engraved in glass are very minute, the tools employed must necessarily be so too; and hence the finest and most complex engravings are generally executed at a lathe, in which grinding-wheels of various sizes, from the diameter of a crown piece to that of a swan-shot, can be brought to bear upon the glass; in this way patterns of great beauty and intricacy may be engraved by persevering labour. These small wheels are generally of copper, and their edges are moistened with oil and emery; of the larger wheels, those which are made of iron and stone, and work in sand and water, are for cutting away the surface of the glass; and the wooden ones are used for polishing the cut portions by trituration with polishing powder. their humble meal," and that's what all poor servant girls can't say; I wish they could." In the mean time Anne was admitted. She was very suspiciously eyed by the cook and housemaid as somewhat of an interloper, and curiously scanned as if to discover which of the numerous applicants for the situation the mistress had accepted. The conclusion was that they had never seen her before-a conclusion quite decided by Anne, who informed them that she had never been to the house, that Mrs. Fenn, from some household policy of her own, had been and engaged her at her father's. She was to be the assistant of the housemaid for the present, and when she had gained a little experience she was to wait on the young ladies and to be what is generally called parlour maid.” Most men, women, and children, have had their peculiar ambition at some time of their lives. Anne, in her busy and poor though respectable home, had always thought that hers would have been attained when once she was in comfortable service in a gentleman's family. She was very particular on that point. It must be a gentleman's family. She was not the only one who had confounded worldly good with heart happiness and peace, and to be rich was, in Anne's eyes, to be happy. We shall see how long she held this opinion. One considerable element of expense in the manufacture of cut-glass goods is the risk always" attendant upon the process. It will sometimes happen that a flaw in the material of an expensively got-up vessel, which has remained invisible during the major part of the process, will make its appearance towards the end, when the article is immediately condemned, to the loss of all the time and labour bestowed upon it-to say nothing of the inevitable loss from ordinary breakage, which alone subtracts a good percentage from the returns. Cut-glass ornaments, however large when put together and some of the structures of the Messrs. Osler are of prodigious size-are necessarily combined of comparatively small pieces; it is this, in fact, from the infinite variety of angles from which the polished facets reflect the light, that constitutes their principal charm: in the operation of putting them together, the services of the workers in metals come into demand; this part of the business, however, needs no description, and may well be left to the imagination of the reader. A LICHFIELD TALE. ONE evening in spring, just as it was growing dusk, a neatly-dressed girl of about seventeen was seen standing at the handsome iron gate of a gentleman's house in the neighbourhood of Lichfield. There was no doubt about her history; the little blue painted box, the bundle, the brownpaper parcel, and her tearful face, told the tale: she was going to service; and the poor working man holding her hand in his was her father. "Well, Anne, God bless you! keep a good heart: neither expect too much from change nor be too easily discouraged. There's a crook in every lot, child; but, better comfort than that, there is a God who knows what that crook is, who cares for the very sparrows. Mind your mother's words, that we may all find the secret of happiness, if we look for it. Good-bye." The bell being rung, and the last kiss given, the father turned his steps homewards, brushing the tear from his eyes which the first parting with his eldest child had occasioned. When he arrived at home, the mother was anxiously looking out to know, as she said, how Anne bore up, and if her heart seemed to fail at last. 66 Well, she has a home to come to, that's one comfort," said the mother as they sat down to It was not for many days that the young servant had her desire fulfilled in being permitted to assist in waiting at table. Ellen the housemaid was quite sure she would be awkward, so she was kept much to her needle and to the rather multifarious occupations which waiting on the young ladies involved. At length Sunday night came, and the housemaid being out, it fell to her lot to lay the cloth, which she did much to her own satisfaction, at all events. Supper was always a serious meal with Mr. Fenn. He lived at some distance from his place of business, and not the united entreaties of his fashionable sons and daughters had hitherto prevailed on him to leave the important matter of dinner till he came home. So he took his chops in town, and returned to a cup of coffee at six, and was ready at ten for that unhealthy but old-fashioned meal of supper. He was a man of simple tastes and education. Persons there were in the town