Fig. 6.Fig. 7.
Fig. 6.Fig. 7.
Fig. 6.Fig. 7.
Thedeckleis a thin square mahogany frame, bound with brass at the angles; its outer dimensions correspond with the size of the mould, and its inner with that of the sheet of paper. The use of the frame is to retain the pulp upon the wire-cloth; it must be quite flat, so as to fit the cloth of the mould, otherwise the edges of the paper will be ragged and badly finished. When the deckle is placed upon the wire of the mould it forms a shallow sieve, in which the paper-maker takes up a quantity of the pulp suspended in water, and, the water draining through, leaves the pulp in the form of a sheet upon the wire. The deckle is not fastened to the mould, but is held to it by the workman grasping the mould and deckle together in both hands at the opposite sides. When the sheet is moulded the deckle is removed, and the sheet is taken up from the wire by laying it on a piece offeltor woollen cloth. These felts prevent the sheets from coming together, and they also serve to imbibe a portion of the water from the damp and loosely cohering sheet.
The wood-cut at the commencement of this article represents the process of making paper by hand.
Upon looking at the cut, it will be seen that one of the two men employed is dipping the deckle into the vat. This vat is supplied withstufffrom the chest already described; and that stuff is kept warm by a copper within the vat, to which heat is communicated by a steam-pipe. It is also agitated by machinery within. The workman forming the sheet, who is called a vatman, is provided with two moulds. These are slight frames of wood, covered with fine wire. Fitting to each mould is a deckle, or movable raised edging, which determines the size of the sheet. The vatman, putting the deckle on one of the moulds, dips it vertically into the stuff; and bringing it to the surface horizontally, covered with pulp, shakes it gently. It must be evident that this operation requires the greatest nicety, both in determining the general thickness of the sheet, and in producing it of an uniform thickness throughout. The vatman then pushes the mould with the sheet towards his fellow-workman, who is called the coucher; and, taking off the deckle, applies it to the second mould, and proceeds as before. The coucher, who receives the first mould, having a heap of porous pieces of flannel by his side, called felts, turns the mould over upon a felt, upon which the sheet remains; and, placing a felt on the sheet, he is ready to turn over another from the second mould. Thus the vatman and the coucher proceed, the one moulding a sheet of paper and the other placing it upon felt, till they have made six or eight quires. The heap is then subjected to the action of a powerful press. The sheets, after this pressure, have acquired sufficient consistency to enable them to be pressed again by themselves. The felts are accordingly removed, and one sheet being laid upon another, the heap is subjected to a moderate pressure.
When the paper is taken out of the press, it is separated into small parcels of seven or eight sheets in each, for the purpose of drying. The drying is conducted in extensive lofts in the upper parts of the mill. The sheets are taken up upon a piece of wood, shaped like a T, and hung upon hair lines stretched across large horizontal wooden frames, calledtribbles, and as these are filled they are lifted up between upright posts to the top of the room, and retained by pegs put into the posts; another frame is then filled, and put up in its turn, until the loftis filled. Air is admitted to the lofts by means of louvre boards. When sufficiently dry, the paper is taken down, andsleeked,dressed, andshaken, to get rid of dust, and to separate the pages. It is then laid in heaps in the warehouse, preparatory to sizing. The size is made from the shreds and parings of leather and parchment; it is nicely filtered, and a little alum added. A number of sheets are then dipped into the size and separated, so as to expose both surfaces of each sheet; the sheets are taken out, turned over, and dipped a second time. About a dozen handfuls being thus dipped, they are made into a pile, with a thin board or felt between every two handfuls, and pressed to get rid of superfluous size, which flows back into the size vessel. The paper is again transferred to the lofts, and dried. This being complete, it is taken down, carried to a building called theSaul(probably a corruption of the Germansaal, or the Frenchsalle, a hall, or large room), where it isexamined,finished, andpressed. The imperfect sheets are removed. The press called thedry-pressis a powerful one, or the hydrostatic-press is used. After one pressing, the heaps of paper areparted; that is, they are turned sheet by sheet, so as to expose new surfaces: the press is again used; then there is another parting, and so on, several times. The paper is next made into quires and reams, and once more pressed.
Connected with the sizing of papers is the blueing, which is said to have originated in the suggestion of a paper-maker's wife, who thought that the practice of improving thecolorof linen while passing through the wash, by means of a blue bag, might also be advantageously applied to paper. A blue-bag was accordingly suspended in the vat; and the effect proved to be so satisfactory that it led to the introduction of the large and important class of blue writing-papers. It was soon found that smalt gave a better color than common stone-blue; and smalt continued to be used for many years; but when artificial ultramarine came to be manufactured at a very low cost, and in a great variety of tints, this beautiful color gradually superseded smalt in the manufacture of writing-paper.
PAPER-MAKING BY MACHINERY.
