The cushion consists of stripes of various colours, arranged so as to harmonize with a line of pearl wool between every two, and also all round the cushion. For this you begin and end with this wool, and afterwards work two lines, to form the other two sides of the square.

With the pearl wool work a chain of 70 stitches, and do one row forward and one backward, to make one pattern of this stitch. Join on a coloured wool, and work thirty rows, making fifteen patterns; then the two pearlwool rows again, then another colour, until you have five coloured stripes and six narrow pearl lines. Do a pearl line at the top and bottom.

The pattern is worked in cross-stitch, which is done on this crochet as easily as on canvas.

Use a large rug-needle, and single wool. The zig-zag line is in one colour, brown or black, the flower in three shades of bright colour. It may be worked entirely in one set of tints on each stripe, or each flower in a different one, according to taste. In the latter case you can use up any spare bits of wool you may have on hand: but the effect is, perhaps, better the other way. Suppose there are five stripes of the following colours-amber, blue, crimson or scarlet, green, and the design be worked on each in three shades of the colour following it, only with green on one amber stripe and blue on the other, it would look very handsome. The tassels to be made of wool of the leading colour, like those to the round cushion recently given.

AIGUILLETTE.

The peculiarity of this embroidery consists in the fact of the flowers being all wrought with the natural number of petals, and hollow or eup-like in form, as when growing. For this purpose the design is marked perfectly on the muslin; and, besides this, the upper part of each flower is traced separately, as will be seen in the section given of the cuff. This upper part, being worked heavily in satin stitch, is connected with the corresponding part of the flowers, by a row of button-hole stitch, through both, done along the outer edge, after they have been traced together. It will be seen that this upper part is not quite so large as the underpart of the calyx, and it is not intended entirely to cover the latter. With the exception of the flowers and leaves, the design is of a very simple

character. The Valenciennes insertion (which must be laid under the muslin, and joined to it by a line of fine button-hole stitch, and a row of spots at each side) forms no inconsiderable portion of the collar; and on each side of it the pattern consists merely of spots and short bars simply sewed over. The insertion is laid under instead of over, as usual; because the tulips, being heavy, require the additional strength of foundation acquired by the double thickness. The stems, and parts of the leaves and petals, are much raised; but of the two latter some parts are filled with point de sable-very minute spots, worked close together.

The border is a simple scollop, veined down the centre,

AIGUILLETTE,

CAVOUR.

BY W. C. BENNETT.
Low lies earth's noblest head:
Cavour is dead!

White, and cold, and still he lies,
Who bade Italy arise

From where, beneath the Austrian's heel, she lay
With woes that only dared in groans be said!
Woe for the day

When those dread words sank grief into all eyes;
While, in their fear and grief, and wild surprise,
Each, the one thought that shuddered through each,
read!

He's gone. Who now shall be his land's great stay
Through the dread dangers of her onward way?—
Through the dark future that before her lies?
Low lie the will so strong, the brain so wise;
Low lie the trusted arm, the trusted head :
Cavour is dead!

Who weakly said—
"Cavour is DEAD?"

His spirit seeks God's face; but never dies
The heart men gathered from his eyes,

Nor the great thoughts he made the souls of acts-
The mighty hopes he wed in war to facts!

When all that to men seemed

But fancies to be dreamed,

He, with armed hand and wisdom subtly wise, Moulded to powers before earth's hushed surprise, Till dazzling light from the grim darkness streamed; The glory of his land from night redeemed,

Which, while arms fiercely clashed

As in the old days, on the world's sight flashed,
Unto our eyes that glory did he give
For aye to live.

Yes, to live on, and know
Eclipse no more, but grow

And brighter broaden in the eyes of men;
To light to glory pencil, sword, and pen,
Until the wombs of coming ages give
To us new Cæsars-Angelos-to live
Lives mighty as of old,

Whose deeds by new-born Livys shall be told;
And far Columbuses, whose acts shall ring
While round the sun the whirling earth is rolled;
And Galileos, visions to unfold

That mightier Virgils shall, to times of gold,
And happier Dantes, sing.

