BEAUTY.

"There is at times a solemn gloomEre yet the lovely Spring assumeSole empire, with the lingering coldContent divided sway to hold;A sort of interreign, which throwsOn all around its dull repose;Dull, not unpleasing; when the restNor snow, nor rains, nor winds molest;Nor aught by listening ear is heardSave first-fruit notes of vernal bird,Alone, or with responsive call,Or sound of twinklings waterfall;Yet is no radiant brightness seenTo pierce the cloud's opposing screen,Or hazy vapor to illumeThe thickness of that solemn gloom."MANT.

"There is at times a solemn gloom

Ere yet the lovely Spring assume

Sole empire, with the lingering cold

Content divided sway to hold;

A sort of interreign, which throws

On all around its dull repose;

Dull, not unpleasing; when the rest

Nor snow, nor rains, nor winds molest;

Nor aught by listening ear is heard

Save first-fruit notes of vernal bird,

Alone, or with responsive call,

Or sound of twinklings waterfall;

Yet is no radiant brightness seen

To pierce the cloud's opposing screen,

Or hazy vapor to illume

The thickness of that solemn gloom."

MANT.

THOSEaccustomed to the gay and busy life of a city know little of theennuithatgenerallyattends a rural life. Those who live in the bosom of nature, as it were—in the very midst of God's beautiful works—ought not to feel wearisome; and they would not if their eyes were open to the interesting phenomena that continually go on around them. Every season of the year, every day, nay every hour, brings about some instructive change on the face of Nature; and there is no more interesting and improving pursuit than the observation of natural phenomena. To watch the opening of the buds, the leafing of the trees, the blooming of the flowers, the ripening of the fruit, and the decay and death which autumn brings, is of itself an interesting occupation; but when we connect these various events with their proximate causes, and endeavor to trace those general laws by whose operation they are regulated, then the study becomes a truly philosophical as well as a pleasant one. We may also gather spiritual wisdom from such contemplations. Our beloved Saviour sought to illustrate his teachings by a reference to the phenomena of plants; we are directed to "Consider the lilies how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin; yet I say unto you that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these." Every reader of this page may have "considered" the lilies and admired the beauty of their various parts; but in the passage which has been quoted there is, perhaps, a deeper meaning than many have guessed at. Consider the lilieshow they grow;examine their structure, and their beautiful mode of development; see how the fair form of this beauteous flower rises, "like a resurrection from the dead," out of its scaly, withered-like bulbous root, perfects its fruit, and then decays. To knowhowthe lilygrowsis to know the most important principles of vegetable physiology. It is a gratifying fact that the physical sciences are now becoming important branches of general education, and no department is more popular than botany. It is a science peculiarly adapted for ladies; the objects whose purpose it is to investigate are beautiful, and esteemed by every one—a striking contrast to the forbidding directions and dirty experiments which are necessary in the prosecution of many other departments of natural science; even Entomology—the study of insects—requires the bottling of poor beetles in spirituous solutions, the pinning of innocent moths and gay butterflies, and other cruel operations, at which every kind-hearted woman ought to shudder.

In pursuing botanical investigations, even very slightly, it is necessary to form aherbarium, or collection of dried specimens of plants. In these collections much taste may be displayed in the arrangement, as well as in the careful drying of the specimens; and the writer of these observations—a public teacher of botany to extensive classes of both ladies and gentlemen—can testify to the fact that the herbaria formed by ladies are, as a general rule, pre-eminent for neatness and artistic beauty in the arrangement of the specimens. It is difficult, however, for ladies who have not the benefit of a teacher, nor friends devoted to botanical pursuits, to get an acquaintance with the method of preserving plants properly; and it is therefore deemed advisable to offer a few observations on this subject on the present occasion, before going on to consider the characteristics of the Spring Flora.

The process of preparing botanical specimens may be shortly described to be, the pressure of plants between sheets of soft absorbent paper for the purpose of extracting their moisture without destroying their beauty, and thus enabling them to be kept for an indefinite period in an arranged form, for future reference and study. When well dried, plants may be kept for hundreds of years; they are almost as indestructible as books, if properly cared for.

German botanists excel in the beauty, and well-preserved specific characters, of their specimens; as is well evidenced by the beautiful specimens which they send to this country. One reason of their success is no doubt to be attributed to the very soft paper (made from woollen rags) which they use in the process; but it is no doubt due, in a larger measure, to the great care which they take, and the time and patience which they bestow upon their specimens.

Plants ought, in all cases where practicable, to be gathered whendry; or, if moist with rain or dew when gathered, they ought to be exposed to the atmosphere of a dry room for an hour or two previous to being put into papers. For the conveyance of specimens a tin box, called avasculum, is used, which prevents the plants withering during a long journey, and otherwise protects them. Some of our readers may not think the japanned tin vasculum a very elegant accoutrement, but it is quite usual for ladies to carry such along the streets of Modern Athens, where, through the labors of Professor Balfour and others, botany has, of late years, become of high repute as a feminine accomplishment.

In proceeding to dry the plants, procure a quantity of soft blotting-paper. Four or five sheets are to be laid down on the table (each folded within the other, as in a ream), and on the uppermost one the specimen is to be laid. Spread it out carefully, separating the branches and leaves so that they do not overlap; and after this is done, a slip of paper or "label" put beside the specimen, indicating its botanical name, the locality where collected, and the date when; then another four or five sheets, folded as before, are to be laid over the plant. On the surface of this latter layer of paper, another specimen or specimens may be spread—an additional layer of four or five sheets being placed over them—and so on until all the specimens collected are spread out. A board of the same size as the paper is to be placed above the uppermost sheet, and on the top of that a heavy weight, fifty or sixty pounds. A bundle of large volumes will serve the purpose of a weight, if no better is at hand. Some recommend a screw-press for pressing the plants, instead of a weight; but presses of all kinds are objectionable, as the shrinking of the plants renders the pressure unequal from the want of elasticity, which is so easily attained by means of an ordinary weight. After the specimens have been allowed to stand in this manner twenty-four hours or so, they should be taken carefully out; such leaves as are disarranged should be spread out properly, and the whole put intodrypaper, in the same way as in the previous operation. The moist paper from which they are taken should be spread before the fire to dry; it will be ready for use another time. The plants are to be supplied with dry paper, in this manner, once every twenty-four hours, until they have become quite dry, when they may be taken out and put apart in single sheets of gray paper.

