scenery which surrounded it, such a lovely finish to the landscape, with its airy towers and graceful porches, its cultivated grounds, winding walks and delicious gardens, that I forgot my own selfish disappointment, in admiration of this beautiful home. 66 'Doubtless," thought I, "if I walk on farther, I shall find the place I desire. In the mean time, I will admire this." A fragrant thicket which lined the fence sheltered the garden upon one side of the mansion from too broad observation of passersby. I pressed up to a break in this green curtain and peered through, drinking in the richness which began to arise from millions of flowers, as the dew of evening called it forth. Not far away from where I stood, a little fountain leaped into the air, and fell back full of silvery laughter, into a basin of gray-stone, whose edges trailed with water-lilies and moss. Upon a step at the foot of this basin, reading a book, and with one fair hand, lovely and white as the water lilies beside it, carelessly dipping into the fountain, unconscious of observation, sat a young girl. It needed but one glance to tell me it was she! Magnetism, destiny, fate, or what not, had drawn me, as by a golden chain, straight to that lovely country-home which my imagination had pictured months ago. She sat there in a simple home dress of white muslin, a rose in her bosom, and another in her uncovered hair-glorious hair, flowing in soft golden-brown masses about her temples and neck, making the fairness of her forehead more pure, and deepening the delicate wave of color on her cheeks. An "arrow of sunset" seemed to fasten the rose in her tresses, and another fell athwart the circlet of gold binding the round arm which upheld the book. My heart throbbed to suffocation. As I grew calmer I felt that I ought not to stand there, like a thief, gloating upon this unconscious treasure. I was ashamed to gaze, and yet I could not tear myself away, pass on to night, and loneliness and hunger of the heart, leaving this world of beauty and delight-this paradise, guarded by the flaming sword of-wealth. Yes! that was the flaming sword which kept me out. If I had not been poor, and she been rich, I would have made some simple excuse, and walked into this home which I knew I was fitted to appreciate, and could not possibly degrade. If she had been a mystic maiden, drawing water from the well, I should have stepped to her side and asked the common boon of a cup of cold water. It was only because she was rich that she was so far away from me. I could only approach the portals of a home like he13 with proper credentials. I looked down at my dusty garments and worn shoes-what had a wandering artist to do with the hospitalities of this fine country-mansion? I have said that I was handsome, and that I had an air of such elegance as to cause me to become the favorite model of certain fashionable tailors; but I was not looking my best upon this occasion. My wardrobe had grown shabby for want of renewal, and the dust and toil of a warm day's travel had not improved it; my artist-kit would of course be mistaken for a peddler's pack, and the great white dog which I saw walking about in state on the broad avenue would doubtless show his teeth if I approached him in my present guise. Sadly I looked, and longed, and turned away; but, as I trudged a little onward, whom should I meet but the magnificent Miss Theresa Tallmadge, of the city, riding a black horse, and looking more beautiful even than in the atmosphere of a Broadway store. She regarded me curiously as she passed, and just as I hoped that I had escaped her recognition, she drew rein, and said, pleasantly : "Mr. Brownell, surely! Where are you going, and what are you doing? You needn't say, for I read the whole story; out on a sketching tour. Uncle will be delighted; he is very fond of pictures, and makes pets of all the artists. Where are you stopping?" "Really, I hardly know, Miss Tallmadge. I may take lodgings in a new-mown haystack to-night, if I can find one. I've been so enchanted by this delicious country road that I have wandered on regardless of consequences." "Take lodgings in a haystack! That sounds very pretty, Mr. Brownell, but it wouldn't be half so romantic in reality. You know what the poet says― 'You lie down to your shady slumber, And wake up with a bug in your ear.' Uncle would not forgive me if I permitted it; and, as there is no comfortable resting-place for the next five miles, and you look too weary to walk that distance, I shall take the liberty of inviting you, in his name, to tarry with us." She said all this very courteously, and with more warmth of hospitality than I had given her class the credit of possessing; but that mean weakness of personal vanity which made me ashamed of my present appearance caused me to