The admirers of Potichomanie (in which class we may probably rank the majority of our readers) will rejoice to learn that it is, at last, possible to produce specimens of this sort of work possess ing some of the ele gance of form which charms us in the graceful vases, tazzas, and other decorations of the ancients. This has been, indeed, a consummation which everyone who practised the art was compelled to desire, whilst, at the same time, feeling it almost beyond hope, since the necessity for introducing the hand into the interior of the vase caused the necks of all the vessels to be too large for elegance; and IMPROVED POTICHOMANIE. so long as the figures and designs were placed in the inside of the vases, this defect appeared irremediable. But we have recently been experimentalizing with some earth en jars, coloured black, red, or green, with prepared colours, and then having the figures laid on the outside. The figures being then gummed on the wrong side are stuck on as fancy dictates, and afterwards highly varnished and polished. When well done, there is little perceptible difference between this and the ordinary Potichomanie, save in the superior and hitherto unattainable elegance of form. AIGUILLETTE. LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. THE BABY-BROTHER. BY HANNAH CLAY. "My dear, how would you like a babybrother?" asked Mrs. Stewart of her little niece, Flora Sydney. Flora looked up from the dissected map with which she was playing. "Very much, aunt," she answered with some surprise, for she had never thought of such a possibility. "But, my love," continued her aunt," he would at first be a very little thing, and would give a great deal of trouble. Your mamma would have to bestow upon him almost constant attention; and my Flora, who has been her mother's only care until now, would be obliged to give way to the helpless infant, and learn to do many things for herself, to save trouble to her dear mamma. She would be required to remain quiet whenever baby was sleeping; and then, if she were very good, and careful to hold him nicely in her lap, mamma would sometimes allow her to nurse the tender little one. Can Flora deny her own wishes for the sake of the baby-brother?" "Yes, aunty, I think so," replied the little girl, hesitating. "But," she added, timidly, "will mamma still love me?" "Yes, Flora, she can never forget her love for you. But you know one person can love another without being always able to show it by caresses." "I know that, aunt. Mrs. Barraclough at the thatched cottage and her children love one another. Mamma said I was not to judge by their speaking so roughly to each other. I don't believe Mrs. Barraclough ever kisses her little girls." Mrs. Stewart smiled at Flora's illustration; and then, taking a letter from her pocket, told her that her mamma had sent for her to come home immediately and see her new little brother." "Oh!" exclaimed Flora, jumping from her seat, "is he come already? What is his name, aunt? What is he like?" "I don't know what he is like, my dear," replied her aunt, "for I have never seen him any more than yourself. As for his name, I believe your mamma intends to call him Hubert, after your dear papa." merry Little Flora was silent, and looked very grave. She well remembered the sad event of a few months back, when her dear, kind, " papa," as she had been used to call him, had been thrown from his horse, and brought home senseless, to die the next day. She recollected the loud weeping of her mamma; and how she herself had been led gently into the darkened room, that she might kiss the lips that were so soon to be cold. She recalled to mind the dreary day of the funeral, and how she stood at the window of the large house they then lived at, and watched the funeral procession wind down the drive and out at the great gates, and yet could not believe what the servant was telling her, that she would never behold her dear papa again on earth, for he was gone to be an angel in heaven. Flora thought it strange, as she glanced down on her little black frock, that baby should be called by a name that would remind everybody of so much unhappiness; and she said to her aunt, "I don't like baby to be called that; it will make mamma cry again." "No, my love," replied her aunt, "it will comfort your poor mamma. She will hope that little Hubert will grow up a brave, good man, like his papa." "Look! Miss Flora," she said at length, "you will soon be at home now." They had reached the summit of a steep hill, and when Flora leaned out of the window of the carriage, she could see far below them the pretty village, with its tapering church-spire, near which was her mother's cottage residence. Another turn of the road, and the green porch