who nodded significantly as they saw him pass on his fine horse to his daily business; and one or two old ladies could tell how, when little Jack Fenn was messenger in Greenwood and Barker's office, he would peep over their muslin blind longingly at the blazing fire and hot rolls, of which he could catch a glimpse; and how more than once they had tapped and called the little pale-faced, fatherless lad into the hall, where they warmed him with a cup of tea, a slice of bread and butter, and kind words. He had risen now to be a partner in that very business, and though he still passed the house, it was as a rich man, not as a poor hungry boy. He had arrived at that step which, when he was a lad, he thought would have been the height of his ambition. He, too, had somewhat mistaken notions of happiness and wealth being synonymous. It was, however, in this very state for which he had so frequently longed, sometimes a matter of secret doubt with him, whether the little boy and his dry crust, without anxiety or care, were not a happier being | to see, mother, her beautiful house, and such than the rich lawyer who had money in the bank, dresses and rings and brooches as mistress has; a it is true, but countless calls for that money at pony-gig all to herself; with nothing to do but to please herself-oh! trust me, would I be unhappy if I were she? I think not, indeed." home. "Master looks very grave," thought Anne, as she waited on the family party that night," and mistress too. Somehow, it don't seem so joyful like as our Sunday teas do. About next Sunday I shall go home." She had begun to long for home already, you see, though she knew that very often there was little of tea but the name in the meal, and that butter was a rarity seldom spread on the coarse morsels that they ate. There was one member of that family whose face she had never yet seen till this night, but of whom she had heard nothing but good. "Poor Mr. Edward" he was called; yet "poor Mr. Edward" looked, in spite of his name, the only really happy one in that little group. The girls were gay sometimes, but unquestionably dull now; nay, there was one who had been in tears. It was because they were disappointed in their indulgent father's hesitation as to the propriety of a month's expensive lodgings in town. The eldest son was absent, and the third was but a boy; he was put out a little because every one else was. Edward alone looked happy and serene. But what had he to make him so above all the rest? He had a delicate frame, a small figure bent almost to deformity, while a fever which had attacked him three years since had entirely deprived him of hearing. The joys of social intercourse were for ever closed to his dull car, and, what was a greater grief still, the richest harmony of sound could never more fall upon it. He had been educated for a musician; he was a performer and composer of no mean merit, but music had now become to him what the sun is to the sightless-a gift the existence of which he knew, but in the charms of which he could never hope to share. The first sensation of his great loss was overwhelming; but by-and-by there was a sweeter whisper to his aching heart, a whisper of love and merey, which told the youth that as many as the Lord loves he chastens. The secret of his joy was a lesson that he learned in the school of sorrow. Anne was quite in a reverie as she looked on the face of the afflicted youth-a reverie from which she was soon aroused, however, by a sharp hint not to listen to conversation, but to attend to her duties. Before long the task of waiting at table became easy. Anne was a quick, handy girl, and Mrs. Fenn soon pronounced her a most promising servant. First impressions are often wrong ones. We will not, therefore, narrate Anne's tale to her parents the first Sunday at home, but peep in at the cottager's tea-table after she had been at her place nearly six months. "Oh yes, I'm happy enough and all that, but I wish somehow I lived with people a little more contented and cheerful. There's mistress, now; 'tis not that she scolds me, but she always looks so mournful." "Well, Anne, and perhaps she has reason," said her mother."" The heart knows its own bitterneas, my girl." "Reason!" and Anne laughed. If you were "Are you happy now, Anne ?" asked the father, with the least possible sarcasm in his tone. "Oh, very well, but I don't think I can be expected to be so very happy. I think of the many I've got to please.' 