dressmaker has not, as we have already observed, leisure to devote to studies of the necessity and importance of which she is still ignorant. The reform must be begun by the ladies themselves. They must acquire a knowledge of form, and of the principles of beauty and harmony, and so exercise a controlling influence over the dressmakers. By this means a better taste will be created, and the dressmakers will at length discover their deficiency in certain guiding principles, and will be driven at last to resort to similar studies. But in this case a startling difficulty presents itself--the poor dressmaker is at present over-worked: how can she find leisure to attend the schools of design, or even pursue, if she had the ability, the necessary studies at home? A girl is apprenticed to the trade at the age of thirteen or fourteen, she works at it all her life, rising early, and late taking rest, and what is the remuneration of her daily toil of twelve hours? Eighteenpence, or at most two shillings a day, with her board! As she reckons the value of the latter at a shilling, it follows that the earnings of a dressmaker, in the best period of her life, who goes out to work, could not exceed 15_s._, or at the most 18_s._ a week, if she did not, at the hazard of her health--which, indeed, is frequently sacrificed--work at home before she begins, and after she has finished her day's work abroad. The carpenter or house-painter does not work harder, or bring to bear on his employment greater knowledge than the poor dressmaker, yet he has 4_s._ 6_d._ a day without his board, while she has only what is equivalent to 2_s._ 6_d._ or 3_s.!_ What reason can be assigned why a woman's work, if equally well done, should not be as well paid as that of a man? A satisfactory reason has yet to be given; the fact, however, is indisputable that women are not in general so well paid for their labor as men.

LETTERS LEFT AT THE PASTRY-COOK'S:

BEING THE CLANDESTINE CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN KITTY CLOVER AT SCHOOL, AND HER "DEAR, DEAR FRIEND" IN TOWN.

EDITED BY HORACE MAYHEW.

THE FIFTH LETTER LEFT.

(_Written on copy-book paper, apparently left by hand._)

SHOWING WHAT KITTY THOUGHT OF GOVERNESSES IN GENERAL, AND OF ONE IN
PARTICULAR.

NELLY, dearest, I have formed a great determination. Nothing shall ever induce me to become that poor, absurd, ill-used creature, called a governess. I would starve sooner, or make shirts (which is pretty nearly the same thing), or emigrate and marry the first savage I met, or be a "touter" at a bonnet shop, or even go into service at a cheap lodging-house; anything, Nelly, sooner than be turned into that hopeless, spiritless, friendless being a governess seems destined by nature, or society, to be.

A governess in a private family is bad enough, but then she is not totally deprived of the comforts of home. She has a room, or at least a bed, entirely to herself, and her meals are generally the same as those of the family. Besides, a certain degree of respect is always paid to her. The servants are obliged to treat her with civility, _at all events in the presence of their mistresses;_ and the mistresses are compelled to show her a little attention, if it is only done to set a good example to their servants. Then, again, their "young charges" cannot invariably be amusing themselves at her expense. They cannot always be teasing her. When they are taken out for an airing in the carriage, or when they are brought down after dinner with their shiny faces and glossy ringlets, or whenever there is company, or their parents and strangers are present, the governess enjoys a brief respite from that system of petty tyrannies she is the untiring victim of elsewhere. She has her few pleasures, though perhaps they may come at long straggling intervals; she has her distractions, her excitements in moving about in the world, and going to places of public amusements, and occasionally she knows what it is to enjoy the sweet success of rivalry--for have we not seen, Nelly, many a poor neglected governess who was doing the work of a musician at the piano, without his wages, receive in the course of the evening more attention than the fine young ladies themselves who were the worshipped idols of the establishment?

But the governess in a girls' school has a very different life of it, Nelly. She hasn't a moment to herself. She is the first to rise and the last to go to bed. She hasn't even the privacy of a bedroom to herself, for she is obliged to sleep in the same room as the girls, to look after them. The only privacy she knows is when she creeps into bed and draws the curtains round her. Our play-hours are no play-hours to her; rather on the contrary, for then her torments really begin, and only end when the bell rings again for class. She is the target at which every little chit fires her fun, and thinks she has a perfect right to do so. She is the only game at which the girls never tire of playing, and to see how they enjoy it you would imagine there was no amusement like it. It is true, Nelly, I have not seen much misery yet, and hope I never shall; but I can hardly imagine anything in this world _more miserable than a school governess on a half-holiday_.