of her home and the large bay-window of its old-fashioned parlour were in sight. "Oh! Mrs. Riley," she exclaimed, clapping her hands," there is dear mamma standing at the door watching for us! Oh no! it is not mamma, it is a stranger," she resumed in a disappointed tone. "Most likely it is the nurse," replied Mrs. Riley. "You must not expect your mamma to come to meet you this time, Miss Flora. She is not very well, and you will probably find her in bed with your little brother." "Oh dear!" sighed Flora, "it is not a happy return." And her little face grew quite serious. But it brightened up again when the carriage reached the garden-gate, and Mary, Mrs. Sydney's little servant, came running down the gravel-walk to welcome the travellers. "Glad to see you home again, Miss Flora," said Mary cheerfully. "Mistress has been expecting you this hour back." May I go to see her?" "Is she better? asked Flora eagerly. "Yes, sure, miss. You must step very quietly, for baby is asleep." "Well, stay and talk to Mrs. Riley, Mary; I would rather go by myself. I will be as quiet as a mouse, I will indeed," said Flora earnestly, seeing Mary preparing to follow her. Mary stayed behind, and the little girl ran softly upstairs. When she reached her mother's bedroom door, which was half-open, she paused, and peeped in, holding her breath. But Mrs. Sydney had heard the light foot on the stairs, and she called gently, "Flora, my love?" "Nurse, this is my darling," said Mrs. Sydney to the latter. She will be a good girl, and do whatever you bid her. Be so kind as to show her the baby." The next day Flora was taken home. Her little head was full of speculations about her Flora did not speak in reply, but she stole in baby-brother; and she thought how pleased she on tiptoe, and going up to her mamma's pillow, should be to nurse him, and what a nice play-received her welcoming kisses. She had not fellow he would make, and how she should no perceived until then that there was a motherlylonger be lonely in the evenings. For Flora had looking woman seated on the other side of the had no companion but her mamma ever since bed. her papa had died; and though Mrs. Sydney had treated her little girl with the engrossing ⚫ affection that a widowed mother feels for an · only child, still she was not always at liberty to play with her when her lessons were done. And though rich Aunt Stewart, who was Flora's godmother, took care that her little niece should not want either for playthings or pretty picturebooks suited to her age, yet, as my young readers know, we are not always in a humour for reading, and children may tire even of the prettiest playthings when there is no one to enjoy them with. The old servant who travelled with Flora, and whose name was Mrs. Riley, interrupted her childish meditations from time to time by speak ing to her of various objects on the road. So Flora went round the bed, and there what seemned a small bundle of flannel lay on nurse's lap. Nurse lifted a corner of the flannel, and Flora saw a little round pink face, set off by a small frilled cap, trimmed with narrow white satin ribbons. "Oh! mamma, how very small!" said Flora in a discontented tone of voice. "He will never be able to play with me. May I kiss him?" she added, more pleasantly. "Yes," nurse said. And Flora eagerly kissed the little one's velvet cheek. He opened a pair of large blue eyes, and began to cry, 66 "Flora, my dear," said Mrs. Sydney, you do not understand babies yet. You should not kiss him as you kiss me. He can't bear it." "But he is fit for nothing, mamma,' ," said Flora, while nurse was hushing him to sleep again. "He is just like one of those chickens at Mrs. Barraclough's-little peepy things, all covered up in cotton wool. I wonder he can breathe." Nurse could not help laughing at this, and she said, "You must wait a little, Miss Flora. He will soon grow a fine big boy, and then how pleased you will be to nurse him! But now I think, if your mamma pleases, you had better go down-stairs." Mrs. Sydney confirmed nurse's decision, and Flora slowly obeyed, not very well pleased with this new state of things. "But for that tiresome baby," she thought, "I should have stayed with mamma all day, as I did that time when she had a bad cold. What a nice little dinner I had on the round table by her bedside! Mamma does not love me so much now baby is I hate both him and that disagreeable nurse, who pretends to order me. I wonder what right she has !" come. And with these wicked, jealous thoughts, the little girl sat down to dinner, and therefore did not enjoy herself at all, though she was quite hungry with her drive, and Mary had provided some nice cold chicken and raspberry tarts. But neither children nor grown-up people