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his share of coolness and self-possession, and, although it cost him a considerable effort, he managed to introduce topics of conversation and to talk pretty freely, although the talking was nearly all on his own side, Miss Herbert maintaining a cold reserve, and answering entirely in monosyllables.

For about a quarter of an hour, Andy endured the ordeal, wondering why this particular young lady should happen to be alone in the parlor of Mrs. T, and wondering still more why Miss Archer did not make her appearance. Just as he began to feel a little excited and uneasy, the door opened, and in walked another young maiden whom he had reason to remember-a Miss Mary Harper. She was also one of his old flames. She appeared surprised at seeing him, and greeted him with coldness. Andy tried to say some sprightly things to Miss Harper; but he was far from being in as good condition as at first. The effort to entertain Miss Herbert had somewhat exhausted his reservoir of spirits, and his attempts to draw farther thereon were not very successful. The two young ladies drew together on the sofa, and maintained a mutual reserve towards Andy that soon began to be painfully embarrassing.

"What does all this mean?" Andy had just asked himself, for he was beginning to feel puzzled, when the sound of light feet along the passage was again heard, and, the door opening, his eyes rested upon the form of Caroline Gray, to whom he had once paid his addresses. Very particular reasons had Andy Cavender for not wishing to meet Caroline on that particular occasion; for he had committed himself to her more directly than to any other young lady in Woodland, having, on one occasion, actually written and sent to her a love-letter. The precise contents of that epistle he did not remember; but often, when he thought of it, he had doubts as to the extent to which he had committed himself therein, that were not very comfortable.

Soon another and another entered, and, strange to say, each was an old flame, until there were present not less than six fair, rebuking spirits. Silent, Andy sat in the midst of these-silent, because the pressure on his feelings had become insufferably great for nearly a quarter of an hour. It was a social party of a most novel character, and one that he has never forgotten.

About the time that Andy's feelings were in as uncomfortable a state as could well be imagined, and he was beginning to wish himself at the North Pole, Kate Archer and her friend Jenny entered the room slowly, the former with an open letter in her hand, upon which the eyes of both were resting.

In an instant, it flashed upon Andy Cavender that he was to be victimized by the city belle. No sooner had this thought crossed his mind than, rising abruptly, he bowed to his fair tormentors, saying

"Excuse me, ladies." And beat a hasty retreat.

But, ere he had passed beyond the street door, there reached him a gush of merry laughter from the musical throat of Kate, in which other voices mingled.

On the next day, he received a letter directed in a delicate hand. It inclosed the one he had written to Kate, and accompanying it was a note in these words

"There is, it is presumed, a mistake in the direction of this. It was probably meant for Caroline Gray, Mary Harper, Nancy Herbert, or Jenny Green. In order that it may receive its proper destination, it is returned to the writer."

The village flirt was a changed man after that. He had played with edged tools until he cut himself, and the wound, in healing, left an ugly scar. Poor Andy Cavender! All this happened years ago, and he is a bachelor still, notwithstanding several subsequent attempts to make a favorable impression on the hearts of certain pretty maidens. The story of his punishment at Mrs. T's flew over the village in a few hours, and, after that, no fair denizen of Woodland for a moment thought of regarding any attention from Andy Cavender as more than a piece of idle pastime; and, on the few occasions that he ventured to talk of love, the merry witches laughed him in the face.

THE GOOD ANGEL.

BY MRS. HALE.

(See Illustration.) ANGELS, sent as witnesses,

Watch us everywhere; Sheltered by their shining wings, Seeming folds of air, Gentle maiden, one is near, List'ning for thy prayer!

Offerings of the pure in heart
Upward, flame-like, tend;
With a sunbeam swiftness then
Angel guards descend!
Human sigh and heavenly smile
Thus together blend.

Lovely as the lonely flower
In the desert blown,
Is the holy human thought
But to angel known:
On his book the thought is graved,
Where its light is thrown.

As the fragrance from the flower
Riseth morn and even,
Warm with light or wet with dew,
Joy and grief are given
From the human soul to draw
Incense forth for heaven-
Angels for this off'ring wait
Every morn and even.

