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and a little head, half hidden by a shower of golden ringlets, was laid caressingly on Aunt Susan's shoulder. Very beautiful indeed was Lizzie Randolph, and very fascinating, too. Though all accused her of vanity, and not a few of downright conceit, yet when she looked into your face with her bewitching blue eyes, or pressed her rosy lips to yours, it was impossible to refuse anything she asked. There was a spice of vanity in the question, for all knew that in mental or moral endowments, poor Lizzie was sadly lacking.

"Your glass has told you, Lizzie," Aunt Susan calmly replied, "if your flatterers have not, that you have the gift of beauty-a dangerous gift, Lizzie. I see in you the future belle of the ballroom, courted, caressed, and almost idolized. You will doubtless have crowds of sighing lovers at your feet, before your first winter in society is over. But, Lizzie, beauty fades. Improve your talent, then, while it is yet in your power. The acknowledged queen of the festival, what an influence will be yours. A smile from you will work many a mighty spell; a word from your lips may accomplish that which hours of patient pleading and volumes of sober reasoning may have failed to do. The sparkling wine-cup, when proffered by your fair hand, could hardly be refused; and few causes but must triumph, if you be their leader. See, then, Lizzie, that the causes be righteous. Never suffer any one to come within the circle of your magic influence, without 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 holier and happier, or sinking them deeper in dissipation and crime; 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 conquests she would make and the hearts she would break when she made her débût in the gay world; and here was a masterly sketch for her of the good or evil she was to work therein.

"I need hardly remind you, Helen," Aunt Susan continued, "of the nature of your talent."

Helen Ashley, a grave plain girl in the deepest mourning, bowed her head in reply. She was an orphan, without one friend in the wide world. Her guardian, who had the absolute control of her immense wealth, was a cold-hearted, selfish man, whose whole soul seemed to be absorbed in the pursuit of money. Helen Ashley had never known a mother's gentle influence, or a father's kindly kiss; and what wonder that she was cold and sad, and deemed all the kindly attentions of her schoolmates were paid to her wealth alone. Her early misfortunes had cast a gloom over her spirit; she shrank from society, and always looked on the darkest side of the picture; as Aunt Susan used to say, "Helen always saw things through a thick black 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 chair still farther from the little circle, and listened in haughty silence. A slight shade crossed Aunt Susan's brow at this determined frigidity, but she went on:

"I fear, my dear Helen, you look upon your wealth rather as a burden than a talent; but such it is, and it depends upon yourself alone whether it be rendered a curse or a blessing to yourself and all around you. You are proud, Helen, sadly proud, and as the sole representative of the Ashleys, will soon deem it incumbent upon you to support that name with all due honors. You care not how your money goes, so that you are not troubled with it, nor brought into too close contact with your fellow-beings; and your cold heart will doubtless be better pleased with lavishing thousands on a jewel, than by giving one hour's attention to the wants or sufferings of a poor family. But, Helen, this is all wrong. You were not placed 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 closet, to crush every glowing impulse of sympathy and affection, 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 should beat true to God and man, the other be recognized as God's gift, through you, to man. Think on it, Helen," Aunt Susan proceeded 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 careworn countenance light up with smiles at your approach; these are boons a monarch might envy. Perchance this is not your ambition. Certainly your pride would be more gratified were you mistress of a superb mansion, your table groaning 'neath the Ashley plate, and your carriage scutcheoned with the Ashley arms, and you yourself much more at your ease in a magnificent library, revelling in ancient lore, with not a footfall to break the silence, not a voice to remind you that you are a dweller of the world-a world of sin and suffering, it is true, but still a world watched over and cared for by God, and peopled with his creatures-but look beyond, Helen, to a time when the Ashley arms will cease to give you pleasure, and the luxurious carriage ease; when your lordly library will be as a sealed book to your dimmed and aching 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 whole folly and misery of the life you lead. Then will the torturing thoughts of a lifetime wasted, a heart neglected, a world despised, and a Maker forgotten, crowd your brain. "Tis a sad picture, Helen, and, I trust, not a true one. May your dying

hour, when it does come, be sweetened with the memory of the good you have 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 care!"

All who heard Aunt Susan's solemn appeal were in tears-all save one, and that one was Helen Ashley. She sat erect, as cold and still as before; but the heaving of her bosom and the restless glances of her eyes betokened that she had not heard those fearful words unmoved. At length she rose and said, in a voice 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 concluding 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 racing up stairs and down, through wood and lawn, over creek and mud puddle, in search of you all, and I am fairly tired out."

