ferent shades, from a jet black through all the gradations of a lead hue, to the palest slatecolours.

Imitations of dotted engravings are worked in small stitches, (similar to the first stitch in marking,) set exceedingly thick; beginning with the darkest parts in black silk, and gradually working towards the lighter parts with silks of appropriate hues; blending them into each other, by setting the dark stitches wider apart, where it is requisite to change the shade; and working those of the next tint into the intervals thus left. It is necessary to place the engraving constantly in view, as a guide for the lights and shades.

Subjects in imitation of line-engraving are worked for rather more distant effect than those we have just described. The same fine silks are used, but the stitches must be longer, and set rather apart from each other, according to the lines in the original.

Worsted-work, on canvas, is a subordinate description of Embroidery. It is applied to the production of rugs for urns, covers of ottomans, bell-pulls, and many other elegant articles. The outline of the pattern is sketched, with a pen, on canvas, strained in the middle of a frame.

In working a rug, it is usual to commence with the centre, which is done in tent-stitch, or as the first stitch in marking. The worsted is brought from underneath, and passed down again, in an angular direction, over the next cross-thread of the canvas. It is particularly observed, that all the stitches must go in one direction; the colours

D

of the worsted should be selected to imitate the various tints, as in a painting of the same subject. The whole of the ground is to be filled up in the same sort of stitch as that adopted for the centre, with white glazed cotton, worsted, or silk. When the work is removed from the frame, it is advisable to tack a piece of paper over the centre, in order to keep it clean, during the working of the border, which is formed by long loops, in a cross-stitch, on the canvas, taken over a flat ivory mesh-stick. The border is usually done in a scroll pattern, shaded tufts, or shades of colours in lines. When finished, each loop is cut with a pair of scissors; the rug is then laid flat on a table, and the surface cropped smooth. It should be beaten with a little cane to clear out all the small loose fibres of worsted; and may be lined, at the back, with glazed cambric, or baize.

Ottomans, or foot-stools, are worked all over exactly in the same manner as the centre of a rug.

Bell-pulls are also worked with the same worsteds, and in the same stitch as rugs; usually in a running pattern of flowers, on a strip of canvas, of a proper length, which may be bought, with a selvage on each side, adapted to this peculiar purpose. The ground is generally filled up with a colour that harmonizes with the curtains, or other decorations, of the room for which the bellpulls are intended. The edge is either finished by a binding of velvet, or worked in a sloping direction, so as to cover about three threads of

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the margin of the canvas, and forming a satinstitch. The top of the bell-ribbon is finished with a tuft, worked on a round piece of canvas, in the same manner as the border of a rug: it is afterwards tacked on a circular piece of pasteboard.

Paper patterns, covered with black cross lines, to represent the threads of canvass, and painted on the squares, is the proper colours, may be bought at the worsted-shops; but in working from these patterns, it is necessary to use the cross-stitch, which is taken in an angular direction over two threads of the canvas, and then crossed in the same way. The pattern is not to be tacked to the canvas, but merely placed in view, as a copy. The centre of the middle flower, or ornament, is to be first ascertained, and the coloured squares in the pattern counted from it, as a guide for the number of stitches to be taken in each colour on the convas.

HONOUR and integrity ought to be the leading principles of every transaction in life. These are virtues highly requisite, notwithstanding they are too frequently disregarded. Whatever pursuits individuals are in quest of, sincerity in profession, steadfastness in pursuit, and punctuality in discharging engagements, are indispensably incumbent. A man of honest integrity, and uprightness in his dealings with his fellow-creatures, is sure to gain the confidence and applause of all good men; whilst he who acts from dishonest or designing principles, obtains deserved contempt. Dishonest proceedings in word or deed, are very offensive to, and unjustifiable in the sight of God and man, even in trivial, but much more so in consequential affairs. The most perfect uprightness is highly requisite between man and man, though it is too often disregarded, and is much more so between the sexes. Every profession of regard should be without dissembling, every promise preserved inviolate, and every engagement faithfully discharged. No one ought to make any offers or pretensions to a lady before he is, in a great measure, certain her person, her temper, and qualifications suit his circumstances, and agree perfectly with his own temper and way of thinking. For a similarity of mind and manners is very necessary to render the bonds of love permanent, and those of marriage happy.

