Thomas Williams was a shopkeeper, and, we regret to write it, a drunkard: he was a licentious, ill-bred person; and a coward withal, frequently beating his wife-and none but a cowardly man will do that, at least so we think. Tom was reckoned a capital fellow among his pot companions-men who, like himself, left their business to take care of itself, while they wasted their time and money in improper indulgences. There are too many such men, more's the pity! Now we are prepared to say that Mrs. Willians was not deserving of the treatment she received at the hands of her husband; and was far too good for such a man as Williams. She was a well-educated woman, of fine feelings; in fact, superior to her husband in all that adorns, elevates, and ennobles humanity. Ellen bore the ill-treatment and abusive language of her husband for some time, without telling any one. Sometimes her relations would interrogate her, suspecting that he did not use her well; but she generally evaded the point, and began to talk of something else. At last she told an intimate friend of the way in which she was treated. 46 "Ah, I knew it, Ellen-I knew it !" replied her friend, Emma Brown. Everybody who knows you can tell what ails you; and even a stranger might guess that you are the wife of a drunkard." The conversation concluded by Ellen asking Emma's advice in the matter; but Emma, poor thing, could not advise-she knew not how to deal with drunken husbands. That night Williams returned home very late, and, as was his custom, saluted his patient wife with vulgar and insulting language. She ventured to reply (for she durst not be silent, for then he said she was "in the sulks"); and on several previous occasions he had struck her because she did not speak to him. After a time, he went to bed. Ellen sat up much longer than she had need, now that her husband was at home; but something important was passing in her mind. From that night Ellen was an altered woman. It was near twelve o'clock a few nights after, that Ellen sat alone in her cheerless dwelling, awaiting the return of her husband; she was reading, or trying to read, when suddenly she heard some one rattling at the door. Making sure that it was him, she instantly opened it, when a drunken man, who had been leaning against it, fell into the passage. It was not her husband. She was somewhat alarmed, and told him to get up and begone; but he paid little heed to her his senses were too deeply steeped in drink. However, after a little while, he managed to get outside, so as to allow of the door being closed; so Ellen shortly retired to her room; but had not been there long before she heard her husband abusing the drunken fellow, who had been lying at the door, and was just at that moment taking his departure. Williams entered the house in a state of frenzy, swearing that the stranger came out of the house just as he, Williams, reached the door. How poor Ellen trembled! In vain she told him how the matter stood; he would not listen to her, but treated her most cruelly, and then went to bed and fell asleep as though he had done a praise-worthy and comfortcreating action. When he had slept awhile, Ellen said to herself, "I'll do it, whatever be the consequence; it may do good-I hope it will!" So saying, she folded the blanket over her husband, and began to sew him up in it! She had very little trouble in the folding part of the business; for Thomas, with the most accommodating spirit in the world, had almost wrapped himself up-to save his wife the trouble, may be! Thomas lay very still while the sewing process was going on; when it was finished, Ellen left the room for a moment, and returned with the clothes-line in her hand. She then shook her husband to awaken him; and as she did so she said, Come, Thomas, awake, and I'll tell you what I'm going to do. You've often beaten me-I have resolved now that my turn is come: I am going to beat you. Thomas awoke, and began to swear; and was about to turn over, when he found himself in a "fix." Seldom has any one been more surprised than Tom was at finding himself so shackled; but he had little time for reflection, for his wife began to deal him some such earnest and well directed lashes with the clothesline, that he was speedily made aware that it was no joke. At first he swore lustily, expecting to frighten her, as he had been used to do; but Ellen paid little heed to what he said, except now and then asking him if he regretted having used her ill, and meant to behave better? He at last asked for mercy and forgiveness, and promised to behave better in future. He seemed to know what he was saying the "lathering" had completely sobered him. Ellen left off beating him. “I have another request to make," she said, as she drew her breath; "after to-night you must not allude to this matter in any way; and if from this time you do not become a better man, I shall leave you, and the world shall know the means I have tried to reform you. "Thomas groaned. It was not until the morning that she cut the thread that linked him to his fate; but he spoke