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"Would it not be better for me just to go to the belfry, and fetch you a little bit of lard?" said the kitten. "I would not mind the journey for once, and I have no doubt that it is the very best thing that you could take." "Oh, pray do no such thing," said the rat, in great alarm. "I could not bear that you should leave me for so long; and remember that we agreed to go together when the lard was to be eaten."

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'Oh, certainly," answered the kitten. "I was speaking only for your good. Of course, so fatigued and delicate as I am, a journey to the belfry would be anything but agrecable, and I am extremely sorry not to be able to do as you wish, and go out hunting in the ivy, but it is quite impossible. I am so tired that I can hardly stand, and you have no idea what hard work it is, having never tried it yourself. You must make up your mind to go without your supper, and had better go to bed early. I shall take another turn or two with this dear little apple, to pass away the time and keep up my spirits."

So she whisked the apple out from under the straw where she had left it, and went on rolling it up and down, and scampering full gallop after it for a very long time, whilst the poor rat lay groaning in the corner, and wondering whether she would ever leave off making such a noise.

That night the kitten resolved, before she went to sleep, that she would pay another visit to the belfry the next morning; so almost as soon as it was light, she said to the rat, "another of my cousins is going to be married, and I am engaged to be bridesmaid; I must, therefore, leave you for a short time, but you may depend on my returning as soon as possible."

“What, another wedding!" exclaimed the rat, who had been awake half the night with the pain of his accident. 'They come very often in your family."

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My cousins are all so handsome you see; no doubt that is the reason," said the kitten. "The one who is to be married to-day is quite beautiful, of a tortoise-shell complexion, like mine, but rather taller than I am."

So saying, she left the poor rat to get his breakfast as he could, and stole away to the belfry, where, being very hungry, she instantly fell upon the lump of lard, and did not stop eating till it was all gone.

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"Well, there's an end of it," said she, when the last mouthful was swallowed, now I shall not be tempted to come here any more, that is a good thing! And I do not think that the lard would have kept good much longer either. There was an oddish taste about it to-day. At any rate, if the rat finds it out, and makes a piece of work, I shall soon find a way to stop his complaints."

Then she lay down for a little while, and took a comfortable nap; and as soon as she awoke, returned to the garret.

"You have not been gone long this time," said the rat, who had made an unsuccessful journey during her absence in search of something to eat, and now, being unable any longer to amuse himself with his board, was feeling dull and out of spirits.

"I wish that some of my relations would invite me to a wedding. Now that I have lost my teeth, and cannot guaw, life is a blank to me, I have been thinking of trying change of air, and going to live in the belfry, where I should always have the ropes to run up and down, which would be good for my health. When my mouth is better, perhaps I might even hope to bite them in half, if I took great pains, and gave myself time. But you have not told me anything about the wedding, or what your cousin's name was all this time?"

"Oh, the wedding went off very well; and my cousin's name, if you must know," said Mrs. Kitty, was Allgone. Perhaps you will not like that any better than the others?"

"Like it," answered the rat, who could no longer help

strongly suspecting the treachery of his companion, "no, I do not like, and I do not believe it. There never was such a name heard of since the world began, and I shall be very much obliged to you, Mrs. Kitty, to tell me the meaning of it."

"Oh, that is soon told," rejoined the kitten. "It means what you will be in another minute," and so saying, she fell upon him, and, in spite of his being so lean and bony, ate him up directly.

What a pity that the rat had not learned more wisdom than to trust to one who came, as he must have known, of a deceitful and treacherous family, and who was not, therefore, likely, to have been brought up in any good principles at all! But age does not always bring wisdom, and the rat's had been, I am sorry to say, a very ill-spent life, and thus he had been left a prey to neglect and the bad thoughts of his own wicked old mind, and richly deserved the fate that he met with.

But what was the end of Miss Kitty? It must have been a very strange and horrible one, for many, many years after the time of which we have been speaking, the roof of the old manor-house was taken off for repairs, and beneath it, stretched on the uneven floor, was found the perfect skeleton of a young cat, which, we have no doubt, in whatever unaccountable manner she met with her death, must have been that of the once clever, but cruel and deceitful kitten.