Glory to him who such great days shall bring,
Who, with wise might the fettered Present freed,
That the great Future might such spirits breed!

Yes; the earthly garb he wore
Lies there, to be worn no more!

To Death, Life gave it; and the mighty soul
That could a nation's fears and hopes control
Has passed away

To that eternal day

That, soon or late, shall gather in the whole
Who wander darkly through this mortal way;
From the gagged slave who fears the despot's frown
To him who treads the souls of nations down,
And dares with peoples, as with toys, to play.
Close the dumb lips; the blank wide eyes, O close;
Give the cold form in glory to repose
Where coming centuries shall stand and say—
"No nobler life than this e'er reached life's goal:
Blest be his soul!"

Crown him with glory! raise
Statue and swelling song to his high praise,
Whose life was noble as his deed was grand !
Who gave his great race with all rules to stand

Co-equal, and rejoice

That yet again its voice

May speak in thunder, and again its hand,
Armed as of old, may be a power to smite
The crown'd ones who would wrench from it a right,
Or bar it from the radiant road that lies-
The path of greatness, wide before its eyes-
The chase he slipped it on with stern delight!
Chisel and pencil, greatly, as of old,

By your new greatness be his greatness told;
In stone and colours, to the Future's sight,
That in his glory ever shall delight!

And yet what earthly crown

Needs he whose mortal dust goes down
Unto the earthly rest of the still grave?
What of these mortal hopes shall his soul save,
For love and fear, in the high life he breathes,
Wherein he lives perchance to win new wreaths
For grander triumphs even than here he won,
In fairer hours, beneath a happier sun.

Yet, where'er his firm feet tread,
Whom we falsely say is dead,

IRREVOCABLE!

Ah! mother, let me lay my weary head,

So dull with pain, upon thy pitying breast! And when my words of self-reproach are said, Soon may there come the painless, noiseless rest That is for all the fittest and the best.

And, even now, my soul begins to see That joy which is the portion of the blest;

And of the spirits that are pure and free,
When once Life's emptiness stands forth confessed
Before the solemn waves of the great silent sea!
What happiness seemed promised me in youth!
When every day brought forth some freshened joy,
And earthly pleasures bloomed; nor care, nor ruth,
Cast o'er their loveliness a dark alloy !

The man seemed happier than e'en the boy;
Existence was a long and golden dream;
No gloomy cloud of trouble or annoy

Flung its dim shadow on the purple gleam
Till e'en Life's sweetness would begin to cloy:
Alas! I was but then the bubble on the stream!
And I have wasted youth and wealth and life,
And drained the poisoned cup down to the lees;
Strove to forget, in shameful vice and strife,

The bitter past my mind so plainly sees:
And in such pleasures and such aims as these
Have spent the precious years, too soon gone by,
While striving vainly the wrath to appease

Of that remorse which never seems to die;
And, bowed in sorrow, seek upon my knees
For the sweet memories for which I sigh!
But passion-stained and scathed, as I am now,
I have some feelings that are soft and pure:
Mother! thy tender kiss upon my brow
Is for my trouble still almost a cure;
And I can yet my sorrow sharp endure,
For time and talents wasted on the past,
While I am able thy love to procure,

Although the moments are now ebbing fast;
For nothing more my heart can e'er allure
From that unselfish love which is the first aud
W. R.

last!

N

ΑΝ

On the 8th of April last the British nation was engaged in the unusual operation of "putting itself down," not perhaps exactly in the manner which neighbours over the water would wish, but nevertheless in a thoroughly effective fashion. John Bull, having put himself down, and conjugated, in full chorus, the verb "to enumerate," his door received an official rap," and a man, “dress'd in a little brief authority," took away his confession, which Mr. John Bull had made not always in conformity with his own desire, but under the direction of the Act of Parliament 23 and 24 Vict., c. 61. I was the man who gave that "Official Rap ;" for, although the number of enumerators was legion, in every particular street it was the enumerator; therefore I may as well assume to myself the title of the original and only collector of the returns. I am not disposed to follow the example of some persons who have given any but the right reason for their making an appearance in public, but boldly avow that filthy lucre was my primary inducement for accepting temporary service under Her Majesty's Government. It must, however, be also understood that another object, in undertaking the office, was a vague expectation of amusement to be derived from the casting up and totaling of the British nation.