The slow and difficult process of moulding the separate sheets of paper by hand has, to a great extent, been superseded by the introduction and gradual improvement of the very beautiful machinery of Fourdrinier, referred to in our introductory remarks. By means of this machine, a process which, under the old system, occupied about three weeks, is now performed in as many minutes. Within this brief space of time, and the short distance of thirty or forty feet, a continuous stream of fluid pulp is made into paper, dried, polished, and cut up into separate sheets ready for use. The paper thus produced is moderate in price, and, for a large number of purposes, superior in quality to that which was formerly made by hand. In fact, the machine-made papers can be produced of unlimited dimensions; they are of uniform thickness; they can be fabricated at any season of the year; they do not require to be sorted, trimmed, and hung up in the drying-house—operations which formerly led to so much waste, that about one sheet in every five was defective.
The paper-machine moves at the rate of from twenty-five to forty feet per minute, so that scarcely two minutes are occupied in converting liquid pulp into finished paper, a result which, by the old process, occupies about seven or eight days. If the machine produce ten lineal yards of paper per minute, or six hundred per hour, this is equal to a mile of paper in three hours, or four miles per day of twelve hours. The paper is about fifty-four inches wide, and, supposing three hundred machines to be at work on an average twelve hours a day, the aggregate length of web would be equal to 1,200 miles, and the area 3,000,000 square yards.
Paper is sent into the market in various forms and sizes, according to the use for which it is intended. The following table contains the name and dimensions of various sheets of paper:—
Inches.Foolscap,14 by 17Crown,15 by 20Folio Post,16 by 21Demy,17 by 22Medium,19 by 24Royal,20 by 25Super Royal,22 by 27Imperial,22 by 32Medium and Half,24 by 28½Royal and Half,25 by 29Double Medium,24 by 38Do. Super Royal,27 by 42Do. Imperial,32 by 44
Many of the papers above enumerated are made by hand, of the exact size indicated; but, if made by the machine, the roll of paper has to be cut to the required dimensions. In order to do this with precision and expedition, various cutting-machines have been contrived, in which the paper, as it comes from the manufacturing machine, is cut to any size required.
HOT-PRESSING, GLAZING, AND FINISHING—STATISTICS.
Fine papers are, in some cases, hot-pressed and glazed. In hot-pressing, a number of stout cast-iron plates are heated in an oven, and then put into a screw-press in alternate layers, with highly glazed pasteboards, between which the paper is placed in open sheets; and the hard polished surfaces of the pasteboards, aided by the heat and pressure, impart that beautiful appearance which belongs to hot-pressed paper. A yet more smooth and elegant surface is produced by the process of glazing. The sheets of paper are placed separately between very smooth clean copper-plates. These are then passed through rollers, which impart a pressure of from twenty to thirty tons. After three or four such pressures, the paper is calledrolled, and sometimes alsohot-pressed; but, if passed more frequently through the rollers, the paper acquires a higher surface, and is then called glazed.
The general introduction of steel pens has increased the demand for smooth papers, and has led to improvements in finishing them.
As an improvement in the manufacture of paper sized by the machines now in use, it is proposed to conduct the web of paper, after it has been either partially or completely dried, through a trough of cold water, then to pass it through a pair of pressing-rolls, and afterwards to dry it on reels, or over hot cylinders. The paper thus treated will be found to "bear" much better, and admit of erasures being made on the surface of such paper, and written over, without the ink running in the way it does when the paper is sized and dried in the usual manner.
It has been found that when paper is dried, after sizing, by the drying-machines in present use, the paper is very harsh; and, until it stands for some time to get weather (as it is technically termed), great difficulty is experienced in glazing the paper. This inconvenience is proposed to be overcome by passing the paper partially round a hollow cylinder, through which a small stream of cold water is made to run. By this means the heat in the paper is carried off, and the paper is rendered more tractable, and brought to a proper state for undergoing the glazing operation.
It is stated that, "in England, writing-papers are sized with gelatin, and are stronger and harder than those of other countries; they are also cleaner, generally betterput up, and show greater care in the manufacture, than those of France and of other countries. The old cream-laid papers, now so fashionable, were reintroduced a few years since, and they are still preferred for letter and note-paper. The thinner post writing-papers, however, are much better manufactured in France, Belgium, and other parts of the Continent, than in England. Those exhibited at the World's Fair from Angoulême, in France, and Heilbronn, in Germany, are the best; those made in Belgium are not sufficiently hard-sized. The white of the letter-papers of France, Germany, and other foreign countries is of great purity and beauty; and these papers being sized in the vat with farina, in addition to rosin-soap, instead of gelatin, they are less greasy under the pen, and consequently can be written on more freely than those which are sized with animal size; they do not, however, bear the ink so well. English printing-papers generally maintain a superiority over those of foreign countries; as also drawing-papers and strong account-book blue-laid papers. Tinted printing and drawing-papers, formerly made exclusively in England, are now produced by most foreign paper-makers."