PUFFS.

How many are read, and oh, how many are written, every day, and yet how few, either writers or readers, know whence comes the application of this word to the amplifications of facts, people, and things. A puff, many years ago, in 1775, was the name of a certain kind of head-dress, consisting of hair drawn over a cushiou, powdered and forming a sort of platform on the top of the head. On this surface was placed a whole series of ornaments, made to represent some known event in the life of the individual wearer. Some affection, nay, some secret passion, has been by this means revealed to its object; family pride, vanity, self-love, might all be gratified by the construction of a head-dress. Thus advertised, the ladies went forth into the world, perfect living rebuses. Now, as every one naturally chose her most favourable points, it was, after looking at their pretty faces, quite interesting to read the little romances on their heads. To give an illustration of these puffs, we will quote one worn by the Duchess of Orleans at court, shortly after the birth of her son (afterwards Louis Philippe). In the centre of the platform on the top of the head was a nurse seated in an arm-chair holding the new born infant, in most costly clothes, on her lap. On one side was a representation of a favourite parrot, pecking at a cherry, on a minute cherry-tree. To the left was a little negro page, in a fanciful dress, belonging to the Duchess's household. The portrait of the Duke, set in diamonds and surrounded with true lovers, braids of the Duchess's own hair, completed this little picture-a puff direct of her grace's conjugal and maternal affection. Some would carry on their heads little models of a house and estate they wanted to sell or mortgage; others would place in their hair old gloves, or faded bouquets, love-tokens understood only by one person, but which would set all the court dying of curiosity. If head puff's could supersede newspaper puffs, what strange anomalies should we not see?

LOTTERIES.

These have been abolished by Act of Parliament, and marriage is now the only lottery that the law allows. Lotteries still prevail at Ramsgate, and some other

watering-places, by means of an instrument called a Wheel of Fortune; but these do not come under the head of games of chance, being, in fact, games of certainty, in which the public must be losers. Life is sometimes called a lottery; and there are some persons whose existence is a mere blank, while others aim at the great prizes, by trying to secure number one, though it often turns out to be the wrong number at last.

THE HOUSE OF GOD.

THE House of GOD, when Faith was young,

Was in the deep blue air,

And prayers were said, and hymns were sung,

And GOD was ever there!

Christ's early church was heaven decked,

Or dim with leafy shade;

No pompous show devotion checked,
Nor mocked the soul that prayed.

The forest stems its columns rude,
Deep rooted in the ground,
And Nature's holy multitude

Of blessings smiled around.
The happy birds aloft would sing,
Above the scented sward;
True-hearted was Man's offering,
Heart-soothing his reward.

But there are hollow, subtle saints,
Who claim sole right of Grace,
And meekly hide their mortal taints
Beneath a solemn face;

Who make the love of GOD a care,

His reverence a play,

And tell us-GOD is only there

Where they may choose to pray.

Does not GOD dwell in moon and sun,

And in the dewy field

Where clover blooms? Where waters run,

By foliage half concealed?

Where flowers woo us with their breath,
And win us with their eyes?
Where, dipping o'er the purple heath,
The birds sing melodies?

Is He not with the toil-worn throng-
The pallid crowd-who rest

The grass and simple flowers among,
On earth's rejoicing breast?
Is He not with the city slaves,

Who bask in Nature's smile?
Dwells GOD alone 'mid crowded graves,
Or in the dusky aisle?

Our test of priests are holy deeds,
Wrought under truth's control;

No prayers like those the conscience reads,
Within the open soul.

No house-no altar-wealth-enshrined,

That vaunts above the sod,

Is like the pure and simple mind,—

This is the HOUSE OF GOD.

WILLIAM DUTHIE.

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TEA.

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, 1854.