As she threw herself upon the floor at Aunt Susan's feet, her cheek flushed and bosom panting with the exercise, a gentle hand was laid on her disordered ringlets, and a mild voice said

"We were talking of our talents, Carrie, and I would have you be chary of yours, and not take such long walks or use such violent exercise."

"My talent!" said the almost breathless girl, looking with surprise at the sad faces of her schoolmates. "Yes, dearie, the exuberant health which God has bestowed upon you. You are one of the favored ones, Carrie; you have never known an hour's sickness, and laugh in derision alike at the headache and the horrors. You are always in a good-humor, because you have never known the temptation to be cross, which an aching 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 embitter your temper. Guard your health, then, Carrie, as a precious jewel, for now it is in your own keeping. As a school-girl, our simple fare and early hours have preserved your talent in its purity; but you are a school-girl no longer. I warn you, Carrie, that, in the gay society you will soon enter, a year, a single year of dissipation, will deprive you of your jewel forever. Blooming cheeks and buoyant spirits are incompatible with midnight revels; bright eyes will grow dim when they open only to candle-light; and pure, fragrant breath will grow labored when drawn in a crowded, heated atmosphere. A single year may convert our joyous Carrie Carleton, with her bright face, light footstep, and merry laugh, into a haggard, worn, and almost old woman; her movements languid, her roses artificial, and her very laughter forced. A single year may find our Carrie a drooping invalid, her cheek wearing the hectic flush, her frame racked with a convulsive coughand may leave her in her grave.

"But that is not the lot I anticipate for you, my Carrie," Aunt Susan went on, as she noticed the startling effect her words had caused; "no, it is a brighter and far different picture I love to look upon. You often talk, Carrie, of your invalid brother; of his weary nights and days of anguish; of his petulance and odd fancies. Now you are the nurse nature has designed for him; your healthy frame can endure nights of watching and days of patient care. You can move through his sick room like a ministering angel, supporting him with your strong arm, and cheering him by your happy words, until he will forget his suffering and his impatience and bless the Heaven that has given him such a sister. The sick room, Carrie, is woman's appropriate field of action; there she is perfectly at home. Her gentle attentions are necessary to the invalid, and if his sickness be 'unto death,' her whispered words of hope and faith will quickest reach his ear. You, Carrie, are eminently fitted for this most onerous and yet dearest of woman's duties. You have a constitution which smiles at fatigue, and a bright, cheerful spirit. You will be unwearied as a watcher, and a perfect magician when low spirits are concerned; they will flee at the glad sounds of your voice; and oh, Carrie, may that voice also be employed in leading the sufferers to their Saviour, in telling of God's bounteous gifts and wondrous mercies!

"Should poverty come nigh your dwelling and your loved ones, then again your talent' will be in requisition. With your strong arm you could drive the demon away, and cheer with your smiles your humble abode. And if it comes not to yourself, remember that thousands of your fellows are bowed down to the earth by its curse, and let yours be the hand to relieve them. You can trudge through snow and rain on an errand of mercy, and your words of cheer will work a mightier charm than your gold. Carrie, Carrie, keep your talent well."

A perfect contrast to the joyous face and blooming figure of Carrie Carleton, was the girl on whose lap she leaned her arm. Mary Lee was a dark, sallow little creature, without beauty, genius, or any of the gifts of her more brilliant companions. A disease of the spine had stunted her growth, though it had not deformed her figure; and her sufferings had made her gentle and mild as Aunt Susan herself. Her large brown eyes had something startling in their expression; you were fascinated while you gazed; and these eyes were now fixed upon Aunt Susan's face, as though to read her thoughts.

"They tell me, Mary," said Aunt Susan, smiling, "that you are the father confessor here, and therein they have pointed out to me your 'talent.' There is something very winning about you, I own, and you steal our secrets ere we are aware. You seem

so gentle, so quiet, that we regard you as a second self, and talk to you accordingly. There are few among you, girls, but have confided in Mary Lee, when you would have suffered any penance, any

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privation, rather than intrust your secrets to another. Your talent, Mary, is your influence. All who ask your counsel, follow it implicitly, and a few words of your sweet, low voice will work a mightier spell than volumes of reproof, or weeks of punishment. Even when you speak not, your actions tell, and loudly too. Your sway in our hearts is so gentle, we dream not you are ruling us, and submit as though you were 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 corners, that you always make them confidential.