66 Well, that is your trouble; and who knows but that your mistress has got as many to please? This much I do know, that there's not an earthly bless-ing God gives us to which he does not attach some way a weight, to prevent us from taking up entirely with worldly joys. Children are great joys; but, bless them! no one can say but they entail great cares, and sometimes sorrow. Riches are great blessings, no doubt, but then with riches come a score of wants that never existed before, so that 'rich enough' is a rare state to find. Áh! Anne, my girl, you look doubtful still, but I am telling you the experience of thousands of rich men; and there's a better prayer than that for riches, even that for food convenient for us. But come, 'tis past eight, and you are to be back by nine." Anne left her home with very different feelings from those with which she quitted it when first she went to service, and began to let in the suspicion, that the meal of herbs she had just left, with its love and concord, was a happier affair than that of the stalled ox in her master's house. It was now the close of the year, and great preparations were on foot for a more than usually elegant entertainment at the Fenns'. Hitherto they had kept little dinner company; but a purchase of plate, and the oft-repeated assurances of the Miss Fenns that they were considered "very odd and very mean" for not giving dinners-the solemn declaration of Mrs. Fenn, that she had no desire for such things, not she, but for the girls' sakes it was really necessary-their duty she might say-to do a little as other people did, induced the father to yield. Mr. Fenn thought it a dangerous precedent indeed, but a dinner party on a scale of gentility and magnificence never before attempted by the Fenns was planned, and Anne had her share of interest and excitement, you may be sure, and though not usually a discontented girl, she had her share of trial too. She could not see the beautiful new lace dresses, and all alike too, laid on the ladies' beds, or the new brooch with which the father had presented each of his children, without a wish that she could be the wearer of some such costly ornaments. Then came a repining thought, that instead of being a Miss Fenn, she was, and always should be perhaps, a poor servant girl, allowed no finery, and required-for such was Mrs. Fenu's rule-to wear a white apron instead of a black, and a close cap instead of a Jenny Lind head-dress. She was standing in the kitchen waiting for breakfast on the morning of the dinner party, when the postman and her eldest brother Tom arrived together. Before she could speak to Tom, she must take the letters up-stairs, and after delivering them she was required to clear the break fast table, which gave her time to observe that the contents of the letters were not all pleasant to the readers. "There! how provoking! Mr. Janson has sent to say he can't come," said Miss Fenn. Mr. Janson was a great traveller, and was to have been the lion of the party. This was disappointment the first by which Anne was taught that dinner parties are not unmixed pleasures. But there was a graver look on the mother's face as she read over her letter. "Is it from Frank ?" asked Edward, whose defect in hearing had made him, like many deaf people, deeply skilled in reading the human countenance. "From Frank?" he asked, putting his arm kindly round his mother's waist; and, feeling the beating of her heart, he now looked tenderly into her face, and read there that which forbade him to ask more. Anne was an intelligent, observing girl, and she saw plainly that a rich mother may have a greater sorrow than that of a short sum of money for the week, and coarse scanty food, and she pitied her mistress from her heart. "Well, Tom, and what brings you here to-day, dear?" said she. "I'm very busy, and I can't spare you five minutes." "Mother sent me to say," said Tom, "that all the children, except me and Hannah, are ill, and she don't know, but thinks it's the measles; and I came to tell you too-" and he lowered his voice" that mother would take it very kind if you can send her a few shillings. Father's slack of work, and on Saturday he only brought home 10s. instead of 14s., and mother don't like to get into debt, and there's one or two things she wants; so please, Anne, will you send the money ?" 66 Why, Tom, I would, but I assure you I've only 4s. in my purse." 66 Why, I thought you'd 107. a year," said the downright Tom. "Well, and if I have ?" "To be sure it can't cost you much for victuals here," said Tom, eyeing the servants' plentifully. supplied breakfast-table. "I clothe myself, Tom, and my clothes have cost me more than they ought this quarter, and that is the truth; but I will run and ask mistress to let me have 17. of my wages in advance. It only wants a month to the quarter, and to be sure she won't object." She ran nimbly up-stairs, but it was at an inauspicious moment that her appeal for money was made. The letter from Frank was a letter announcing heavy debts and great difficulties. The mother was weeping and pleading, the father stood with the open letter in his hand, and stern sorrow on his brow. It was his eldest son, his hope, his pride, and the letter was a melancholy tissue of ingratitude, extravagance, and selfishness. Anne when she entered was silent and abashed; at length she said, "Ma'am, can I have 17. of my wages ?" Your wages! they are not due." I know it, ma'am, but I have bad news from home; all of the children are ill of measles." "You must not interrupt me now, I can't attend to it. I have anxieties enough of my own, and I make it a rule never to advance servants' wages ;leave the room." Poor Anne could scarcely restrain her indignation, which, however, soon subsided into a burst of sorrow as she went down-stairs, and putting all she had into her brother's hand, hurried him away, promising to run down at night if she could get time. Yes, do, for little Charlotte is very sadly