I am fond of children (says a celebrated author). I think them the poetry of the world—the fresh flowers of our hearths and homes—little conjurors, with their natural magic; evoking by their spells what delights and enriches all ranks, and equalizes the different classes of society. Often as they bring with them anxieties and cares, and live to occasion sorrow and grief, we should get on very badly without them. Only think—if there was never anything anywhere to be seen but great grown-up men and women! How we should long for the sight of a little child! Every infant comes into the world like a delegated prophet, the harbinger and herald of good tidings, whose office it is "to turn the hearts of the fathers to the children," and to draw "the disobedient to the wisdom of the just." A child softens and purifies the heart, warming and melting it by its gentle presence; it enriches the soul by new feelings, and awakens within it what is favorable to virtue. It is a beam of light, a fountain of love, a teacher whose lessons few can resist. Infants recall us from much that engenders and encourages selfishness, that freezes the affections, roughens the manners, indurates the heart, they brighten the home, deepen love, invigorate exertion, infuse courage, and vivify and sustain the charities of life. It would be a terrible world, I do think, if not embellished by little children.
BY ALICE B. NEAL.
(See Plate.)
"Very well done!" said my grandmother; "very well done, sir—you have succeeded better than I expected."
The foreign-looking gentleman bowed and smiled, showing his white teeth through a dark overhanging moustache, as my grandmother bent forward again from the easy-chair, and raised her double silver-rimmed eye-glass.
Now, Josephine and myself had been sent to her room on some household errand connected with the coming festivities of Christmas, and were not sorry to find the door slightly ajar. We had seen the strange-looking gentleman, with the large square case, arrive, and knew that it was not his first visit to the sitting-room, which we young people never entered without knocking first for admittance. Everybody said Madam Evelyn was peculiar; but everybody loved her, or rather regarded her with that mingling of trust and respect which we call deference, in its warmest and most grateful sense. This was one of her peculiarities, that her room was held free of all intrusion, except from such visitors as she chose to admit. I do not believe papa, her favorite son, ever broke through the rule of asking audience, though she had made his home her home for many a year. Poor mamma used to declare that she envied her this privilege.Herchamber was a perfect thoroughfare. The seamstress always occupied one corner. The servants were coming for orders incessantly. Maude, my oldest sister, who had her grandmother's name, retreated to mamma's lounge if she chanced to disagree with Elizabeth, and at any hour of the day a little horde of Goths, in the shape of us younger children, were liable to overrun and take possession of this neutral territory between the parlor and the nursery.
Poor mamma! no wonder her favorite expressions were—"I'm sure I shall go distracted some day," and "I am just ready to die." I dare say she was at any time; but there seemed to be no refuge. Grandmother often remonstrated with her, and told her that every person needed some time in the day to collect their thoughts, and balance accounts with themselves. After these talks, mamma would sometimes make the attempt to have an undisturbed five minutes, "sitting with closed doors;" but nurse would come with the baby, Charley with his cut finger, Josephine with her torn frock or hard spelling lesson, and I with a mutilated doll that required instant surgical aid. Maude and Elizabeth were sure to have a dispute about the joint occupancy of some desk or closet; the cook was in want of some receipt, or the newspaper carrier insisted on sixty cents for the "Journal," and could not be put off. No wonder that mamma was always "nervous" and delicate, and that those periods of seclusion were few and far between.
But our grandmother's room, as I said before, was sacred from intrusion. It was a large, cheerful apartment, with old-fashioned, heavy mahogany furniture, and chintz curtains lined with colored cambric in the winter season, as you may see in the bedrooms of old-fashioned English houses. Her bed was in an adjoining "light closet," as she called it, for she never yet could conquer a prejudice against sleeping in a room with a fire; and hence we all of us, from oldest to youngest, esteemed it a wonderful favor to visit her.
And now, thought Josephine and myself, stealing in on tiptoe, we should find out what the errand of the strange gentleman is, and what he has brought to grandmother in the square packing-case.
But, alas for our hopes! she very quietly closed the cover as she discovered us in the background, and the only satisfaction we had was seeing her go to the tall cabinet in the corner, and take out five bright gold pieces, which she gave to the stranger, and which seemed to please him quite as much as her commendation had done. I dare say he needed the gold more than the praise, though both were grateful to the friendless foreigner.
We did not mean to betray our unlawful curiosity, but I suppose we must have done so, for grandmother said—
"All in good time, children," and nodded a little towards the mysterious box. I took Josephine to task, as we hastily retreated in the wake of the strange gentleman, while she, on the contrary, was convinced it was me who had drawn forth the implied reprimand.