SINGLE SOLITUDE AND SINGLE BLESSEDNESS.

BY MRS. L. G. ABELL.

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"Heaven protect me from single solitude, but not from single blessedness.”

SINGLE SOLITUDE.

ALONE she sits in the old homestead,

And dim her faded eye;

Her once brown hair is white with yearsTwo score and a half have gone by.

In those hollow rooms no sound but the tick

Of the old house clock, that rings

A solemn knell to departed hours,
Borne off on the night's dark wings.

From the lightest step an echo falls
Like the earth-clod in a grave-

On all things lies a sullen gloom,
Deep as a funeral wave.

Still there she sits, and muses long,
And thronging memories come

From the long waste of desert years,
To people that old home.

The father in his old arm-chair
The mother's voice again,

In the lone heart, is breathing low
As music's lingering strain:
The happiness of childish hours,
The light and joy it brings,
Come crowding back upon the heart,
Like the rush of waving wings.

And kindred spirits hover near,
As in the fairest youth,
But vanish soon; each lovely form
Is changed to cold, cold truth.
The buds and blossoms of the heart,
Affection's dewy flowers,

Will fade and sadly perish too,
For want of care of ours!

When gone forever, no fond eye
F'er glances to our own:
While desolate, we live unblest,
Unloved, and e'er alone!

Oh! to be thus when all has fled,
And love and joy are gone-

How poor were earth, if on it doomed
To live and die alone!

SINGLE BLESSEDNESS. Ah! there she sits-but in her eye Of dark expressive hue,

Is a soft light of kindliness

Forever melting through:

Sweet thoughts have ripened in her heart
The golden clusters there;
The heavenly virtues, like rich fruit,
Exclude corroding care!

Her voice-with cheerful, happy tone,
Mellowed by softening ills-

Is like glad echoes in the heart,
The grateful heart it thrills:
Her early life was beautiful,
But not so fair as now;
Contentment smiles upon her way,
And lights her sunny brow.

Once fancy painted visions bright
Of sweet domestic bliss;

But doubtful oft as meteor-light
She trusted not to this.

A happy group are round her now,
And sweet young voices ring-
Caresses sparkle brightly out,

Like gushings of a spring.

In her kind home, how blest are all
Who feel its genial sway-

To a dear sister's widowed heart,

What sweet repose and stay-
And many a sad friend there is cheered,
As light-winged time goes by,
Scarce streaking yet the raven braids,
Or dimming yet the eye!

Oh! who may not be always blest,
Encircled with life's flowers,
That plants affection's fruitful seeds
And kind acts on the hours.
Thus e'er in single blessedness

The heart may find its home:
Where loved ones fondly gather,
There happiness will come!

TO SIGNORA B****.

BY FANNY ST. AUBYN.

АH! say not thou 'rt exiled long
From "sunny Italie!"
Bright wanderer from the Land of Song
Warm hearts have welcomed thee;
Not "exiled," for thy home shall be
The true hearts of the brave and free!

Thrice welcome to our own bright land,
Thou of the song and lute,

Whose chords are swept with thrilling hand-
Oh! let them not be mute,

But wake the soul's deep mystery
With burning song of Italie!

Oh! wake thy lute's soft notes again,
Whose silent chords are sleeping,
We listen for the thrilling strain
Its golden strings are keeping.
Oh! wake its gushing minstrelsy
song of thine own Italie!

Το

EMPLOYMENT OF WOMEN IN CITIES.

No. I. THE MINT COIN ADJUSTERS.

BY ALICE B. NEAL.

PUBLIC opinion would seem to have decided that but two classes of employment are legitimate to our sex-teaching and the needle.

"In the first place," says that excellent authority, " women are not intended to be occupied out of the domestic circle. The cares of the household are her proper sphere, while man bears abroad 'the burden and heat of the day.' Our mothers, our sisters, our wives, how much we owe to them! We love them all the more for their beautiful dependence. We pity those who have been deprived of their natural protectors, and are obliged to labor for themselves. How fortunate that to them two such avenues are open! Teaching is at once so respectable and proper; the needle, to those who are not qualified for the school-room, is a certain and never-failing support." And so public opinion turns to the discussion of some new theme, with folded hands and a satisfied conscience.