"Yours is a glorious talent, for there will be secrets told you which had been whispered only to the stars; plans will be unfolded for your approbation, which 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 delicate and sacred. Yours is a mighty influence; see that you use it well. To you they come for approbation and advice: let it be given wisely. The triumphant coquette may perchance seek your 'corner' to tell you how wretched she is, though crowds are sighing at her feet; how dissatisfied she is, though her glass reflects a perfect form and face, and her diary tells of countless lovers, ready to die at her behest. One word of yours may pierce the ice which 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 skeptic, 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 cause of truth, will have strength vouchsafed you to combat 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 actions, even your silence, may go far to convince him.

""Twere small need, methinks, to caution you against tarnishing your talent, against evil influence; but I warn you, and indeed all of you, my children, to be upon your guard. A smile, a look, is all-sufficient. Our influence is a fearful talent, which all of our sex possess. May it ever be exerted to purify and exalt our fellows, and may we all act and speak so as to remind men of the great eternity whither we are tending, to be spent in bliss or misery; and may naught but good influence be laid to our charge at the great day!"

"And my talent, Aunt Susan," said a quiet voice in the corner; "I am not dowered with Helen's wealth, or Lizzie's beauty; I have neither Fanny's wit, nor Mary's influence; what can my talent be?" The speaker was an orphan, a recipient 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 creatures that ever breathed. Nothing was too much trouble for her, if it could give pleasure to the smallest or feeblest of God's creatures; and all the little ones called her their "dear dood Anne."

"You have drawn rather a forlorn picture of yourself, Anne," Aunt Susan replied; "but your talent, though not quite as showy, is as useful and precious as the others. You are alone in the world, Anne, and your talent is your time. There have been no claims upon it as yet, save the trifling offices your schoolmates have required at your hands. Now it is at your own disposal, and it rests with you to spend the long life which I trust is before you, in the service of its Giver, or in violation of his express commands. 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 voices calling within and around you, can you sit down with folded hands? Is your time, your precious talent, to be frittered away in idleness or pleasure, when there is so much 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! A lifetime could not be more gloriously dedicated, nor a talent better employed. Your patience and energy are grand qualifications 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 rescued from destruction, at the awful bar of God. At that moment, if you could, which would you choose, a life of pleasure, gayety, or indolence, or one spent in toiling, suffering, though always in rejoicing, over the good you have wrought in the land and the hearts of the heathen."

There remained but one in that little band with her talent untold, but it needed not the telling. You could read upon her high, broad brow, and in the flash of her dark blue eye, that she had the gift of genius. Catharine Sunderland was a poetess, and that of no mean order. Her brilliant talents had long made her the idol of her teachers and the "headman" among her schoolmates; but these were distinctions she cared not for. She loved to roam the woods, portfolio in hand, and pen down the bright thoughts as they crowded into her brain; and she had acquired the sobriquet of "Corinne" from her talents as an improvisatrice. She smiled faintly and proudly as Aunt Susan's eye rested upon her.

"Well, 'Corinne,'" the good lady began, "you are the last, I see, and had I chosen your talent for a climax, I could not have found a happier one. You are public property, Kate--at least you will be in a

year or two-and it were well to reflect a moment ere your character is established in the literary world. You are writing not for a month or a year, but for eternity. You are writing not for yourself or for a chosen few, but for the world. Pause, then, over each brilliant effusion, with the question, 'Will this piece of mine make any one happy or wretched? will it be arrayed on the side of virtue, or on that of vice? and more, does it give God the glory?'

"Yes, pause, Kate Sunderland; a magic rod is in your hand; will you wield it for weal or woe? Shall

your talent be kept pure and holy in the service of its Giver, or shall it, like the notes of a siren, lure men to death with its singing?

"And now, my dearest children, my sermon is over. To-morrow we must part; and though we may never meet again on earth, when we come before the judgment-seat, may I hear the words addressed to each and all of you, 'Well done, thou good and faithful servant; thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things; enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.""

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No. I. ON THE MOST ANCIENT COVERING FOR THE FEET

I

If we investigate the monuments of the remotest nations of antiquity, we shall find that the earliest form of protection for the feet partook of the nature of sandals. The most ancient representations we possess of scenes in ordinary life are the sculptures and paintings of early Egypt, and these the investigations of travelled scholars from most modern civilized countries have, by their descriptions and delineations, made familiar to us, so that the habits and manners, as well as the costume of this ancient 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 conversant with their domestic manners and customs as with those of any modern nation to which the book of the traveller would introduce us. Not only do their pictured relics remain to give us an insight into their mode of life, but a vast quantity of articles of all kinds, from the tools of the workmen to the elegant fabrics which once decorated the boudoir of the fair ladies of Memphis and Carnac three thousand years ago, are treasured up in the museums of various countries.