The operation ofdryingthe specimens has been here described, but that ofmountingthem onwhitepaper is equally important. Gum Arabic is generally used for this purpose, but it is very bad; does not adhere sufficiently, and thus allows the specimens to spring off from the sheets. Fine glue, prepared in a very thin state, is the best material for fixing the plants. The melted glue should, when very hot, be spread over the specimen carefully with a brush, a sheet of dirty absorbent paper lying beneath the specimen to prevent the glue soiling anything, and then the specimen is to be put down upon the sheet of white paper previously laid out for its reception. A towel is then taken to press the different branches or leaves gently down upon the surface of the paper. After this is done, a few sheets of drying paper are to be laid over the specimen, and on the top of this another sheet of white paper for the reception of another glued specimen, and so on until all are completed. A board is then to be placed over the whole, and a weight, in order to press all parts of the plants equally to the sheets of paper, until they are made firm by the drying of the glue. After the specimens have stood in this manner a few hours, they are to be taken out, their names, localities, and dates written at the bottom of the sheet, and the whole arranged in such manner as the possessor may think proper. Any refractory stems or branches that have sprung up from the paper in spite of the glue, may be fastened down by slips of gummed paper. The marginal portion of postage-stamp sheets supplies these to those who can obtain them in sufficient quantity.

The plants of each genus are to be put together inside of a double sheet of paper, with theirgenericname written at the bottom of the sheet upon the outside at the left hand corner; for instance, the pansy, the sweet violet, the dog violet, the yellow mountain violet, &c., are all to be put inside of one double sheet, the generic name "VIOLA" being written upon the corner of it. This is to facilitate references.

We now proceed to point out what spring flowers are likely to reward the exertions of those who go in search of them among the woods and fields. And first of all the primrose and the cowslip demand attention as general favorites.The wild plant, with its modest flower of pale yellow hue (which has given rise to the name of a tint known as primrose yellow), is probably familiar to every one, but it may not be so well known that the gay polyanthus of our florists, and the rich double-flowered primroses of every hue which decorate our gardens, all owe their existence to the wild plant as their original stock. The cowslip, although local in its geographical distribution, is abundant in many localities, and is associated right pleasantly with cowslip wine. Beneath the hedges in early spring-time there is a pretty little plant which seldom catches the eye of the passer-by; it is aptly styled the "gloryless," for its little flowers are of greenish-yellow hue, and so small as to be inconspicuous to any one save the botanical explorer. When examined, however, it is an object of great, though simple beauty. It sends up a delicate stem, which bears a little rosette of divided leaves, and from amidst this rises the flower-stalk, pale and slender, bearing on its summit a compact head of a few tiny showless flowers. Its botanical name is Adoxa Moschatellina.

It is summer time before the buttercups begem the pastures; but one member of the family already welcomes us by hedge-rows; it is the Lesser Celandine of Wordsworth, which received a special favor from his pen in the dedication of a pretty little poem. The Lesser Celandine (Ranunculus Ficaria) grows abundantly on wet shady banks, and produces a profusion of its bright glossy golden flowers, which, in fading, assume a pure white hue. This ranks as one of the economical plants of Britain; and humble as it is, it has been brought forward as a substitute for that unfortunate vegetable, the potato. Plants of the Lesser Celandine, raised from roots which had been gathered in Silesia by the Rev. Mr. Wade in 1848, were grown in the Edinburgh Botanic Garden, and exhibited by Mr. M'Nab, the curator of the garden, to the Botanical Society. These roots had been exposed over a large extent of country in Austria by heavy rains, and the common people gathered them and used them as an article of food. Their sudden appearance gave rise to various conjectures as to their nature and origin, and in the Austrian journals they were spoken of as if they had fallen from the sky. The "small bodies" (roots) were used as peas by the inhabitants. Either in a dried state, or when fresh, they are found, on boiling, to be very amylaceous; that is, they contain much starchy matter. There is no acridity in the roots even in a fresh state, which is a remarkable fact when we take into consideration the acrid and poisonous nature of the entire race of plants allied to it in structure, viz., the Ranunculaceæ, to which order it belongs. For instance, one of these plants, the Indian Aconite, is thus spoken of by Professor Balfour:—

"The root of the plant possesses extreme acrimony, and very marked narcotic properties. It is said to be the most poisonous of the genus, and as such has been employed in India. Wallich says that in the Turraye, or low forest-lands which skirt the approach to Nipal, and among the lower range of hills, especially at a place called Hetounra, quantities of the bruised root were thrown into wells and reservoirs, for the purpose of poisoning our men and cattle. By the vigilant precaution of our troops, however, these nefarious designs were providentially frustrated. In the northern parts of Hindoostan, arrows poisoned with the root are used for destroying tigers. The root, according to Rayle, is sent down into the plains, and used in the cure of chronic rheumatism, under the name ofMetha tellia. Roots, apparently of this plant, were sent by Dr. Christison from Madras under the name of Nabee. Pereira made a series of experiments on the roots which had been kept for ten years, and still retained their poisonous properties. The roots were administered to animals in the form of a powder, and spirituous and watery extract. The spirituous extract was the most energetic, the effects produced being difficulty of breathing, weakness, and subsequent paralysis, which generally showed itself first in the posterior extremities, vertigo, convulsions, dilatation of the pupil, and death apparently from asphyxia."