"Marriage the happiest state of life would be,

If hands were only joined where hearts agree."

The man of uprightness and integrity of heart, will not only observe the beauties of the mind, the goodness of the heart, the dignity of sentiment and the delicacy of wit, but will strive to

fix his affections on such permanent endowments, before he pledges his faith to any lady.

He looks upon marriage as a business of the greatest importance in life, and a change of condition that cannot be undertaken with too much reverence and deliberation. Therefore he will not undertake it at random, lest he should precipitately involve himself in the greatest difficulties. He wishes to act a conscientious part, and consequently cannot think (notwithstanding it is too much countenanced by custom) of sporting with the affections of the fair sex, nor even of paying his addresses to any one, till he is perfectly convinced his own are fixed on just principles.

All imaginable caution is certainly necessary beforehand; but after a man's profession of regard, and kind services and solicitations have made an impression on a female heart, it is no longer a matter of indifference whether he perseveres in, or breaks off his engagement. For he is then particularly dear to her, and reason, honour, justice, all unite to oblige him to make good his engagement. When the matter is brought to such a crisis, there is no retreating, without manifestly disturbing her quiet and tranquillity of mind; nor can any thing but her loss of virtue justify his desertion. Whether marriage has been expressly promised or not, it is of little signification. For if he has solicited and obtained her affections, on supposition that he intended to marry her, the contract is, in the sight of heaven, sufficiently binding. In short, the man who basely imposes upon the honest heart of an unsuspecting girl, and, after winning her affections by the prevailing rhetoric of courtship ungenerously leaves her to bitter sorrow and complaining, acts a very dishonourable part, and is more to be detested than a common robber. For private treachery is much more heinous than open force; and money must not be put in competition with happiness.

NEWTON'S METHOD OF COURTSHIP.

IT is said that Sir Isaac Newton did once in his life go a wooing, and as was expected, had the greatest indulgence paid to the little peculiarities which ever accompany great genius. Knowing he was fond of smoking, the lady assiduously provided him with a pipe, and they were gravely seated to open the business of Cupid. Sir Isaac made a few whiffs-seemed at a loss for something-whiffed again, and at last drew his chair near to the lady: a pause of some minutes ensued-Sir Isaac seemed still more uneasy-Oh! the timidity of some! thought the lady-when lo! Sir Isaac got hold of her hand-now the palpitation began: he will kiss it, no doubt, thought she, and then the matter is settled. Sir Isaac whiffed with redoubled fury, and drew the captive hand near his head already the expected salutation vibrated from the hand to the heart, when, pity the damsel, gentle reader! Sir Isaac only raised the fair hand, to make the fore-finger what he much wanted a tobacco stopper!

THE morning mists had disappeared, and the sun had burst forth with unusual brilliancy; its bright rays reflected in the beautiful stream that meanders through Elmwood's Park, as I paused at an open window to bid a long adieu to the scenery around, and to the home which I loved. It was, in truth, a beautiful prospect; and I remained, gazing intently upon it, until, aroused by hearing the gentle accents of a female voice in an adjacent room, I recollected that I was about to offer my congratulations to my cousin, Adelaide Manvers, on her bridal morning, and to bid her a long, and, perhaps, an eternal farewell. My heart beat tumultuously as I entered her apartment; but a strong effort enabled me to subdue my agitation. I approached Adelaide, and placing a diadem of pearls beside her, I expressed, in a few words, my sincere wishes for her happiness.

"But why will you leave us, Horace?" said the sweet girl; "surely you can remain with us one day longer?" and she looked earnestly at me, while a deep blush spread over her ingenuous countenance.

Alas! she little knew the agony I suffered in being obliged to leave her, nor the deep, the very deep interest I took in her welfare. I endeavoured to convince her that longer delay was impossible, and that I had already exceeded the time allowed me.

"Well, then," said Adelaide, "if you are indeed going, I have a little gift for you"-and she placed in my hands a small miniature of herself cased in gold-" which will sometimes serve to remind you of a cousin who will ever remember with affection the friend of her youth."