I have called myself the universal collector of census papers, but what I am about to relate occurred in a suburb of London, which, when the population was previously numbered, was, with its dust-covered fields and broken hedges on the one hand, and heaps of bricks, scaffolding, and rapidly rising walls on the other, in that peculiar transitional state between town and country, which, like the east wind, is "neither good for man nor beast"; its houses affording neither shelter for bipeds, nor its unoccupied space food for quadrupeds. Ten years have, however, worked a change, and the district is no longer a desert, but a thickly-populated hive-a little world, in fact, having its artists and authors, butchers and barristers, cabmen and clergymen, drapers and dramatists, fundholders and fishmongers, jewellers and journalists, lawyers and labourers, musicians and manglers, surgeons and sweeps, tailors and topsawyers, warriors and washerwomen, cum multis aliis; indeed a complete colony, representing every branch of trade, nearly every profession, and possessing its social sliding scale, descending from an aristocratic few to a plebeian multitude; furnished also with its administrative machinery, its county and police courts, its vestry-room, its fire engine, its union, and its gallant band of volunteers; so that if the district were cut off from the great city, of which it is an integral portion, it would be found ready to undertake the task of self-government, A portion of this flourishing locality I traversed on the 8th of April last, collecting schedules from house to house, and announcing my advent by "an offi

RAP.

cial rap;" a public-house being my alpha and another public-house my omega.

With the dignity befitting an enumerator, but with the guilty feeling of a respectable man who is seen going into a public-house at nine in the morning, I entered the "Sir Isaac Newton," and commenced my duties by informing the very fascinating young lady behind the bar that I had called for the census return. My communication was apparently of so facetious a nature that she immediately began to giggle, then to smirk, and finally honoured me with a coquettish toss of the head, and a long stare, as if I were altogether a very novel and amusing object to look at. I don't know, but possibly there may have been some connection between the absurd behaviour of that young woman, and the age assigned to her in the schedule; for as I glanced down the paper her giggling grew worse than ever, and then, without the smallest provocation on my part, she folded her arms, and, resting them on the beer-engine, looked me steadily in the face, and with the most terrible smirk exclaimed: "Now you wouldn't have thought I was as young as that, would you?" I can only say that my No! in reply to the query was most emphatic, and I turned upon my heel with alacrity, and just got outside the door in time to hear a voice from the bar-parlour shouting, "Ask the gent, Sarah, if he won't take anything." The offer, however, came too late; the gent had flown, and was busy in the street of which the "Sir Isaac Newton" formed the corner house. It was a long street of shops, from which the gloss of newness had not worn off: the gilded legends over the doors were bright and glittering, and the varnish and paint were SO smart that it seemed doubtful if they were quite dry. Down this road of commerce I marched, stepping in and out of the shops, and receiving the returns, in most instances, with a slap on the counter, as if the amount of business daily and hourly transacted was of a most extensive nature. Each schedule was properly filled up, and the collecting began, I must confess, to be rather monotonous. I suspected, after visiting twenty-four houses, that I was merely playing the part of an amateur postman, with the slight difference of receiving instead of delivering missives. I felt small, and to add to my discomfort I was attended down the street by a small cortège of young children, who followed at my heels, congregated round the door when I entered a house, and renewed their march after me when I came out. Theirs was no silent admiration of the enumerator: they passed their remarks freely upon my personal appearance. Tom requested Bill "to twig my boots;" Bill desired Tom to look at my "umbreller;" Dick pointed me out to Harry "as the cove with the hat ;" and Harry, having to enter a shop, took his leave by executing, a short distance in front of me, an eccentric dance,