We always made a great account of Christmas, much more than any of our friends, to whom Thanksgiving Day was the high festival of the year. I suppose it was on account of our English descent; and then our grandmother always took such an active and happy part in the day's household festivities.
On this day she always came down stairs to dinner, carefully dressed in an old-fashioned brocaded silk, the snowy lawn handkerchief crossed on her breast, fastened with a brooch containing my grandfather's hair, in a setting of alternate pearls and garnets. My uncle John and his family were usually of the party, but she leaned on papa's arm, and always called him "my son."
The evening of the coming Christmas we were to pass in grandmother's room, by special invitation. Chester Adams, who was in papa's counting-house, and indeed always treated like one of the family, was the only stranger present. Our grandmother was always especially kind to him, for he was a frank, modest young man; an orphan, with no home circle but our own. Papa thought him possessed of unusual business talents and integrity, but he had no other fortune; while Robert Winthrop, the next most constant visitor at the house, was the son of a rich man, and member of Congress. We used to wonder, Josephine and I, why Maude always sent us to bed the instant either of them came, and why our favorite, Chester Adams, would sometimes take up his hat and go away again, when he heard young Winthrop was in the parlor, without so much as saying good-evening. However, we are older now, and have visitors of our own.
I think Maude was in hopes Robert Winthrop would be asked to stay, for he called in the afternoon, and brought her a bouquet from his mother's conservatory, one of the few kept up through our rigorous Boston winters. But though he paid a very long call, sitting almost until the candles were lighted, no further invitation was given. Maude consoled herself, however, by coming to the dinner-table with a branch of the scarlet geranium in her dark hair, which suited the coral ornaments, papa's gift, and was wonderfully becoming. Chester Adams moved a little, to make way for her, and then spilled the gravy he was helping grandmother to, as she sat down. We children thought he was very dull—he did not tell one amusing story, or eat philopœnas with us, as he generally did.
Our Christmas dinner was the great feast of the year. On other days, the orthodox two o'clock rule of our neighbors was adopted, but there was a lunch after church on Christmas, and the dinner was not served until it was quite dark. The shutters were closed, lights placed along the table, a great dessert-dish of fruit, ornamented with evergreens, occupied the centre, while the roast beef before papa, and the turkey in mamma's vicinity, were the finest the market could afford. We used to wonder how people could eatbeef, when there was roast turkey with dressing!
Then, at dessert, the plum-pudding made from our grandmother's receipt came on all in a blaze, which we thought the most curious thing in the world, and used to excite the incredulity of our schoolmates with describing. Then there were raisins and almonds, figs and apples, and a dish of sugar-plums, which mostly fell to our share. There, too, we could not account for the indifference of our elders and betters, though we were so much the gainers by it. There never will be such dinners as those again—never, never, Josephine and I both agree, though we should live to have houses of our own, and be able to order almonds and raisins every day for dessert.
After we young people had disposed of all we could, and much more than was good for us, I dare say, the whole party adjourned to grandmother's room. Chester Adams had never been in it before, and exclaimed at its cheerful air of comfort, which pleased grandmother—and papa, too, for that matter, for he was still an affectionate and dutiful child. The chintz curtains were let down, the round-table drawn up near the blazing grate, and the brass-headed nails that studded the old-fashioned furniture glowed in the light of the wax candles in the high silver candlesticks on the mantle and table. Our grandmother never took kindly to lamps. I don't know what she would have said to gas.
This was the way we sat—papa on one side of the fire, with Joe on his knee, and Charlie nestling up to mamma's side, already half asleep. Then Uncle John opposite, and quiet Aunt Mary, with Cousin Kate and Ellis, their only children. Elizabeth was on that side, for she and Ellis were great friends; and so it happened that Chester Adams was left the place on the sofa between Maude and myself. Maude drew her dress up carefully when he sat down and put his arm around me. I was only ten years old, and we had always looked upon him as our brother.I thought Maude need not have been so careful, though she did have on her best silk, for Chester was very nice. Maude often spoke of how particular he was.
Grandmother had promised us a story that evening. She and papa often talked about England on Christmas evening, and sometimes of our grandfather. Uncle John was too young when they came to this country to remember much that happened before.
"Tell us about the old stone Grange, grandmother, where you were born," pleaded Josephine.
"Yes—about your tumbling into the moat, like pussy in the well and little Johnny Green," Charlie called out, suddenly rising up from mamma's shoulder.
Grandmother pulled up her black silk mitts, and smiled very kindly. I can see her now, sitting up as straight in her high-backed chair as if she had never known any burden of care, or sorrow, or disappointment. Mamma always stooped much more. Just then, Josephine and I discerned the square case standing on the shelf of the cabinet. We both saw it at the same time, and even papa's eyes wandered curiously in that direction.