I strove to speak, but the words died away on my tongue; and, hastily clasping her to my heart with the freedom which our long intimacy and relationship warranted, I pressed my lips on her beautiful brow, and rushed from the room. Years have passed away since then, but that interview still lives in my memory! Adelaide Manvers was the orphan child of my father's favourite sister. Both of her parents had died when she was very young. My mother received her under her protection, and she was educated with my sister Catharine. I was ten years the senior of Adelaide; and when she first became an inmate of our family, I was preparing for the university, and had but little intercourse with my pretty cousin. Years rolled onwards, and the joyous laughing child ripened into a beautiful and artless girl, whose smiles and presence formed to me the chief attraction of my home; and whose grace and engaging simplicity were never-failing objects of interest and delight. Adelaide was, however, unconscious that I entertained for her a sentiment warmer than that of friendship; nor had I the courage to make her acquainted

with my feelings, as I feared to interrupt the harmony then existing between us. About this time, an opportunity presented itself for my accompanying a gentleman in the continental tour, and as I was much pressed to avail myself of the offer by my father, and could offer no plausible reason for refusing, I reluctantly consented. I was absent two years, and during that time the sweet image of Adelaide still haunted me, and I thought of her with unabated affection. At length I returned, and hastened to embrace my family, who were then staying at Southampton. Adelaide was with them-and, how beautiful she looked! Every where she was the object of universal attraction; but I thought less of her personal loveliness than of the endearing and estimable qualities of her heart and mind. We renewed our former friendly intercourse, and hope whispered to my heart that I might be happy. Soon, however, I learned with dismay, that Sir James Mantravers was an ardent admirer of my cousin Adelaide, and that it was suspected she regarded him with partiality. Here was a deathblow to the airy fabric of happiness which I had been raising. The baronet was younger than myself; handsome, and of most polished manners. He evidently sought to gain Adelaide's affection, and I watched her closely when in company with him. I saw the deepened blush on the cheek of my cousin when the young baronet addressed her, and the sparkle of her eye as she listened to the welcome conversation; from that moment, the long treasured and secret hopes of my heart died within me. I saw that her young heart's affections were fixed, and that she was lost to me forever. I resolved that my wretchedness and disappointment should be buried in the recesses of my heart. Sir James soon after made proposals for the hand of Adelaide, which were accepted. I know not why, but though he was a general favourite in society, I never liked him. I suspected that much of dissimulation lurked beneath his smooth exterior and insinuating address. Though I knew Adelaide would soon be the bride of another, I still lingered near her, willing to listen to her sweet voice, and gaze on her enchanting smile; but when the day of her union was fixed, I awoke from my trance to a full sense of my miscry. I felt that I could not witness her the wife of another, and retain my senses. I resolved to leave England for India, where I had an uncle, who had for many years filled an important post under the government. "I will quit England," I exclaimed in bitter sorrow, "for years-perhaps for ever, and lose, if possible, the remembrance of my misery amid new climes and scenery." My wish was at first strenuously objected to by my family; but when they saw my settled determination, they refrained from offering further

opposition, and a day was named for my departure. Circumstances, immaterial now, connected with the baronet's family, obliged him to name an earlier day for his marriage than had been anticipated, and it happened to be the very one which was also to witness my departure from Elmwood Park, my paternal home. I was indeed importuned to remain and witness Adelaide's espousals; but I offered so plausible an excuse, that it was quite sufficient to satisfy the unsuspecting mind of Adelaide. At length the morning of my departure came. My parting scene with Adelaide I have already described; but how shall I tell of the bitter dejection with which I sank back in the carriage, as it swept round the lawn, when I saw the waive of Adelaide's hand at the window, and felt that on earth I must behold her beloved form no more, or look on her as the wife of another!

While in India, I heard frequently from my sister Catharine. She, however, said but little respecting Adelaide, as I half suspect that she had some idea of my unhappy attachment; but I learned that Adelaide was a mother, and that Sir James was extremely gay, and the first to join in every fashionable extravagance. I sighed when I read this, for my heart whispered to me that Adelaide was unhappy, as I knew her habits and disposition were averse to scenes of reckless gaiety and dissipation. Time soothed my bitter feelings of disappointment, and the novel scenes of activity in which I engaged, tended to dissipate my unhappiness, until at length I was enabled to think of Adelaide with calmness, yet still as a dear and cherishing being, for whose welfare I felt the most tender solicitude.