Why, look at poor Blight. I have only to look upon her to feel for the sufferings of the whole class. Her nature seems to be sun-dried. She never smiles, and there is such an air of resignation about her, such a tone of despair that runs through all her words and smallest movements, that it is perfectly clear Hope never whispers into her ear any of those soft motherly words which soothe the agony of one's heart and lull it quietly off to sleep.

She may justly be called our "mistress of all work." She does a little of everything; she helps the smallest girls to dress; takes the junior pupils; hears the reading; sees to the wardrobes; gives out the linen; teaches needlework; and superintends the Saturday night's cleaning; in short, she is expected, as they say of servants, "to make herself generally useful," which means, in our instance, that she is worked to death by everybody, and spared by nobody; besides being teased, deceived, bullied, and ridiculed by every one who has a fancy that way; and for leading a life like this, she only gets 16_l._ a year, and her board and lodging during the holidays!

Snapp (another of our teachers) smiles at Blight's old-fashioned learning. She says it is quite out of date, and only fit for a charity school. Mademoiselle (the French teacher) quizzes her dress, and makes fun of her melancholy, and talks of her contemptuously, as, "_ça_," which I am told is the same as if you were speaking of a cook, or a poor relation, and called her "it." Fraulein (the German mistress) mimics her, and laughs over her patient endurance and old-maidish manners.

It must be confessed that poor Blight's appearance affords plenty of temptation for this cruel ridicule. She is certainly very ugly, and no one ever loses an opportunity of telling her so. The worst is, the example set by the schoolmistress is followed with the greatest zest by the schoolgirls, who indulge in all kinds of practical jokes at her expense. She is unfortunately very short-sighted, and consequently they are always hiding her spectacles, or else rubbing the glasses over with butter or ink. No one considers there is any harm in this, for the girls have grown to look upon Blight as "fair game;" and if any one can put her into a passion, it is considered "rare fun," and thought just as harmless as throwing bread-pills at one another when the mistress's back is turned. When there is no other amusement going on, the cry is always raised, "Let's go and tease Blight," and you see the whole school rushing forward as eagerly as if a gypsy suddenly appeared at the play-ground gate to tell us our fortunes. But if any one is in trouble, Blight is the first to screen her. If any girl is ill, Blight will sit up with her all night, and will pet and nurse the little sufferer until she almost fancies herself at home; and when the little invalid has grown well again, and has recovered the use of her tongue and fingers, Blight never says a word about the ungrateful return, but bears it all like a martyr, which, in truth, she really is. Ugly as she is, I really think there are times when I could _throw my arms round her neck, and kiss her for her goodness_.

I cannot tell you all the nicknames which they have for her face and person, nor would it altogether be agreeable for you, Nelly, I think to hear them. Suffice it to say, the poor thing, is very old--_thirty-nine_, if she is a day; and she has the funniest little head of hair, every hair appearing to be pulled as tight, and to be almost as wide apart, as the strings of a harp. The top of her head is mounted with a round knot of hair no bigger than the worsted ball you see on a Scotch cap. It's a wonder to me she doesn't wear a wig or a cap of some sort, though perhaps it would be too dangerous, as every one would undoubtedly be trying to pull it off. The girls declare no one can recollect her having a new gown. Every quarter a very thin, snuff-brown silk, on a very stiff lining, is brought out as Sunday best; but it is only the old one turned and altered a bit, for that little wicked thing, Jessie Joy, put a drop of ink on one of the breadths on purpose to find it out; and there it is still, journeying about backwards and forwards, first in front and then behind; now on the top, just under her chin, and next down at the bottom, sweeping the floor, precisely as the faded silk is twisted or turned to hide the creases and the ravages of old age. The girls calculate the period they have been at school by this venerable gown; and it's no unusual thing to hear them, when disputing about any particular date, settling it at once by referring to the age of Miss Blight's brown silk, saying, "I recollect very well it was in the ninth quarter of Blight's Sunday gown;" and a reference to a date of this kind is considered as indisputable as to a Family Bible, or an old almanac.