not a word while being liberated. He did not complain, but he looked up in the care-worn countenance of his wife, and saw resolution marked there. From that day he attended to his duties more assiduously than he had ever done before; and when any of his pot companions wished to entice him away from led to an inquiry, and the bread, upon analyhis work he said, "No!" in a tone that was sis, was found to contain Plaster of Paris. not to be mistaken. He was, without doubt, a changed man; but his wife never taunted him with the past, nor boasted of the cure she had effected; she appeared only to desire to stand in her proper relative position; and she continued to discharge her duty faithfully, and strove to make her husband happy. A certain circumstance was never mention ed; but we think that if he had shown any symptoms of returning profligacy she would have said, Remember the blanket! DEATH IN THE BREAD-BASKET. EVERY one knows how different homemade bread is in flavour and sweetness to that procured at the bake-house. In making bread at home, we use nothing but flour, water, yeast, and salt. The bakers sometimes add potatoes, alum, magnesia, and other substances, to give it a white appearance and impart lightness. Alum is largely used, not as an adulteration of itself, but for the purpose of enabling them to work up and whiten an inferior flour to mix with that of a better quality. Ask a baker why he puts alum? he tells you it keeps water and raises well," meaning, we suppose, that it improves the look of the bread, rendering it firmer and whiter. This alumed bread might not, perhaps, hurt a stout labourer, whose healthy digestive organs would be strong enough almost to convert leather into nutriment, but for persons of sedentary habits or infirm constitutions, it is a very serious matter to have their digestive process daily vitiated by damaged flour, whitened with alum. The quantity of alum is always proportionate to the badness of the flour, and hence, when the best flour is used, no alum need be introduced. "That alum is not necessary," says Dr. Ure, for giving bread its utmost beauty, sponginess, and agreeable taste, is undoubted, since the bread baked at a very extensive establishment in Glasgow, in which about twenty tons of flour are regularly converted into loaves in the course of a week, unite every quality of appearance with absolute freedom from that acido-astringent drug." Some of the adulterations of flour are made by the baker; others by the wholesale flour dealers, who, in large towns, supply the bakers with the corn ready ground. We observed a little time ago, in the public papers, an account of a gentleman who, whenever he visited Newcastle-under-Line, Staffordshire, was invariably seized with severe pains in the stomach; he suspected it was caused by the bread he had eaten. This The baker declared his innocence; but on searching the miller's premises from whence the flour was procured, a large quantity of this substance was found, which led to his being mulct of a considerable sum in the shape of a fine. Not a very pleasant thing to have one's stomach walled up with Plaster of Paris! it may be very good to keep the damp from our houses, but not so agreeable to line the inner man with. DEATH IN THE TEAPOT. By the help of Mr. Silvers, we were enabled in a recent number to expose to an injured public some of the ingredients of metropolitan milk-"London Genuine Particular." A correspondent now makes a further revelation of how our tea-pots are defiled when it is innocently supposed that a pure beverage is in course of concoction. "A short time since," he says, "a friend of mine, a chemist in Manchester, was applied to for a quantity of French chalk, a species of tale, in fine powder; the party who purchased it, used regularly several pounds a week; not being an article of usual sale in such quantity, our friend became curious to know to what use it could be applied; on asking the wholesale dealer who supplied him, he stated his belief, that it was used in facing' tea (the last process of converting black tea into green), and that within the last month or two, he had sold in Manchester upwards of a thousands pounds of it. Our friend the chemist then instituted a series of 'experiments, and the result proved that a great deal, if not all the common green tea used in this country is coloured artificially. The very first experiment demonstrated fraud. The plan adopted was as follows:A few spoonfuls of green tea at five shillings a pound, were placed on a small sieve, and held under a gentle stream of cold water flowing from a tap for the space of four or five minutes. The tea quickly changed its colour from green to a dull yellow, and upon drying with a very gentle heat gradually assum ed the appearance of ordinary black tea. On making a minute microscopic examination of the colouring matter washed from the leaf, and which was caught in a vessel below, it appeared to be composed of three substances, particles of yellow, blue, and white. The blue was proved to be Prussian blue-the yellow thought