He certainly had the best right to solve the mystery—it contained his Christmas present from grandmother; a picture in a bright gilt frame, which he brought forward, at her request, and placed in an excellent light. I never saw my father more affected than when he had the first glimpse of that picture. He did not say one word; but the tears rose to his eyes, and he went directly to grandmother, and, stooping down, kissed her forehead, putting back the silvery hair as he would have done to one of us, and holding his hand there a moment as if he said, "God bless you!" in his heart. It was the only affectionate caress I ever saw him give her, for he was usually self-composed, almost stern in manner, which was her own way.
"But what is it about, grandmother—the story?" asked Josephine.
"What a funny little baby!" commented Charlie. "Not half so pretty as ours. And such an ugly old gentleman! What is he doing with that eye-glass, mamma? It isn't double, like grandmother's."
Maude and Elizabeth seemed interested to know whether it was to be hung in the parlor, and said the frame was very handsome. For myself, I saw in the picture a dark room, not at all like any in our house, with an old gentleman, whose long pointed beard reminded me of the Jewish doctors in the Temple—one of the prints in grandmother's large Bible. He seemed to be examining a ring through an eye-glass, and before him stood a lady with a very sad, anxious face. She wore a dark robe, of a quaint, though graceful fashion, and held a little child in her arms. I thought it was as pretty a picture as any in the annual Chester Adams had given Maude that morning, though I felt almost inclined to cry; the lady's face was so very sorrowful.
"Who will read my story for me?" said grandmother, by and by, when papa had moved away from the back of her chair, and stood looking at the picture again with his hand over his eyes, to get a better light, I dare say. "I have written it, because there are some of these little people who would forget if it was only told them, and I should like to have it remembered as long as the picture is kept in the family; when you do not come to pass your Christmas evenings in grandmother's room," she added, after a little pause. It was the first time I heard her allude to her going from us; not that I think she dreaded death—no one was ever better prepared to meet it—but she was naturally reserved.
I wondered papa did not offer to take the manuscript she held out; but he did not change his position; and Aunt Mary, always kind and thoughtful, volunteered her services. Grandmother said she was afraid the children would not be interested, and that it might trouble Aunt Mary to make out an old lady's crabbed handwriting. "It was not very long, to be sure," and then she straightened herself to listen, holding a little Chinese screen to shade her eyes from the fire, while Aunt Mary read:—
"THE TEMPTATION OF ALICE GRAY.
"It was a long time ago," said my grandmother's story, "that Alice Gray left her English country home, to follow the fortunes of her husband, a generous, kind-hearted sailor. It was hard parting with the old place, though her parents were dead, and she was an only child. She was going to foreign countries, where even the language was strange to her, with no one to turn to but Richard Gray, and, though he was very kind and noble-hearted, she knew there would be hours of loneliness when her heart would travel back to the old haunts of her childhood, yearning for the household faces that were familiar in her cradle. Injustice had made her poor, as well as an orphan, though she had never yet felt the lack of abundant means; nor did she know, until she had been long a wife, what a painful dependence the love and protection ofRichard Gray had saved her from. The frank-hearted sailor loved her the better that she needed his care; she tried in turn to be cheerful and brave, in looking forward to their long separations, and to welcome him home with a new happiness and trust. For a time, these partings, which shorten the life of every sailor's wife, were not necessary. She had a bold heart, and went with him to many strange countries, seeing more wonderful things than she had ever dreamed of in her old home in Devon. So their first parting was very hard; and while she could scarcely close her eyes to rest, for fear of the hour that was to take him from her, he stole away from her side as she lay asleep. He never trembled at the wildest gale; but he could not bear the agony of parting with one he loved better than life. You can imagine how weary and desolate that waking was to Alice Gray, and how she tried to shut out the daylight, and put away for a time all comfort that was offered to her. It was not as now, when letters can come from those in distant lands almost with the swiftness of a loving thought—it was months, and sometimes years, before any tidings could arrive. The dangers of the sea were little understood, but greatly dreaded, and loss and shipwreck far more frequent. So Alice Gray shut up her sorrows in her own heart from the strangers around her, and listened to the sobbing wind and moaning sea through the long dreary nights, until her child, her first-born son, was given to her arms. There was pain even in that new happiness; for there was no father's blessing for her little one, and no kiss of tenderness for herself, as she pressed her child to her heart.
"But the boy grew so like his father. The same curly rings of hair lying on his broad forehead, though many shades fairer, and the clear blue eyes, haunted her with a well-remembered look. She had need of all comfort, for she passed through many trials, sickness, loss, and at last poverty, still among strangers, though not where her husband had left her. She could not stay so far from the sea, where it would be many days after he landed before he could reach her. So she came to the little seaport from which his vessel had sailed for the far-off Indian Ocean, and there watched for the first glimpse of its white sails. Months passed on in sickening, harassing anxiety; and then came news of disaster, shipwreck,death; an awful certainty for the fear that had haunted her day and night. She and her child were doubly orphaned.