But these are small matters, Nelly, which I am half ashamed to tell you, for under this poor garment there is a heart of so much goodness as to make us wonder at the strange hiding-places in which virtue sometimes delights in lurking, as if from modesty it had taken every precaution not to be found out. What do you think, Nelly? I am told by Meggy that poor Blight supports an old bedridden mother! She has no positive proof of this, but she is morally sure of it. This, then, accounts for the reason why the poor governess is always working so hard--never resting from crocheting purses, and knitting antimacassars sufficient to cover all the sofas in the world. If you ask her for whom she makes this extraordinary quantity (you can't think, Nell, how quickly and beautifully she works), she simply replies, her pale face becoming paler, "_for a dear friend;_" and that is all we can get out of her to reward our vulgar curiosity. This must be the truth, for at all hours, both early and late, has she got a needle in her hand. There is a story that she wakes up sometimes in the middle of the night, and works whilst the girls around her are sleeping. But no one knows the cause of her excessive industry, and I really think she would be miserable if it were known, and her fingers would not ply their work of love half so nimbly if she suspected that the girls, as they watched her with such fixed curiosity, were acquainted with the sacred object for which she was toiling. It is a puzzle when or where she sells all the things she finishes, and no one exactly likes to find out, though one or two attempts have been made, but always ending, I am happy to say, in the most complete failure. It makes me sad to watch her anxiety when there is a postman's knock at the door. She starts up in her seat, and pauses for a while in her work (the only pause it ever knows), until she gives out the letters; and then you would pity her with all your heart to see how disappointed she is--what a vacancy of hope falls like a dark shadow upon her face--when she learns that there is not one for her! Though, when there is a letter, it is scarcely any better. She sighs heavily, looks sometimes at a little locket she carries in her breast, and hurries on with her work quicker than ever, as if the purse she was finishing was to contain her own money instead of somebody else's, and she had so much that she wanted the use of it immediately.

If you have any fancy-work you want doing (any braces or cigar-cases you wish to give away as presents), will you send it to me, Nelly, and I will ask Blight, if I can do so without offending her, to do it for me?

I'm obliged to finish my letter, Nelly, for the fact is I have been writing the latter part of it in our bedroom with a piece of wax candle I took out of a candlestick there was in the hall, and there is only just sufficient left to enable me to scramble into bed, and to assure you how dearly you are loved by

Yours affectionately,
KITTY CLOVER.

P. S.--I intend that my bootlace shall come undone somewhere about the grocer's, when we are out a walking to-morrow, so that I may lag behind, and drop this in the post unobserved. Oh! dear--the candle's gone out. What sh--

* * * * *

TO MISS LAURA.

SO let it be: what shall I lose or gain
By looking less within those eyes?
The promise made shall therefore firm remain,
Though it may cause me care and pain;
My passion will not die, but rise
Beyond the earth, and pierce the skies.
Thine image is impressed upon my heart,
And though you hate, and even spurn,
I still will love, though I do bleed and smart
I'll be as true, nor seek to part;
The love which binds me still shall burn.
Though friends to foe should choose to turn.
So it may be: yet hate me not, I pray;
'Tis a pure love that fills my breast;
Yet I have sought to tear that love away,
To crush it in its dawning day,
And, failing, am I curst or blest
In living void of hope or rest?
Curst you will say, and you may pity me,
And look less cold, or even smile;
A sweet, kind smile will not impov'rish thee,
Or make thy heart less light and free;
Me from my grief 'twill part awhile,
From sadness and despair beguile.

CHARITY ENVIETH NOT.

BY ALICE B. NEAL.

"You don't say so!"

"True as the Gospel, _Miss_ Snelling. That velvet cloak of hers--_she_ calls it a Talma--cost every cent of twenty-five dollars. Then there's her bonnet--that came from New York, too; _Miss_ Dunn's work ain't good enough for her of late years. Well, that bonnet couldn't be bought for less'n eight dollars. Why, the ribbon must be four and six a yard, not to speak of the feathers. Then there's that new plaid silk, you know, and that French merino; neither of 'em less'n twelve shillings, and that's the way she dresses. Time was when she was glad enough to get me to sew for her. I've had her beg, and beg, and _beseech_ me to give her a day, or even half a day, in my spring hurry; and now she's got a seamstress, as she calls that stuck-up girl, that sets in the settin'-room all day. She makes the children's clothes, and _her'n_ are cut and fixed in New York, when they ain't made there."

