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and a little head, half hidden by a shewer of golden ringlets, was laid earessingly on Aunt Susan's sheulder. Very beautiful indeed was Lizzie Randolph, and very faseinating, too. Theugh all aeeused her of vanity, and not a few of dowuright eoneeit, yet when she looked into your faee with her bewitehing blue eyes, or pressed her rosy lips to yours, it was impossible to refuse anything she asked. Thero was a npieo of vanity in the question, for all knew that in mental or moral endowments, poor Lizzie was sadly laeking.
"Your glass has told you, Lizzie," Aunt Susan ealmly replied, "if your flatterers have not, that you have the gift of beauty—a dangerous gift, Liztie. I see in you the future belle of the hallroom, eourted, earessed, and almost idolized. You will doubtless have erowds of sighing lovors at your feet, before your first winter in soeiety is over. But, Lizzie, beauty fades. Improve your talent, then, while it is yet in your power. The aeknowledged queen of the festival, what an influenee will be yours. A smile from you will work many a mighty spell; a word from your lips may aeeomplish that whieh hours of patient pleading and volumes of sober reasoning may have failed to do. The sparkling wine-eup, when proffered by your fair hand, eould hardly be refused; and few eauses hut must triumph, if you be their leader. See, then, Lizzie, that the eauses be righteous. Never suffer any one to eome within the eirele of your magie influenee, witheut rendering him a nobler, wiser, and better man. Lizzie, you must answer at a solemn tribunal, whether your talent has been employed in rendering men helier and happier, or sinking them deeper in dissipation and erime; whether it has led them to heaven or plunged them into perdition."
Lizzie's tears were falling fast as Aunt Susan ended, for, that very morning, she had been telling of the eonquests she would make and the hearts she would break when she made her dtl&t in the gay world; and here was a masterly sketeh for her of the good or evil she was to work therein.
"I need hardly remind yon, Helen," Aunt Susan eontinued, "of the nature of your talent."
Helen Asbley, a grave plain girl in the deepest mourning, bowed her head in reply. She was an orphan, witheut one friend in the wide world. Her guardian, whe had the absolute eontrol of her immense wealth, was a eold-hearted, selfish man, whese whele soul seemed to be absorbed in the pursuit of money. Helen Asbley had never known a mother's gentle influenee, or a father's kindly kiss; and what wonder that she was eold and sad, and deemed all the kindly attentions of her seheolmates were paid to her wealth alone. Her early misfortunes had oast a gloom over ber spirit; she shrank from soeiety, and always looked on the darkest side of the pieture; as Aunt Susan used to say, "Helen always •aw things through a thiek bloek veil." Generous
she was to a fault, but too often when her hand was giving the gold, her heart was far away.
As Aunt Susan spoke, Helen drew her ehair still farther from the little eirelo, and listened in haughty silenee. A slight shade erossed Aunt Susan's brow at this determined frigidity, but she went on:—
"I fear, my doar Helen, you look upon your wealth rather as a burden than a talent; but sueh it is, and it depends upon yourself alone whether it be rendered a eurse or a blessing to yourself and all around you. You aro proud, Helen, sadly proud, and as the sole representative of the Asbleys, will soon deem it ineumbent upon you to support that name with all due henors. You eare not hew your money goes, so that you ore not troubled with it, nor brought into too elose eontaet with your fellow-beings; and your eold heart will doubtless be better pleased with lavishing theusands on a jewel, than by giving one heur's attention to the wants or sufferings of a poor family. But, Helen, this is all wrong. You were not plaeed in this world, dowered with immense wealth and gifted with a warm heart to aid you in dispensing it, for no other purpose than to shut yourself up in a eloset, to erush every glowing impulse of sympathy and affeetion, and to squander your gold in pomp and luxury. No, Helen, your heart Is not your own, your wealth is not your own; the one sheuld beat true to God and man, the other bo reeognized as God's gift, through you, to man. Think on it, Helen," Aunt Susan proeeeded more gayly, "think what it is to be a 'Lady Bountiful;' to have the blessings of