One grain of the alcoholic extract killed a rabbit in nine and a half minutes, and two grains introduced into the jugular vein of a strong dog caused death in three minutes.

This is the general character of the crowfoots, and they are indeed the most destructive cattle poisons that infect our pastures; it is a curious fact, therefore, that one of them should be so harmless and so nutritious as we have seen the Lesser Celandine to be; and a still more curious fact that Linnæus, the father of naturalists, should have thought that agriculturists should endeavor to extirpate this pretty flower, not only as acrid and poisonous, but as injurious to all plants growing near it.

BY MISS M. H. BUTT.

YES, there is beauty in this world of ours. In looking throughout Nature, we see its impress everywhere. At early morn, wander forth to the verdant fields, mark the flowers of every tint, and inhale their perfume. When Spring dawns, see the trees laden with delicate blossoms, foretelling a plentiful harvest; watch the tall grass waving so gracefully as the zephyrs sport there. Surely such a sight is beautiful.

Stop for a moment and list to the murmuring of the streams as they skip on joyfully; watch the pearly bells which dance upon their brow all sparkling and bright. Look above, and view the thousand birds on gay wing, singing so merrily, welcoming the dawn of Spring, and chanting a lay as a requiem to the departure of Winter. Look around still, and view the myriads of insects sporting in the sunlight or sipping nectar from flowers. Oh, is not beauty there?

When Night comes forth with spangled robes and diadem of gems upon her brow, while each planet and star with tiny harps welcome her coming, touching those gentle chords, the echo of which glides like a bright meteor to earth, charming the very soul—is this not beautiful? Or, when spirits from dream-land watch by our couch during the hours of repose, painting scenes to enchant us—are they not beautiful?

Nor are all these scenes alone lovely. There is that which hath greater beauty: it is woman. She stands forth, like some brilliant star, to guide man through the path of life and cheer his way. Whether she be in the lofty or lowly walks of life, if she possess certain mental qualifications and traits of character, she is beautiful. Her beauty does not consist alone in the bright flashing eye, which seems to speak the sentiments of her heart; it depends not upon the graceful form or gorgeous equipage; it is her mind, well cultivated and endowed with all those intellectual qualifications, which will make her a brilliant star, and which will enable her to enlighten those with whom she may become conversant. It may be found, also, in her heart, one which possesses all those fine and exquisite feelings whereby she can sympathize with the sufferings of others and minister to their wants. Woman holds a dignified position in life, and she should cultivate all those traits which will cause her to be the very pillar of the society in which she moves. Yes, woman is truly beautiful; she is earth's greatest ornament; of her too much cannot be said. In whatever light we view her, she is lovely.

Although Nature possesses so much beauty, Art has also her share, for she endeavors to copy her works and invest them with beauty, as one has said of man—

"He plucks the pearls that stud the deep,Admiring beauty's lap to fill;He breaks the stubborn marble's shape,And mocks his own Creator's skill."

"He plucks the pearls that stud the deep,

Admiring beauty's lap to fill;

He breaks the stubborn marble's shape,

And mocks his own Creator's skill."

Look at the artist, who toils day after day upon a painting which he has copied from Nature; he endeavors to paint the flowers with accuracy, give that exquisite emerald hue to the leaves of the trees, the same tints to the horizon, and that gorgeous light to the sun. Why? He saw beauty in Nature, and desired to imitate it. The sculptor works with all his skill upon the bust of some celebrated person, all his power is employed; he wishes to delineate every feature with accuracy, and determines, if possible, to accomplish it. Soon he has the gratification of seeing the soulless and once rugged block of marble transformed into an image of symmetry and beauty.

Is there not great pleasure to be felt while beholding works of art? We can but admire and love the fruits of genius. It is very true that there are many who can look upon the works of art, still no effect will be produced; yet a person of nice perception and correct taste could gaze for hours upon them, and see each time something to admire. It is so in Nature even. Many might walk forth on a lovely morning when Spring first smiles, yet see no beauty whatever, but merely cast a careless eye upon all around. One may see much to admire in the storm-cloud which rises darkly o'er the sea, while streaks of lightning dive 'neath the briny waves, and the peals of thunder rattle furiously; we may have feelings of awe, yet, at the same time, see sublimity, and in our hearts we exclaim, "How beautiful!"

Yes, beauty dwelleth everywhere; from the tiny flower which blooms, to the stupendous heavens at night lighted with innumerable stars, being the impress of the One who created all things.

BY MRS. MERRIFIELD.

ORNAMENT, although not an integral part of dress, is so intimately connected with it that we must devote a few words to the subject.

Under the general term of ornament, we shall include bows of ribbon, artificial flowers, feathers, jewels, lace, fringes, and trimming of all kinds. Some of these articles appear to be suited to one period of life, some to another. Jewels, for instance, though suitable to middle age, seem misplaced on youth, which should always be characterized by simplicity of apparel; while flowers, which are so peculiarly adapted to youth, are unbecoming to those advanced in years: in the latter case, there is contrast without harmony—it is like uniting May with December.

The great principle to be observed with regard to ornament is that it should be appropriate, and appear designed to answer some useful purpose. A brooch, or a bow of ribbon, for instance, should fasten some part of the dress; a gold chain should support a watch or an eye-glass. Trimmings are useful to mark the borders or edges of the different parts of the dress, and in this light they add to the variety, while by their repetition they conduce to the regularity of the ornamentation.