"She's dreadful extravagant for a church member," said Mrs. Snelling, with a sigh, as she turned herself slowly round before the little looking-glass. She was having a lining fitted by the village dressmaker, Miss Prime, and a merino dress she had worn two years was partly ripped up on the chair by the window. It was the only dressmaking she had on hand for the season. It was a hard winter, and, what with the sickness of the children, and Mr. Snelling losing so much time by the frost, their means were unusually limited. No wonder that she thought of the ease and plenty of the rich manufacturer's household with a feeling of envy. She did not know it, though. She was a plain, good-hearted person naturally, struggling on to do her duty through the discouragement of ill health, ailing children, and very narrow means; but she could not help thinking Mrs. Hubbard was getting worldly and extravagant as, year by year, her household arrangements and personal expenses increased.

Only the day before, at meeting, she could not fix her attention upon the sermon for looking at the velvet Talma worn for the first time by her old friend and still kind neighbor, Mrs. Hubbard. They were members of the same church, of which Mr. Hubbard was the most liberal supporter. He gave according to his means, and, at the same time, desired his wife and family to dress and live as became his altered position and prospects.

"Time was when she had to work hard enough," continued Miss Prime, pinching in a side seam in the endeavor to produce the hour-glass shape, orthodox when she "learned her trade." "I remember when they first set up housekeeping, and she had to do her own work as well as other people, and her own sewing, too. Now I don't believe she takes a needle in her hand from morning till night, while you and I, _Miss_ Snelling, don't git _many_ play spells."

The leaven of uncharitableness worked on in Mrs. Snelling's heart.

"I'm afraid there isn't much spiritual growth, Miss Prime. The cares of this world choke the seed." Poor woman! she thought it was only an interest in her neighbor's best good that prompted such a constant review of her conduct. "People that have their hearts set on dress and high living can't have much time for better things."

"That's what I think. How do you like them _bask_ waists, Miss Snelling? I hear they're all the fashion in New York. Miss Dunn said she'd try an' git me a pattern when she went down in the spring. I wouldn't ask Miss Hubbard to lend me hers to look at for nothing in the world. How am I goin' to get out new backs, Miss Snelling?"

"There's the cape, you see."

"Why, so there is! I never calculated the cape. I was studyin' an' contrivin' all the while you was to breakfast. Says I, 'Miss Snelling'll have to have them backs pieced, and then everybody in town'll know it's been made over.'"

As if everybody in Mrs. Snelling's community would not have known and noticed, under any circumstances, that her brown merino of two winters ago had been turned and made up again for her best dress. She had set her heart, early in the fall, on a new style of plaids, for sale at Brown & Chapins; but the doctor's bill was so much larger than she expected, she was obliged to give it up. The sacrifice had cost her many hours of calculation, alternate resolves, and reconsiderations. Every purchase that she made, indeed, was of necessity turned over and over in her mind for weeks.

Miss Prime went on with her fitting by the window, and Mrs. Snelling with her task of washing up the breakfast-dishes, "jogging the cradle" with one foot, every now and then, as her youngest child stirred in his morning nap.

"That was a lucky thought, that cape." Miss Prime resumed her thimble and her conversation together. "It don't seem to be worn as much as the rest, neither."

"No, it isn't; I only kept it for very cold days. I thought of it in church, Sunday, right in the middle of the sermon. Queer, wasn't it? I was so dreadfully afraid you couldn't get it out. So, as soon as I came home, I took it out and looked at it; sure enough, it was the very thing."

"I see Miss James has got a new cloak this winter. She hain't worn hers more than three winters, to my knowledge. Well, these rich people are jist as worldly, for all I see, as if they wasn't professors." Miss Prime was one of the most constant attendants of the church prayer-meetings, and saw "no beam in her own eyes."

"Time was, as you say, Miss Prime, when we were all plain people together, with good feelings towards each other. I think of it very often--the days when Susan Hubbard and I used to send our little presents to each other New Year's, and be neighborly all along. That was before the Jameses moved here, or lawyer Martin's people. She's so intimate with them now she hasn't got any time for old friends. Many and many's the time I've sent her things right off my table; and, when her Jane had the scarlet fever, I sat up with her night after night. But I don't mind that. What I look at is Christian professors being so taken up with dress, and going about, but dress particularly. It don't _look_ right, and it isn't, according to Scripture."

