ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. ELIZABETH BARRETT was born in Herefordshire, England, in 1805. She was educated with great care and thoroughness, and early manifested an ability for the comprehension of most difficult studies. She became very proficient in languages, both ancient and modern, and early began to contribute to periodical literature. Her first volume of poems was published in 1826, but she recognized these early productions as so imperfect when her genius had fully ripened that none of them were included in her later works. In 1833 she published a translation of "Prometheus Bound," a Greek poem, and in 1838 appeared "Seraphim and Other Poems," which was an attempt, quite striking, but not wholly successful, to put an English poem in the form of a Greek tragedy. About this time Miss Barrett was affected with bleeding at the lungs, and went to Switzerland for her health. While there, a brother with whom she was traveling was suddenly drowned, and the shock of this bereavement quite broke down the young poetess. For several years she was an invalid, living in the closest seclusion. She did not leave her room, and saw no one but members of her family and a very few of her intimate friends. While thus secluded, she wrote a series of articles on the Greek Christian poets, which were published in the London Athenæum. In 1844 the first collected edition of her poems was issued. This contained a number of new poems, among them "Lady Geraldine's Courtship," one of the most beautiful productions. It contained a graceful compliment to Mr. Browning, whose works she much admired, though she had never met their writer. The poet called to express in person his acknowledgments, and the acquaintance thus formed ripened into intimacy and finally into love. Her health improved greatly, and she became the wife of Robert Browning in the Autumn of 1846. After their marriage, Mr. and Mrs. Browning resided chiefly in Italy. In 1857 appeared "Casa Guidi Windows," a long poem whose theme was the struggle made by the Tuscans for freedom in 1849. In 1856, her longest poem, "Aurora Leigh," a narrative in verse, appeared. Her last volume, "Poems before the Congress," was published in 1860. June 29th, 1861, she died at Florence, Italy. It may be said of Mrs. Browning's poetry that it was marked not only with feeling and pathos, but also with the most generous and noble sentiments. Perhaps she wrote too readily, many of her poems could be improved by being made shorter. But no writer ever exerted a better and happier influence upon her time. She holds, unquestionably, the highest place among female poets. STEEL PENS. THE earliest pen was a sharp iron, steel or bronze instrument, used for cutting out letters or hieroglyphics on stones or metal plates. It is this kind which is referred to by Job when he speaks of an "iron pen." For writing on parchment the reed or quill pens were used for a great many centuries. The first recorded use of iron pens for writing on paper and parchment is in the year 1685, but their use must have been very limited, and the pens themselves poor. They were not, however, improved upon until the beginning of the present century, when there was a demand for something more durable than quill pens. In 1803 steel was tried in Wise's barrel pen, which, however, was found to be too expensive and clumsy. Joseph Gillott was the first to perfect and bring about the present form of steel pens, in 1820; and he began the manufacture of them at Birmingham. The first gross of steel pens ever sold at wholesale prices were sold for £7 7s., in 1820, at Birmingham. In 1830 the price was 8s.; in 1832, 6s.; in 1860, 6d., while an article as good as those manufactured in 1820 was sold at 2d. Several other men soon engaged in the manufacture of pens at Birmingham, and all have made large fortunes ont of it. The annual production of that city has ranged from 8,000,000 to 15,000,000 gross of pens. Almost the entire world are now supplied by Birmingham. THE INSTINCT OF BEES. “This A CORRESPONDENT of the Spectator recalls the very singular case recorded by Huber of the conduct of bees whose hives had been plundered by the moth Acherontis atropos (the well-known death's-head moth). moth," the correspondent writes, "is singular among Lepidoptera in its capacity of uttering a peculiar piping sound, closely resembling a sound emitted by the queen bee in certain circumstances, which has a most extraordinary effect on the inmates of the hives. Huber thus describes it: The effects are very remarkable. As soon as the sound was heard, bees that had been employed in plucking, biting and chasing the queen about hung down their heads and remained altogether motionless; and whenever she had recourse to this attitude and sound, they operated upon them in the same manner.' "One Summer the beekeepers in the district of Switz erland