The subject of economy in dress, an essential object with many persons, now claims our attention. We venture to offer a few remarks on this head. Our first recommendation is to have but few dresses at a time, and those extremely good. If we have but few dresses, we wear them, and wear them out while they are in fashion; but, if we have many dresses at once, some of them become quite old-fashioned before we have done with them. If we are rich enough to afford the sacrifice, the old-fashioned dress is got rid of; if not, we must be content to appear in a fashion that has long been superseded, and we look as if we had come out of the tombs, or as if one of our ancestors had stepped out of her picture-frame and again walked the earth.

As to the economy of selecting the best material for dresses, we argue thus: Every dress must be lined and made up, and we pay as much for making and lining an inferior article as we do for one of the best quality. Now, a good silk or merino will wear out two bad ones, therefore one good dress, lining and making, will cost less than two inferior ones, with the expenses of lining and making them. In point of appearance, also, there is no comparison between the two; the good dress will look well to the last, while one of inferior quality will soon look shabby. When a good silk dress has become too shabby to be worn longer as a dress, it becomes, when cut up, useful for a variety of purposes, whereas an inferior silk, or one purely ornamental, is, when left off, good for nothing.

Plain dresses, that is to say, those of a single color, and without a pattern, are more economical, as well as more quiet in their appearance, than those of various colors. They are also generally less expensive, because something is always paid for the novelty of the fashion; besides, colored and figured dresses bear the date on the face of them as plainly as if it was there in printed characters; the ages of dress fabrics are known by the pattern, therefore dresses of this description should be put on as soon as purchased, and worn out at once, or they will appear old-fashioned. There is another reason why dresses of various colors are less economical than others. Where there are several colors, they may not all be equally fast, and, if only one of them fades, the dress will lose its beauty. Trimmings are not economical; besides their cost in the first instance, they become shabby before the dress, and, if removed, they generally leave a mark where they have been, and so spoil the appearance of the dress.

Dresses made of one kind of material only are more durable than those composed of two, as, for instance, of cotton and silk, of cotton and worsted, or of silk and worsted. When the silk is merely thrown on the face of the material, it soon wears off. This is also the case in those woollen or cotton goods which have a silken stripe.

The question of economy also extends to colors, some of which are much more durable than others. For this we can give no rule, except that drabs and other "quaker colors," as they are frequently called, are amongst the most permanent of all colors. For other colors, we must take the word of the draper. There is no doubt,however, that the most durable colors are the cheapest in the end. In the selection of colors, the expense is not always a criterion; something must be paid for fashion and novelty, and perhaps for the cost of the dye. The newest and most expensive colors are not always those which last the longest.

It is not economical to have the dresses made in the extremity of the fashion, because such soon become remarkable; but the fashions should be followed at such a distance that the wearer may not attract the epithet of old-fashioned.

We conclude this part of our subject with a few suggestions relative to the selection of different styles and materials of dress.

The style of dress should be adapted to the age of the wearer. As a general rule, we should say that in youth the dress should be simple and elegant, the ornaments being flowers. In middle age, the dress may be of rich materials, and more splendid in its character; jewels are the appropriate ornaments. In the decline of life, the materials of which the dress is composed may be equally rich, but with less vivacious colors; the tertiaries and broken colors are particularly suitable, and the character of the whole costume should be quiet, simple, and dignified. The French, whose taste in dress is so far in advance of our own, say that ladies who are fifty years old should neither wear gay colors nor dresses of slight materials, flowers, feathers, or much jewelry; that they should cover their hair, wear high dresses, and long sleeves.

Tall ladies may wear flounces and tucks, but they are less appropriate for short persons. As a general rule, vertical stripes make persons appear taller than they really are, but horizontal stripes have a contrary effect. The latter are not admissible in garment fabrics, "since, crossing the person, the pattern quarrels with all the motions of the human figure, as well as with the form of the long folds in the skirts of the garment. For this reason, large and pronounced checks, however fashionable, are often in bad taste, and interfere with the graceful arrangement of drapery." Is it to show their entire contempt for the principles of design that our manufacturers introduced last year not only horizontal stripes of conspicuous colors, but checks and plaids of immense size, as autumnal fashions for dress fabrics? We had hoped that the ladies would show the correctness of their taste by their disapproval of these unbecoming designs, but the prevalence of the fashion at the present time is another evidence of the triumph of fashion over good taste.

A white and light-colored dress makes the wearers appear larger, while a black or dark dress causes them to appear smaller than they actually are. A judicious person will therefore avail herself of these known effects, by adopting the style of dress most suitable to her stature.

To sum up in a few words our impressions on this subject, we should say that the best style of dress is that which, being exactly adapted to the climate and the individual, is at once modest, quiet, and retiring, harmonious in color and decoration, and of good materials.

We conclude with the following admirable extract from Tobin's "Honeymoon," which we earnestly recommend to the attention of our fair readers:—

"I'll have no glittering gew-gaws stuck about you,To stretch the gaping eyes of idiot wonder,And make men stare upon a piece of earth,As on the star-wrought firmament—no feathers,To wave as streamers to your vanity—Nor cumbrous silk, that, with its rustling sound,Makes proud the flesh that bears it. She's adornedAmply that in her husband's eye looks lovely—The truest mirror that an honest wifeCan see her beauty in!Julia.I shall observe, sir.Duke.I should like well to see you in the dressI last presented you.Julia.The blue one, sir?Duke.No, love—the white. Thus modestly attired,A half blown rose stuck in thy braided hair,With no more diamonds than those eyes are made of,No deeper rubies than compose thy lips,Nor pearls more precious than inhabit them,With the pure red and white, which that same handWhich blends the rainbow mingles in thy cheeks;This well-proportioned form (think not I flatter)In graceful motion to harmonious sounds,And thy free tresses dancing in the wind,Thou'lt fix as much observance as chaste damesCan meet without a blush."