I had been twelve years in India, when my uncle died, and left me the bulk of his property; the remainder to be equally divided between Adelaide and my sister Catharine. When I lost my uncle, I had no remaining tie in India, and I felt a longing desire to revisit my native shores, and to embrace my mother and sister-my father had been dead some years. How my heart even then throbbed when I thought I should see Adelaide.

I found my mother but little touched by time; scarcely a furrow on her brow, and she wore the same placid smile as ever; and Catharine, dear Catharine, still as lively and good humoured as when I left her. A tear trembled in my sister's eye, however, when she spoke of Adelaide. Sir James, she told me, was then on the continent; but neither my mother nor herself had seen Adelaide for the last two years, though they yet corresponded. Sir James had looked on them as unwelcome visitors; and they, in their turn, could not conceal the disgust they felt at his neglect of Adelaide, nor bear to witness her dejection, the cause for which she sedulously abstained from speaking of, and they were too delicate to mention, as she seemed to wish to avoid it. Their circumstances were no longer flourishing, for Sir James' debts of honour had dissipated the greater part of his fortune. Adelaide was said to be in ill health; and there were

rumours abroad that the baronet's conduct was exceedingly harsh and unfeeling. Three children had died in their infancy, and one only was living-a girl.

I will not endeavour to paint my feelings when I listened to this melancholy recital. Adelaide was unhappy! and I could offer no consolation; but I could see her, and my friendship might yet be of service to her. This resolution I resolved immediately to execute; and a few trifling matters, relative to the fortune which my uncle had left her, formed a sufficient excuse for my soliciting an interview.

It was the season of spring when I arrived at Lee priory, a small estate of the baronet's in the county of Dorset, and the only one, I believe, which his propensity for gaming had left him. Adelaide had resided there for the last year. The situation of the priory was, in truth, beautiful in the extreme; it stood on a gentle eminence, whence the eye looked out on fertile meads, rich in wood and water; and the extreme verge of the prospect was lost in the blue waves of the distant ocean. Yet there was something about the priory itself which seemed to speak desolation, as I passed through its beautiful but neglected garden, and I sighed to think how much it was in unison with the heart of its mistress. I was informed by the servant that lady Mantravers was at home, and I was shown into the library, where I had time to collect my scattered thoughts, and to preserve my fortitude, which seemed on the point of deserting me, for the approaching interview.

A beautiful whole-length portrait of Adelaide hung over the fire-place, so like, so very like her when I last saw her, that as I gazed upon it, I almost believed the years that had passed an illusion. I was awakened from my reverie by a beautiful little girl running into the room, apparently about five years old, with a little basket of flowers in her hand. I had scarcely time, however, to look at her ere I heard Adelaide's voice; and she advanced to meet and welcome me as an old friend. I looked at her, but gracious heaven! what a change was there! Had it not been for her voice, I could scarcely have believed that it was Adelaide who stood before me. She was very thin-alarmingly so. I looked for the sunny smile which I remembered, but it was gone; the rose had fled from her cheeks-they were very pale, but her hair was still soft and beautiful, and her voice as sweet and gentle as ever. Adelaide saw, in a moment, the cause of my emotion.

"Ah! Mr. Morton!" she said with a melancholy smile," I see you have forgotten the years that have passed since we met, and you find me sadly changed." My heart was too full to speak. "I am far from well at present," she continu"my spirits, too, have left me sadly of late; but I have a little antidote here, which seldom fails to restore me in my melancholy moods,” and she drew forth the little girl and presented her to

ed;

me.

She was a lovely child, the very image of Adelaide herself, when she first came under my pro

tection, save that there was a shade of thoughtfulness over her sweet face, which her mother, at her age, had not. I placed her on my knee, and encouraged by my caresses, she began prattling to me with all that bewitching artlessness which renders childhood so attractive.

"And how is dear Catharine?" said Adelaide. I told her she was well, and I regretted that they did not meet more frequently.

"Alas!" she continued, "Catharine cannot regret our separation more than I do. Circumstances, however, forbid our meeting, but I trust that your sister still thinks of me with affection." I endeavoured to assure her that Catharine's regard for her was as lively as ever.

