trinket-stands, and other ornaments in white china, with or without a border of gold, tea and coffee services in china or earthenware, dessert services, flower-pots and boxes, candlesticks, urn and jug-stands, and many other china articles which have been made expressly for decoration by this art; white wood articles, straw dinnermats, silk or cloth sofa cushions, scent-bags, slippers, hand-screens, ribbons, articles in ivory, book covers, — indeed, it is difficult to say what ornamental article may not thus be decorated, from the panels of a room to the tiny articles of a dressing-table. To the house decorator this art offers a complete substitute for the costly process of hand-painting for panels of rooms, and other portions of his work which require artistic embellishment. As to the choice of subjects, of course that must be left to the individual taste. The variety is large, comprising flowers, birds, figures, and landscapes, of all dimensions, and in every style the beautiful products of Sevres, the works of modern artists, and inlaid woods. The brushes are easily cleaned with a little of the detergent, as well as any accidental spots of the cement and varnish on the dress. Water Decalcomanie, or "Decal sans Vernis," as it is sometimes and most inappropriately called, is simply the design covered with a very strong varnish, and cut out; these designs are sold in boxes, and are used in the following manner: The design is thrown into a basin of cold water, and left to soak for a few minutes; it is then removed, and the design forming with the varnish, a film is slightly moved from the paper with the finger and thumb, and the edge being laid upon the object to be decorated, the paper is drawn from under the design; while wet it may be easily moved, should it not be placed in the position required. THE FIRST OF APRIL. "LETTERS! letters! I wonder where they are from," exclaimed Rosa Lee, as Sarah, the servant, entered the breakfastroom with letters for her. "Rosa, who is that letter from ?" said Annie, her sister, as she looked at one addressed in a gentleman's handwriting. "It must be a proposal from some gentleman that has fallen in love with you at first sight." "Really, Annie dear, what a tease you are! Never mind that now. I am in no hurry to open it, for see, I have a letter here from cousin Lizzie, inviting you and I to spend a few weeks with them. Won't it be delightful? Look, she says our very dear friend, Kate Herbert, will be there; and what a many rambles we shall have together once more!" "I hope mamma will let us go," said Annie. "We must ask her as soon as she comes down, so that we shall have the more time to prepare. But, oh! you have forgot that other letter. Do let me see what is in it. I think you must know something about it." "No, indeed, dear Annie, I don't. Come here and look over my shoulder while I read it. I really had forgotten all about it while reading cousin Lizzie's letter." Rosa, with some difficulty, drew off the envelope, and instead of seeing a nicelywritten letter in a bold handwriting, saw nothing but an envelope addressed to her sister. "What a disappointment for me! I wonder the gentleman, whoever he be, could not send his letter direct to you instead of sending it through me." While Rosa was speaking Annie had torn the envelope off, and astonishment was pictured in her face. "What is the matter, Annie?" "Look, Rosa, here is another envelope addressed to cousin Lizzie, and nothing for me but the addressed envelope." "I see how it is," exclaimed Rosa, "this is the first of April, and some one has made us April fools. It is the best bit of fun I have heard of for a long time." And both the sisters made the room ring with laughter. "Well, my dears," said Mrs. Lee, as she entered the room, "what makes you so merry this morning?" Why, mamma, someone has actually made us April fools!" and both proceeded to tell her of the addressed envelopes they had received that morning. "It is "Let me look, Rosa, at the writing." "Don't you know it?" "No mamma. Do you?" "I think I do," said Mrs. Lee. very like your cousin Charles's writing, and it looks to me like one of his roguish tricks." "Well, mamma, what shall I do with the envelope addressed to cousin Lizzie?" "Send it by all means, and then perhaps you may find out the author." "So we will," exclaimed both in the same voice. "If Lizzie knows who has sent it, I am sure she will tell us." "Mamma," said Rosa, "I have had a letter from cousin Lizzie this morning, inviting Annie and I to spend a few weeks with her. Can you spare us?" "Well, my dears, it is rather early to go out visiting, but as I see by the letter your friend will be there, I think you had better go. I see you are to go on Thursday, and it is now Tuesday, so you must make the most of your time." The next two days were spent by the sisters in anticipating their visit, and talking of the mysterious envelopes they had received. Thursday arrived, and Rosa and Annie found themselves after a long journey at their uncle's house, where they were welcomed by their aunt and cousins. Rosa and Annie had never been much from home, as their parents were