refuse her kindness. What was I to her or to that maiden reading by the fountain that I should exalt my pride into refusing passing hospitality, for which I felt grateful, yet would not accept? I was passing on, with half-uttered thanks, when a little wicket gate opened just at my side, and the fair reader appeared, book in hand. I blushed; but so did she, or else I imagined it. "You have come just in time to second my invitation to our wandering friend to stop with us to-night, Cousin Marion. Miss Tallmadge, allow me to present to you Mr. Brownell. He is an artist, after your father's special liking, and I think it too bad that he should be allowed to throw himself upon a haystack for hospitality, when we have a spare chamber, don't you?" "I do, Mr. Brownell. We should be really happy to have you visit us. Come in, without a word of apology." The simple frankness of her voice compelled my obedience. I would have been churlish to doubt the earnestness of these two beautiful women, evidently so generous in their impulses. "If you will excuse the dust of travel, and allow me to give you as little trouble as possible, I will accept your hospitality as frankly as it is proffered." I walked beside my young hostess, and her cousin kept pace with us, reining in her spirited horse. "Don't think we are not acquainted with you, Mr. Brownell," continued Theresa; "my father knew yours years ago, and honored him. We had hoped to bring about an acquaintance last winter, when that terrible accident prevented. We heard of it, and meant to have kept trace of you; but we lost your address, and Million & Billion could not tell us where to find you." I thought of my humble room, and was glad they had not found it. The fact that they knew me as the representative of my father's family explained to me their willingness to accept me without other credentials, for my father had left behind him the great wealth of a respected name, in lieu of any other. I felt more at ease in a moment; and, recovering my self-respect and self-possession, I shook off false shame, and became myself. That evening was an epoch in my life. After tea had been sent me to my chamber, and I had refreshed myself with a bath, I descended to the parlors, where two or three other guests were assembled with the family. Mr. Tallmadge was a noble old gentleman of the real school of refinement, a widower, and Marion was his only child. Her cousin Theresa was spending a few of the summer weeks with her, in return for her visit during the winter holidays. There were some other people present, among them a young gentleman, who at once made me the most miserable that I had ever been in all my life. Agreeable, accomplished, brilliant, an evident favorite with all, and with that nameless ease which betokens high social position, and no embarrassing pressure of the poverties and humilities of life, he was to me the triumphant embodiment of what I should have been. He was my rival; I made him so in an instant. Not that I was so low as to envy him his happiness or his success, but he was privileged to love Marion, and that he did love her and she him I made up my mind was a certainty. He bent over her at the piano, whispering to her between the pauses of the music; he led her out on the moonlighted portico, where the shadows of the rose-vine played over their graceful figures; I saw her smile and blush beneath his glance until my head grew so hot and my heart so cold that I wonder now Mr. Tallmadge could find it within the limit of his politeness to continue to be agreeable to so stupid, so sullen, so wretched a fool as I made of myself. Marion was kind to me as a hostess, but no more; she said so little to me, and that with such reserve that my tormenting pride took fire, and blazed within me furiously. She had tendered me hospitality as she would have done any unsheltered human being, not as a friend or an equal; so I construed her maidenly reserve, and thus sillily did I anger myself until I was glad when the hour came for retiring. The next morning I was haggard, from a night's unrest. The family all spoke of it, and all feared that the accident from which I had suffered had undermined my health. When Marion referred to it, I thought I saw her lip tremble, and a pitying, yearning look come up from her soul into her eyes. For an instant, I was thrilled and happy; the next, I cursed myself as a vain fellow who mistook a woman's pity for sympathy and interest. I was urged to stay, and make the mansion my home as long as I wished to sketch in the neighborhood; but I could not, I dared not; every hour I felt more irresistibly what I had known from the first moment of beholding Marion's face; and could I remain in her presence, fighting down my unconquerable love, and enduring the misery of seeing the man