"You will, perhaps, smile," replied Adelaide, "but I have a fancy that my time in this world will be short; and the wish nearest my heart is, that your inestimable mother and dear Catharine would consent to take charge of my little treasure" and she pointed to her infant daughter. I expressed my hopes that she would yet live many years, and regain her former strength and spirits.

"My physicians tell me that I shall," said she, "but I know better-the seeds of decay are too deeply sown to be eradicated; nor do I wish to live, save for Adelaide. Life has no charms for me. But enough of this. Will you take charge of a packet for your sister, wherein I have fully expressed my earnest wishes respecting my child?" I readily promised to do so, and assured her that I felt certain of their being complied with. I, however, hinted that Sir James might not accede.

"Sir James," she said, "has seriously promised never to interfere with any arrangement of mine respecting Adelaide; and I think he would respect the dying request of his wife."

"Then all shall be as you wish," 1 exclaimed; "and for myself, I will cherish your little Adelaide with a father's kindness. She shall be the object of my solicitude, and the heiress of my fortune!"

"God bless you, Horace!" said Adelaide; and her whole countenance lighted up for a moment, with unusual brilliancy. "I believe and accept your kind offer. Oh, you know not the weight of anguish from which you have relieved me."

She bent her head, and her eyes were filled with tears, which little Adelaide observing, she stole gently on the sofa behind the mother, and throwing her arms around her neck, sought to soothe her by her infantile caresses. I was visibly affected, and I spoke of a change of climate, which might, I thought, have a beneficial effect upon Adelaide's health. She shook her head.

"No, no!" said she, "no change of climate will benefit me; it is too late-my illness is here -here ;" and she laid her hand on her heart"this is broken-withered-miserable." stopped for a moment, and I dared not trust myself to reply.

She

"This may be our last interview, Horace," she continued, "why, then, O why, should I seek to hide from you, the friend of my

youth, that my marriage with Sir James has been productive of misery! An unhappy propensity for play lured him from his home; he seemed to exist only in a crowd. I was neglected and forgotten, and he threw from him then the love which I bore to him. Then, did I say?' cried Adelaide, as she hid her face in her hands and burst into tears. "Alas! alas! my affection knows no decay-it will not fade until death Hear me," continued Adelaide; "watch over my child, I charge you, and save her from her mother's fate. Let her not give her heart and affections to one who will break her gentle spirit by his unkindness, and then leave her to sorrow and scorn."

"I will shield her from every evil, Adelaide, that human foresight can guard against; but tell me," I said, "wherein can I serve you? Any thing that the most sincere friendship can-"

"No, no!" said she hastily; " for myself I have nothing to ask. Think of me as one whose sand of life is nearly run out, and whose cares and sorrows will soon be hushed in the tranquillity of the tomb. Farewell, Horace," she said, as she extended her hand to me-" my blessings and my prayers shall follow you, who have promised to be the faithful guardian of my child."

"God forever shield you, Adelaide," I cried, as I tenderly kissed her hand; and disengaging myself from the grasp of her little girl, 1 quitted the apartment.

It was my last interview with Adelaide. I saw the being whom I had so fondly loved no more! When the cold winds of autumn swept the leaves from the trees, Adelaide was at rest in the grave; her gentle spirit had passed away from this scene of sin and suffering. I have faithfully fulfilled my promise respecting her child. Ten years have now passed away since she came under my roof; and her affectionate attentions, and engaging cheerfulness, enliven my declining years, and soothe the many melancholy thoughts which, even now, often press on my spirits, when I think of her mother-of Adelaide, my first and only love.

PRIDE.

THE proud heart is the first to sink before contempt-it feels the wound more keenly than any other can. Oh, there is nothing in language that can express the deep humiliation of being received with coldness when kindness is expected-of seeing the look, but half concealed, of strong disapprobation from such as we have cause to feel beneath us, not alone in vigour of mind and spirit, but even in virtue and truth. The weak, the base, the hypocrite, are the first to turn with indignation from their fellow mortals in disgrace; and, whilst the really chaste and pure suspect with caution, and censure with mildness, these traffickers in petty sins, who plume themselves upon their immaculate conduct, sound the alarm bell at the approach of guilt, and clamour their anathemas upon their unwary and cowering prey.