Visit our public schools, and you will see hundreds of bright childish faces, who will soon take the place of older sisters, now toiling in part, perhaps, for their support. Go through our crowded courts and swarming alleys, and you find as many more, who have never been gathered into the fold of this instruction. All these human souls are to have some aim in life, some provision for the natural wants of their existence. They must be clothed and fed; they crave their small share of comforts, and luxury even. It is rare that you find among them a strong, well-trained spirit, that is self-reliant and self-denying thus early in life. They must have occupation as the means to an end, as well as to prevent the rust of natural abilities. Life-long labor for a scanty fee is not in itself attractive, and therefore marriage is set before them as the end and object of their existence. Even when the higher nature has been developed by partial mental training, this one false motive is suffered to take root.

The woman of the world, surrounded by all of wealth and elegance, educates her beautiful daughters to the one end of marrying for an establishment. It is for this that every natural grace is heightened, every warm heart-impulse subdued, every accomplishment is sought. The simple strength of love, the union of reciprocal tastes and excellent qualities, the "divine self-abnegation" to the will and comfort of those around them, the training for the new position, and the thousand responsibilities of wife and mother, the mistress of a household, the VOL. XLV. 11

leader of society, have no part nor lot in the mat ter. And, if this is undeniably so in the light of high intellectual cultivation, what wonder that the daughters of the poor man look upon marriage, from earliest girlhood, as the goal of all hopes and aims, the emancipation from the restraints of the pinched and meagre household arrangements, a cessation from the wearying routine of the needle, their sole dependence? Thus marriages of convenience are not confined alone to those homes where human hearts are sacrificed that their elegance need not be diminished. The apple of discord is sometimes other than golden fruit; and the home that should have been so bright, a haven of rest and contentment, is darkened with contention and angry reproach

whence come the sins of neglect, intemperance, and perhaps abandonment.

How different would all home influence be, if young girls were taught to reverence, rather than make a jest of this holiest emotion of the heart, and to wait, in quiet and serene contentment, until such a time as they should meet and recognize such qualities of mind and soul as would insure sympathy, strength, and forbearance in the nearest and dearest association of life?

The restless mind, so busy with idle and fanciful dreams, would be trained by active employment; the self-respect of independence would forbid any sacrifice of truth or honest feeling.

But others remain to be provided for. The daughters of those who have been affluent, but are suddenly reduced to the necessity of labor; the young widow, reared in comfort, who finds herself alone in the world, with her children to be reared and educated. This is no small class of community to be provided for, and one whose wants are most difficult to meet. "Work they cannot, to beg they are ashamed," and may live on, eating the bitter bread of dependence; for they had wasted the instructions of the school-room, save in those accomplishments that fitted them to shine in society, but are useless now, and their physical strength, as well as manual skill, will avail very little in the contest with daily want. All these must be cared for, or their sufferings, it may be said, rest upon the very public opinion which washes its righteous hands so innccently of the matter. And why? Because it has guarded so many avenues of employment; because it has shut out all choice and variety: "so far shalt thou come, and no farther," in the broad world of

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human effort and ingenuity, is the voice that has condemned every effort to a wider range of thought and action.

Not that we would enter into the contest of the present, and soil our lips with the war-cry for "female emancipation;" we claim for our sisters only liberty to use the proportion of strength, both of body and mind, with which Heaven has seen fit to endow them. Every woman who comes before the world as a public teacher or leader seems to us to lose a part of her birthright of purity and delicacy. The pen can send forth its gentle influence from the retirement of the home circle; but we ask no place in the lecture-room or the arena of political strifenothing that could disturb

"That stillness which best becomes a woman

Calm and holy."

We are, in a measure, dealing with past traditions; very recently, the aspect of society in this respect is somewhat changed, perhaps in no city more successfully than our own; and we have thought a glance at some of these sources of industry and content might not be uninteresting to the readers of a publication devoted to the interests of our sex, while resulting perhaps in still further progress. And, first of all, we select, for its novelty, unparalleled success, and general interest, the weighing or adjusting of the United States Mint.