where Huber resided were much puzzled to account for the apparent bad success of their bees. The season had been good, the bees were healthy and active, but the hives, when lifted, were very light. The results of all their industry were most disappointing. A watch was set upon the hives, when the cause was soon discovered. In the twilight of the evening the moth I have mentioned, which was unusually plentiful that year, was detected in large numbers entering the hives. This they were able to do with impunity by their producing the singular noise which I have described. "When this was discovered the proprietors of the hives placed before the entrance a grating of wire with apertures sufficient to admit the bees, but too small to allow of the entrance of the moth. The consequence was, an immediate improvement in the yield of honey. "But, what seemed very singular, those hives which were not so protected also shared in the improvement. On examination, a most singular discovery was made. Behind the entrance of the unprotected hives-unprotected by the owner-it was found that the bees had constructed a double wall of a mixture of wax and propolis, the one close behind the other, each of them perforated with apertures through which the bees found admission to the hives, but those of the inner wall placed not opposite to the apertures of the outer wall, so that the bee had to turn in the narrow space between the two walls, an operation impossible to the moth, even had it been able to push itself through the hole of the outer wall. In this way the bees had successfully defended themselves, as their neighbors had been defended by their proprietors. This would seem most completely to answer the question whether an animal has power to meet an emergency of a simple kind. Surely, one would say, here is as ample proof of reason as is given by the ant or by the beaver in making good an injury to its settlement. The bees proved that they knew the cause of their unsuccessful labor. They reasoned-shall we say?—what would keep out the depredator; but their knowledge and their reason were not strong enough to overcome the singular instinct which caused them to lie still and motionless under the influence of the plunderer's music, instead of stinging her to death in a moment, as they would have done to any other intruder." THE GOLD TINT. BY THE AUTHOR OF THE STORY OF ST. STEPHEN." With other laws that men and nature sway, Or, when abnormal lustre of the mind Shines from the youthful and the immature, It is not when the life is in the bloom, And grace and vigor are the creature's dower; But when the step is turned toward the tomb, The soul within puts forth her grandest power. The frame of too slight fibre oft is made For the keen mind that dwells and works beneath, Like some bright sabre, whose too trenchant blade Cuts through the texture of th' incasing sheath. The same strange law in Nature's realm we see, The faith and hope of God's saint, as he dies, Becomes more sure and steadfast, bright and clear; RUBENS. By C. B. Todd. RUBENS was a large, black, curly haired Newfoundland dog belonging to Colonel of the British Army, who, while still a young man, emigrated to America. It was not on battlefields, however, that Rubens won his laurels. He came to the colonel in 1848, a puppy of one year's growth. The next year-in March, 1849—his master, his friend Dr. -, his horse Blucher and the dog Rubens, left New York for the newly discovered goldfields of California, the party sailing in the bark Eugenia for Vera Cruz, Mexico, intending thence to proceed overland to Acapulco on the Pacific, and there take ship for San Francisco. They were the pioneers over this route, which afterward became very popular with gold-seekers. The overland journey from ocean to ocean was performed on horseback. From Vera Cruz to Mexico the road was paved with broken stone, obsidian, I judged from the colonel's description, the sharp edges of which wounded Rubens's feet, and his master provided horsehide shoes, in which he marched very comfortably. At every village the way was infested with bands of snarling, snapping mongrel curs, the only species of dog then known in Mexico. Rubens, seeing a group of these curs fighting, would march up and command the peace by a pat of his paw and an ominous growl, or by a display of white teeth that at once sent them to their kennels, howling in terror. In the City of Mexico, where the party spent several days, Rubens soon became a general favorite. The fair señoritas, who had never before seen a dog of his birth and breeding, took him into special favor. They praised his huge paws, his black, glossy coat and beautiful brown eyes. They feasted him on bonbons and other sweetmeats, tied ribbons about his neck, toyed with his long locks, invited him to their little féles and entertainments, and so caressed him that he became quite the