WHY DO PEOPLE MAKE MONEY? WHAT an odd question, some folks will say. "Why do people make money? Surely they make money because they want it." Precisely. A most excellent reason as reasons go; but don't you see that it does not advance us one step towards a solution of the problem! People make other things beside money, because they want them; but then they want them for something. Bricks, for example. They don't make bricks for the mere pleasure of possessing them, but to build houses with. That is a good common-sense reason for wanting bricks. Try to find one like it for the majority of people who make money.

Well, you will say, some want comfort, some pleasure, some power, some magnificence, and therefore they make money. Granted, my good sir or madam. All of those are reasons, some of them good, and some indifferent; but numbers of people who make a great deal of money don't want any of those things. How do we know? Well, we judge by their actions. When they get money they don't get any of them,don't seem to care about them. They only want money, that is evident. Now supposing all the rest get what they want when they have made money, a position we do not allow to be quite established, but only grant for the sake of argument, as disputants say, we ask again, What do the misers make money for? That is just the question our rackety young friend, Frank Wildblood, asked us the other day, when we were gravely recommending him to set to work in earnest and become a steady respectable man. "What the doose," yawned Frank, "do those old fogies of misers make money for? Upon my honour, I don't see the good it is to them. It's quite a dark affair to me, by Jove." And when we suggested mildly several reasons, such as we have already adverted to, Frank, after whistling a bar from the "Prodigal," in an excessively thoughtful manner, remarked, sagely,-"Not a bit of it. It's because they've got a habit of making money. It's only a habit they've got."

It is not often that young Frank Wildblood teaches us anything. Not because he does not "know a few things," as a certain order of people say, but because he moves in another world than ours. He is a young man and we are old, and our thoughts do not run together; neither-Frank being wild, and we, on the

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contrary, steady-do our sympathies, we may add. But, certainly, that remark was suggestive, and seemed to open up a new view of the world's philosophy, or rather, perhaps, the want of that quality. People make money because they've a habit of doing it. Really, it's very possible. And so we began to run through the list of people we know, to test its plausibility. Let us see, we said: whom do we know that makes money? Why there's Mr. Centum, of the firm so well known in the city as Centum, Bullion, and Co. They say old Centum coins money. Well, Centum has a great house in one of the West End squares, a brilliantly furnished place, a mansion rather than a house, a palace rather than a mansion. It must cost thousands a year to keep up that establishment; and ah! Frank can't be right, that's what Centum makes money for. Stop a bit, we are arguing too fast, a great deal. Centum has made money enough for that, and to spare, already. They say he's as rich as a Jew. Why he bought up half the shares of the North-North-something-Railway (I'm not good at names) when they were below par, and sold them at goodness knows how much premium when the market mended; and he took, and got rid, of a good slice of the Austrian loan at a profit; and he was ready to buy the Rajah of Carrampoore's diamonds, which were valued at half a million, and pay the cash down. Ah! Centum can't be working to keep up that house, it's quite clear. He has plenty of money for that; and now it does strike me that Centum does not seem to enjoy the fine house much. He goes down to Lombardstreet every morning of his life, and sits in that little dark room up stairs, while the clerks are working away, and shovelling the money he is making in large heaps, on and off the counter; and then he goes home, and dines by himself, and shuts himself up four nights out of the week, at least, in another little room, with a desk and papers, till he goes to bed. Surely, he would be as happy without the palace as with it. Ah! but then there's Mrs. Centum-we beg her pardon-Lady Centum. She was a lady in her own right before she married the banker. A daughter of the old Earl of Barrenpark. There's Lady Centum, and the two Misses Centum, they want the house if the old gentleman does not; and they're very expensive folks too. Their carriages, and horses, and retinue of servants, cost a mint of

money (by the way, old Centum would not know half his servants when he met them, if they did not wear his livery and the Barrenpark button). Then there's their milliners, and their dressmakers, and their jewellers, they must cost a pretty penny one would think; to say nothing of their routs, and balls, and soirées. Why I was reading an account of one of my lady's parties this morning in the Post, and there were five marquises, and ten earls, and the oldest duke in the realm, and some of the blood royal, and half a column full of right honourables, honourables, and baronets, with a score of excellencies and counts, with foreign titles to boot, not forgetting the lion of the evening, His Excellency Count Neverodoviski, Ambassador Extraordinary to his Imperial Majesty the -, &c. &c. Then, too, there are the daughters to be wooed, and wed, and portioned, and they will take nothing less than a title. Old Centum must spend a great deal of money. Still, he's rich enough for all that. Rich enough to buy, into the bargain, halfa-dozen dukes for Miss Adeliza, and a score of serene highnesses for Miss Catharina. There's no end to his wealth. And I am told, too, that he might retire as a sleeping partner, and still realize a princely income. Why does he then keep going to that dark counting-house day after day? Let me see, Centum must be sixty or sixty-five, if he's a day. If he ever means to enjoy himself he must begin soon. He's breaking fast already. But he goes on making money. Ah! I suppose it is, as Frank Wildblood says, "He's got a habit of doing it, and he can't leave it off." That habit is his enjoyment.