OUR little dissertation on gossip, which precedes the great theme we are about to discuss, will, if read with deliberation, just give time for the tea to "stand," as the phrase is. That is to say, supposing our excellent hostess, Mrs. Archie Pettytattle has, with her accustomed discretion and practical knowledge of her subject, put the specified "one teaspoonful of tea to each person, and one extra for all," which is a maxim with great tea dispen

sers;

if she has, with mistaken benevolence, poured water upon more, the preliminary chapter should be read through precipitately, otherwise the first infusion will be unbearably strong, black as Lethe, and destruction to the nervous system. In the event of her not coming up to the mark (which is very unlikely, and almost beyond speculation), you may add a few comments to our account of gossip. But let no spirit of argumentation lead you into forgetfulness of the fact, that your tea is drawing; that a mighty process is going on; that you must check it at a certain point, or not at all. Tea, with boiling water once on it, partakes of the awfulness of time. It may then be said to have received life. Before that operation, it was an inanimate leaf, a grocer's ware; dry as statistics; twisted as the conscience of a member of Parliament who has just accepted place to the astonishment of his Radical constituency; unsightly as the descinded pigtail of its native land; hard, stiff, and obstinate as a sectarian's principles of action; unpleasant as logic when it proves us in the wrong; withered as the hags that bothered Macbeth; dusty as the mummy of a two-thousand-year-old priestess at Thebes:

A thing nothing worth.

But after the pouring out of the sterling pure element, caught up with a hand of lightning just "on the boil," what a difference do we behold in this wonderful shrub. A subtle essence steams from it. An aroma mounts from it. A colour like the brown after-blush of sunset reflected in a running river pervades it. It is possessed of blood and spirit. It is fair to the eye; intoxicating to the nostril; delicate, delicious, delirious to the taste. It cleareth the brain of man. It imparteth to him wisdom, and a sense of heavenliness. Truly, it is celestial, and compelleth us to admit that its original cultivators have a perfectly allowable claim to style themselves something superior to mere mortals; for if Bacchus was made a divinity for inventing wine, which men now con

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gregate to abjure, surely Fi-Fo-Fum, or Fum-Fi-Fo, or Fo-Fum-Fi, or whatever ancient Chinaman first hit upon the idea of putting hot water to this dry leaf, and so invented tea, which men congregate to imbibe, should have high rank as a Celestial of the first order.

What is most simple frequently appears most complex. Thus the uninitiated will exclaim, "How comes this marvellous change in a thing we previously despised and regarded as rubbish? What methods have you resorted to, to procure so astounding a transformation? Is it the witchcraft of legerdemain, or of science ?"

On hearing these barbarian interrogations, Mrs. Archie Pettytattle smiles. She says, calmly and sententiously, with an air as if it was her mission to teach an uncivilised being,-"This tea, with this spoon, I put into that pot."

She then regards her young savage to see that he has quite apprehended so much, beginning to think, in spite of herself, that she is teaching the mysteries of a profound system. She then continues:-"The tea once in the pot, pour in just sufficient water to drench every leaf. Wait five minutes, and your tea is made!"

"But," says our young savage, with all the pertinacity of an infant mind, "how is it made?"

Mrs. Archie, with all the deference due to you, you do not know! You know that your tea is put in the pot; you know that you wait five minutes, and then pour out; but you know no more.

You are like the sophists of Athens, Mrs. Archie. You accept things as facts without inquiry; you act upon them as facts without consideration; you seek, with all your misconverted abilities, to make others follow in your footsteps, and exchange truth for dogmatism. But this young savage is your Socrates, Mrs. Archie. He will know the "how" and the "why." It is not enough to tell him such-and-such is so.

No! you do not know how it is made. To know, you must have looked upon the whole process of the drawing, and you are aware that such a proceeding would have been perdition to the tea; one of your great maxims being, "lift not the lid !"

We must, therefore, as with life, accept it humbly on trust. As with life, to dissect it, is to destroy it-to "lift the lid," to desecrate it. We will be neither Socrates nor sophist.

You see this tea business is a sufficiently solemn matter.

Now, there are three lights in which to regard tea. We have the Tea Historic, and the Tea Domestic, and the Tea Philosophical.