envy of the gilded youth of the capital. After several weeks the travelers continued their journey to the Pacific, taking for their highway the deep valley of the Guarvucca, one of the largest rivers of Mexico, whose waters flow to the Western Ocean. After journeying several days along its banks, charmed by their tropical beauty and verdure, the party approached the frowning walls of the pass by which it passes the Sierra Madre Mountains and escapes to the sea. It was a dark, gloomy defile, very tortuous, with here and there a grassy opening or grove of trees on the banks, between which the river rushed impetuously. A trail, seldom traversed, wound through the cañon, crossing and recrossing the river repeatedly in its efforts to force a passage. Arrived at the first of these fording-places, the colonel unwound his lariat from the saddle-bow, and describing several circles in the air, gave the end to Rubens, and motioned him to cross the stream, whereupon the brave fellow, taking the end in his mouth, plunged in, swam over, and winding the rope several times around the trunk of a tree on the opposite bank, held it there while the horsemen crossed, steadied by the rope. He performed the same feat one hundred and seventeen times while they were forcing their way through the cañon. At Acapulco the party waited forty days for a vessel bound to San Francisco. At length the British steamer Unicorn, eight months from New York around Cape Horn, hove in sight, crowded from stem to stern with gold-seekers. The colonel and his friend thought themselves fortunate in securing, for one hundred dollars each, the upper part of a large coop on deck, which, when the steamer left port, had been filled with fowls for the use of the ship's company. Their horses had been sold in the city, but Rubens yet remained to be provided for. The captain, appealed to, flatly refused to take him. "Sailors," he said, "believed that dogs on shipboard brought bad luck; besides, there was no room.” The colonel said nothing more, but that afternoon, as the captain stood on the plaza watching the crowd, he felt a tap on his legs caused by a dog's tail, and looking down, there stood Rubens with a letter in his mouth, and a most beseeching expression in his brown eyes. The captain read the letter, which ran thus: "DEAR CAPTAIN: I am Rubens, Colonel Battersby's dog. I came all the way from New York across Mexico with my master. I have taken care of him for three years. I swam the torrent for him one hundred and seventeen times in one day. If you leave me behind I don't know what will become of him, but am sure I shall never see him again. Please, captain, take me too." "Well, well," said the captain, patting him," you are too fine a fellow to lose, so I guess we will find room for you." And when the Unicorn sailed, Rubens had a berth on deck near the coop occupied by his master. When the party landed at San Francisco they found a city of tents, inhabited by eager gold-seekers, drawn from every quarter of the world. In this city of cosmopolites Rubens soon became a prominent character. At first he was guardian and custodian of a large marquee which his master erected and let at night to lodgers. | mountains for a month's shooting, at which time his Later, when the colonel became a merchant, Rubens favorite diversion was catching rattlesnakes by the tail, made himself useful in various ways. He guarded the or through the middle, and snapping off their heads store at night. He held his master's horse, brought before they could strike. water from a well, and did a variety of errands. His exploits on the water exceeded those on land. Bringing in rowboats that had got adrift was one of his diversions. One day, Colonel Battersby, walking with the dog on the bay - side, saw a friend's boat that had "I often wish I had kept a list of his victims for a day," said the colonel; "it would have run up into the hundreds, I am sure, for they were very plentiful in the hills in those days. He would steal on them, seize them ere they had time to coil, and 'snap' them so violently 66 RUBENS. THE BRAVE FELLOW, WINDING THE ROPE SEVERAL TIMES AROUND THE TRUNK OF A TREE ON THE OPPOSITE broken loose and drifted nearly a mile out before being as to break the vertebræ, sometimes so hard as to behead discovered. "He can never bring it in, colonel," said the owner, who stood looking after his lost property. In reply, Rubens's master pointed out the boat; the dog swam out to it, clambered upon it until he could grasp the painter with his teeth, and then calmly towed it back to its berth, amid the huzzas of a crowd of excited spectators. Rubens also saved several persons from drowning. Summer he always accompanied his master into In the them." In 1852 Rubens accompanied his master back to "the States," via the Central American route, and became one of the attachés of the colonel's country-seat