of a quiet turn. of mind, and did not care for the enjoyment of the frivolities they saw around them; their chief delight was the society of their two daughters, who were now growing into womanhood, and who had never been separated from each other. Mr. Robert Lee was the only surviving relative of their father, so there was no wonder that the two families should be bound by the closest ties. They were as one family, though separated by distance, and that distance often travelled by both families. The morning after their arrival, Rosa, Annie, Lizzie, and their friend Kate, were walking in the garden talking of all that had happened since they last met. Oh! Lizzie," said Annie, "what about that letter I sent you? Have you found out who sent it?" Well, Annie, I could not tell at first, but I thought I could detect one of the capital letters, so I took it to Charles and asked him if he knew who had written it. After a little coaxing he told me he and his friend, George Morton, had written them, but did not think we should be able to find them out, for they endeavoured to disguise their writing." Many plans were arranged by the cousins as to how they were the best able to pay off the debt they owed to the young gentlemen, but whether that debt was ever paid I am not able to say. But in after years, when Rosa was Mrs. Charles Lee, and Lizzie Mrs. Morton, they often talked of the letters that made them April fools. ADELA. WAIT patiently, desire moderately, and act conscientiously, and all that you hope for reasonably shall be fulfilled. TO CARACTACUS. LONG have I look'd on and admired the skill With which thou wield st thy sword-the critic's pen, Now keen as a two-edged blade, in seeth, and then Soft, and as soothing as the murm'ring rill, Breaking in ripples on the charmer's ear On summer eve. Even so, my worthy friend, Have I drank in thy strains so cold, yet clear, Where "Minstrel and Philosopher" doth blend In flowery wreath so fair; and tho' betimes Thy cutting hyper-critiques almost hath Fanned up the slumb'ring seeds of latent wrath, I thank thee now for missing my poor rhymes; And since 'tis so, I raise my flag again, And dare thee to mortal combat on the plain. ALEXANDER K. ERSKINE. CHESS. CONDUCTED BY CAPTAIN CRAWLEY. GAME V.-SICILIAN OPENING. BETWEEN CAPTAIN C. AND MR. B. WHITE. (MR. B.) BLACK. (CAPTAIN C.) 1 P to Q B 4 3 Q Kt to B 3 6 K Kt to Kt 3 7 KB to K 2 8 Castles 9 Q Kt takes K Kt 10 P to K B 4 11 KP takes P 12 P to Q 4 13 QB to K3 19 Q R to K B sq 28 Q to K 2 29 KR to B7 WHITE TO PLAY, AND MATE IN THREE AN IMPROMPTU EVENING SONNET. Which, piercing veils and types, discerns the whole MY FAVOURITE POET. A FONDNESS for poetry was, with me, one of the earliest manifested signs of intellectual life. When little past the days of infancy it was my delight to learn hymns and other verses by heart, which I did in great numbers, to the wonder and admiration of my elders. The liking, thus early manifested, has grown and strengthened so that still to roam in the poetic fields is one of my sweetest pleasures. may glance from earth to heaven, and gate, and seem to unlock for us the secrets soaring he may take us to the celestial of the eternity that is passed, and paint the season when there was war in heaven, while we stand mute with admiration and wonder at his sublime daring; but, if the poet's mission be to delight that he reverence to these high priests of the may mend mankind, then, with all due poetic altar, I am disposed to think that a flight more within the sphere of human nature's ken may fulfil all the purposes that poetry was intended to subserve, and, therefore, though Cowper does not attempt to scale the heights, or sound the depths of undiscovered regions, yet nevertheless I claim for him that which indeed I need not claim, for it is neither contested nor disallowed—a name and a place amongst bards of undying fame. Yes, Cowper is a poet by universal sufferblest shade" the meddling presumption and I am disposed to say "forgive that would attempt to apologise for thy defects; certainly they stand not in my exult in the fact that thou hast some, way; nay, more, I am almost inclined to because by them thou art brought nearer to my heart. ance, A certain old man, when questioned as to the extent of his poetic acquaintance, affirmed that he had read pretty well all the poetry that had ever been printed. Now, I cannot come up to that; I make no pretention to such universal knowledge; all I venture to say is, that I have given the subject a share of my regard and attention. Milton, Shakspeare, and Young, Thomson, Tennyson, and Longfellow, and many more whose names I need not state, have been perused by me; and I regard with admiration, mixed with awe, the sublime strains of the first-mentioned poet, and the universal acquaintance with human nature as displayed by the second, and have lingered with delight on the luminous pages of all the others; but my favourite-well, certainly I have not mentioned his name, and some may suppose him included in the unmentioned list; but no, I must single him out, for he must occupy in my page, as he did in my heart, a first and a foremost