First, of the Tea Historic. Tea became known in England, as we have said, about the middle of the seventeenth century. Gossip Pepys, in his invaluable Diary, tells us how once on a time he sent for a little of this strange untasted stuff, "Tea, a China drink." Mrs. Pepys sometimes used it as a medicine-probably because the apothecary recommended it as an exciter of the nerves, and she was desirous of keeping a watchful eye on Pepys. She found it very dear, though; dearer than wine. By degrees it lessened in price. Worthy merchants competed to undersell each other. It became fashionable at the coffee-houses. Coffee, however, preceded it by a little, and so won the title. It progressed, gradually enlarging the dimensions of Gossip, till the Prime Minister spied it, and began forthwith to perseeute it, fearing Gossip in the increased form she was taking, and the nervous restlessness that then characterised her, so that she took more than lawful interest in political affairs, or at all events an interest more than agreeable to the Prime Minister.

When the Prime Minister found himself beaten, as Prime Ministers have been before and since, and as all must be who contend against Celestial Tea, the Chancellor of the Exchequer couched his lance in rest, and prepared to attack. His lordship made a tremendous onslaught. "We can scarcely imagine," says Mr. Charles Knight, in his Once upon a Time, "a state of society in which the excise-officer was superintending the preparation of a gallon of tea, and charging his eighteenpence." Sir Chancellor maintained the combat long, alternately charging furiously, and wavering shamefully. He must sometimes have had a conviction that he was fighting against a fate-knocking his fist on granite walls-bruising (the probability is, not breaking), his scull on iron bars. At last he desisted as far as Chancellors of the Exchequer can desist. Two trifling things overthrew him. One was smuggling; the other adulteration. "The pound of tea which (in 1787), was sold for eight shillings in England, was selling in Hamburg for fourteenpence." The Dutch were then our great rivals in everything, and many a Dirk Hatheraick was coasting our English cliffs, to throw cargoes contraband on the unwary shore. It is a wrong state of affairs that makes smuggling a benefit to the population, and does not identify the interests of the people with those of the government, and that is what we English seem at last, in a measure, to have learnt. "The habit of tea drinking had become so rooted in the people, that no effort of the government could destroy it. The washerwoman looked to her afternoon dish of tea, as something that might make her comfortable after her twelve hours' labour; and balancing her saucer on a tripod of fingers, breathed njoy beyond utterance, as she cooled the draught. The factory workman looked forward to the singing of the kettle, as some compensation for the din of the spindle. Tea had found its way even to the hearth of the agricul tural labourer. He had lost his eye teeth," to use his own expression, for his preference of wheaten bread; and he would have his ounce of tea as well as the best of his neighbours. Sad stuff the chandler's-shop furnished him; no commodity brought hundreds of miles from the interior of China, chiefly by human labour, shipped according to the most expensive arrangements; sold under a limited competition at the dearest rate, and taxed as highly as its wholesale cost. The small tea-dealers had their manufactured tea."*

As regards adulteration in those days, there is this to be said, that whereas then the small tea-dealers adulterated

Once upon a Time. By Charles Knight,

tea, as specified by Mr. Knight, and now large and small do alike. Not only they, moreover. In China the adulteration of tea for foreign markets is a flourishing profession. So that we generally, unless we pay a rather high price, get the adulteration of an adulteration. Chinese doctors of tea use innocent admixtures in comparison with ours. We refer the curious for further particulars to Mr. Twining's (the celebrated tea-merchant's) pamphlet, published some years since, on the adulterations of tea. We should find it by no means exhilarating to recapitulate the various simulations practised by the over-skilful upon our too easy palates. Not that you will drink any but the genuine beverage at Mrs. Archie Pettytattle's table. She is not to be deceived. She buys wholesale; has a box of sixty pounds to herself, all covered with Chinese hieroglypics. She knows tea. And yet, methinks Quang-Quang, who packed up her box, bath the shrewd, lurking look in his eye which betokeneth successful villany. Oh, Mrs. Archie, if you twain meet where all is bare!