in New Jersey. He died suddenly in 1853, while watching a game of cricket on the Hoboken Cricket Grounds. His master held him in such high esteem that he had him mounted and placed in the entrance-hall of his mansion, where he remained until the outbreak of the war, when the colonel gave up his home to enter the Army. Atherton was the pride and joy of her home. Not only was she loved in her family, but the neighbors knew her worth. The poor never went away hungry; the sick were tempted with delicacies her hand had prepared. Was there to be an entertainment in the vicinity? Rachel was sent for; her knowledge of cakes and confections was fully appreciated. On the Kentucky side of the beautiful Ohio River lay the well-cultivated plantation of Mr. Atherton. His family consisted of himself and wife; their eldest daughter Rachel, a mild, affectionate girl of seventeen; her brother Larry, two years younger, and Minnie, a little prattler of five Summers. My reader, you have kindly perused a description of the Rachel Atherton was not born to shine in romance. lady, but have not yet had a formal introduction to her. Winning, rather than brilliant or handsome, her gentle manners and affectionate disposition stole silently but irresistibly upon the heart. She was her father's favorite, and ardently did she reciprocate his affection. Mr. Atherton had devoted much attention to his elder daughter. His desire was to enrich her mind with stores of useful knowledge, from which she could draw in after life, and to instill into her heart those principles of unaffected piety and love to her Maker which would preserve her in the midst of temptation and danger. Her mother was a firm believer in the doctrine of Miltor "Nothing lovelier can be found In woman than to study household good." Consequently, Rachel was early initiated into all the mysteries of domestic economy, and proved such an adept in the art as would fully have satisfied the great poet. Rachel VOL. XXIV No 4-18 That pleasure now awaits you. We'll direct our steps to that rustic lodge on the bank of the river; perchance we may find her there. But, lest in astonishment you utter some exclamation, I'll inform you it is possible she will not be alone. Is this strange? What nice girl of seventeen would walk to the river every afternoon to throw pebbles into it and watch their numberless circles without some one to tell her that the outer circle was a great deal larger than the inner one? But, hist! we are nearing the place; tread softly, or they'll discover us. In the lodge was a pleasant room overlooking the river from one window, and another looking out on the broad fields of the Atherton plantation. Here R chel often came, and here to-day we find her. Under the wide, old-fashioned window was a long seat built into the wall. A table and a few chairs were the only furniture of the room. Here, then, we find Rachel Atherton sitting in an easy chair. Beside her, on the window-seat, sat a young man of agreeable appearance, with his arm thrown around her neck, and her head resting upon his shoulder. The young man's well-built frame and broad shoulders indicated constitutional strength. A profusion of auburn hair, florid complexion, and large blue eyes, told of that ardent temperament that feels so intensely while the cause exists, and, carried away by its own activity, rushes on, heedless of consequences, until the spell is broken; then, relaxing into inactivity, lies dormant, until some new phantom presents itself, to be followed in the same impetuous manner. They had been conversing, and there were evident traces of tears on Rachel's face. He appareatly awaited an answer. It came in a saddened tone. "Cease to persuade me, Thomas; I cannot do it. It would break my mother's heart, and bring my father in sorrow to the grave." "Then you will not go with me?" "I dare not-I cannot.' "Don't say you cannot; say you will not. Such a Platonic love as this should be given to the winds. I am to depart a lone, friendless wanderer, without one kind word to cheer me, or one bright smile to light my path, because your parents, who have forgotten they were once young, are so selfish that they wish to engross your affections entirely." "Say not so, Th 25. My father desires our happiness, and thinks he is promoting it eventually by objecting to our marriage at present. But when your perseverance in a steady and upright course of conduct, and your establishment in business, have convinced him that his apprehensions were groundless, he will willingly consent to our wishes." “Or, in other words, if I make a fortune, I may hope for your hand. In the meantime, your father can look around. If he finds a more eligible offer, I may have the satisfaction of coming back and finding you the wife of another. A comfortable hope to urge me on and support me !" "Thomas Pembroke, how dare you ascribe such mercenary