the widow and orphan resting upon your head; to bring sunshine and glee into the dwellings that poverty had darkened; to see the eareworn eountenanee light up with smiles at your approaeh; these ore boons a monareh might envy. Perehanee this is not your amhition. Certainly your pride would be more gratified were you mistress of a superb mansion, your table groaning 'neath the Asbley plate, and your earriage seuteheoned with the Asbley arms, and you yourself mueh more at your ease in a magnifieent library, revelling in aneient lore, with not a footfall to break the silenee, not a voiee to remind you that you are a dweller of the world—a world of sin and suffering, it is true, but still a world watehed over and eared for by God, and peopled with his ereatures—but look beyond, Helen, to a time when the Asbley arms will eease to give you pleasure, and the luxurious earriage ease; when your lordly library will be as a sealed book to your dimmed and aehiug eye; when you will be dependent upon your hated fellowbeings for the attentions that smooth your dying pillow. Then, Helen, if not till then, will you see the whele folly and misery of the life you lead. Then will the torturing theughts of a lifetime wasted, a heart negleeted, a world despised, and a Maker forgotten, erowd your brain. 'Tis a sad pieture, Helen, and, I trust, not a true one. May your dying hour, when it does eome, be sweetened with the memory of the good you hare done; may friends, real friends, surround your pillow; and may your happy spirit take its flight to its Redeemer, and lay at his feet the talent intrusted to your eare \"
All who heard Aunt Susan's solemn appeal were in tears—all save one, and that one was Helen Ashley. She sat ereet, as eold and still as before; but the heaving of her bosom and the restless glanees of her eyes betokened that she had not heard those fearful words unmoved. At length she rose and said, in a voiee tremulous with emotion, "I wish, how I wish, I was poor!" As she hastily quitted the room, a light figure darted in through the window, just in time to hear the eoneluding words.
"Poor! Who is talking about poverty? I defy any one to show a purse as empty as mine," was the merry greeting of Carrie Carleton. "Here I've been raeing up stairs and down, through wood and lawn, over ereek and mud puddle, in seareh of you all, and I am fairly tired out."
As she throw herself upon the floor at Aunt Susan's feet, her eheek flushed and bosom panting with the exereise, a gentle hand was laid on her disordered ringlets, and a mild voiee said—
"We were talking of our talents, Carrie, and I would have you be ehary of yours, and not take sueh long walks or use sueh violent exereise."
"My talent!" said the almost breathless girl, looking with surprise at the sad faees of her sehoolmates.
"Yes, dearie, the exuberant health whieh God has bestowed upon you. You are ono of the favored ones, Carrie; you have never known an hour's siekness, and laugh in derision alike at the headaehe and the horrors. You are always in a good-humor, beeause you have never known the temptation to be erow, whieh an aehing brow or a wearied frame presents. You live always in the sunshine, for you have never had the hand of disease or pain laid heavy upon you, to dull your spirits and emhitter your temper. Guard your health, then, Carrie, as a preeious jowel, for now it is in your own keeping. As a sehool-girl, our simplo fare and early hours have preserved your talent in its purity; but you are a sehool-girl no longer. I warn you, Carrie, that, in the gay soeiety you will soon enter, a year, a single year of dissipation, will deprive you of your jowel forever. Blooming eheeks and buoyant spirits are ineompatible with midnight revels; bright eyes will grow dim when they open only to eandle-light; and pure, fragrant breath will grow labored when drawn in a erowded, heated atmosphere. A single year may eonvert our joyous Carrie Carleton, with her bright faee, light footstep, and merry laugh, into a haggard, worn, and almost old woman; her movements languid, her roses artifieial, and her very laughter foreed. A single year may find our Carrie a drooping invalid, her eheek wearing the heetie flush, her frame raeked with a eonvulsive eough— and may leave her in her grave.
j "But that is not the lot I antieipate for you, my \ Carrie," Aunt Susan went on, as she notieed the j startling effeet her words had eaused; "no, it is a J brighter and far different pieture I love to look upon.