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You are fond of crocheting, fair ladies; you like the grace of the silken purse, the shining glitter of its well-filled compartments. The golden dollars slip softly through your pretty hands; you admire the purity of the silver coin; nay, are not ashamed to confess to the early childish gratification of a bright new copper," with the smiling head of Liberty, and the distinct "ONE CENT" on the reverse, one of the first spelling lessons to which you gave earnest heed. But have you any more idea of the manufacture of this ringing coin than you have of the weaving of the delicate lace or the rich silks for which it is given in exchange? Not unless you have visited our city and gone through with its lions, for prominent among them stands the pure marble edifice known as the Mint. But, if you have never accomplished the established routine of sight-seeing, allow us to be your chaperone for the morning, and we shall find what part our sex plays in the production of our country's coinage.

We need not be daunted by the card that confronts us at the portal, "No admittance after twelve o'clock;" we have a friend at court, whose name is a talisman to the porter, and we are ushered through the paved hall into his neat office, little differing from an ordinary counting-room; here we await the arrival of our guide, no other than the director of the department in which is situated the "Mint cage of Canaries," as some one has pleasantly entitled the apartment which is the principal object of our visit.

They are opening small packages of the raw material in the room opposite the sub-treasurer's office, as we leave it. These brown-paper parcels, so carefully tied, and sealed, and directed, arrived in yesterday's steamer from the Garden Gate. We saw it announced in huge capitals, included in that indefinite quantity, "$300,000 IN THE HANDS OF THE PASSENGERS!" They are so suggestive, these small leathern bags, scarcely larger than the longest finger of a gentleman's glove, filled with the fine shining dust and flakes, that are now lying upon the scale that will soon mark their actual value. It tells of "perils by flood and field," separation from home and friends, days of weary toil, and nights of restless anxiety. It may be a "widow's mite," all that has returned to her for the love and protection that were given up for the fatal search; it may be an orphan's only portion; or perhaps the welcome remittance, come in the hour of need, to avert threatened want or beggary.

However this may stand, it will soon be fused in the glowing mass that prepares the labor of the coiner.

We are too late for the melting; but that we have little to do with. We know that the assayed and refined gold is at length cast into bars, of perhaps half a yard in length-we will take the largest gold coin, the double eagle, at which they work to-day— and from this the bright circle, with its clear impressions, is to be formed.

Now we are in a room filled with swarthy men and clanking machinery. It is lighted by the red glow of the annealing furnace, and the hiss of steam mingles with the confused chorus of sounds. The iron chain, closed against all intruders, is thrown down at our appearance, and, as we enter the central door, we find near us one of those iron frames that minister to the discord. Beside it is a wooden table or tray, holding a bundle of long thin strips of gold; the bar has already been subjected to various processes, and has gained several inches in length for the lost thickness. See, in the press before us, as it passes through the process, which must still be repeated, the pressure bearing greater until the requisite thickness is attained. When thus drawn, the strip is passed beneath yonder die, striking with the utmost precision and regularity, as the grave-faced workman draws it outward with a slightly oscillating motion, the round counters of gold falling into a receptacle beneath; and the thin bar of metal, remaining penetrated at equal distances, is laid aside to be remelted and recast, for nothing is wasted here.

"As the trimmings of puff paste are kneaded again," says our guide, by way of illustration to our feminine ears, which suggests to us a comparison for the strips themselves: a thin layer of cake or biscuit dough, when the circular cutter has passed over it, etching out the cakes at regular intervals.