"Midwinter, and death, and pressing poverty! She could not give up all hope at once, but, through the long autumn, paced the rocky line of coast day after day, her child cradled warmly in her arms, and looking out with straining eyes towards the horizon. She thought she must go mad, and almost prayed for it, if forgetfulness came to—but, then there was her child—there would be no one to care for him, and she could not abandon him with the new mother-love growing up in her heart. Many pitied the 'poor English lady,' as they saw the chill sea-breeze tossing her thin garments, she standing on the very verge of the bleak rocks, with the cold, black waves breaking sullenly beneath her. There was one who did more than pity. She welcomed him as a friend first, for he came with sympathizing looks and kind words, and would have relieved the pressure of her poverty. But Alice Gray was still too proud for that, and she parted one by one with the few treasures, costly toys, her husband had gathered in foreign lands, to keep away starvation. She had no idea of toiling for a subsistence, as the poor creatures around her did, and was too much wrapt up in her grief to think or plan any lighter task.Hesaw it all, rich and prosperous as he was, and patiently waited his time. It came at last, when, with a shudder, she drew off her ring of betrothal, scarcely dearer or more sacred than the wedding-ring itself, and offered it in exchange for gold, to buy bread for herself and child. Heaven help her when that was exhausted! It was all she had. It was very late when she hurried through the narrow street, to offer it, where all her trinkets had gone before. They were celebrating Christmas night in her own land, with its blazing fires, and tables spread with plenty. She hurried as if to put aside such goading memories, past low wine-shops, and groups of fishermen, and common sailors, until she came to the house of the Israelite, who exchanged whatever was brought to him, without questions, so he could get it at half its worth. The dingy shop was closed, but she was admitted for the first time into the inner apartment, which the broker had fitted up with the spoils of his hard trade. Pictures, goblets, and vases, musical instruments, and embroidered cushions, and antique carved chairs, gave it a novel, but curious air, this cold, wintry night. There was no light save the broad glare of the brands on the hearth, and of the lamp that burned still in the outer room, and fell through the casement, by which all visitors were reconnoitred. A heavy curtain of velvet, a little faded, but once the hangings of a palace-like mansion, concealed the rough wall on one side, as she stood there noting all these things with a strange, minute interestshe did not feel, and wondered at even then. It seemed as if he would never name the value of the ring. She could not bear to see him handle it so carelessly, when it was so dear to her.
"Outside the gusty wind was sweeping the narrow streets, and coarse songs and jests, hard trampling feet went by, and she had yet to go out and encounter these perils of darkness and storm: she, who had been so tenderly reared as a child, and so closely sheltered as a wife. She had removed the brown braided tress that filled the centre of the ring; but it was of virgin gold, massive and antique in design, as suited the sailor's fancy, with a circlet of precious stones. She knew little of its real value; to her it was beyond all price as the first love-token from her husband, who was gone forever. The careful dealer saw this, and noted the indifference of her manner as she stood before him in her dark robes and linen coif, for she had thrown down the coarse mantle that had wrapped herself and child at the entrance of the outer apartment. He did not anticipate much wrangling as he slowly drew forth the key of his treasury, and as slowly counted out the price at which he valued the token. He was right; for the sacrifice had cost her too much for words, and she went out slowly from his presence with that same fixed, hopeless expression. When that small sum was exhausted, she had no other earthly resource.
"Still pressinghischild to her bosom, Alice Gray passed along the dingy street to her miserable home, though it was no home, with its blank walls and fireless hearth; but it served to shelter her when night came, as she was driven from her lonely watch on the beach. But, before she reached it, a roving band of sailors, landed that day from a ship she had seen enter the harbor, filled up the narrow path, shouting and rolling with the wine they had quaffed, and singing a wild bacchanalian song. She shrank aside to let them pass; but the foremost seized her with an oath and rude grasp, and would have torn the mantle from her face in another instant, had not a blow struck him breathless against the wall. The strong arm of her deliverer set aside the assailants, and conducted her safely on her way. It was the one friend who seemed always to mark her movements, and to whom she was indebted for many kindnesses.
"He, too, was a stranger; and, wandering on the cliffs, had first noted the pale, unquiet woman that haunted them. When he had learned her story from the fisherman, his pity grew to sympathy, and ended in love. He was rich and free; and that night, as she clung gratefully to his arm, it was offered to her, with protection from all care and want and contact with the world. He had come out to seek her, he said, andthat very nightstood ready to make her his. The priest awaited them; his arms should shelter her; he urged and pleaded with her to become once more a wife.