With these materials, it is in no wise difficult to carry our history of shoemaking back to the earliest times, and even to look upon the shoemaker at his work in the early days of Thotmes the Third, who ascended the throne of Egypt, according to Wilkinson, 1495 years before Christ, and during whose

reign the Exodus of the Israelites occurred. The first of our engravings contain copies of this very curious painting as it existed upon the walls of Thebes, when the Italian scholar Rossellini copied it for his great work on Egypt. The shoemakers are both seated upon low stools-(real specimens of such articles may be seen in the British Museum, London) and are both busily employed in the formation of the sandals then usually worn in Egypt; the first workman is piercing with his awl the leather thong, at the side of the sole, through which the straps were passed which secured the sandal to the foot; before him is a low sloping bench, one end of which rests upon the ground: his fellow-workman is equally busy sewing a shoe, and tightening the thong with his teeth, a primitive mode of working which is occasionally indulged in at the present day. The tools and manufactured sandals lie around, and are here represented: they

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bear, in some instances, a resemblance to those used in the present day; the central instrument having

the precise shape of the shoemaker's awl still in use, so very unchanging are articles of utility. In the same manner, the semicircular knife used by the ancient Egyptians between three and four thousand years ago, is precisely similar to that of our modern curriers, and is thus represented in a painting at

sontiotf; and the captive figure is evidently, from feature and costume, a Jew: it thus becomes a curiFig. 1.

ous illustration of Scripture history. Figs. 2 and 3 delineate two fine examples of sandals formed, as Fig. 2.

Thebes of that remote antiquity.

The workman, it

Fig. 3.

will be noticed, cuts the leather upon a sloping bench, exactly like that of the shoemaker already engraved.

The warmth and mildness of the East rendered a close, warm shoe unnecessary; and, indeed, in the present day they partake there more of the character of slippers, and the foot, thus unconfined by tight shoes, and always free in its motion, retains its full power and pliability; and the custom still retained in the East, of holding a strap of leather or other substance between the toes, is represented in the Theban paintings; the foot thus becoming a useful second to the hand.

Many specimens of the shoes and sandals of the ancient Egyptians may also be 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 sandals; but, on some occasions, those of the middle classes who were in the habit of wearing them preferred walking barefooted; and in religious ceremonies, the priests frequently took them off while performing their duties in the Temple."

The sandals varied slightly in form; those worn by the upper classes, and by women, were usually pointed and turned up at the end, like our skates and the Eastern slippers of the present day. Some had a sharp, flat point; others were nearly round. They were made of a sort of woven or interlaced work, of palm-leaves and papyrus stalks, or other similar materials; sometimes of leather, and were frequently lined within with cloth, on which the figure of a captive was painted: that humiliating position being thought suitable to the enemies of their country, whom they hated and despised, an idea agreeing perfectly with the expression which so often occurs in the hieroglyphic legends accompanying a king's name, where his valor and virtues are recorded on the sculptures-"You have trodden the impure Gentiles under your powerful feet."

The example selected for Fig. 1 is in the British Museum, beneath the sandal of a mummy of Har

above described, of the leaf of the palm; they were brought from Egypt by the late Mr. Salt, consul general, and formed part of the collection sold in London, after his death, and are now in the British Museum. They are very different from each other in their construction, and are of that kind worn by the poorer classes: flat slices of the palm-leaf, which lap over each other in the centre, form the sole of Fig. 4, and a double band of twisted leaves secures

Fig. 4.

and strengthens the edge; a thong of the strong fibres of the same plant is affixed to each side of the instep, and was secured round the foot. The other, Fig. 2, is more elaborately platted, and has a softer look; it must, in fact, have been as a pad to the foot, exceedingly light and agreeable in the arid climate inhabited by the people for whom such sandals were constructed: the knot at each side to which the thong was affixed still remains.

The sandals with curved toes alluded to above, and which frequently appear upon Egyptian sculpture, and generally upon the feet of the superior

classes, are exhibited in the woodcrt here given: and in the Berlin Museum one is preserved of pre

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