And this is all it is necessary for us to see just

now; so we leave the jar and confusion, following our cicerone up an outer staircase, of the hollowsquare or parallelogram, which the buildings form; and, entering a small passage, are ushered at once into the room appropriated to those who adjust the coin to its exact standard weight before it can be finished. What a change! The only sound is the chattering of merry voices, or bursts of girlish laughter, subdued a little, but by no means hushed, at the approach of visitors. The apartment is large and airy, long ranges of windows on each side, and a skylight in the centre, securing ample ventilation. Through its width extend three long tables, and on each side are placed the young girls, busy with this monotonous, but agreeable employment. Not all young girls; for here and there we meet a more careworn face, acting as a balance, perhaps, to the light spirits of those around. It reminded us at first of the large drawing-hall of the Seminary: there were the same gayety and cheerfulness, and the scales before each work woman filled the place of our easels. Walking about from group to group, with a sweet and serious mien, was a lady in deep mourning, not unlike our favorite teacher, as she would come, with some word of encouragement or advice, to watch the progress of the drawing; but her presence was no arbitrary restraint, and the work went on as rapidly, for all the jest and laughter. Some were standing, the height of the tables making it convenient for them to do so; others had made themselves comfortable with foot-stools, or were leaning over their work. Hands and arms were in constant motion; indeed, the whole upper part of the figure is exercised much more than in sewing, or even drawing, by the reaching and filing.

The neat scales are placed directly before them, at just a convenient distance apart; a file and a round brush, like that of a house painter, are their only implements. A pile of the unfinished coin is placed before each, which is to be balanced by the exact standard weight. The coin is placed in the opposite scale, and is required to be precisely the same; if it varies ever so little, the index in the centre is true to the fault. It moves like the hand of a clock, but with a pendulum motion, upon a tiny white dial-plate, and the practised eye can discover the instant, and to us almost imperceptible movement. If too heavy, the file separates a few tiny particles from the rough edge; or, if too light, the piece is rejected altogether. A round and square can of tin stands before each, for the different pieces.

Those that are of just weight are now ready

to be milled, the others are reweighed, and, if found to vary more than the eighth of a grain, are considered altogether too light, and are melted and cast again. All this is done with astonishing rapidity and precision. The eye is fixed upon the register, and the busy hands move almost mechanically from pile to file, and to the open-mouthed receptacle. The particles are suffered to fall upon the sheets of

stiff brown paper that cover the tables; but think not their escape is permitted. It is for this reason that no current of air is admitted, the room being ventilated by lowering the upper sash.

But how are they gathered?

We shall see, as soon as this present weight of coin is finished; they are already near its completion. One by one they cease from the quick routine, and watch their less industrious neighbors, or chat among themselves; as school-girls anticipate an approaching recess. "But why are they not supplied with work at once?" we ask, to be told that each parcel is weighed in the office of the chief coiner before it is brought to the room, and must be weighed again by itself. Now the tin cans are beginning to gather on one of the smaller tables, where a workman from below is preparing their contents for removal.

This is an animated scene; every work woman has risen, and is busily plying her brush. Her own dress, apron, and sleeves are dusted, then the table before her, the scales, and all the particles brushed down together. We essay to lift the can of filings thus gathered from the morning's employment; it is about half full of the dull yellow and brown particles; but, as if they concealed a magic weight, our wrists are so strained that we are fain to replace it upon the table of the lady directress. We are told, to our amazement, that the value of the very sweepings alone will average from twelve to fourteen hundred dollars!

But still more, the water in which their hands are now washed has also its precious deposit. More than two hundred dollars was saved in this way in ten months.

"Is it possible?" we say. "Then the very dust of the floor must be valuable ?" And we are told, with a quiet smile, that no sweeping from the whole building is thrown away. It is first "purified by fire," and its yearly yield is almost equal to a California claim!

"That is the dressing-room," says our guide, pointing to a large screen, cutting off about onesixth of the room. "The screen opposite shields the kitchen and dining-room."

"A kitchen in the Mint!" This was certainly an unexpected novelty; and we are told that the employees do not leave the building through the ten hours, which is their daily limit. Very different from the twelve and fourteen of the seamstress; for every one knows that the last two or four hours drag heavily enough, when the mind and body are exhausted. The girls themselves prefer the regulation, work commencing at six during the summer season, and seven in the winter, which gives them a long evening; time enough, after four, for sewing, walking, or study. They are certainly the gainers by the noon hour thus being saved; whence the necessity for the kitchen and dining-room. With kind permission, we venture to intrude behind the

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