with her cough, and mother is in great trouble about her. Come, if you can ;" and the poor boy went sorrowfully home, marvelling as he walked that out of that house of plenty, money was so hard to get at. How he wished that some of that bright jelly which he had seen through the open door of the pantry, or two or three of the oranges and lemons which lay in piles on the shelves, could but find their way to the little sick ones as they lay feverish and moaning under that distressing infantine disorder. It was a worried, anxious day for the rich, and a weary, trying one for the poor. The mother of the prodigal had to rouse herself from her sorrow and prepare for a festivity which to her aching heart had nought but bitterness in prospect; the poor woman, with her sick babes, and her sad forebodings, went from pillow to pillow, hushing, soothing, and comforting, and though ofttimes ready to sink, listening, amidst the troublous waves of adversity, to a voice she knew full well-"It is I: be not afraid." The day wore on. Anne's tears were falling over a young lady's dress in which she was making some little alteration, when Mrs. Fenn, who had been seeking her, entered. "What are you crying for?" " I am crying, ma'am, about mother and the children; and oh! ma'am, could I be spared to run down home when the company is all come ?" "Impossible! measles is a very simple complaint; all my children had it at once. It is a good thing to get it over; pray don't distress yourself about such a trifle." And giving Anne a message to a lady living about half a mile off, she despatched her on an errand for Miss Fenn. The mission was of no greater importance than a message to the effect that Miss Fenn hoped Miss Glover would bring a particular duet which she was very fearful she should forget. Owing to a detention of half an hour in the Glovers' kitchen, because Miss Glover was engaged and could not be interrupted, Anne had time to think-" Well, if riches would make me cold and hard-hearted, may I never be rich and selfish too. How could mis tress, and a mother as she is, speak so coldly about my poor mother's trouble; just as if there was any likeness between her case, when her children had the measles, and mother's." Anne reflected a little more, and then conscience had room for a word. "Don't be too hard on your mistress either. Was it very kind and considerate -was it very self-denying of you, to lay out your whole wages on your personal gratification ?" Anne knew but little of herself, or she would have been more lenient to her fellow-creatures. hardest judge of another is the self-ignorant and self-deceived man. The Five o'clock came, and the lace dresses were on; but Anne, in her home-sickness, forgot to envy them. When she looked on her fluttered mistress, as she swept down the staircase in a splendid satin dress, she might have pitied the heart that ached beneath its folds, and she did pity, but not enough. Carriages drove up, compliments and introductions were over; the guests were all assembled, but the master of the house had not yet returned. Just as the clock struck six, a fly drove up. It was Mr. Fenn. Everyone was relieved to hear his voice, at all events; but the cook, who heard that master's voice in the hall, and who had known its sound for many years, shook her head, and said, "All is not right there." All was not right; he had felt very unwell, he said, but he would dress and come down to dinner, and begged his wife to take no notice of his indisposition. Just as they all sat down to their sumptuous meal, the poor artisan was entering his cottage door to a scene of distress. Little Charlotte, the weakest, but perhaps the dearest of the seven, lay in all the danger and agony of a severe attack of inflammation on the lungs. "Nothing but a miracle could save her," said the doctor as Mr. Bentley entered the room. The wife was sitting by the fire, exhausted with her day's fatigue, and vainly trying to rock to sleep on her bosom the youngest child, an infant at the breast. There was indeed a contrast between the sick nursery of a well-attended lady and that of the cottage mother; but the contrast was not all in favour of the lady. Father and mother now sat down to watch, and to comfort one another. Tom was gone to get a few oranges, and Hannah, the eldest girl, overpowered with fatigue, and, as her mother feared, with the coming sickness, was lying down to rest. A knock was heard at the door; it was Edward Fenn. The news of poor Bentley's trouble had reached the heart at least of him who loved the house of mourning better than that of feasting, and, leaving the dinner table after the ladies had withdrawn-a step which excited no surprise, from his inability to join in conversation-he was soon at the side of the sufferers. How eloquent in sympathy was his face! how tender his tone as he poured forth the heavenly consolation which he himself had tasted! He comforted with that comfort of which he knew the efficacy, and it seemed, when he passed over the threshold, as though an angel had been ministering to them. And as he went home, how lightened was his heart! he had done what he could: his purse had been opened to their necessities, for, in his simple