When tea was very dear in England, but not at all so much adulterated, the East-India Company were the sole importers. Since the repeal of their charter as traders. it has been free to the nation at large. But it would seem that the Company is always to be somehow identified with the produce of tea. Dr. Royle, the celebrated botanist, discovered that the slopes of the Himalayas were identical in soil, aspect, and climate, with those of the tea-producing countries of China. His representations induced the Indian Government to obtain the best seeds (the tea plant is a seedling) from the countries in China most celebrated for the growth of teas. Mr. Fortune was selected to penetrate the country for this purpose. This gentleman was perfectly successful in his undertaking. He entered, disguised as a Celestial, the green! tea districts of Mo-yuen, in Hway-chow; the Bohes mountains, Fokien, &c.; and returned with multitudes of seeds and some experienced Chinese manipulators. These have, by this time, taught the Hindoos their art, and tea is again a source of increasing revenue to the East-India Government, and will, when its excellent quality is known in England and its cost of production diminished, put a large portion of the market into the hands of the Company once more, if it does not altogether supplant the tea of the unsuspicions celestials in Great Britain. In China, Indian tea already fetches a very high price, being used to flavour the Chinese exported teas, and having also a taste similar to a very favourite tea of their own, which, coming from far inland, is too expensive for the majority The importation of native Indian teas into England would certainly check to a considerable extent the increasing adulteration by which all, but more especially the poor, suffer. But Mrs. Archie Petty tattle will never buy them. She will continue to the day of her death drinking the artistic hyson of Quang-Quang, mingled in the embrace of black bohea, flavoured with the benediction of flowery pekoe. That is her mixture. The Emperor Nicholas will change his mind long before Mrs. Archie changes her mixture. She has faith in Quang-Quang.

In dealing with the tea domestic, we shall require a little of Mrs. Archie's experience. Make your bow to her. Mrs. Archie is prim and "proper" in everything. She is herself so proper that it is a matter of perpetual ejaculation with her, how in the name of goodness the rest of the world is not. But don't be frightened.

She

is our best authority on tea, and deserves being looked up to. She is altogether morally a strong woman. Her only weakness is her faith in that long-eyed, dexterous, pigtailed rogue, Quang-Quang.

Mrs. Archic takes sugar with her tea, also milk. We hear it commonly said that the fragrant beverage should be imbibed in its native state; that the flavour is otherwise lost, and so forth. There are some wry

faced mortals who really act up to this precept, and drink their tea sugarless and milkless. Hear Mrs. Archie on that theme. What she says may well form a peg whereon all of us who are inclined to imitate her example may hang an apology.

My dear," says Mrs. Archie (not to us, oh, not to us, but to her feminine interrogatist); my dear, I am an Englishwoman, I am not a Chinawoman. I drink as my foremothers (a word of Mrs. Archie's own coining) drank. I find it necessary to soften the asperity of tea, and I do so. I do so, but I do so with a moderation. To one small tea-cup I put one small nob of sugar, and just colour with milk."

As regards the making of tea, Tüng-po is a greater authority than even Mrs. Archie, and we must give his directions in extenso. Let none neglect what he says about the freshness and quality of the water, as that is always half the battle.

"Whenever," says Tung-po, "tea is to be infused for use, take water from a running stream, and boil it over a lively fire."

"It is an old

Tung-po then moralises and expatiates. custom to use running water boiled over a lively fire. That water which flows from springs in the hills is said to be the best, and river-water the next; while well-water is the worst."

"A lively fire," adds Tüng-po, for fear of being misapprehended, well knowing the vast importance of his advice, "is a clear and bright charcoal fire."

Tüng-po waxeth imaginative :

"When making an infusion, do not boil the water too hastily, as first it begins to sparkle like crabs' eyes, then somewhat like fishes' eyes, and lastly it boils up like pearls innumerable, springing and waxing about. This is the way to boil the water.'

Ting-po waxeth poetical :

"Six different kinds of tea are deservedly famous." He names them. "The first, spring tea; the white dew, the coral dew, the dewy shoots, the money-shoots, and the rivulet garden tea."

Tung-po then cools down, and sums up-

"Tea is of a cooling nature, and if drunk too freely will produce exhaustion and lassitude. Country people, before drinking it, add ginger and salt to counteract this cooling property. It is an exceedingly useful plant; cultivate it, and the benefit will be widely spread; drink it, and the animal spirits will be lively and clear. The chief rulers and nobility esteem it, the lower people, the poor and beggarly, will not be destitute of it; all use it daily, and like it.'