It was a wearisome, fatiguing day to Mrs. Snelling, who did the whole work of her household. Her oldest son was learning his father's trade, and the dinner for the two had to be on the table precisely at twelve, for they had but an hour's nooning. So, scarcely were the breakfast things cleared away, when there were the meat and vegetables to prepare for "a boiled dinner;" and twice she was obliged to stand and be pinned up in the thick jean lining Miss Prime was fitting with unexampled tightness. The afternoon was no better; she had Tuesday's ironing to finish, her little boy was sick and fretful; though four years old, and very heavy, he required to be nursed and tended as if he had been a baby. She wanted to sew with Miss Prime; but, no sooner would she get her needle threaded, and her thimble on, than some new demand would be made upon her time, and so the short afternoon passed before she could stitch up a seam, and tea must be ready by dark. Besides all this, Miss Prime was disposed to continue her conversation with very little pause or stint, discussing the affairs of the neighborhood and the church with a train of moral, religious, and _personal_ reflections. Every one knows how fatiguing it is to be expected to listen to such a discourse, and respond in the right place, even when the mind is unoccupied; and then the dress did not look nearly so well as Mrs. Snelling had figured it in her mind, the new pieces being several shades darker than the main body of the material. More discouraging than all, it needed "finishing off" when seven o'clock sounded the signal for the conference meeting Miss Prime would not miss on any account.

"I wouldn't mind staying over my time jist to give you a helpin' hand, if it wasn't church meetin' night; but, you know, it's very important all should be there that can. To be sure, _Miss_ Hubbard is so took up with other things now, she never goes; and, though _Miss_ James joined by letter when _she_ came, she's never been to a business meeting. For my part, I think we've got just as good a right to vote in church meetin' as the men, and speak, too, if we want to, though Deacon Smith has set his face against it of late years. So, you see, I'll have to go; and there's only the facing to face down, and them side seams to stitch up, and the hooks and eyes to go on. The sleeves are all ready to baste in--oh, and there's the bones; but bones are nothing to put in--especially as John Lockwood is to be dealt with to-night for going to the theatre last time he was in New York. For my part, I never did put much faith in his religion--and the more some of us stay away, the more the rest of us ought to go. Don't forget to take in that shoulder seam a little. For my part, I think his sister ought to be labored with for singing such songs as she does on the piano. Clear love songs, and plays _opera pieces_, Miss Allen says. Now which is the worst, _I'd_ like to know, going to the theatre or playing opera pieces? _Miss_ Hubbard's Jane does that, when she's home in vacations, though. That piece under the arm don't look so _very_ bad, _Miss_ Snelling--there ain't more'n two hours' work, any way."

Two hours' work, to a person who could scarcely get time to do her mending from week to week, was no trifle. Mrs. Snelling wavered for a little while between the accumulating pile of dilapidated under-clothes in the willow basket and the unfinished dress; but the dress must be done before New Year's day, now close at hand, and she lighted another lamp, and drew her little workstand up to the fire, as the clock again struck eight. Her mind had opened itself to discontented thoughts in the morning, and "the enemy had come in like a flood," until all the brightness of her life had been swept out of sight. She saw only the successive woes of ill health, loss, and wearing anxiety which had rolled over them in the past, and a blank, dreary prospect for the future. Her very occupation reminded her of it. If she could have afforded Miss Prime's assistance two days instead of one, she might have got ahead in her sewing a little; now here was another drawback, and she had so little time. And "there was Susan Hubbard; but, then, _she_ did not give up everything to dress and display, thank goodness! as Susan Hubbard did, bringing scandal in the church, and setting herself up over everybody."

A knock at the front door was a fresh annoyance; for the work had to be put down again, the sick boy quieted, before Mrs. Snelling went shivering through the cold, narrow hall to answer it.

The neighborly visitor was no other than Mrs. Hubbard; "and no fire except in the kitchen," was Mrs. Snelling's first thought, as she recognized her with a mixed feeling of gratification, "hard thoughts," and curiosity. Certainly it was a curious coincidence that the person who had formed the subject of her thoughts and conversation, so much of the day, should suddenly appear.