to whom she was betrothed enjoying that which I coveted? It was not my jealousy alone which confirmed my belief; I heard one or two covert allusions to a coming wedding. So I resisted the invitation of my host, silenced the cry of my heart, and bade the family farewell. I felt at liberty only to bow to the ladies; but Marion held out her hand, and for a blessed instant of time it rested in mine. I did not see her eyes, for they were bent upon the ground; but, looking back after I had gained the road, I saw him pelting her with roses, and she laughing gleefully, as if there were no poor artist, mad with love and despair, trudging off into the solitude of lifelong isolation. I was back in my dull chamber, with a portfolio full of sketches. I labored with a twofold earnestness-to provide for my little sister, and to forget that haunting dream of the summer. As soon as her present term was completed, Florence was to come to me, and be my little housekeeper. We would live according to our means, whatever these might be; and I would not consent to her going into the concert-room, as she desired, so I must begin to earn something against the day when she should come home; that is, come to our bleak rooms, and make home of them. I completed two pictures, and obtained the privilege of displaying them in the windows of a fashionable picture-dealer. They were companion-pieces, sketched in the valley to which I have referred. Every evening for a fortnight I happened in, hoping to hear they were sold. Finally, when I came, I found them both gone; they had been admired and purchased by a lady. I did not like to ask if my agent knew the name of the buyer; but I summoned up courage, and learned it was aMiss Smith. The price paid for them was fully equal to their worth. I went home very much encouraged, sending more to the same shop in the course of a few days. These also found a purchaser; a gentleman, a stranger in the city probably, the vendor said. Well, every one is blessed with sufficient vanity to take him comfortably through the world; and when I found that nearly every picture I displayed was bought, and that the agent was beginning to be eager to have my work in his windows, I began to nurse up my self-esteem and fondle it until I persuaded myself that I was really a great painter, destined to honor and wealth. By the time that Florence came to me I was enabled to rent and furnish three very pretty rooms. I made my studio in the parlor, sleeping on the sofa at night; Florence had a nice bedroom, with a dainty set of chamber furni ture, and made the fairiest little cook and housekeeper that ever set table for a bachelor brother. The child was happy, and I ought to have been. My studio was not entirely unknown; brother artists occasionally called in, and sometimes ladies honored us with a visit. Amid other pictures which I had disposed of, was a portrait of Florence. I could have sold as many copies of it as I wished, she made so sweet a picture; but I did not like to make any of her gifts and graces the means of my advancement. Again it was December, just a year from the day of that dreadful night of my accident. I sat by the window, thinking; now shuddering over memories of past pain, and now congratulating myself upon the accomplishment of so much. I had lost the use of a right arm, and gained that of a left. I had conquered a great difficulty, triumphed over an adverse circumstance. I looked at my darling, busy with her embroidery, smiling and singing to herself; at the light, airy parlor, with its pleasant furniture; I heard the hum of the kettle on the little grate in the next room, where Florence was presently to prepare our evening toast and tea. I felt hopeful, calm, grateful. If it had not been for that ever-present dumb aching of the unsatisfied heart, I should have been happy. I saw a carriage pause before the door; a lady leaned out whom I recognized as Miss Theresa Tallmadge, and a white-gloved footman sprang to the ground with cards in his hand. Presently he thundered at my door; the cards were wedding cards of invitation; Miss Tallmadge was to be married the following week, and she had remembered me; both Florence and I were bidden to the festival. I thought I would accept, if only for the privilege of making myself discontented and miserable. Doubtless I should see her there, by this time a wife. I would see her once more, happy with her husband, and I would come home, and take my revenge upon fate by painting great pictures. Mrs. Chester kindly superintended the toilet of my little companion, and at the appointed day and hour we arrived, in a hired carriage, at the stately residence of the Tallmadges'. Even in the blaze of beauty and splendor which surrounded us upon entering, I was proud of my sister. I heard many murmurs of