Well, but Mr. Centum may be an exception. We will take another, Mr. Parr, the stockbroker. Parr is not a rich man, but he is what the world calls a 'respectable one. He could muster enough to retire to a snug country villa, and keep a fat cob and a four-wheeled chaise for the remainder of his life. He is a man of very simple tastes and very frugal habits. You may see him walking into the "Jerusalem," any day at four, for his chop and pint of port, and then he walks home to two modest rooms on a first-floor in the neighbourhood of Islington. Parr is a bachelor, and his only relation a nephewa spendthrift sort of dog, whom he threatens to cut off with a shilling. Strange to say, Parr started in life a poor lad, with visions of that same villa in perspective, and a firm resolution to attain it. He has no inordinate love of money. He is not a speculator. He does not risk his gains in attempts to become suddenly rich. He is a safe man of business, never taking one foot up before he feels that the other is firmly down. He has no idea of being either "a man or a mouse," which my fast young acquaintance, who has been at Oxford, tells me is the most approved modern translation of that famous Latin sentence, "Aut Cesar aut nihil." He is content with quiet business and fair profits, which allow him to add a few hundreds a year to his savings. Parr did once make money, because he wanted it for somethingfor a villa. That is not the case now. He will never retire. Anybody, who knows the man, will tell you

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His old dreams have ceased to possess any charm for him. The particular cottage, in his own village, with its two peacocks cut in yew oak, one on each side of a broad gravel walk up to the front door, is quite forgotten, though his youthful fancy sketches were more or less copies of it. If it came into his mind, he would "pooh, pooh" it now, as having no charms for him. He only really lives on the Exchange. When away, his favourite reading is the share-list, and he never wanders further into the Times than the city article. Operations upon the market absorb all his thoughts. He even talks of that truly English topic the weather, as though it

were bank stock. If a fine day, it is "going up ;" if a wet one, it is "very down.' If he goes any further, it is only to surmise how it will affect the crops. Ask about a sick friend, and the chances are ten to one, that he tells you he is "below par;" while a man well to do is "at a premium." Should there be a dreadful railway accident in the papers, and lives lost, not an uncommon thing lately, and you chance to mention it to him, the bearing it has upon his mind is expressed in an opinion, that it was a very bad affair, and the stock of the company "went down" five-eighths. We may predict that Mr. Parr will die a stockbroker, making money to the last, that money to be squandered, after his death, by his nephew, whom he will not have the heart to cut off. Making money has grown into a habit with him; usurping the place of all others, and not only too strong to be shaken off, but so fully occupying his mind, as to render the attempt impossible.

Old Scrooge, the bill-broker, came into our mind's eye. Everybody knows old Scrooge, at least everybody who wants money, and that is a pretty numerous division of the human family, I believe. The Smiths, Browns, Joneses, and Robinsons, thick as they stand in the Directory, cannot count half so many. Frank Wildblood knows him, at all events; for Scrooge was the particular miser of whom Frank was speaking, as related above. Whether Scrooge ever had any early visions or not, we cannot tell; we are, however, inclined to think not; that is, except about money If he ever was a boy, and there are very few traces of boydom left to support the supposition, he must have had a devout affection, a sort of adoration, for penny-pieces and bright sixpences. We can imagine him taking them out of his pocket, and worshipping them, just as the Greek sailors are said to take leaden images of saints out of their hatbands to pray to; a fact one would be slow to believe, were we not told so by that entertaining traveller, Mr. Whatsoname (our memory fails us again); but it does not matter much about the name, for since Byron wrote about the isles of Greece, there have been hundreds of entertaining travellers who have done the same. And now, we bethink us, Byron says something of the sort in the notes to his Childe Harold, or that horrid book, Don Juan, which latter, of course, our readers have not read. But we feel we are digressing, so let us go back to Scrooge. He lives in a large house in the city, of which only two rooms are furnished, one as an office, another as a bed-room, and those but scantily. If you happen to have any 66 paper" you want to turn into money (our friend Wildblood would phrase it, "if you have a kite to fly"), you may see old Scrooge there any day, peering over a tall desk, from behind his silvermounted blue-glass spectacles, his sharp thin face, and sharper expression, seeming to cut you. By the way, we think those spectacles are a sham, for though we call him old Scrooge, and though he does look like a shrivelled mummy, he is not so old as to want spectacles. The few times we have seen him, we have noticed what we observe sometimes in others ;when he wants to look at you, he looks over his spectacles; when he wants you not to look into those cunning greenish-grey eyes of his, he retires behind the blue glasses. We feel confident he had coloured ones on purpose. A rare old screw is old Scrooge. How quietly he questions a customer-how shrewdly he takes his measure. How relentlessly, the more the man wants the money, does he impose harder terms upon him. How he will lie and equivocate, and wriggle for another one per cent. How naturally he says "the money-market is tight, very tight. How candidly he assures you that he does not want the bill-he would rather be without it. How firmly