"Don't mind me," Mrs. Hubbard said, pleasantly, stepping on before her old neighbor. "This way, I suppose?" And she led the way to the kitchen herself, thus avoiding the necessity of an apology on the part of Mrs. Snelling. "How bright and cheerful a cook stove looks, after all! and your kitchen always was as neat as wax. We never used to keep but one fire, you know." This last was an unfortunate allusion. Mrs. Snelling's softening face grew coldly rigid at what she considered an attempt to patronize her.

"Poor folks _had to_," she said, taking up her work and stitching away vigorously.

"I haven't forgotten old times, Jane," Mrs. Hubbard went on, not caring to notice the ungracious tone in which this remark was made, "when we were all beginning the world together. You seem to, though, for then you used to run in and see me, and I was thinking to-night you haven't been up to our house since October."

Mrs. Snelling began to say something about "not going where she was not wanted;" but it died away lower and lower, when she remembered Mrs. Hubbard had been in twice since then.

"I know you have a great deal to keep you at home; I know how it used to be when my children were little. You didn't let me pay three visits to your one then, Jane." Mrs. Hubbard drew her thimble from her pocket and took up the top piece of mending from the big willow basket, in the most natural manner. "This is to go so, isn't it?" said she. "I can work and talk, too, you know. Mr. Hubbard has gone to church meeting; but I don't think it's exactly our place to attend to church discipline, we women are so apt to make a bad matter worse by talking it over among each other, and to people that it doesn't concern. So I thought I'd just run in sociably, and bring my thimble, as we used to do for each other."

Mrs. Snelling would have said, half an hour ago, that she was completely fortified against Mrs. Hubbard's advances, in what shape soever; but she began to find a mist gathering in her eyes, as that old kindness and affection came stealing back again in recollection.

But Mrs. Hubbard was a wise woman, and she knew that a friend aggrieved was hard to win, whether the offence had been intentional or not.

"It's pretty hard work to live right, isn't it?" she said, verging round again to the old subject, after a little talk about the roads and the weather. "Every lot in life has its trials. I used to look at rich people, and think they hadn't a care in the world; but, now Mr. Hubbard has done so well, we have to live differently and dress differently, and there's no end to looking after things. I used to work hard all day, and, when the children were asleep in the evening, sit down comfortably to sew or read; but now there's something or somebody to see to to the last minute. To be sure, as far as dress is concerned, I don't think half so much of it as I used to, when I had to plan and contrive about every cent. Why, I often used to find myself planning about my sewing in sermon-time, if you will believe it, and how I should get the girls two dresses out of one of mine. To be sure, I have no such temptations now."

Mrs. Snelling looked up suddenly, as the recollection of her Sunday plan about the cape came into her mind. Could it be that to _Him, into whom all hearts are open_, she had been the less sincere worshipper of the two?

"I should like to try a little prosperity, by way of a change," she said, more pleasantly than she had last spoken, but still with bitterness beneath. "I'm tired of slaving."

"Oh, Jane!" Mrs. Hubbard said, quickly, "don't choose--don't choose your trials. I used to say that very thing, and that it was all well enough for rich people to preach." Mrs. Snelling saw the painful expression that crossed her friend's face, and the current report of young Robert Hubbard's dissipation came into her mind. "Everybody has their own troubles; some don't stand out as plain as others, and don't get so much pity. Rich people get very little, and they have hard work enough to bring up their children right, and to live in peace and charity with all. I've got so now I only ask for patience to bear the trial of the time, instead of praying to have it changed, and thinking that I could bear any other better."

The two women sewed in silence for a little while; each heart knew its own bitterness.

"Jane," Mrs. Hubbard said, stopping suddenly and looking into the bright grate in front of the stove, "shall I tell you what this puts me in mind of, seeing this nice bright cooking-stove? Of that New Year's night, the winter Robert was sick, and our children were all little, when you came round and brought them over to spend the afternoon, and boiled candy for them and let them pop corn. They brought us home a plateful of braided sticks. Poor little things! if it hadn't been for you, they wouldn't have had so much as a pin for a New Year's present, their father was so sick, and I was so worn out. Why, only think, they had been teazing me to buy them some candy, and I actually did not feel that I could afford that quart of molasses! I've thought of it often and often since. Somehow, this winter there's scarcely a day when it doesn't come into my mind, and I always feel like crying."