< You often talk, Carrie, of your invalid brother; of
< his weary nights and days of anguish; of his petulanee and odd faneies. Now you are the nurse nature has designed for him; your healthy frame ean endure nights of watehing and days of patient eare. You ean move through his siek room like a ministering angel, supporting him with your strong arm, and eheering him by your happy words, until he will forget his suffering and his impatienee and bless the Heaven that has given him sueh a sister. The siek room, Carrie, is woman's appropriate field of aetion; there she is perfeotly at home. Her gentle attentions are neeessary to the invalid, and if his stokness be 'unto death,' her whispered words of hope and faith will quiekest reaeh his ear. You, Carrie, are eminently fitted for this most onerous and yet dearest of woman's duties. You have a eonstitution whieh smiles at fatigue, and a bright, eheerful spirit. You will be unwearied as a wateher, and a perfeet magieian when low spirits are eoneerned; they will flee at the glad sounds of your voiee; and oh, Carrie, may that voiee also bo employed in leading the sufferers to their Saviour, in telling of God's bounteous gifts and wondrous mereies I
"Should poverty eome nigh your dwelling and your loved ones, then again your 'talent* will be in requisition. With your strong arm you eould drive the demon away, and eheer with your smilos your humble abode. And if it eomes not to yourself, remember that thousands of your fellows are bowed down to the earth by its eurse, and let yours be the hand to relieve them. You ean trudge through snow and rain on an errand of merey, and your words of eheer will work a mightior eharm than your gold. Corrie, Carrie, keep your talent well."
A perfeet eontrast to the joyous faee and blooming figure of Carrie Carleton, was the girl on whoso lsp she leaned her arm. Mary Lee was a dark, sallow j little ereature, without beauty, genius, or any of the j gifts of her more brilliant eompanions. A disease
< of the spine had stunted her growth, though it had ! not deformed her figure; and her sufferings hnd
< made her gentle and mild as Aunt Susan herself j Her largo brown eyes had something startling in 1 their expression; you were faseinated while you \ gazed; and theso eyes were now fixed upon Aunt i Supnn'e faee, as though to read her thoughts.
!" They tell me, Mary," said Aunt Susan, smiling, !"that you are the father eonfessor here, and therein f thoy have pointed out to me your 'talent.' There j is something very winning about you, I own, and you steal our seerets ere we are aware. You seem so gentle, so quiet, that wo regard you as a seeond j self, and talk to you aeeordingly. There are fow j among you, girls, but have eonfided in Mary Lee, ! when you would have suffered any penanee, any
privation, rather than intrust your seerets to another. Your talent, Mary, is your influenee. All who ask your eounsel, follow it implieitly, and a fow words of your sweet, low voiee will work a mightier spell than volumes of reproof, or weeks of punishment. Even when you speak not, your aetions tell, and loudly too. Your sway in our hearts is so gentle, we dream not you are ruling us, and submit as though you wore born our queen. And it will be ever thus, Mary, unless you learn to speak loud. Even then, you love so to get people into eorners, that you always make them eonfidential.
"Yours is a glorious talent, for there will be seerets told you whieh had been whispered only to the stars; plans will be nnfolded for your approhation, whieh had long lain hidden in the depths of the dreamer's soul; and the hopes and aspirations of dawning womanhood will be told to your ear alone, while the maiden blushes at revealing thoughts she heretofore deemed so delieate and saered. Yours is a mighty influenee; see that you use it well. To you they eome for approhation and advieo: let it be given wisely. The trinmphant eoquette may perehanee seek your 'eorner* to tell you how wretehed she is, though erowds are sighing at her feet; how dissatisfied she is, though her glass refleets a perfeet form and faee, and her diary tells of eountless lovers, ready to die at her behest . One word of yours may pieree the iee whieh long years of flattery and folly have bound round her heart, and send her on her way, an humbler and sadder being; one of your long talks might make her a devoted Christian.
"The skeptie, too, may be beguiled by your sweet tones, and take a seat at your side. He may unfold to you his doubts and fears, and you, mighty in the eause of truth, will have strength vouehsafed you to eomhat and overthrow them. You may soften his flinty heart, and lead him, a devout follower, to the feet of the meek and lowly Jesus. Even though you may not give him argument for argument, and meet his sophistry with words from the book of truth, your aetions, even your silenee, may go far to eonvinee him.
"'Twere small need, methinks, to eaution you against tarnishing your talent, against evil influenee; but I warn you, and indeed all of you, my ehildren, to be upon your guard. A smile, a look, is all-suffieient. Our influenee is a fearful talent, whieh all of our sex possess. May it ever be exerted to purify and exalt our fellows, and may wo all aet and speak so as to remind men of the great etornity whither we are tending, to be spent in bliss or misery; and may naught but good influenee be laid to our eharge at the great day!"