place. He is--but his own words may best de-ness and neglect which met his endeavours scribe him The bard that blends no fable with his song, Thus Cowper writes-thus modestly speaks he of a vocation he himself so truly and ably fulfilled, and that not for one age alone, but for all time. But though I unhesitatingly say thus much for my favourite, yet be it known that I claim not for him equality with the great masters of the art; still, contradictory as it may seem, I would ask, what should we look for in a poet that his description does not include? I grant the poet's eye I think it will be seen that I am not actuated by a blind favouritism; however, I proceed to make the remark I have infame is now established, and rests on an terrupted, namely, that although Cowper's enduring basis, there was a time when his gentle spirit was chafed by the cold to serve. Yes, the critics made very free with his productions; they even weighed his verses at the value of the paper upon which they were inscribed; but what of that? They neither make nor mar immortal fame, and many a poet besides Cowper has escaped the oblivion which these caustic monopolisers of taste have pronounced as the condign punishment for his presumption. I have said that Cowper is my favourite poet, and I suppose I ought to say why, for a preference without a reason to back it would be credible neither to him nor myself. Well, then, in order to meet the supposed requirement, I beg to inform all who may care to know, that very early in life I began to cultivate his acquaintance. Whether I found in his writings a chord which vibrated in unison with my own views and feelings I will not affirm of that early period, although such is the case now; but my principles and tastes were then unformed and undeveloped, so it would perhaps be more correct to say that studying mostly in his school I learned to look at things through the medium which he presents, and to form my tastes from his pattern. Yet it must not be supposed that I did not make excursions into other poetic fields, nay, I often did so, but always returned with renewed zest to the smooth and verdant meads where my favourite walks with nature and with nature's God. This, then, is my account of my poetic preference-a preference at which, though many may sneer as a want of taste, many will, I doubt not, heartily participate with me; but as to taste I think I have shown plainly enough that I do not claim for Cowper a foremost place amongst the great masters of the heaven inspired art. No; regarded as a poet in what I may call an absolute sense, he has doubtless many superiors; but if we view him in the light of a poet and moralist combined, I think he must be fairly allowed to stand alone. And this I account his chief glory; and surely, unless morality be a thing of little worth, it is no slight service that Cowper rendered; and it will not, I think, be saying too much for him to affirm that, with the exception of those who wielded the pen with an avowedly religious aim, he has done more for the real benefit of his race than all his contemporaries, and perhaps we may also say, than all his predecessors put together. A true poet we are told is the highest type of man; if this be fact, a poet's life should be an embodiment in practice of all that is pure, and good, and noble; but alas! the scarcity of examples bearing out this view serves but to prove that something more than the poetic gift is necessary to the realisation of moral greatness. That something Cowper had. He was a true Christian; that fact explains the source of his power; and bending the rays of his genius to concentrate on his pages the spirit of the religion he loved and exemplified, is it any wonder that they should reflect something of the light that gave them birth? No; the wonder would rather be, at least to one unacquainted with the reasons, that he who possessed this combined light did not do more to diffuse it; but we know that there were very strong reasons for the amiable poet's shortcomings, and therefore we say"If brighter beams than all he throw not forth, "Twas dire disease in him, not want of will or worth." But notwithstanding the dire disease which so often beclouded his spirit, and caused him to "hang his harp upon the willows," he yet did enough to earn for himself the right of being considered a noble witness for virtue, nay, more, "a preacher of righteousness disguise of a poet. under the LILY H. A VISION IN THE TWILIGHT. TWILIGHT's stealing o'er the valley, Creeping up the distant height, Deep'ning in the little parlour, Where I sit and muse to-night. Sit and muse in happy silence, Nestling by my mother's chair, Feeling but her loving fingers Softly passing o'er my hair. Darling mother! this last evening Let me nestle closer, mother; Fold me in thine arms again; Oh! how exquisite is pleasure When it borders upon pain! But, away ye gloomy fancies, Boding sorrow and unrest, I will read a happier future In the love that stirs my breast. Let me look upon the vision That has glorified my life, It has given me strength for weakness, Radiant smiles for dimming tears. Let me trace this blissful vision |