admiration, saw many eyes turned pleasantly to her sweet face. The little witch said afterwards that she was proud of me, that she was certain I was the best-looking man in the company; but she loved me, and that must be the excuse for her weakness. Presently I forgot everything, even Florence. I was wondering where Marion was, and when she would make her appearance. Then there was a rustle and stir in the courtly crowd-the bridal party were descending the stairs-they had entered the room-I looked and saw Miss Tallmadge, pale, superb, beautiful, and by her side the man whom I had so unceremoniously given to Marion-the bridegroom, looking more triumphantly satisfied with himself and his fortune than ever. Marion was first bridesmaid, and a young gentleman whom I recognized as Therese's brother was her assistant. There was a train of youthful attendants; but for a few moments I saw only these. There was such a rushing of blood through my veins that I heard nothing distinctly until the ceremony was over, and the friends pressed forward to congratulate the happy couple. Last amid the groups came Florence and I. The bride kissed the beautiful child; so did Marion, and as she raised her head, our eyes met. What emotion was it which sent that divine flush surging up in rosy waves from bosom to brow? My eyes must have asked the eager question, for her own drooped. If a blind man should have the sense of sight fully and suddenly developed in the midst of earth's most enchanting beauty, he would not experience a more rapid joy than did I. In the course of the brief festivity which preceded the departure of the newly-married pair, Marion sought out Florence, the most delicate flattery she could pay to me. "I knew your sister at Mrs. Chester's," she said to me. "I believe she stole the place in our teacher's heart which I used to occupy. This interested me in her-her beautiful voice, too; and so, and so it was that we chanced to hear about you”—and again that flitting blush and glance. Of course we called upon the bridal party after its return. It was no presumption in me to follow up an acquaintance so encouraged. False pride melted away before the real appreciation and sympathy of a most delightful family, among whom Marion remained a guest all that auspicious winter. That she should be rich and I poor was reason for the most maidenly encouragement she gave me; it was sufficient to induce me, in an hour of love and hope, to put into language the dream which had grown into reality. I have come to the conclusion that I am more of a lover than an artist, after all. It was a severe shock to my artistic vanity, when I visited the home of my sweet wife, Marion, to find there, in her father's gallery, all those various works of mine which I had been so gratified to find meeting with such rapid appreciation and sale. "Miss Smith" had been only the assumed name by which my modest patron had covered up her good deeds; her father and friends had also assisted her in the good work. "Don't think it was because I admired your pictures so much, Paul," she said, while a little lurking smile flashed through her tears with the most piquant effect; "it was because Mrs. Chester told me of your noble devotion to your little sister. It was that which first interested me in you. I induced my cousin to make your acquaintance, thinking it would do no harm for you to receive a little of the praise and encouragement you deserved. Your love for your sister gave us all confidence in your goodness. Though I won't say that sisters, or pictures, or anything else, had influence after I had once met and spoken to you; it was pure affinity, then, Paul; we loved each other because we were born to; our 'marriage was made in heaven!'" Yes, it was indeed made in heaven! "But we shall love little Florence none the less for her part in the matter," added Marion, as the child came fluttering into our presence, gay as the birds of morning. "She shall lose nothing by losing her brother." "You know, little one, you didn't want me to marry a wife?" I said to her. MANUFACTURE OF PINS. WE often hear the expression used, when talking of anything comparatively useless, that "it's not worth a pin ;" and from this we might be led to suppose, did we not know it to be otherwise, that a pin was a very worthless thing, instead of being what it is-one of the most useful that is manufactured in this or in any other country. As the use of pins is principally confined to the female portion of our community, perhaps the following short account of their manufacture may not be uninteresting to our readers : Pins are made of brass wire. The first process which it undergoes, by which any dirt or crust that may be attached to the surface is got rid of, is by soaking it in a diluted solution of sulphuric acid and