to be the turmeric, and the white, French chalk. If the two former be mixed together in very fine powder, they will give a green of any required shade. It is made to adhere to the tea-leaf by some adhesive matter, and then it is "faced" by the French chalk, to give it the pearly appearance so much liked. step was to get a rug for the entry. A neat farmer's wife very readily gave him an old rug that she could spare. It did not take him long to induce the habit of scraping and wiping the shoes, and a lad or miss who did not do this, was soon noticed by the rest, and "This simple experiment any one can perform. A gentleman assured me that a friend of his a short time since happened-though quite unintentionally on his part-to walk into a private room connected with the estab-made to feel that he or she had not done all Jishment of a wholesale tea-dealer, and there he saw the people actually at work converting the black tea into green; the proprietor soon discovered his presence in the room, and before him, in no measured terms, severely reprimanded the workmen for having permitted a stranger to enter."-Household Words. THE DOOR-SCRAPER; OR, THE INFLUENCE OF SCHOOL ON HOME. IT is to be regretted that our school committees pay so little regard to manners, in the selection of teachers, and if their morals are good, and their acquaintance with the common branches of study respectable, employ them without much regard to the question whether they are courteous, refined and gentlemanly in their address and behavior. Now, what the teacher is, in this respect, the pupils will generally be, and, unless they see better patterns at home, the standard of the teacher's will be theirs also. If they see the teacher addicted to any habit, they will think it manly to imitate him; if he spits upon the floor, or blows his nose with his fingers and then perhaps wipes them on his pantaloons, the child will do the same. If his boots are seldom cleaned, the child will be more likely to boast that he brings more mud into the school than the master does, than that his shoes are clean, and the master's dirty. We were led into this train of remark, by an incident which took place in a village in Massachusetts, where the teacher was accustomed to regard his personal appearance, and to require some attention to theirs from his pupils. When he took charge of the school, he noticed that the pupils, in muddy weather, were accustomed to enter the school-room, and stamp the mud upon the floor, or carry it to their seats and soil the floor for a large space all around them. No sweeping could clean such a floor, and, of course, none had been attempted more than once a week. Determined to make an attempt at reform, the teacher obtained a piece of iron hoop, and nailing one end to the door, he fastened the other to a walnut stake, which he drove into the ground. Every child was required to scrape his shoes before he entered the room, and the consequence was, that the true floor soon became visible through the crust that covered it. The next that was required. Soon after the rug was introduced, the teacher ventured to have the whole floor of the school-room washed, not scoured, for he had to do it himself one Saturday afternoon, and washing was all that he was competent to do. When the scholars came on Monday morning it was evident that they were taken by surprise. They had never seen the like before; the very knots in the boards were visible and they gave several extra rubs and scrapes before they ventured to set foot on the beauties so strangely exposed. This is always the case, and we have known a man who educated the muscles of his under jaw by chewing tobacco, and who would have squirted the saliva without compunction upon the floor of a schoolroom, running round a carpeted room, like a crazy man, to find a place of deposit for his filth. So true is it, that neatness begets neatness, and a nice school-room is better treated by the unneat than a neglected one. The teacher thus introduced one thing after another, taking care not to go too fast, and although he had no penalty for a breach of the rules of neatness, he introduced a public sentiment, which restrained the pupils more effectually than the rod; and, as his own example was always made to second his rules, the children soon found no hardship or injustice in them. Among the scholars was one little fellow about eight years old, named Freddy Gerrish, whose parents were poor, and cared but little for appearances, if the children had bread enough to eat from day to day. Freddy was. the oldest of five children, and, when not at school, he was generally "minding his little brothers and sisters," as the Irish call tending or taking care of them. One day, on his way home from school, he found an iron hoop, and before night he had a scraper at the only door of the house. It so happened that when his father came home, his boots were covered with bog mud, and, almost for the first time in his life he looked round for something to clean them. The scraper that Freddy had placed there was just the