can be happy, who indulge in selfish feelings, and think everything is to give way to their convenience or pleasure. On the contrary, those who are ready to forget themselves, and to study the wishes of others, are invariably the happiest people in the world. very hard to be perpetually obliged to yield to the comfort or convenience of the little stranger who had usurped her place. Yet she dared not complain; she only became grave and rather sulky; and Mrs. Sydney, always busily engaged, was far from being aware of the wicked and wretched thoughts that filled her little girl's mind. "Flora," said her mamma one morning, “I am obliged to go out for half-an-hour, and Mary is busy. Do you think you can nurse baby, and keep him amused until my return?" for she was looking at the pictures in a new "Yes, mamma," said Flora very reluctantly, her the day before; and she felt by no means book that the clergyman of the village had given disposed to relinquish her own gratification for the sake of nursing a fidgetty baby. Slowly and sulkily she closed her book, and laid it away on the shelf, for fear baby should tear or chair by the fire; and Mrs. Sydney placing baby on her lap, brought her his rattle, and ball, and coral and bells, to amuse him with, and so left soil the leaves. Then she sat down in her little her. For about a quarter of an hour all went on pretty well, while Flora languidly amused the But at the end of that time baby began to be infant, though grumbling to herself all the while. fretful, and would no longer look at his play. things. Flora laid him flat on her knee, and let him cry, instead of contriving some new way of amusing him, as a managing little girl would have done. Then, with some effort, she took him with her to the bookcase, whence she reached down her new book, and laying the child on her knee as before, she began to look at the pictures. But the little fellow held up his tiny hand before she was aware, and seizing on one of the engravings, tore it half out of the book. This put Flora into such a passion, that she threw down her present, and gave the unfortunate little meddler such a violent shaking, that he screamed with fear. She now became still more angry, for she was afraid of Mary coming to see what was the matter, and she gave the poor little thing two or three bard slaps to make him be quiet. But he only screamed the louder; and quite beside herself with rage, Flora exclaimed, "You hateful, tiresome little creature! I wish you might die!" Flora soon found that her daily life would be very different from what it had been before little Hubert was born. Her mamma speedily recovered; but as she could only afford to keep one servant, she was very much engaged with baby, and could no longer walk out with Flora whenever the little girl wished for a stroll. They had been used to spend very pleasant evenings together, little Flora learning to crochet or embroider, while her mamma read aloud to her out of some amusing and instructive book; or sometimes Flora would read to her mamma, though she did not like that so much, as Mrs. Sydney had a very sweet voice, and Flora loved to listen to it. But now baby was cross, or baby must The little girl by this time was in such a state be fed, or it was time to hush baby to sleep; of agitation, that she never perceived a lady who and even when baby happened to be good and had entered the room a few moments prewant nothing, he had a way of making all man-viously, and now stood watching her with a ner of cooing noises, that prevented any reading or conversation from going on in his presence. Then in the morning, Flora had been accustomed to have her shining hair dressed by her mamma's own gentle hand, for Mrs. Sydney thought no one could arrange her little daughter's curls so well as herself. But now "that tiresome baby" was in the way, and Mary the little maid must dress Miss Flora's hair. So things went on; and the child, accustomed to the constant attentions of her beloved parent, found it very concerned countenance. The lady advanced, and quietly took the infant from her. Flora looked up in astonishment, and then became overwhelmed with confusion, on finding that Aunt Stewart had unexpectedly arrived, and had been a witness of her violence. "Oh! aunt," she stammered, "I did not know you were here." "Very likely, Flora," replied Mrs. Stewart gravely: "if you had, you would have been ashamed to behave so cruelly to your poor little brother. You forget that an Almighty Eye was upon you." The child had ceased to cry, but his little bosom shook with sobs, and he lay on Aunt Stewart's lap pale and exhausted. 