Mrs. Snelling was crying, as Mrs. Hubbard's voice faltered more and more; she did not attempt to conceal it, she remembered that New Year's day so well, and how she had pitied Susan's poor little boys, and brought them home and made them as happy as children could be made, in the very kindness of her warm heart. The long struggle with poverty and care had not seared it, after all.

"Don't cry, Jane. But you won't mind, and you won't misunderstand me now, if I've brought you a New Year's present of a dress? I was afraid you wouldn't take it as it was meant, if I just sent it. Here it is." And Mrs. Hubbard unrolled the very raw silk plaid Mrs. Snelling had so long coveted. "I wanted it to be useful, and I went down to get a cashmere like mine; but you happened to be there when I went in, and I saw how long you looked at this."

Mrs. Snelling remembered the day, and that she had come home thinking Mrs. Hubbard had felt too grand to talk to her before the clerks.

"I was afraid you would find me out, and so I kept at the other end of the store. Now, you won't misunderstand me, will you, Jane?"

"Oh, Susan, I had such hard thoughts, you don't know." And Mrs. Snelling put her apron up to her eyes, instead of looking at the new silk.

"Never mind that now, it's only natural. I could see just how you felt, for the more I tried to be neighborly, the colder you got. It's grieved me a good deal. But about the dress. Ann was not very busy, and so I had her make the skirt, as we could wear each other's dresses in old times, and every little helps when a person has a good deal to do. If you will let me know when Miss Prime comes to make it up, she shall come over and sew with her."

"Charity is not easily provoked, suffereth long, and is kind," was the minister's text the next Sunday; but Mrs. Snelling thought of a better illustration than any he could offer, and noted the rest of the verse with humiliation--_charity envieth not_.

* * * * *

TREASURES.

JOY makes us grieve for the brevity of life; sorrow causes us to be weary of its length; cares and industry can alone render it supportable.

SERENITY of mind is nothing worth, unless it has been earned: a man should be at once susceptible of passions, and able to subdue them.

MEMORY is like a picture-gallery of our past days. The fairest and most pleasing of the pictures are those which immortalize the days of useful industry.

IF you wish to make yourself agreeable to any one, talk as much as you please about his or her affairs, and as little as possible about your own.

PUT away presumptuousness and pride: if they assail thy heart, think of the beginning and end of life. Narrow, indeed, are the cradle and the coffin: in both we slumber alike helpless, to-day a germinating dust, to-morrow a crumbling germ.

THE ECONOMICS OF CLOTHING AND DRESS.

REMAKING AND MENDING.

SHAKSPEARE tells us that "an old cloak makes a new jerkin;" and with such authority and sanction for turning old materials to new purposes, we will make no apology for giving our readers a chapter of advice and instruction on some of the most feasible plans of turning old garments to good account.

Many are obliged by necessity, or as a matter of good economy, to do this; and those who are richer, and can afford frequently to purchase everything new for themselves, will greatly add to their kindness to their poorer neighbors, if, when they give a cast-off garment, it is accompanied by a little judicious instruction as to how to make the best of it.

We will suppose a poor woman receiving the gift of a lady's dress fully trimmed all over, and so near a fit, that she might think it had been made on purpose for her, if it was not a little too tight. Would it be the wisest thing she could do to take and wear the dress just as she received it? If she did so, the probability is that she would do those about her, as well as herself and her dress, a great injury. She would, most likely, be very cross in her family, for that is often one of the ill effects of dressing too tight. She might, too, begin to think that she looked so like a lady with this full-trimmed dress, that sundry unbecoming airs would be likely to creep over her. And as to the dress, nature would endeavor to free itself from restraint, and hooks and eyes would be bursting this way and that, and the flounces, that were very suitable to a lady's mode of life, would soon be torn and soiled in the household occupations of a poor woman. And in two or three weeks, this dress, that might have been made to do her good service for months, will have such a slovenly and torn appearance, that it had better be put out of sight.