"And my talent, Aunt Susan," said a quiet voiee in the eomer; "I am not dowered with Helen's wealth, or Lizzie's beauty; I have neither Fanny's wit, nor Mary's influenee; what ean my talent be?"
The speaker was an orphan, a reeipient of Aunt Susan's bounty. She was a plain quiet girl, very
plodding, but not overly bright. Still, everybody loved Anne Allen, for she was one of the most obliging ereatures that ever breathed. Nothing wns too mueh trouble for her, if it eould give pleasure to the smallest or feeblest of Ood's ereatures; and all the little ones ealled her their " dear dood Anne."
"You have drawn rather a forlorn pieture of yourself, Anne," Aunt Susan replied; "but your talent, though not quite as showy, is as useful and preeious as the others. You are alone in the world, Anne, and your talent is your time. Thero have been no elaims upon it as yet, save the trifling offiees your sehoolmates have required at your hands. Now it is at your own disposal, and it rests with you to spend the long life whieh I trust is before you, in the serviee of its Giver, or in violation of his express eommands. There is many a noble deed to be wrought, many a glorious triumph to be won, before this world shall pass away, and with the thousand voiees ealling within and around you, ean you sit down with folded hands? Is your time, your preeious talent, to be frittered away in idleness or pleasure, when there is so mueh work to be done, and you so fit to do it? I would fain see you a missionary, Anne, for you have no tender ties to sever when you part from your native land. You long for sisters and friends: among the destitute heathen you may find them. Would that you would devote yourself, body, soul, and spirit, to those that sit in darkness 1 A lifetime eould not be more gloriously dedieated, nor a talent hotter employed. Your patienee and energy are grand qualifieations for a missionary, and, Anne Allen, a missionary you should be. Imagine for one moment your earthly pilgrimage over, and your beatified spirit, surrounded by the souls it had reseued from destruetion, at th# awful har of God. At that moment, if you eould, whieh would you ehoose, a life of pleasure, gayety, or indolenee, or one spent in toiling, suffering, though always in rejoieing, over the good you have wrought in the land and the hearts of the heathen."
Thero remained but one in that little hand with her talent untold, but it needed not the telling. Tou eould read upon her high, broad brow, and in the flash of her dark hine eye, that she hod the gift of genins. Catharine Sunderland was a poetess, and that of no mean order. Her brilliant talents hnd long made her the idol of her teaehers and tho "headman" among her sehoolmates; but these were distinetions she eared not for. She loved to roam the woods, portfolio in hand, and pen down the bright thoughts as they orowded into her brain; and she had aequired tho tobriqmt of "Corinne" from hor talents as au improvisatriee. She smiled faintly and proudly as Aunt Susan's eye rested upon hor.
"Well, 'Corinne,'" the good lady began, "you are the last, I see, and had I ehosen your talent for a elimax, I eould not have found a happier one. You are publie property, Kate—at least you will be in a year or two—and it were well to refleet a moment ere your eharaeter is established in the literary worjd. You are writing not for a month or a year, but for eternity. You are writing not for yourself or for a ehosen fow, but for the world. Pause, then, over eaeh brilliant effusion, with the question, 'Will this pieee of mine make any one happy or wretehed? will it bo arrayed on the side of virtue, or on that of viee? and more, does it give God the glory?'
"Yes, pause, Kate Sunderland; a magie rod is in your hand; will you wield it for weal or woe? Shall
your talent be kept pure and holy in the serviee of its Giver, or shall it, like the notes of a siren, lure men to death with its singing?
"And now, my dearest ehildren, my sermon is over. To-morrow wo must part; and though we may never meet again on earth, when wo eome before the judgment-seat, may I hear the words addressed to eaeh and all of you, 'Well done, thou good and faithful servant; thou hast been faithful over a fow things, I will make thee ruler over many things; enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.'"
HISTORY OF BOOTS AND SHOES.