66 Suppose your wicked wish had been fulfilled, and your little brother had died in a fit of convulsions from excessive crying! It was quite possible; many infants have died from slighter causes. Could you ever have forgiven yourself, Flora? How would you have borne to meet your mother's eye?" “Oh! aunt," said the little girl, now weeping bitterly, "I did not think of all this. I have felt very naughty for a long time. Almost ever since baby came I have been vexed with him, and hated him, because I thought mamma loved him better than me. Don't tell her, please; I should not like her to know; she would be so very sorry." and to become all that her good aunt wished her to be. At length her mamma, in writing to Mrs. Stewart, spoke thus of her little daughter: "Since you were last here, a remarkable that I was often distressed by her manner. change has come over dear Flora. I told you There was something about her that I could not understand, and which, young as she is, prevented the usual happy confidence between us. She gave me the idea of not being quite contented with her home, though I am sure I strove to give her all proper variety of occupation and pleasure. You know how I love my child. But all is right now, and she is even greatly improved. Affectionate and cheerful, ever striving to save me trouble, and a most loving nurse and playfellow to dear little Hubert, I could not wish any mother a more promising child than my Flora." In Yes, Flora, she would indeed; so I shall not grieve her by telling her. And now I am going to prove the sincerity of your repentance, my dear. I have brought with me something very pretty, that I intended to give to you. Iam sure you will feel that after your conduct of this morning you do not deserve anything. Are you willing that I should take it back again with me, and keep it until I shall hear from your mamma that you are a very helpful little daughter to her, and a cheerful nurse to baby?" "Yes, aunty," replied little Flora, though she looked sadly disappointed. "Yes, aunty, take it and keep it for me. I will not even ask you to tell me what it is. It will be a more pleasant surprise when it does come." 66 Aunt Stewart's visit was soon at an end, and she departed, taking back the present, as had been agreed upon between her and Flora, without the latter knowing anything more about it. Several weeks passed, during which the little girl daily strove to overcome her jealous feelings, answer to this letter, Aunt Stewart despatched the present, and it arrived by coach the same evening, directed to Flora. The little girl immediately suspected what it was, and she said, "Dear mamma, have you been writing to Aunt Stewart ?" This brought out the whole story, and the youthful penitent confessed with tears how naughty she had formerly been, and told how she had since striven to love little Hubert, and to please her dear mamma in everything. Then the mother and child, rendered happier than ever by this confidence, opened the parcel together. and as It was a beautiful rosewood workbox; Flora looked into its various compartments, and examined its numerous elegant contrivances, she felt that there was much more satisfaction in receiving it now, than she would have experienced had Aunt Stewart presented it to her at the time she first intended to do so, before she had acted so as to deserve her approbation. do first observe the drawing of mottoes as well as names; so that Pierce, who drew my wife, did draw also a motto, and this girl drew another for me: what mine was I forget; but my wife's was most courteous, and most fair, which, as it may be used as an anagram upon each name, might be very pretty. One wonder I observed to-day, there was no music in the morning to call up our new married friend (Peg Penn), which is very mean, methinks." Many curious customs are related by dif- | than I must have given to others. But here I ferent writers in honour of this day; but, of all the quotations that could be made, none is more quaint and striking than the following from the diary of the celebrated Pepys. On the 14th of February, 1667, is there entered: "This morning came up to my wife's bedside, I being up dressing myself, little Will Mercer to her Valentine, and brought her name written upon blue paper in gold letters, done by myself very pretty; and we were both well pleased with it. But I am also this year my wife's Valentine, and it will cost me £5; but that I must have laid out if we had not been Valentines." He also adds: "I find that Mrs. Pierce's little girl is my Valentine, she having drawn me; which I was not sorry for, easing me of something more The divinations practised on Valentine's Day are a curious subject. Herrick mentions one by rose-buds "She must no more a-Maying; I That Valentines were not confined to the lower classes in the days of Pepys, and were sometimes