"You must not blame her, children—you must not, at least, judge her too harshly that she listened tothe temptation, knowing, as she did, that the new vows would be an empty mockery; that all her love was buried fathoms deep with Richard Gray. She still trembled from the insult of the sailors; the night was black and pitiless; she was alone, and almoststarving. It was like one, benumbed with cold and hunger, standing on the threshold of a mansion blazing with light and warmth and costly cheer. Many a young maiden has bartered her hand for gold without Alice Gray's bitter need, now, even in our own day, or for the baubles of rank and position.
"Oh, it was cruel in that kind voice to plead so earnestly, knowing her heart was starved—craving for kindness and care! For her child's sake, he said, and pictured the boy growing up under his fatherly protection, or, skilfully reversing the lines, showed him to her neglected and abandoned among the rude fishermen. No wonder that consent hung on her very utterance, when the child stirred in her bosom, and passed its little hands caressingly over her haggard face as she bent towards it.Richard's child!She could not give another the husband's right he had been proud to claim; no, she would work, ay, starve, if it must be so, but not wrong his memory by falsehood and the endurance of caresses from which she must ever shrink, as the memory of his love came between her and the present.
"Her childsaved her from the great sin of going to another home and another love that night, when she had nothing to offer in return.
"So her last friend was repulsed, and deserted her, trying to keep down the bitterness of spirit that pride called up to take the place of rejected love. She sat alone and hopeless with her child through the midnight darkness, and the love-token sparkled beneath the lamp of the grasping broker, who sat counting the day's gains.
"A knock at the outer entrance did not startle him, for he conducted many a shrewd bargain while others slept; but he looked to see that all his treasures were within a sweep of his arm before he admitted the visitor.
"It was a sunburnt, swarthy-looking man,with jewels from the Orient to be exchanged for gold. He knew their full value, and demanded it; but, while the Jew demurred, his quick eyes scanned the whole room at a glance. Travel-worn as he was, something arrested his gaze that made his lips tremble and grow white, and his heart beat fast as he bent forward and clutched, heedless of the old man's remonstrances,the love-tokenhe had given years ago to his wife, Alice Gray.
"You can see it all now, my children, from what a fearful sin the sacrifice of that night saved her, though you are too young and too untried to imagine even the swoon of joy in which she lay clasped to her husband's bosom, till the dim morning light revealed those dear features, and the nut-brown curls threaded with silver from the toil and exposure he had endured. No wonder that she shuddered at the remembrance of her temptation, or that she loved the unconscious child, who had saved her from it, above all that were afterwards given to her arms."
So ended Aunt Mary's reading, while papa still shaded his eyes from the light, and grandmother's hand trembled as she supported the screen. Mamma's eyes were full of tears, and she kissed Charlie, now sleeping on her shoulder, over and over again, as if stooping down over him could hide them: Josephine and myself could not understand the scene till we were much older, and the picture had come to be spoken of as an heirloom in the family. But I saw something else that interested me very much, for I thought she might better have given it to me—Maude pull Robert Winthrop's scarlet geranium from her hair, and finally crush it under her slipper, as the decision of Alice Gray was told. Some one else saw it, too, I fancy, for presently Chester Adams's hand dropped from my shoulder upon Maude's, lying near me, and she did not withdraw it. Maude was crying, too; but a smile, like sunshine, came into her eyes as she stole a timid, wistful look up into his affectionate eyes, as I have seen children ask for pardon.
When we separated for the night, grandmother took a hand of each of them in one of hers, and said, "Good-night, my children; be true to yourselves and to each other!" and it was in this way I noticed a ring, like the love-token in the picture, on my grandmother's wedding-finger.
BY MRS. WHITE.
It is curious to trace the first appearance of necklaces amongst the Egyptians, in the same form as they exist at the present day upon the necks of the Patagonians, and the natives of the islands of the Pacific; for the ancient dwellers by the Nile wore necklaces of the seeds of leguminous plants, berries, and feathers (especially those of thepoule de Numidie), precisely the same substances which are used in this ornament by the above people, except that the emu supplies the feathers, and that shells are occasionally mingled with the bright-colored berries. But shells were also used in necklaces by the Egyptians, as our readers may perceive in the table-cases of the Egyptian gallery in the British Museum.
Here, we may trace the next appearance of this trinket, when art began to be applied in its composition, and spherical beads of various substances were used; as well as its progression from a simple ornament to its superstitious use as an amulet.
In one of these cases some very interesting specimens of our subject may be seen, tracing, as plainly as more important things might do, the gradual advance of art; there is one of round blue beads capped with silver, another representing deities and symbols, and a third with pendants in the form of the lock of horns, fishes, and cowries, which are well deserving of attention.
The two latter were of course worn as amulets, and, being impressed with sacred images, were supposed to ward off danger and infection, to render the wearer courageous or agreeable, or invest him with the various qualities which their symbolism, or the substances of which they were composed, represented in the mythic language of the East.