"I'll have no glittering gew-gaws stuck about you,

To stretch the gaping eyes of idiot wonder,

And make men stare upon a piece of earth,

As on the star-wrought firmament—no feathers,

To wave as streamers to your vanity—

Nor cumbrous silk, that, with its rustling sound,

Makes proud the flesh that bears it. She's adorned

Amply that in her husband's eye looks lovely—

The truest mirror that an honest wife

Can see her beauty in!

Julia.I shall observe, sir.

Duke.I should like well to see you in the dressI last presented you.

Duke.I should like well to see you in the dress

I last presented you.

Julia.The blue one, sir?

Duke.No, love—the white. Thus modestly attired,A half blown rose stuck in thy braided hair,With no more diamonds than those eyes are made of,No deeper rubies than compose thy lips,Nor pearls more precious than inhabit them,With the pure red and white, which that same handWhich blends the rainbow mingles in thy cheeks;This well-proportioned form (think not I flatter)In graceful motion to harmonious sounds,And thy free tresses dancing in the wind,Thou'lt fix as much observance as chaste damesCan meet without a blush."

Duke.No, love—the white. Thus modestly attired,

A half blown rose stuck in thy braided hair,

With no more diamonds than those eyes are made of,

No deeper rubies than compose thy lips,

Nor pearls more precious than inhabit them,

With the pure red and white, which that same hand

Which blends the rainbow mingles in thy cheeks;

This well-proportioned form (think not I flatter)

In graceful motion to harmonious sounds,

And thy free tresses dancing in the wind,

Thou'lt fix as much observance as chaste dames

Can meet without a blush."

"IREMEMBER," says Mr. St. John, "once seeing a Falstaff fasten his Kashmire, six or seven yards long, to a door-handle, and having gone with the other extremity to the opposite side of his court-yard, began to wind his huge form into it with as much gravity and decorum as if he were performing a pious mystery. He had a peculiar theory as to the position of every fold, and if he failed in arranging them exactly, would unwind himself again with a rapid rotary motion, his hands raised in the air. The operation, with all its vicissitudes, generally lasted about half an hour; and I have rarely seen a magnificent Effendi, without thinking of how he must have looked whilst putting on his shawl."

CHEESE DAIRY-HOUSE.

WEdo not present our readers the following as model cottages; but we give them a model "Dairy Building" and a model "Piggery." They are from C. M. Saxton's work on "Rural Architecture."

This building is one and a half stories high, with a broad, spreading roof of 45° pitch; the ground plan is 10 feet between joists, and the posts 16 feet high. An ice-house is at one end, and a wood-shed at the opposite end, of the same size. This building is supposed to be erected near the milking-sheds of the farm, and in contiguity to the feeding-troughs of the cows, or the piggery, and adapted to the convenience of feeding the whey to whichever of these animals the dairyman may select, as both, or either are required to consume it; and to which it may be conveyed in spouts from the dairy-room.

GROUND PLAN.

Interior Arrangement.—The front door is protected by a light porcha, entering by a doorb, the main dairy-room. The cheese-pressesc,c, occupy the left end of the room, between whicha passage leads through a doorl, into the wood-shedh, open on all sides, with its roof resting on four posts set in the ground. The large cheese-tabledstands on the opposite end, and is three feet wide. In the centre of the room is a chimneye, with a whey and water boiler, and vats on each side. A flight of stairsf, leading into the storage-room above, is in the rear. A doorb, on the extreme right, leads into the ice-houseg. There are four windows to the room—two on each side, front and rear. In the loft are placed the shelves for storing the cheese, as soon as sufficiently prepared on the temporary table below. This loft is thoroughly ventilated by windows, and the heat of the sun upon it ripens the cheese rapidly for market. A trapdoor, through the floors, over which is hung a tackle, admits the cheese from below, or passes it down when prepared for market.

The cheese-house should, if possible, be placed on a sloping bank, when it is designed to feed the whey to pigs; and even when it is fed to cows, it is more convenient to pass it to them on a lower level than to carry it out in buckets. It may, however, if on level ground, be discharged into vats, in a cellar below, and pumped out as wanted. A cellar is convenient—indeed, almost indispensable—under the cheese dairy; and water should be so near as to be easily pumped or drawn into the vats and kettles used in running up the curd, or for washing the utensils used in the work. When the milk is kept over night for the next morning's curd, temporary tables may be placed near the ice-room, to hold the pans or tubs in which it may be set, and the ice used to temper the milk to the proper degree for raising the cream. If the dairy be of such extent as to require larger accommodations than the plan here suggested, a room or two may be partitioned off from the main milk and pressing-room for washing the vessels and other articles employed, and for setting the milk. Every facility should be made for neatness in all the operations connected with the work.

Different accommodations are required for making the different kinds of cheese which our varied markets demand, and in the fitting up of the dairy-house, nopositiveplan of arrangement can be laid down, suited alike to all the work which may be demanded. The dairyman, therefore, will best arrange all these for the particular convenience which he requires. The main plan and style of building, however, we think will be generally approved, as being in an agreeable architectural style, and of convenient construction and shape for the objects intended.

THEdesign here given is for a building 36 feet long and 24 feet wide, with twelve-feet posts; the lower, or living-room for the swine, 9 feet high, and a storage chamber above for the grain and other food required for his keeping. The roof has a pitch of 40° from a horizontal line, spreading over the sides and gables at least 20 inches, and coarsely bracketed. The entrance front projects 6 feet from the main building, by 12 feet in length. Over its main door, in the gable, is a door with a hoisting beam and tackle above it, to take in the grain, and a floor over the whole area receives it. A window is in each gable end. A ventilator passes up through this chamber and the roof, to let off the steam from the cooking vats below, and the foul air emitted by the swine, by the side of which is the furnace-chimney, giving it, on the whole, as respectable an appearance as a pigsty need pretend to.