thing, and the little fellow was praised for his ingenuity. Soon after, a sheep was killed by a dog in a field near Mr. Gerrish's house, and as no one cared for it, Freddy offered to bury it if he might have the skin, which had but little wool on it. He borrowed a jackknife of a larger boy, and soon stripped off the skin from the body, and then cutting as large a square from it as he could, he went home and proposed to his mother to nail it down in the entry. This, to please Freddy, was done, and the baby was allowed to sit on it until father came home. The effect of Fredd's attempt at reform was soon felt, and his mother was no longer heard to say, as she often had done, “It is no use to sweep!" The room was swept and scoured, and Mrs. Gerrish began to feel a pride in keeping it white. to consist in the wife's doing the work, and surprising her husband with a floor painted by her own hand, and he called the boy back, and asked him if his mother had any money. "A little," said he, "she bought some yarn, and knit three pair of stockings, while baby was asleep, and sold them." Here is the paint," said the man, "I give it to you, my little fellow, because you love your mother." The little fellow's eyes glared in astonishment at the idea of possessing so much paint, and of being paid for so easy a task as loving his mother, and as the big tears began to roll "Wife," said Mr. Gerrish, one evening, "your floor is whiter than usual, I must get some lime and whitewash a little, for Fred-down his cheeks, he said, dy's scraper seems to have a tail to it." The room was shining white before another day was passed, and as the cooking utensils began to look ill, standing around the stove, Mr. Gerrish, who was a good farmer, changed works with a carpenter, and had a neat set of shelves made with a cupboard under them. One day, after she had scoured the floor, Mrs. Gerrish said to herself, “I wonder whether I cannot paint this floor well enough for poor folks, for though a white floor looks well, it is easier to clean a painted one." Freddy was despatched to the coach-maker's to ask, what some suitable paint would cost. "How big is your room?" said the man, who had often noticed that Freddy was never among the boys that were doing mischief. "Four times as long as I can reach one way, sir, and five times the other," said Freddy. The man applied his rule to Freddy's arms, and said, "It will cost you half a dollar." "Will you lend me a brush, sir?" said Freddy. "Who is to do the painting?" said the man. "Mother, sir, is going to try, because she can't afford to pay for the paint and painting, too, and she wants to do it before father comes home." "You love her, don't you?" said the coachmaker. "I guess I do," said Freddy, "and she loves me too, because I made a scraper at the door, like master Hall's, at the school. She says, if it had not been for the scraper, she never would have thought of the paint, and we are going to stay in the bed-room, or out of doors, till the paint is dry." "I see through it," said the man. "Go home and tell your mother I will come presently and paint the floor for nothing." The boy was starting off, when the coachmaker recollected that half the charm was "Mother will be able to buy the Bible now." "What Bible?" said the coach-maker, who had become interested in the boy. The Bible for me to read every night and morning as mother does." "I have some Bibles to give away," said the man, "and if you will not spill the paint, you may take one under your arm." "I declare," said Freddy, "I don't know what mother will say to all this; how will she pay you, sir?" "Would you like to do a little work for me, my little fellow ?" 66 "I guess I should," said Freddy, "if I were big enough, I'd work for you ever so long." "I want just such a scraper at my door, as you made for your father, and if you will make me one, I will take it in full pay for the paint and Bible." "I can't make one good enough for you," said Freddy, bashfully. "That is my look out," said the man, "so carry home the paint, and come when you can and make the scraper." Freddy went home, and when his mother saw him with a book under one arm, and both hands holding on to the paint pot, she exclaimed, "Why, Freddy, what have you done! I only told you to ask the price of the paint." "I know that," said Freddy," but the man made a trade with me, and he is to give me all these, if I will make him a scraper for his door, and I am going to do it." To make a long story short, the scraper at the school door was the making of Mr. Gerrish and his family. The entire change of habits introduced into their humble dwelling not only led to neatness and order, but to thrift and comfort. The scraper was made for the coach-maker, who continued to do a hundred other friendly acts for the family. Freddy obtained an excellent education, and is an intelligent and wealthy farmer, and when he built his new house, he carefully placed the old scraper at the side door, as if it were a talisman. Master Hall taught from district to district, as is the custom, and, being of a slender constitution, his health early failed, and he was quietly laid in the church-yard of a retired town, unconscious that the seed he had sown had ever produced any fruit like that we have described. Freddy could never discover his resting place, but he erected a neat cenotaph to his memory, near the school house, which he also rebuilt, and once a year he collects the children of the village around it, and tells them the story of the scraper at the old school-door.