he puts his elbows upon the desk, and rests his head upon his hands, when he announces his terms. And when business is over, he turns out the shrivelled, dirty old woman, who does what cleaning and cooking is done, and locks himself up for the night, seldom leaving the house, except to make inquiries about "a name" on a bill, and so do without the services of a hungry-looking old hanger-on, who does such jobs for him. What can old Scrooge want going on pawning his soul, oppressing and shuffling for? He is very rich. His income has ever so many cyphers to it. He lives as scantily as a pauper, and as miserably as a beggar. He has no heirs that he knows of. When he dies, his gains will probably lapse to the Crown, unless, in a late fit of penitence and remorse, he endows hospitals or almshouses. What can he want more money for? It must be because it is a habit fitting him like a garment; and the only diffi culty in his case is in supposing that he was not born in it, so natural (to him) does it seem.

Then thoughts came to our minds of paupers, discovered after death to have old stockings full of hoarded silver and copper, and their clothes being quilted with sovereigns. We also remembered hearing of men dying miserably in garrets, tended by the hand of charity, and leaving, in the ticking of their beds, stock certificates for thousands of pounds; and we could not account for any of them, except upon the theory of its being a habit. We take Scrooge, however, in whom we suppose it to be nature, to be an exception, and Parr to be the rule. Most men start in life with a bright object before them, the means of attaining which is money, and so they resolve to make money. But the means push the end out of sight. A new fascination springs up, which banishes the younger dream. The real pushes the ideal from its seat. Money acquires, or seems to acquire, a value of its own; it becomes both means and end, and making it grows into a habit seldom lost. The proverb says that "Use is second nature;" and it is fully proved, when the natural desire of men for happiness is obliterated by the habit of making money.

A TRUE BRITISH HERO.

SOMEHOW, we invariably associate fighting with the idea of a True British Hero. The great fightingman is our beau ideal of heroism; and we are apt to rank infinitely beneath him the hero who displays a calm endurance and sustained courage in the hour of difficulty and danger. Look at Westminster Abbey and St. Paul's-England's saints there are nearly all men who have lived in battles,-who have lost limbs, been pierced by balls, and many of them died fighting! Nelson, Abercrombie, Wolfe, Riou, Moore,"these be thy gods, O Israel!" But let us here give an account of heroism of another kind,-which receives no plaudits, and is never rewarded with "the peerage or Westminster Abbey," the heroism of duty, patient endeavour, and unapplauded courage. We confess, however, that Englishmen admire the man who does his " Duty.' "England expects every man to do his duty," was the last order of the day of the great Nelson. And it has been remarked by a French writer that, whereas the French soldier is constantly talking of " glory," the English soldier speaks of "duty" only. This is strikingly exemplified in the military despatches of the Duke of Wellington, where the word "glory" does not once occur, but the word "duty" often. The instance of heroism, however, which we are about to give, is not by land, but by sea; and it was exhibited, not in

battle, but in shipwreck. The example of duty and self-devotion in this case is a grand one, and rises up to the height of the sublime. The hero is Captain Charles Baker, commanding the schooner Drake, which unfortunate vessel struck on a rock off the coast of Newfoundland, during one of those dense fogs which are peculiar to the Newfoundland latitudes. The wreck occurred on Sunday, the 23rd of June, 1822; and we take up the narrative from Mr. Gilly's recent work, at the moment when Captain Baker had determined to desert the ill-fated vessel :

"The waves were making heavy breaches over the ship; the crew clung by the ropes on the forecastle; each succeeding wave threatened them all with destruction, when a tremendous sea lifted her quarter over the rock on which she had at first struck, and carried her close to that on which the boatswain stood. The forecastle, which up to this time had been the only sheltered part of the ship, was now abandoned for the poop; and as Captain Baker saw no chance of saving the vessel, he determined to remove the people from her if possible. Calling around him his officers and men, he communicated to them his intentions, and pointed out the best means of securing their safety. He then ordered every man to make the best of his way from the wreck to the rock.