Interior Arrangement.—At the left of the entrance is a flight of stairsb, leading to the chamber above. On the right is a small areaa, with a window to light it. A door from this leads into the main roomc, where stands a chimneyd, with a furnace to receive the fuel for cooking the food, for which are two kettles, or boilers, with wooden vats on the top, if the extent of food demands them; these are secured with broad wooden covers, to keep in the steam when cooking. An iron valve is placed in the back flue of the furnace, which may fall upon either side, to shut off the fire from either of the kettles, around which the fire may revolve; or the valve may stand in a perpendicular position, at will, if both kettles be heated at the same time. But, as the most economical mode is to cook one kettle while the other is in process of feeding out, andvice versa, scarcely more than one at a time will be required in use. Over each kettle is a sliding door, with a short spout to slide the food into them when wanted. If necessary, and it can be conveniently done, a well may be sunk under this room, and a pump inserted at a convenient place; or, if equally convenient, a pipe may bring the water in from a neighboring stream or spring. On three sides of this room are feeding pense, and sleeping partitionsf, for the swine. These several apartments are accommodated with doors, which open into separate yards on the sides and in rear, or a large one for the entire family, as may be desired.

Construction.—The frame of this building is of strong timber, and stout for its size. The sills should be eight inches square, the corner postsof the same size, and the intermediate posts 8 by 6 inches in diameter. In the centre of these posts, grooves should be made, two inches wide, and deep, to receive theplanksides, which should be two inches thick, and let in from the level of the chamber by a flush cutting for that purpose, out of the grooves inside, thus using no nails or spikes, and holding the planks tight in their place that they may not be rooted out or rubbed off by the hogs, and the inner projection of the main posts left to serve as rubbing posts for them. Above the chamber floor thinner planks may be used. The centre post in the floor plan of the engraving is omitted, by mistake, but it should stand there, like the others. Inside posts at the corners, and in the sides of the partitions, like the outside ones, should be also placed and grooved to receive the planking, four and a half feet high, and their upper ends be secured by tenons into mortices in the beams overhead. The troughs should be made of cast-iron, or the hardest white oak plank, strongly spiked on to the floor and sides.

PIGGERY.

GROUND PLAN.

BY T. HEMPSTEAD.

THEREare oracles true in the depths of the mind,There are prophecies borne on the wings of the wind,There are omens that dwell in a flower or a leaf,To unbosom the future, its rapture and grief;There are voices of night with a language as plainAs the accents of love or the moanings of pain,And I turn from the glare and the murmur of day,To the warnings and woes which their whispers betray.There is gloom on thy brow, there is grief in thine eye,There is night in thy heart, on thy lip is a sigh,And thy summer of beauty has faded away,Like a dream from the brain, like a leaf from the sprayOh! dark must the cloud of thy sorrow have been,And mighty the fetter that bound thee, and keenAs the fangs of despair, as the arrows of Death,As the terrors that rain from the hurricane's breath,Thus to wilder thy brain, thus to wither thy brow,As thou standest before me all tremblingly now.Thou art come to my hall with the sound of the storm;Oh, the tears of his pity flow fast from thy form,And the beams on thy face but a shadow impartOf the strength of the woe that is wringing thy heart.In the silence that midnight around me hath thrown,In moments the brightest my bosom hath known,In the gloom of the tomb, on the slope of the wave,Where the green hills grew red with the life of the brave,In its desert of sorrow, its garden of bliss,My heart hath dreamed never of meeting like this!My Inez, the love of my manhood, my bride,Who art won from the arms of the grave to my side,From the last hour thy brow to my bosom was prest,Have thy tones and thy form been a shrine in my breast;Thou hast haunted my steps when the breathings of spring,The light swallow and bee to the water-brink bring;In the calm of the hills, by the blue rushing streams,I have gazed in thine eye through the mist of my dreams;Thou art come with the storm and the banners of night,Pale Inez, the love of my youth, my delight!Like a wreck from the wave, like a shade from the tomb,Thou art now at my side, and thy step in my room,But the glory that beamed 'neath thy lashes is gone,There is woe in thy mien, there is grief in thy tone,And the beauty that fed on those sweet lips of thineHas died with the lustre that made it divine.Where the dim-whispered sounds that gave ear to our vowsWere the audible steppings of God in the boughs;By the beaming of stars through the tremulous vine,Thou didst pledge through the rolling of years to be mine!Let oblivion steal from my bosom that hour—May the frosts of forgetfulness wither that bower;They have darkened my soul, they have furrowed my brow,But my manhood no more to that sceptre shall bow!Thou wast won by the perishing glitter of gold,From my heart to the arms of another wast sold,Who hath cast thee away as a scorn, as a weed,On the love of a world that hath doomed thee to bleed.Like a palace whose feasting and music are ended,Whose lights to the dim gulf of death are descended,Whose footfalls are silent, whose arches lie strown,Where the cold wind of night makes a desolate moan,Thy trusted hath left thee, deserted, alone,To the rains and the ivy, sad, beautiful one!Had thy heart been as true—ah, no! never my tongueMay add gall to the grief that thy spirit hath wrung;'Tis enough that I gaze on thee here as thou art,On the wreck of thy hope, in thy ruin of heart,Who art drifting right on to that desolate shoreWhere the storm of thy sorrow shall chase thee no more.As I slept, o'er my spirit strange terrors there came,Wrought with drapery of midnight, in crimson and flame,Dread as death-fires that burn on the fear-smitten eye,When the far-shaking thunder-tramp reels through the sky.On a fragment that flew from the van of the blast,Like a leaf on the stream of the hurricane cast,Now spurned from their bosom, now hid in the abyssOf black waves that sparkle, crack, thunder, and hiss,It was thou on my breast through the war of the storm,Pale, pale as the shroud that shall compass thy form.There was death on the gale, there was night on the sea,Where I sat on that wreck with the tempest and thee;Through darkness and thunder, flash, shriek, din, and foam,Now deep-clasped in the vale, and now rocked on the domeOf the wave, I was borne o'er the windy expanseOf chill vapor and spray by the terrible glanceOf the lightning; I pressed thy cold cheek unto mine;From thy locks fast down-trickled the luminous brine;By thy breath on my brow, by the serpentine pathOf the death-flame that blazed on its journey of wrath,I knew thee; I knew, my beloved, thou wast there,In the battle of waves, through my night of despair.Lips of blood through the gloom, and pale phantoms of fearHowled the peals of their horrible glee in my ear;The thin fingers of demons stooped round me to clasp,To wring thy cold form from the strength of my grasp;With their dim eyes upturned, newly torn from the grave,Glared the dead from their weltering shrouds on the wave;Oh! dark was the struggle and fearful and vainThy cold limbs from their place in the deep to restrain;Dread as Death the black bulk of a surge rumbled o'er,I clasped thee, I felt thee, I saw thee no more!That vision of woe, that wild dream of the sea,Is fulfilled, O pale, desolate weeper, in thee;No more shall the joy of thy glance on me shine;While the sun on me beams, I may never be thine;Yet know in thy sorrow, sad Inez, my love,Thou art mine in the Eden that blossoms above!Ah, the pent tears, at last, 'neath thy dark lashes start,And the words that would heal it have broken thy heart.