of a very costly description, may be judged from the following statement: "The Duke of York being once Mrs. Stuart's Valentine, did give her a jewel of about £800; and my Lord Mandeville, her Valentine this year, a ring of about £300." And, in the following year, he notes down "This evening my wife did with great pleasure show me her stock of jewels, increased by the ring she hath had made lately, as my Valentine's gift this year, a Turkey stone set with diamonds. With this, and what she had, she reckons that she hath above £150 worth of jewels of one kind or other, and I am glad of it; for it is fit the wretch should have something to content herself with." With regard to the origin of this festival in the calendar, there are many conflicting opinions. St. Valentine, who suffered martyrdom in the reign of the Emperor Claudius, was eminently distinguished for his love and charity; and the custom of choosing Valentines, or special loving friends on this day, is by some supposed to have thence originated. The following solution is, however, the more probable one. It was the practice in ancient Rome, during a great part of the month of February, to celebrate the Lupercalia, which were feasts in honour of Pan and Juno, whence the latter deity was named Februala, or Februalis. On this occasion, amidst a variety of ceremonies, the names of young women were put into a box, from which they were drawn by the men, as chance directed. The pastors of the early Christian church, who by every possible means endeavoured to eradicate the vestiges of pagan superstitions, and chiefly by some commutations of their forms, substituted, in the present instance, the names of particular saints, instead of those of the women; and, as the festival of the Lupercalia had commenced about the middle of February, they appear to have chosen Valentine's day for celebrating the new feast, because it occurred nearly at the same time. Miss A. B. Baker, in her recent work on Northamptonshire words and the customs of the country, thus describes "Valentining" in her own vicinity :-" Children going from house to house, the morning of St. Valentine's day, soliciting small gratuities. The children of the villages go in parties, sometimes in considerable numbers, repeating at each house one or other of the following salutations, which vary in dif ferent districts : "Good morrow, Valentine! First its yours, and then its mine, First 'tis yours, and then 'tis mine, Parsley grows by savoury, The custom of making presents of gloves at Easter appears to be of long standing, as it is noticed in Bishop Hall's Satires, 1598. It was formerly customary for young people to 'catch' their parents and each other on their first meeting on St. Valentine's morning. Catching was no more than the exclamation, 'Good morrow, Valentine !' and they who could repeat this before they were spoken to, were entitled to a small present from their parents or the elderly persons of the family; consequently, there was great eagerness to rise early, and much goodnatured strife and merriment on the occasion. In Peterborough, and in some of the villages in the northern part of the county, sweet plumbuns were formerly, and I believe are still, made, called Valentine buns; and these buns, I am told, are in some villages given by godfathers and godmothers to their godchildren on the Sunday preceding and the Sunday following St. Valentine's Day. St. Valentine is supposed amongst the rural population to influence the weather, as appears by the old saw : "In Valentine, March lays her line."" DEATH OF MISS MITFORD. After a long period of decline and helpless suffering, cheerfully borne, the author of "Our Village" died at Swallowfield Cottage, near Reading, at five o'clock in the afternoon of Wednesday, the 10th of January, "aged," says the Athenæum-from which we partly borrow this account-" 66 years. She was born in 1789, at Alresford, in Hampshire.' The above date, one who knew her well informs us, is not quite correct. She had just completed her 68th birthday, and was born in 1787-a period which exactly agrees with a reminiscence in the life of Mrs. Sherwood, who tells us that, after her father's visit to Reading in 1790, he was so delighted with a sort of exhibition got up by the young ladies of Mons. and Madame Q****'s school, kept in the Old Abbey at Reading, to which he had been taken by Dr. Valpy, that he thought it would be the very place to send Mary, and that after the Christmas holidays, when her brother returned to Westminster, she proceeded to Reading, where, she tells us, Dr. Mitford was at that time a physician in the town; and she remembered once going to a church (which they did not usually attend) with Madame Q****, and being taken into Mrs. |