"Now, for the first time, his orders were not promptly obeyed; all the crew, to a man, refused to leave the wreck unless Captain Baker would precede them. There was a simultaneous burst of feeling that did honour alike to the commander and the men. To the former, in that he had so gained the affection and respect of his people; and to the latter, inasmuch as they knew how to appreciate such an officer. Never was good discipline displayed in a more conspicuous manner. No argument or entreaty could prevail on Captain Baker to change his resolution. He again directed the men to quit the vessel, calmly observing, that his life was the least and last consideration.

"The men, upon hearing this reiterated command, stepped severally from the poop to the rock with as much order as if they had been leaving a ship under ordinary circumstances. Unhappily, a few of them perished in the attempt; amongst these was Lieutenant Stanly, who being benumbed with cold, was unable to get a firm footing, and was swept away by the current, his companions, with every inclination, had not the power to save him; he struggled for a few moments, was dashed with irresistible force against the rocks, and the receding wave engulfed its victim. When he had seen every man clear of the wreck, and not till then, did Captain Baker join

his crew.

"As soon as they had time to look about them, the ship's company perceived that they were on an insulated rock, separated from the main land by a few fathoms. The rock rose some feet above the level of the sea, but to their horror they perceived that it would be covered at high water. It seemed as if they were rescued from one fearful catastrophe, only to perish by a more cruel and protracted fate. By degrees the fog had partially dispersed, and as the dawn began to break, a dreary prospect was displayed. The haggard countenances and lacerated limbs of the men told the sufferings they had endured, whilst the breakers, which they had only heard before, became distinctly visible. Still the devoted crew, following the example of their commander, uttered no complaint. They were ready to meet death, yet they felt it hard to die without a struggle.

* Narratives of Shipwrecks of the Royal Navy between 1793 and 1849. By W. O. S. Gilly. Parker.

"The tide was rising rapidly, and if anything was to be done, it must be done instantly. The boatswain, who had never lost hold of the rope, determined at all hazards to make another effort to save his comrades or perish in the attempt. Having caused one end of the rope to be made fast round his body, and committing himself to the protection of the Almighty, he plunged into the sea, and struck out in the direction of the opposite shore. It was an awful moment to those who were left behind; and in breathless suspense they waited the result of the daring attempt. All depended upon the strength of

his arm.

At one moment he was seen rising on the crest of the wave, at the next he disappeared in the trough of the sea; but in spite of the raging surf, and of every other obstacle, he reached the shore, and an inspiring cheer announced his safety to his comrades. As soon as he had recovered his breath and strength, he went to the nearest point opposite the rock, and watching his opportunity, he cast one end of the line across to his companions. Fortunately it reached the rock, and was gladly seized, but it proved to be only long enough to allow of one man holding it on the shore, and another on the rock, at arm's length.

"It may be imagined with what joy this slender means of deliverance was welcomed by all. The tide had made rapid advances; the waves, as if impatient for their prey, threw the white surf aloft, and dashed over the rock. Would that we could do justice to the noble courage and conduct displayed by the crew of the Drake. Instead of rushing to the rope, as many would have done under similar circumstances, not a man moved until he was commanded to do so

by Captain Baker. Had the slightest hesitation appeared on the part of the commander, or any want of presence of mind in the men, a tumultuous rush would have ensued, the rope, held as it was with difficulty by the outstretched hand, would inevitably have been lost in the struggle, and then all would have perished. But good order, good discipline, and good feeling triumphed over every selfish fear and natural instinct of self-preservation; and to the honour of British sailors be it recorded, that each individual man of the crew, before he availed himself of the means of rescue, urged his Captain to provide for his own safety first, by leading the way. But Captain Baker turned a deaf ear to every persuasion, and gave but one answer to all-'I will never leave the rock until every soul is safe.' In vain the men redoubled their entreaties that he would go; they were of no avail; the intrepid officer was steadfast in his purpose.