THEREare oracles true in the depths of the mind,

There are prophecies borne on the wings of the wind,

There are omens that dwell in a flower or a leaf,

To unbosom the future, its rapture and grief;

There are voices of night with a language as plain

As the accents of love or the moanings of pain,

And I turn from the glare and the murmur of day,

To the warnings and woes which their whispers betray.

There is gloom on thy brow, there is grief in thine eye,There is night in thy heart, on thy lip is a sigh,And thy summer of beauty has faded away,Like a dream from the brain, like a leaf from the sprayOh! dark must the cloud of thy sorrow have been,And mighty the fetter that bound thee, and keenAs the fangs of despair, as the arrows of Death,As the terrors that rain from the hurricane's breath,Thus to wilder thy brain, thus to wither thy brow,As thou standest before me all tremblingly now.Thou art come to my hall with the sound of the storm;Oh, the tears of his pity flow fast from thy form,And the beams on thy face but a shadow impartOf the strength of the woe that is wringing thy heart.In the silence that midnight around me hath thrown,In moments the brightest my bosom hath known,In the gloom of the tomb, on the slope of the wave,Where the green hills grew red with the life of the brave,In its desert of sorrow, its garden of bliss,My heart hath dreamed never of meeting like this!My Inez, the love of my manhood, my bride,Who art won from the arms of the grave to my side,From the last hour thy brow to my bosom was prest,Have thy tones and thy form been a shrine in my breast;Thou hast haunted my steps when the breathings of spring,The light swallow and bee to the water-brink bring;In the calm of the hills, by the blue rushing streams,I have gazed in thine eye through the mist of my dreams;Thou art come with the storm and the banners of night,Pale Inez, the love of my youth, my delight!Like a wreck from the wave, like a shade from the tomb,Thou art now at my side, and thy step in my room,But the glory that beamed 'neath thy lashes is gone,There is woe in thy mien, there is grief in thy tone,And the beauty that fed on those sweet lips of thineHas died with the lustre that made it divine.Where the dim-whispered sounds that gave ear to our vowsWere the audible steppings of God in the boughs;By the beaming of stars through the tremulous vine,Thou didst pledge through the rolling of years to be mine!Let oblivion steal from my bosom that hour—May the frosts of forgetfulness wither that bower;They have darkened my soul, they have furrowed my brow,But my manhood no more to that sceptre shall bow!

There is gloom on thy brow, there is grief in thine eye,

There is night in thy heart, on thy lip is a sigh,

And thy summer of beauty has faded away,

Like a dream from the brain, like a leaf from the spray

Oh! dark must the cloud of thy sorrow have been,

And mighty the fetter that bound thee, and keen

As the fangs of despair, as the arrows of Death,

As the terrors that rain from the hurricane's breath,

Thus to wilder thy brain, thus to wither thy brow,

As thou standest before me all tremblingly now.

Thou art come to my hall with the sound of the storm;

Oh, the tears of his pity flow fast from thy form,

And the beams on thy face but a shadow impart

Of the strength of the woe that is wringing thy heart.

In the silence that midnight around me hath thrown,

In moments the brightest my bosom hath known,

In the gloom of the tomb, on the slope of the wave,

Where the green hills grew red with the life of the brave,

In its desert of sorrow, its garden of bliss,

My heart hath dreamed never of meeting like this!

My Inez, the love of my manhood, my bride,

Who art won from the arms of the grave to my side,

From the last hour thy brow to my bosom was prest,

Have thy tones and thy form been a shrine in my breast;

Thou hast haunted my steps when the breathings of spring,

The light swallow and bee to the water-brink bring;

In the calm of the hills, by the blue rushing streams,

I have gazed in thine eye through the mist of my dreams;

Thou art come with the storm and the banners of night,

Pale Inez, the love of my youth, my delight!

Like a wreck from the wave, like a shade from the tomb,

Thou art now at my side, and thy step in my room,

But the glory that beamed 'neath thy lashes is gone,

There is woe in thy mien, there is grief in thy tone,

And the beauty that fed on those sweet lips of thine

Has died with the lustre that made it divine.

Where the dim-whispered sounds that gave ear to our vows

Were the audible steppings of God in the boughs;

By the beaming of stars through the tremulous vine,

Thou didst pledge through the rolling of years to be mine!