and unambitious life, he had few of his own, and money was held by him in the estimation that it should be-one means of happiness, if rightly used, but not happiness itself. As he approached his home, and thought of the deep anxieties and the aching hearts there, sympathy with the poor man he had left seemed lost in compassion for the rich father of a thankless son. urged him to come to rest. He wanted to be alone. Edward could not rest, and once or twice stole to the door that he might see if the posture of his father changed. No: he sat still, with his head resting on the back of a chair, and Edward thought he slept. At length the anxiety he felt could not be restrained. "Father," he said more than once; but there was no reply. One glance at the countenance told all. It was even so: the long-dreaded paralytic seizure, hastened by the distress of that morning's news, had come at last. He lived for some months after that night, but it was as a broken-hearted, helpless invalid. Anne Bentley, who went to her father's house on the following day, at the pathetic entreaties of the dying child, could say, through her tears, as they closed little Charlotte's eyes: "Ah! mother, there are sorrows everywhere I see, which neither riches nor poverty can ward off. I used to wonder what you meant by the secret of happiness being within our reach. I see it all now. If we choose God for our portion, we can never be desolate." OUR VISIT TO APSLEY HOUSE. HAVING given in this journal a biography of "the Duke," an account of his funeral in St. Paul's, and having paid a visit to his last earthly residence, Walmer Castle, a short notice of Apsley House, his town mansion, will appropriately conclude the papers which have been devoted to this eminent man. Few of our London readers can have passed the remarkable dwelling just named, with its iron gates, that were generally closed, and its iron shutters, almost constantly drawn down, without a strong wish to peep within it. Eager was the crowd that used to gather-round its portals on the 18th of June, as much perhaps to gratify its curiosity, even to an infinitesimal extent, by a peep at the mansion within, as to catch a glimpse of the great chief himself, when he took his ride into the park on the anniversary of the victory of Waterloo. With these recollections to stimulate us, it may be imagined how gratifying it was to find ourselves at Apsley House, and to discover that the blue ticket which we held in our hand was as powerful as the "open sesame" of Arabian tales, since at its presentation not only the outer but inner gates of this far-famed mansion unfolded and admitted us to the interior. The little ante-chamber into which we were first ushered had nothing of architectural pretensions, but contained a few busts and casts of semi-historical interest. A small but very characteristic one of George III, on the mantel-piece, would be interesting, we should think, to a phrenologist. The forehead of the worthy old monarch seems closely bordering upon that of the monkey species, so miserably low and contracted does it The party separated; the farce was over: the appear; but this, by the way, tells rather against hollowness of those who had eaten of the Fenns' phrenology than otherwise, for, instead of being bread was soon proved by various comments on the idiot which such a development should indi the dulness of the entertainment, etc. Every one cate, George III was, when in good health, a man of was tired, dull, and disappointed. In the bril-practical common sense, a fair general scholar, a liantly-lighted room, long after midnight, sat the capital musician, and no contemptible writer of master of the household. He would come soon, he despatches. On the opposite side of the apartment said, as his wife, uneasy at his dejected appearance, is a small full-length figure in bronze of Blucher, the great interest of the room is unquestionably the recollection of the memorable entertainments which have taken place in it. It requires little stretch of fancy to fill the apartment once more with military figures, fighting their battles o'er again; the old Duke sitting on that seat near the the toast, drunk in solemn silence, "The memory of the gallant men who fell at the battle of Waterloo." The gilded roof, the variety of colours on the walls, the sparkling plate of silver and gold, the rich military uniforms, must have indeed composed a scene of great splendour; but now all has passed away, giving a melancholy air to the deserted hall. the companion of Wellington, springing forward with an attitude full of energy, as if in the act of uttering the words which are inscribed in German on the pedestal," For king and fatherland." Casting a passing look at a neatly-executed equestrian statuette of "the Duke"- and lingering for a moment beside a very spirited represent-fire-place, royalty perhaps by his side, and giving ation, in metal, of a combat between a French hussar and a Turkish horseman, with a dying negro at their feet, the whole group wonderfully life-like-we make a step forward and find ourselves at the bottom of the grand staircase, fronting an object of which we had long heard, and which we had long wished to see. It is Canova's