"There was no time for further discussion or delay. One by one the men slipped from the rock upon the rope, and by this assistance forty-four out of fifty succeeded in gaining the opposite shore. Unfortunately, amongst the six who remained one was a woman. This poor creature, completely prostrate from the sufferings she had endured, lay stretched upon the cold rock almost lifeless. To desert her was impossible; to convey her to the shore seemed equally impossible. Each moment of delay was fraught with destruction. A brave fellow, in the generosity of despair, when his turn came to quit the rock, took the woman in his arms, grasped the rope, and began the perilous transit. Alas! he was not permitted to gain the desired shore. When he had inade about half the distance, the rope partednot being strong enough to sustain the additional weight and strain, it broke; the seaman and his burthen were seen but for an instant, and then swallowed up in the foaming eddies.

"With them perished the last means of preservation that remained for Captain Baker and those who were with him on the rock. Their communication

with the main land was cut off; the water rose and the surf increased every moment; all hope was gone, and for them a few minutes more must end 'life's long voyage.' The men on shore tried every means in their power to save them. They tied every handkerchief and available material together to replace the lost rope, but their efforts were fruitless; they could not get length enough to reach the rock. A party was despatched in search of help. They found a farm-house; and while they were in search of a rope, those who stayed to watch the fate of their loved and respected commander and his three companions, saw wave after wave rise higher and higher. At one moment the sufferers disappeared in the foam and spray; the bravest shuddered, and closed his eyes on the scene. Again, as spell-bound, he looked; the wave had receded-they still lived, and rose above the waters. Again and again it was thus ; but hope grew fainter and fainter.

"We can scarcely bring our narrative to an end; tears moisten our page; but the painful sequel must be told. The fatal billow came at last, which bore them from time into eternity. All was over. When

the party returned from their inland search, not a vestige of the rock, or of those devoted men, was to be seen:

"And is he dead, whose glorious mind Lifts thine on high?

To live in hearts we leave behind,

Is not to die."-CAMPBELL.

We feel how inadequate have been our efforts to depict the self-devotion of Captain Baker, and the courage and constancy of his crew. The following letter addressed to Lieutenant Booth, formerly an officer of the Drake, will go further than any panegyric we can offer, to display the right feeling of the ship's company, and their just appreciation of their brave and faithful commander :

"Sir,-Your being an old officer of ours in a former ship, and being first lieutenant in H.M's. ship Drake, leads us to beg that you will have the goodness to represent to our Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty the very high sense of gratitude we, the surviving petty officers and crew of his Majesty's late ship Drake, feel due to the memory of our late muchlamented and most worthy commander, who, at the moment he saw death staring him in the face on one side, and the certainty of his escape was pointed out to him on the other, most staunchly and frequently refused to attempt procuring his own safety, until every man and boy had been rescued from the impending danger. Indeed, the manliness and fortitude displayed by the late Captain Baker on the melancholy occasion of our wreck was such as was never before heard of. It was not as that of a moment, but his courage was tried for many hours, and his last determination of not crossing from the rock, on which he was every moment in danger of being washed away, was made with more firmness, if possible, than the first. In fact, during the whole business, he proved himself to be a man whose name and last conduct ought ever to be held in the highest estimation by a crew who feel it their duty to ask from the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty that which they otherwise have not the means of obtaining, that is, a public and lasting record of the lionhearted, generous, and very unexampled way in which our late noble commander sacrificed his life in the evening of the 23rd of June!"

The above letter was signed by the surviving crew of the Drake. We need not add that their request was complied with, and a monument erected to the memory of Captain Baker in the chapel of the Royal Dockyard at Portsmouth.

SHORT NOTES.

Galvanic Surgery.