-Common School Journal. [We find the following article in a newspaper, where it appears without credit, and without the author's name. It is curious and interesting, and is one of these kind of articles that should always have its parentage acknowledged; but as we are not able to supply the omission, we pass it on as we find it.] SENSATIONS OF THE DYING. The pain of dying must be distinguished from the pain of the previous disease; for, when life ebbs sensibility declines. As death is the final extinction of coporeal feeling, so numbness increases as death comes on. The prostration of disease like healthful fatigues, engenders a growing stupor-a sensation of subsiding softly into a coveted repose. The transition resembles what may be seen in those lofty mountains, whose sides exhibit every clime in regular gradation; vegetation luxuriates at their base, and dwindles in the approach to the region of snow till its feeblest manifestation is repressed by the cold. The so called agony can never be more formidable than when the brain is the last to go, and the mind preserves to the end a rational cognizance of the state of the body; yet persons thus situated commonly attest that there are few things in life less painful than the close. "If I had strength enough to hold a pen," said William Hunter, "I would write how easy and, delightful it is to die." "If this be dying," said the niece of Newton Olney, "it is a pleasant thing to die;" "the very expression." adds her uncle, "which another friend of mine made a few years ago." The same words have so often been uttered under similar circumstances which are only varied by the name of the speaker. "If this be dying," said lady Glenorchy, "it is the easiest thing imaginable." "I thought that dying had been more difficult," said Louis XIV. "I did not suppose it was so easy to die," said Francis Suarlz, the Spanish theologian. An agreeable surprise was the sentiment of them all, they expected the stream to terminate in the dash of the torrent, and they found it was losing itself in the gentlest current. The whole of the faculties seem sometimes concentrated on the placid enjoyment. The day Arthur Murphy died, he kept repeating from Pope "Taught half by reason, half by mere decay, To welcome death, and calmly pass away Nor does the calm partake of the sensitiveness of sickness. There was a swell in the sea the day Gellingwood breathed his last upon the element which had been the scene of his glory. Captain Thomas expressed a fear that he was disturbed by the tossing of the ship. "No, Thomas," he replied, "I am in a state in which nothing in this world can dis turb me more. I am dying, and I am sure it must be consolatory to you, and all, who love me, to see how comfortably I am coming to my end." 66 A second and common condition of the dying is to be lost to themselves and all around them in utter unconsciousness. Countenance and gestures might in many cases suggest that, however dead to the external world, an interior sensibility, still remained; but we have the evidence of those whom disease has left at the eleventh hour, that while their supposed sufferings were pitied by their friends, existence was a blank; Montaigne, when stunned by a fall from his horse, tore open his doublet; but he was entirely senseless, and only knew afterwards that he did it from the information of his attendants. The delirium of fever is distressing to witness; but the victim awakes from it as from a heavy sleep, totally ignorant that he had passed days and nights tossing wearily and talking wildly. Perceptions which had occupied the entire man, could hardly be obliterated in the instant of recovery; or, if any one were inclined to adopt the solution, there is yet proof that the callousness is real, in the unflinching manner in which bed sores are rolled upon, that are too tender to bear touching when sense is restored. Wherever there is insensibility, there is virtual death itself, and to die is to awake in another world. More usually the mind is in a state intermediate between activity and oblivion. Observers, unaccustomed to sit by the bed of death, readily mistake increasing langor for total insensibility; but those who watch closely can readily distinguish that the ear, though dull, is not deaf-that the eyes though dim, is not yet sightless. When a bystander remarked of Dr. Wallaston that his mind was gone, the expiring philosopher made a signal for paper and pencil, wrote down some figures and cast them up. The superior energy of his character was the principal difference between himself and thousands who die |