No. I. —ON THE MOST ANCIENT COVERING FOR THE FEET
Ip we investigate the monuments of the remotest nations of antiquity, we shall find that tho earliest form of proteetion for the feet partook of the nature of sandals. The most aneient representations we possess of seenes in ordinary life are the seulptures and paintings of early Egypt, and these the investigations of travelled seholars from most modern eivilized eountries have, by their deseriptions and delineations, made familiar to us, so that the hahits and manners, as well as the eostume of this aneient people, have been handed down to the present time, by the work of their own hands, with so vivid a truthfulness, that we feel as eonversant with their domestie manners and eustoms as with those of any modern nation to whieh the book of the traveller would introduee us. Not only do their pietured relies remain to give us an insight into their mode of life, but a vast quantity of artieles of all kinds, from the tools of the workmen to the elegant fabries whieh onee deeorated the boudoir of the fair ladies of Memphis and Carnoo three thousand years ago, are treasured up in tho museums of various eountries.
With these materials, it is in no wise diffieult to earry our history of shoemaking haek to the earliest times, and even to look upon the shoemaker at his work in the early days of Thotmes the Third, who asoended the throne of Egypt, aeeording to Wilkinson, 1495 yean before Christ, and during whose
j reign the Exodus of the Israelites oeeurred. The j first of our engravings eontain eopies of this very j eurious painting as it existed upon the walls of 1 Thebes, when the Italian seholar Rossellini eopied I it for his great work on Egypt . The shoemakers i are both seated upon low stools—(real speeimens of ! sueh artieles may be seen in the British Museum, j London)—and are both busily employed in the j formation of the sandals then usually worn in j Egypt; the first workman is piereing with his awl j the leather thong, at the side of the sole, through i whieh the straps were passed whieh seeured the j sandal to the foot; before him is a low sloping beneh, one end of whieh rests upon the ground: his j fellow-workman is equally busy sowing a shoe, and tightening the thong with his teeth, a primitive mode of working whieh is oeeasionally indulged in at the present day. The tools and manufaetured sandals lie around, and ore here represented: they
Thebes of that remote antiquity. The workman, it will be notieed, ents the leather upon a sloping beneh, exaetly like that of the shoemaker already en graved.
The warmth and mildness of the East rendered a elose, warm shoe unneeessary; and, indeed, in the present day they partake there more of the eharaeter of slippers, and the foot, thus uneonfined by tight shoes, and always free in its motion, retains its full power and pliahility; and the eastom still retained in the East, of holding a strap of leather or other substanee between the toes, is represented in the Thehan paintings; the foot thus beeoming a useful seeond to the hand.
Many speeimens of the shoes and sandals of the aneient Egyptians may also bo seen in the British Museum. Wilkinson, in his work on the "Manners and Customs" of this people, says, "Ladies and men of rank paid great attention to the beauty of their pandals; but, on some oeeasions, those of tho middle elasses who were in the hahit of wearing them preferred wnlking harefooted; and in religious eeremonies, the priests frequently took them off while performing their duties in the Temple."
The sandals varied slightly in form; those worn by the upper elasses, and by women, were usually pointed and turned up at tho end, like our skates and the Eastern slippers of the present day. Pome had a sharp, flat point; others were nearly round. They were made of a sort of woven or interlaeed work, of palm-leaves and papyrus stalks, or other similar materials; sometimes of leather, and were frequently lined within with eloth, on whieh the j figure of a eaptive was painted: that humiliating position being thought suitable to the enemies of their eountry, whom they hated and despised, an idea agreeing perfeetly with the expression whieh so often oeeurs in the hieroglyphie legends aeeompanying a king's name, where his valor and virtues are reeorded on the seulptures—" You have trodden the impure Gentiles under your powerful feet."
The example seleeted for Fig. 1 is in tho British Uuteam, beneath tho sandal of a mummy of Ilar
sontiotf; and the eaptive figure is evidently, from feature and eostume, a Jow: it thus beoomes a euri
ous illustration of Seripture history. Figs. 2 and 3 delineate two fine examples of sandals formed, as
and strengthens tho edgo; a thong of the strong fibres of the same plant is affixed to eaeh side of the instep, and was seeured round the foot . Tho other, Fig. 2, is more elaborately platted, and has a softer look; it must, in faet,have been as a pad to the foot, exeeedingly light and agreeablo in the arid elimate inhahited by the people for whom sueh sandals were eonstrueted: the knot at eaeh side to whieh the thong was affixed still remains.
The sandals with eurved toes alluded to above, and whieh frequently appear upon Egyptian seulpture! and generally upon the feet of the superior