Perhaps it might have been with such intentions that we find the necklace so favorite an adornment with the warriors of antiquity. The Medes, Persians, Indians, and Etruscans wore them in the valuable shape of strings of pearls, sometimes enriched with jewels; while the chiefs and great men amongst the northern nations were distinguished by necklaces and collars of gold, calledtorques, so that, when conquered,the necklaces of both oriental and Celtic nations must have made an important part of the spoils. Hence, probably, the adoption of themonileby the Romans as a reward for military valor, and hence also the surname ofTorquatusManlius, who was so called from his having torn the goldentorquefrom the neck of an enemy on the field of battle.
Necklaces were worn by both Greek and Roman women, but only within doors, and on occasions of domestic festivity, as at weddings and dances; they were especially used as bridal presents, and the learned in mythology will remember that it was upon the occasion of Hermione's marriage that Vulcan, to revenge her mother's infidelity, bestowed upon her the fatal necklace which worked such wondrous evils on her race. Here we perceive that the Eastern superstitions connected with this ornament had accompanied the fashion of wearing it into Greece: the rich and beautiful necklace of Hermione was a talisman—not to counteract evil, but to produce it; so that by-and-by we find this very necklace, which Ovid tells us was of gold, and to the description of which Nomus devotes fifty lines of his Dionysica, bribing Eriphyle, the wife of Amphiaraus, to betray her husband.
At Rome, as with the old Egyptians, the materials of the necklace soon altered from a simple row of berries or small spheres of glass, &c., to pearls and amber, and precious stones; the single chaplet, which primitively encircled the throat, gradually extended to a second, and even a third row: after which we find the original necklace adorned with drops or pendents, which, when worn, fell round the neck like rays from a centre.
For this description ofmonile, emeralds, and other gems of a greenish hue, were greatly prized; and amongst the treasures which time has restored to the museums and cabinets of the curious, from the buried toilets of Pompeii, a golden necklace is enumerated, which was enriched with twelve small emeralds.
Etruscan graves have also yielded up their treasures, and amongst a variety of other matters affording the most interesting illustrations of the domestic economies of the ancient Tuscan people, have preserved for us the fashion of these ornaments. Those purchased from the Prince of Canino, and deposited in the British Museum, are of gold; one represents a wreath of ivy-leaves in pairs, the stems of the leaves joining; and the ornaments of the others consist of circles, lozenges, rosettes, hippocampi (sea-horses), and a heart depends centrally from one of them.
Necklaces in the shape of serpents were worn by the Greeks and Romans, by whom this emblem was regarded as a charm against witchcraft and the "evil eye;" they were made to coil round the neck of the wearer, and it is remarkable that the necklace so fatal to Hermione and Eriphyle was of this form. Some years back an inscription, found in France, mentioned atorquededicated to Æsculapius, having been made by twisting together two golden snakes, and offerings of trinkets in this shape were often made in honor of him by persons during illness, or on their recovery from it.
Besides decorating the necks of brides and conquerors with these ornaments, the Romans carried their admiration of the necklace so far as to adorn the statues of their divinities with them; thus, a statue of Fortune, found at Herculaneum, had the representation of a necklace incrusted with silver, and a figure of Mercury, in the gallery of Greek and Roman antiquities in the museum (thought by some to be the most exquisite bronze in Europe), has a gold torquis round its neck; this honor, however, the deities shared in common with favorite domestic animals; and horses were frequently adorned with them.
So much more remains to be said of the use of them by the ancients, that we leave, reluctantly, these classic reminiscences, to trace the history of the necklace at home, where it appears to have an existence coeval with Stonehenge, and to have preserved its memoirs in the funeral barrows of the Britons and Anglo-Saxons. In thesetumuli, necklaces of various kinds have been found, and beads of crystal, jet, amber, and colored glass, are quite common in them. In some, necklaces of bone and ivory have been discovered, and the Archæological Society have engraved one in their Journal, which is formed of beads of bone and canel coal.
In the wills of the Anglo-Saxons, we find theneck-bracelet, as its name implied in their language, frequently mentioned: and amongst other articles of jewellery, we read of golden vermiculated necklaces. Boadicea wore a golden necklace, and subsequently the torquis, or collar of honor, commonly of gold, was made theinsigniaof dukes and earls, both by the Anglo-Saxons and the Normans. The Norman kings wore a collar or necklace of gold, adorned with jewels, and which depended on the breast, like the collar or knighthood, of which, no doubt, these antique ornaments were the prototypes; while such of our Saxon ancestors as could not procure the precious metals, rather than be without this favorite ornament, wore them of brass, and even iron.
Amber appears, from the very earliest period, a favorite material for the necklaces of women, probably on account of its perfume, which Autolycus, the roguish peddler, in the "Winter's Tale," alludes to in his rhyming list of wares—