motives to my father? A noble-minded man would scorn to resort to such an artifice for the accomplishment of his purpose. It is, however, a just punishment to me for deceiving the best of fathers in thus listening to your proposals." "My heart pleads for you, Thomas; and, as we are so soon to part, I cannot withhold my forgiveness. To marry you without my parents' consent I dare not. Besides the anguish it would cause them, think what a fearful example of disobedience and defiance of parental authority it would be to my brother and sister. If you value my happiness, urge me not to such an act." "Then is my fate fixed. Is it for this I have cherished the dream of my boyhood-the love of my riper years? Ob, Rachel dash not my hopes so cruelly. Let the blissful hours of our childhood plead for me, when we wandered over these valleys, happy in each other's society ere we could tell why. Think of the exquisite moments we have enjoyed, when I realized that my deep and ardent affection for you was returned with all the fondness of woman's first love. Heaven formed us for each other; frustrate not its design. This arbor, with its tender associations—the rippling of the waters, as they die along the shore-could they but speak, would supplicate in my behalf. Oh, listen to their eloquent voice! Send me not away disconsolate, to toil unrewarded by your approval, and, if sickness come, to die uncared for, with none to moisten my parched lips, or shed a tear over the stranger's grave. Ah, Rachel! I see you relet. I knew you could not be so cruel. By the remembrance of our fondly cherished love I conjure you to " “Oh, Thomas, Thomas, forbear !" interrupted Rachel. "Remember, I am but a weak maiden, who looks up to you for support and guidance. Oh, lead me not from the path of duty. You know your power over me; use it cautiously, lest we both repent when it is too late. Listen to me, and may Heaven grant me protecting and directing grace, for without it I dare not trust the wild throbbings of my heart to your impassioned appeals. You wish me to disobey my father, and marry you; this you call a proof of my affection. Thomas, do you think the nadutiful daughter will make a faithful wife? that she who treats with disdain the author of her being will constantly respect him who has no innate claims upon her but one only that her affections have constituted? It engenders disrespect, for no woman can consent to a clandestine marriage without lessening herself in the eyes of her lover. But, above all, let the unhappy termination of such marriages warn you. Think of the struggle for reconciliation, the withering recollections, the blighted hopes, the abandonment of loved ones, the disappointed expectatione, until life becomes a waste desert, where the flowers of love droop, and no healthful feeling can live; while memory, ever active with the past, calls up its checkered scenes with cruel fidelity, and hope shrinks back, because the future has no bright spot to which she can point with angel-smile. Aɛk me not, then, to bring such wretchedness upon ourselves. Rather let us wait a while. Certain I am that time wil soften my father's feelings, and we may marry when we can confidently expect the blessing of Heaven upon our union. In our separation you will suffer far less than 1. Your business will occupy your mind and divert your thoughts; while I, in the quietude of my home, will have nothing left but the sad communings of my heart. But I look for support from on high, and it will be granted. Now, Thomas, we must part. May Heaven bless you and protect you, and may we meet again under happier circumstances is the prayer of your loving Rachel." Thomas Pembroke was awed into submission and reverence. He could not but admire the pure sentiments and devoted piety of his betrothed. While he silently folded the noble girl to his breast, he secretly resolved that for the future he would be a better man, and prove himself worthy the love of such an amiable being. He vowed constancy. Rachel believed him, and was happy. Thomas believed himself, and was happy. With a fond embrace, they separated. Thomas Pembroke was the only son of an early friend of Mr. Atherton. His emotions were strong, and his spirit required a controlling power. This was lost to him by the death of his father while he was a boy. The handsome estate left by his father had, under the management of executors and overseers, dwindled into half its former value, and Thomas's indolent habits tended not to improve it. A quiet country life was not in accordance with his feelings. He longed to mix with the busy world, and had decided to establish a business in New Orleans. The redeeming trait in his character was his love for Rachel Atherton. It had begun "When he was but a gallant boy, Many were sorely puzzled to comprehend the mysteri ous link that bound the heart of the gentle and obedient |