This is very eloquent of Tung-po, and we dismiss him with commendation as a fine expositor, a profound appreciator, and a perfect chronicler of the mysteries and properties of tea.

But," Mrs. Archie, "as to what Tüng-po says of the country people adding ginger and salt to counteract the cooling effect of our favourite beverage-have we not some method of attaining a like result ?"

"I believe," says Mrs. Archie, "I believe-I have it on hearsay that the vulgar, that those who know not what tea is, use spirits of some description to counteract the cooling influence which I, for one, confess I prize, although I have heard that my neighbour, Mrs. Frank Chiswick, is in the habit, I should say does occasionally mix-indeed I have once or twice smelt-my niece Letitia declares it is so morning and night; if so, how awful! But I will not believe it, though the servants do say-and it is said that her husband complains bitterly, as well he may, poor man! That is cause enough, if anything is; but I will not believe it. No doubt the policeman was bribed to say he saw her one night-really it is shocking to think of-in a state surely the man was bribed by that dreadful Miss Pumice, who, they say, is always so-but she has

no husband, notwithstanding the hundreds of offers she hints at having had, and refused them all-which she is making up for now, at all events, if one may judge from the manner she ogles the curate. How the man can bear it is wonderful to me but that I never mix myself up with other people's business, I should really think myself justified in making a public remonstrance at her conduct. It is not decent; and he, too, for the honour of his cloth

'In France it is the custom, Mrs. Archie, always to add a little rum to the infusion."

"Oh! there! don't talk to me about France. It's the one subject on which I lose all my equanimity. I remember my first night in Calais-called for some tea-there! I'll never travel without my own box of tea in future. My friend Mrs. Wenham didn't much object to it-I've been suspicious of her ever since."

'Coffee, Mrs. Archie, is the national beverage of France."

"Let them keep to it, not try to do what they never will. They've no heads for tea."

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They complain of our coffee, Mrs. Archie, as much as we complain of their tea."

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Complain, indeed!" Mrs. Archie wonders what they will do next. But she has just cause of resentment-as have all great tea-drinkers-against foreigners in general, and her determination to take her own tea with her next time she goes abroad, is so good a one that we recommend it to our fair countrywomen. If they knew what hedges were stripped bare to serve their delicate tastes; what innocent foliage was doomed to soak in hot water for their sakes-what cinnamon made common cause with the enemy to cheat, betray, and stultify their practised palates! Alas for us, we are an ill-used nation. Gathering tea for the English is an established profession on the Continent. We don't treat foreigners in this way. They can only object to our want of skill in concocting, not to our roguery in procuring. If they are cheated, they are not cheated as a class, but in common with all of us. They can easily avoid chicory, but we are utterly unprotected until we lose confidence in them.

We now come to the tea philosophical.

We are brought upon it suddenly by Miss Letitia, Mrs. Archie's niece, wondering what people did before tea was invented.

"Invented, child!" says Mrs. Archie.

"Well, it is a curious subject for reflection what they could have done. We know well enough what our sex did, Miss Letitia. Examine Falstaff's Diary, and some of the old dramatists. They drank sack; they drank sherris, excellent sherris, sherris wine. They drank ale, old ale, brown October, such as we see not now-a-days. We will excuse them, I think, Mrs. Archie, if they drank with a little too much zeal and vigour. They had no cooling, innocent, refreshing intermediates between those bright liquids and cold, shuddering, beneficial water. They had syllabubs and wheys, neguses and meads, but what are these cloying dainties to a thirsty wretch? He would rather - horrible as the alternative sounds-drink water."

"But the ladies-the ladies !"

"Mark yon bright-haired, blue-eyed young countess, issuing through the castle gate on her curveting palfrey. She is exquisitely fair, sweet-mannered, beautiful. Many a youth would lay down his life for her. Glorious romance surrounds her like a halo round the moon. Looking at the rapturous creature from our point of view, one would declare that nectar and ambrosia were the recurring support of so angelic a being. Her breakfasttable tells a different tale-a tale of beer swigged and bacon cut into largely certainly of beer swigged; fine ale, or haply, at times, if she is Scotch, claret wine, from sunny Southern France. But the delicate nurture of our

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