We should recommend, as a preferable course, that, on receiving such a gift, all conspicuous and needless trimmings be taken off, and the body and sleeves be made a comfortable fit, by putting in pieces where they are needed; for which purpose some of the trimmings will be useful. Or, if it should be a very full skirt, it might be better to take a breadth from that, which will serve to make a fresh body. If it is too long, or if it is rubbed, and a little worn at the gathers, the skirt should be taken from the body, and sewed on again at the right length, at the same time placing the middle of a different breadth to the middle of the body, so as to put the worst worn part of the gathers to the place where they will have the least wear. This will oblige running up the opening at the back of the skirt, and making a new one. All this trouble will, however, be well repaid by having a comfortable and suitable dress; and ladies are much more likely to repeat a kindness when they see that their gifts are well used and valued.

When a mother has worn a dress as long as she can, it will be strange if there is not enough which is pretty good left in the skirt, which will make a frock, or perhaps even two, for a little girl. It is well to bear this in mind in buying a dress, and to choose one of a pattern that would not be very conspicuous or unsightly if it should afterwards be used for children.

Another good use to which to put an old dress is, by altering the body and sleeves, to adapt it for a petticoat. It is well, however, not to be in a hurry to do this. Two mothers had each a good black satin dress; in the course of time they became, as unfortunately all dresses will, too shabby, or too old-fashioned for their wearers' use. One mother picked hers to pieces, washed and ironed it, and made from it two handsome-looking mantles for her daughters. The other adapted hers for a petticoat, and spent five dollars in the purchase of new mantles for her two daughters. The mantles made of the old material were far the better looking, and the more serviceable. Now one dollar would have bought a petticoat; and thus the saving of four dollars might have been made for the pocket of the husband.

Bonnets may be lined or made from the cuttings of old silk dresses. A lady benevolently disposed can find the means of assisting a needlewoman in want of work, by employing her to use up odd pieces in this manner. She will thereby give the workwoman the means of earning a few shillings, and at the same time she will, at a comparatively little cost, enable herself to rejoice the hearts of various old women by the gift of a comfortable silk bonnet.

The remaining parts of some dresses will prove suitable for making aprons and pinafores.

But what can be done with dresses that are so washed and worn as to be of no service even for a child's frock or pinafore? Why, they may be cut up for dusters, if they will do for nothing else, and they will serve nicely for the little girls to learn hemming upon. Indeed, it only wants an active, notionable mind to discover good uses for almost anything that may be at hand, and render it applicable to some of the requirements of the possessor.

About the worst thing to do with old dresses is to carry them to an old clothes-shop, or to dispose of them at the door for something out of a basket.

Woollen garments, such as coats and trowsers, offer rather more of a puzzle as to how to dispose of them. They are, however, articles to be by no means despised, as a peep into the working-rooms of some old clothes establishment might soon convince our readers. Many a second-hand waistcoat, cap, and even child's complete suit, have been contrived from the refuse contents of an old clo'-man's bag. These old clothes-merchants, however, never cut up garments that can by any contrivance of piecing and cleaning be made suitable for wear, or to fetch a price in their original form. This a good home manager should also observe.

Cheap bought slop-clothes are scarcely worth the time and trouble of remaking into anything. But a bit of broadcloth that has been originally good may be brought into use over and over again, when its original purpose has been almost forgotten.

In a family of restricted means, where the father is obliged, by his line of life or connections to keep up what is called a respectable or genteel appearance, if the mother is a good contriver very little need be purchased for the clothing of her boys until they reach their teens. The clothes that the father is, for the sake of appearance, obliged to lay aside, will afford good material for clothing them. But how often pride, more than a want of knowledge, comes in here, and prevents the mother from doing what she might and could do. She is afraid that if she herself makes clothes for her boys, she may be laughed at as "a hen tailor." And if she should employ a needlewoman, who could do such things well and inexpensively for her, she is afraid the woman will speak of it, and think her mean for using old clothes; and she will in preference buy cheap, ready-made clothes, which will not last so long, and perhaps not look any better than what she might have obtained for a tithe of the cost by using the materials laid by at home.

To keep up a genteel appearance with only a small income, is a very trying situation to be placed in; nevertheless, it is the lot of very many; and a wise woman will feel sure that she is not acting meanly, while she acts in accordance with the limits of her husband's purse. Nothing can be more mean than to increase his anxieties by indulging in any needless expenses in dress.