colossal statue of Napoleon, transferred to this spot from the halls of one of the French palaces. The staircase is somewhat dark, in consequence of the subdued light that is admitted from the coloured glass of the roof, and the statue therefore, especially on the first glance at it, strongly impresses the imagination. Its countenance is described by one critic as being that of a demi-god. In the right hand is a globe with the figure of Victory, in the other a brazen rod, the emblem of dominion. When we remember the power of Napoleon at the time that this statue was designed, for him, and think of his subsequent fall; when we remember, too, that we are standing in the mansion of one who conquered "the man of destiny," no object could be conceived better fitted than this is to infuse into the mind of the spectator that dash of enthusiasm which befits a visit to a house of so historical a character. Winding round this monument of the instability of human greatness, we are admitted to the first drawing-room, a small apartment fronting Piccadilly, into which the daylight, so long barred out by the iron window blinds, that were never, at least when we passed the mansion, drawn up, now streams in cheerfully. In this, and indeed in all the rooms on this floor, the walls are hung from top to bottom with paintings. We notice amongst these, with special interest, the portrait of John Duke of Marlborough. Although this figure of Wellington's prototype is a small one, and its execution not particularly effective, yet in the mansion of the great Duke there is felt to be a peculiar propriety in the selection of such a portrait. The next apartment is also rich in portraits of individuals who were more or less connected with Wellington's career, either as main or subsidiary actors. Marshal Soult faces us over the doorway; while Buonaparte and Josephine figure in various costumes. A small picture of Napoleon in prison, and studying the map of Italy-an event which it will be recollected occurred when he was a young man-is noticed with special interest as we step into the adjoining room, which is the far-famed Waterloo banqueting hall. This apartment is the finest in the mansion; but even it partakes of the general character of the rooms, and has a somewhat narrow and contracted look, which is not relieved by the imperfect manner in which it is lighted. It is hung from top to bottom with paintings of various degrees of merit, some of them being literally the spoils of war, having been captured among the baggage of Joseph, king of Spain, on the retreat of the latter after the battle of Vittoria. Still, however fine these pictures are, Three other rooms succeed the banqueting apartment. Pictures! pictures! still nothing but pictures! The eye wearies with looking at gilded frames and colours more or less brilliant, and we sigh for some quiet, snug corner that breathes the air of home; but no such spot meets us. Of the pictures in the last rooms, the most characteristic are, a painting of the battle of Waterloo, which the Duke himself admired very much, and a portrait of his eldest daughter-in-law, the present duchess, who has a singularly amiable and gentle countenance. By this time we have returned in a circuit to the top of the grand staircase. We descend by another and very precipitous flight of steps to the lower part of the house, where we are introduced to the private apartments of the Duke. We seem to have entered another dwelling. Above we walked through a sort of National Gallery; here we appear to have been transported to a series of offices in Somerset House. The narrow passage at the foot of these stairs leads through a range of travelling boxes, many of which, from their appearance, were probably the companions of the Duke's campaigns. Among them is one box which has the royal arms stamped on red morocco upon it, with the words "Stuart papers, No. 1." It was, we suppose, the depository of some state papers relative to the exiled family of that name. The first apartment in this suite is one which was, we presume, the reception room for persons visiting the Duke on business. The walls have a simple coating of white paint, and have no orna ment except a plain looking-glass, while the floor is covered with a carpet, not very new, and whose pattern, even in its best days, must have been much inferior to what is met with in many houses occupied by the middle classes. The next two rooms, which are very small, are filled with the china and plate presented to the Duke by foreign potentates. In the apartments above were several articles of a similar character, such as Sévres vases given by Louis XVII, a malachite vase, the gift of Alexander of Russia, together with candelabra from the same distinguished personage, and porphyry jars from Bernadotte of Sweden. Of all these articles it is sufficient to say that the Exhi bition of 1851 has spoiled us for enjoying them; there is not one of them which does not look poor after the things of a similar kind which were gathered together in that wonderful collection of the products of human industry. The same remark applies to the Duke's presentation service of china. It is very fine, no doubt, and has beautiful designs |