ONE of those extraordinary applications of science to the benefit of mankind, with which, in this age of progress, we are becoming so familiar, has recently been made in the substitution of the galvanic battery for the knife of the operating surgeon; the application is so ingenious and remarkable, and holds out so good a prospect of future advantage, that without descending to details, which might be painful to our unprofessional readers, we will endeavour to lay before them the general principles of the application. It has been long known to scientific experimenters, that if a galvanic current of great power is conducted through a very small wire, the latter becomes heated to whiteness, and if formed of any of the ordinary metals, is rapidly destroyed; but if made of platinum, a metal which is unchanged by heat, remains unaltered; and that a galvanic battery may be so arranged, that the current can at any moment be transmitted along such a wire, or as suddenly arrested. It sometimes unfortunately happens that in various parts of the body deep-seated abscesses occur, having several openings, and these are unable to be healed until laid open, and it may so occur that a vast collection of veins in such a part renders the use of the knife excessively dangerous. In the olden time, a surgeon would have employed a red-hot knife, but such a practice has been in modern times entirely relinquished, as cruel and barbarous, the vast amount of heat given out, destroying the adjacent parts; if, however, a very fine wire is first placed in the required position, and then connected with the galvanic battery, it instantly becomes heated to whiteness, and may be readily caused to cut in the proper direction, almost without causing any pain, as the parts in immediate contact with the heated wire are instantly deprived of life and sensation; and from its small size, the heated body is unable to throw off enough heat to injure adjacent parts; and furthermore, a cut by the heated wire possesses a great advantage over one made by a knife, inasmuch as it is not attended with any loss of blood; of course this mode of operating is not calculated to supersede the use of the surgeon's knife, except in certain cases; but in all probability it may become a very valuable auxiliary in the practice of surgery. The mere idea of a red or white hot substance in immediate contact with the human body, is at first exceedingly painful, but when we recall to our readers' recollection the fact, that at the late meeting of the British Associa tion for the Advancement of Science, held at Ipswich, M. BOUTIGNY voluntarily plunged his head into a vessel of melted iron from the factory of Messrs. Ransome and May, they will at once perceive that the contact of a body heated to whiteness, is not necessarily, if applied under proper circumstances, attended with pain.

Since writing the above article, we notice a new application of this novel remedial agent, it having been used to effect the destruction of the nerves in decayed teeth, and there seems no doubt that it may be employed successfully in a variety of cases.

The Ladies' Guild.

WE gladly hail the scheme which has been recently propounded for the establishment of a Ladies' Guild in the metropolis, for the purpose of extending the sphere of employment for women, in connection with decorative art. Our readers are aware, from recent

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articles which have appeared in this Journal, that we take a warm interest in all projects calculated to increase the independence, or rather the self-dependence of the female sex, through the exertion of their own industry. Except amongst the poorest classes, women in this country have heretofore been trained to expect, to wait, to hope, often to be disappointed. They are educated into dependence; they are taught that to be the chosen of others is their lot, and whether they are to have a place or not at nature's board, depends on personal attractions and other evanescent qualities, rather than upon themselves and their own industrial efforts. Marriage 18 the prize which woman is taught to regard, and which she does regard, as her "main chance;" except in the case of a few stronger natures, who believe in the self-dependent existence of woman, and in the possibility of realizing true happiness in life from the cultivation of her own powers, and the exertion of her own industry. This educated weakness, as we may call it, of woman, has not really proved of any advantage to man, though he may think Man never can be strong while woman is weak; he never can be really free while she is in any way in thrall. By increasing her strength and self-dependence, man is really increasing his own, and enlarging his freedom while he is extending hers. We do not know that the Ladies' Guild will do much in this direction, but it will do something, and it may Miss prove the forerunner of similar experiments. Wallace having invented a new decorative art, and patented it, has presented it to the Ladies' Guild for their benefit. It consists in the imitation of gold, silver, and other metallic works in glass, as well as enamels, rubies, mother-of-pearl, amethysts, and other gems, in the same material. The art is a new one, and therefore it will probably displace no other artizans. The class whose wants it seeks to supply is of course the luxurious class,-by no means a limited one in this country, and the employment will be on the whole what is considered genteel. We have not yet seen any specimens of the new art, and therefore are unable to speak as to the probable demand which may arise for the productions of the Guild. In connection with the plan, is a school for the instruction of young ladies in the art, at two shillings a week, and it is also proposed to form an Associated Home in connection with the Institution. Other and larger plans will probably grow out of this experiment, which is an exceedingly hopeful one, as showing that women themselves are at work to secure their proper elevation in society, and without this no sickly patronage would be of any

use.

We do not see why women, with their fine taste and delicate execution, should not be much more extensively employed in the decorative arts generally, than they now are; as for instance in copper and steel-plate engraving, in wood-engraving, and in all sorts of illustrative art connected with literature. Occupations such as these are perfectly elegant, and they are also highly remunerative. In the arts of design connected with our various branches of manufacture, women might be usefully employed. Why should not they be as competent, by proper training, to execute a pattern for a dress, for a chandelier, or for a grate, as to choose one? There is a great deal of the clerical work of this day, which could be performed by women quite as well as men. But here the rival interest might come forward, and call out 'unseemly," "indelicate," and so on. But let the Ladies' Guild persevere; its establishment is the recognition of a great truth, and a succession of similar experiments will do more than shelves full of books to help forward the condition and advance the social well-being of woman.