water, and then beating it on stones. It is then straightened, after which it is cut into pieces, each about long enough for six pins. These latter pieces are then pointed at each end in the following manner: The person so employed sits in front of a small machine, which has two steel wheels or mills turning rapidly, of which the rims are cut somewhat after the manner of a file: one coarse for the rough formation of the points, and the other fine for finishing them. Several of these pieces are taken in the hand, and, by a dexterous movement of the thumb and forefinger, are kept continually presenting a different face to the mill against which they are pressed. The points are then finished off by being applied in the same manner to the fine mill. After both ends of the pieces have been pointed, one pin's length is cut off from each end, when they are re-pointed, and so on until each length is converted into six pointed pieces. The stems of the pins are then complete. The next step is to form the head, which is effected by a piece of wire, called the mould, the same size as that used for the stems, being attached to a small axis or lathe. At the end of the wire nearest the axis is a hole, in which is placed the end of a smaller wire, which is to form the heading. While the mould-wire is turned round by one hand, the head-wire is guided by the other, until it is wound in a spiral coil along the entire length of the former. It is then cut off close to the hole where it was commenced, and the coil taken off the mould. When a quantity of these coils are prepared, a workman takes a dozen or more of them at a time in his left hand, while, with a pair of shears in his right, he cuts them up into pieces of two coils each. The heads, when cut off, are annealed by being made hot, and then thrown into water. When annealed, they are ready to be fixed on the stems. order to do this, the operator is provided with a small stake, upon which is fixed a steel die, containing a hollow the exact shape of half the head. Above this die, and attached to a lever, is the corresponding die for the other half of the head, which, when at rest, remains suspended about two inches above the lower one. The workman takes one of these stems between his fingers, and, dipping the pointed end of a bowl containing a number of heads, catches one upon it, and slides it to the other end; he then places it in the lower die, and, moving a treadle, brings down the upper one four or five times upon the head, which fastens it upon the stem, and also gives it the required figure. There is In A a small channel leading from the outside to the centre of the dies, to allow room for the stem. The pins are now finished as regards shape, and it only remains to tin or whiten them. quantity of them are boiled in a pickle, either a solution of sulphuric acid or tartar, to remove any dirt or grease, and also to produce a slight roughness upon their surfaces, which facilitates the adhesion of the tin. After being boiled for half an hour, they are washed, and then placed in a copper vessel with a quantity of grain tin and a solution of tartar; in about two hours and a half they are taken out, and, after being separated from the undissolved tin by sifting, are again washed; they are then dried, by being well shaken in a bag with a quantity of bran, which is afterwards separated by shaking them up and down in open wooden trays, when the bran flies off, and leaves the pins perfectly dry and clean. The pins are then prepared for sale. Pins are also made solely by machinery. There is a manufactory for this sort, where nearly 3,250,000 are made daily. A pin, then, is not such an insignificant article, after all. We see it has to go through a great many processes and hands before it is finished. If we take one, examine it closely, and mark how nicely it is made, how neatly the head is fixed on to the shank, how beautifully it is pointed, and how bright it shines, we shall see a very good specimen of what the ingenuity and labor of man can do upon a piece of metal. It is really surprising what a large number are made, and how many persons are employed in their manufacture. In conclusion, we would recommend our readers always to bear in mind the excellent maxim which Franklin attached to a pin, viz., "A pin a day, a groat a year." My spirit mother, how I've looked to thee, Till I was sooth'd to peace and hope again! Is filled with thoughts beyond its tender years, And vainly strives for words though fondly prest, And weeps with passionate and fruitless tearsE'en thus am I! but yet draw life from thee, Of thy high being still imbibing part, Into thy soft sad eyes to gaze am free, And feel the throbbings of thy glorious heartAnd dare to hope that I may lisp, in time, The words thou dost repeat with silver chime. |