Let oblivion steal from my bosom that hour—

May the frosts of forgetfulness wither that bower;

They have darkened my soul, they have furrowed my brow,

But my manhood no more to that sceptre shall bow!

Thou wast won by the perishing glitter of gold,From my heart to the arms of another wast sold,Who hath cast thee away as a scorn, as a weed,On the love of a world that hath doomed thee to bleed.Like a palace whose feasting and music are ended,Whose lights to the dim gulf of death are descended,Whose footfalls are silent, whose arches lie strown,Where the cold wind of night makes a desolate moan,Thy trusted hath left thee, deserted, alone,To the rains and the ivy, sad, beautiful one!Had thy heart been as true—ah, no! never my tongueMay add gall to the grief that thy spirit hath wrung;'Tis enough that I gaze on thee here as thou art,On the wreck of thy hope, in thy ruin of heart,Who art drifting right on to that desolate shoreWhere the storm of thy sorrow shall chase thee no more.

Thou wast won by the perishing glitter of gold,

From my heart to the arms of another wast sold,

Who hath cast thee away as a scorn, as a weed,

On the love of a world that hath doomed thee to bleed.

Like a palace whose feasting and music are ended,

Whose lights to the dim gulf of death are descended,

Whose footfalls are silent, whose arches lie strown,

Where the cold wind of night makes a desolate moan,

Thy trusted hath left thee, deserted, alone,

To the rains and the ivy, sad, beautiful one!

Had thy heart been as true—ah, no! never my tongue

May add gall to the grief that thy spirit hath wrung;

'Tis enough that I gaze on thee here as thou art,

On the wreck of thy hope, in thy ruin of heart,

Who art drifting right on to that desolate shore

Where the storm of thy sorrow shall chase thee no more.

As I slept, o'er my spirit strange terrors there came,Wrought with drapery of midnight, in crimson and flame,Dread as death-fires that burn on the fear-smitten eye,When the far-shaking thunder-tramp reels through the sky.On a fragment that flew from the van of the blast,Like a leaf on the stream of the hurricane cast,Now spurned from their bosom, now hid in the abyssOf black waves that sparkle, crack, thunder, and hiss,It was thou on my breast through the war of the storm,Pale, pale as the shroud that shall compass thy form.There was death on the gale, there was night on the sea,Where I sat on that wreck with the tempest and thee;Through darkness and thunder, flash, shriek, din, and foam,Now deep-clasped in the vale, and now rocked on the domeOf the wave, I was borne o'er the windy expanseOf chill vapor and spray by the terrible glanceOf the lightning; I pressed thy cold cheek unto mine;From thy locks fast down-trickled the luminous brine;By thy breath on my brow, by the serpentine pathOf the death-flame that blazed on its journey of wrath,I knew thee; I knew, my beloved, thou wast there,In the battle of waves, through my night of despair.Lips of blood through the gloom, and pale phantoms of fearHowled the peals of their horrible glee in my ear;The thin fingers of demons stooped round me to clasp,To wring thy cold form from the strength of my grasp;With their dim eyes upturned, newly torn from the grave,Glared the dead from their weltering shrouds on the wave;Oh! dark was the struggle and fearful and vainThy cold limbs from their place in the deep to restrain;Dread as Death the black bulk of a surge rumbled o'er,I clasped thee, I felt thee, I saw thee no more!

As I slept, o'er my spirit strange terrors there came,

Wrought with drapery of midnight, in crimson and flame,

Dread as death-fires that burn on the fear-smitten eye,

When the far-shaking thunder-tramp reels through the sky.

On a fragment that flew from the van of the blast,

Like a leaf on the stream of the hurricane cast,

Now spurned from their bosom, now hid in the abyss

Of black waves that sparkle, crack, thunder, and hiss,

It was thou on my breast through the war of the storm,

Pale, pale as the shroud that shall compass thy form.

There was death on the gale, there was night on the sea,

Where I sat on that wreck with the tempest and thee;

Through darkness and thunder, flash, shriek, din, and foam,

Now deep-clasped in the vale, and now rocked on the dome

Of the wave, I was borne o'er the windy expanse

Of chill vapor and spray by the terrible glance

Of the lightning; I pressed thy cold cheek unto mine;

From thy locks fast down-trickled the luminous brine;

By thy breath on my brow, by the serpentine path

Of the death-flame that blazed on its journey of wrath,

I knew thee; I knew, my beloved, thou wast there,

In the battle of waves, through my night of despair.

Lips of blood through the gloom, and pale phantoms of fear

Howled the peals of their horrible glee in my ear;

The thin fingers of demons stooped round me to clasp,

To wring thy cold form from the strength of my grasp;

With their dim eyes upturned, newly torn from the grave,

Glared the dead from their weltering shrouds on the wave;

Oh! dark was the struggle and fearful and vain

Thy cold limbs from their place in the deep to restrain;

Dread as Death the black bulk of a surge rumbled o'er,

I clasped thee, I felt thee, I saw thee no more!

That vision of woe, that wild dream of the sea,Is fulfilled, O pale, desolate weeper, in thee;No more shall the joy of thy glance on me shine;While the sun on me beams, I may never be thine;Yet know in thy sorrow, sad Inez, my love,Thou art mine in the Eden that blossoms above!Ah, the pent tears, at last, 'neath thy dark lashes start,And the words that would heal it have broken thy heart.

That vision of woe, that wild dream of the sea,

Is fulfilled, O pale, desolate weeper, in thee;

No more shall the joy of thy glance on me shine;

While the sun on me beams, I may never be thine;

Yet know in thy sorrow, sad Inez, my love,

Thou art mine in the Eden that blossoms above!

Ah, the pent tears, at last, 'neath thy dark lashes start,

And the words that would heal it have broken thy heart.

BY WM. ALEXANDER.

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