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Fata. The Crusaders. By hiring t ■iiku ( on their shields one man could be distinguished from another, which would hare been other-rise I a very difficult matter when they were corered j with armour from bead to foot. Suppose, now, Too keep the other questions for next time, and ) let ni try to amuse ourselves with a new frame I hare inrented for yon? We will try it first, and; pre it a name afterwards. It it to be played thai: I tell you that I hare thought of a person or eTent in a certain teutuis, and yon are allowed to ask as many questions as you please to enable you to find the answer.

Ethxl. Do begin, Papa. What is H?

Papa. A celebrated courtier of the sixteenth century, universally beloved, and distinguished both for his wit and accomplishments.

Ethel. Oh, I know, Papa—it was Sir Walter Raleigh.

Papa. Guess again. You hare not eren asked in whose reign be lived.

Ida. Was it Henry VIII, Marv, or Elizabeths?

Richakd. Had he anything to do with France!

Papa. Tea: Charles IX. was so pleased with hun, that he conferred on him a special office about his person; bnt the dreadful massacre of St. Bartholomew occurring soon after, he was obliged to take refuge with the English Ambassador, and continue the voyage on which his sovereign had sect him.

Richard. Then it was Queen Elizabeth who was eotemporary wrib Charles IX. What else, Papa?

Papa. He was sent to Vienna to endeavour to form the Protectants into a league for the defence of their religion. William of Orange sent word to the Queen that he thought him the wisest counsellor in Europe.

Ethel. Was it Drake, Papa?

Papa. Wrong again. You win guess at once when I tell you that he had agreed to accompany Drake, bat the Queen made him Governor of Flu thing, instead of allowing him logo.

Ida. Where is Flushing?

Papa. It is in Holland, and was one of the towns commiued to the English for security by the Datfh. At Znrpben—another town—our hero received a mortal wound, and what then occurred wi3 always make him remembered.

Richakd. It was Sir Philip Sydney, of course.

Papa. What did be write, Ida?

Ida. Wash a poem called "Arcadia"?

Papa. It was; but who can relate the anecdote to which I alluded?

Richakd. When faint from loss of blood Le uked for something to drink—which was brought to him—just at the moment he looked cp, iz.i in a poor bleeding soldier being carried aosg, and looking wistfully at the bottle. Sir ft^j at once took it from his own lips and gave c to the so': iier, saying, •* Thy necessity *■ (rater than mine"' He only lived sixteen sa&cr tans happened, and was never heard

to breathe a nYflrnTOr at hht Mifferings. Gift ov another question, please. Papa.

Papa. One that you will guess at once—in elegant writer of an allegorical poem.

Ida. Wa« h Milton, Papa?

Papa. It was not; but I am glad yon thought of "The Paradise Lost," as it shows vou understood my explanation of the term "allegory." Now, bow can I help yon > The poem is divided into six books.

Ethxl. Does the name begin with S f

Papa. It does. Ton know now,

Ethxl. It was Shakespeare.

Papa. Only right so far that he lived is the reign of Elizabeth.

Ida. It was Spenser, who wrote the "Faerie Queene." I saw a picture about it the other day, and then tried to make it out by the book: but I couldn't make any sense of it.

Papa. Simply because yon could not understand the personification. If I remember rightly the poem opens with a description of the Queen holding a festival for twelve din; during that time a number of knights present themselves at her court, who all undertake different adventures, and each of these indiridnilt represents a Christian virtue. Rebgion and knight-errantry are mixed up everywhere, and the whole aim is to depict the character of I perfect man. Do not attempt to read it again at present, my dear: two or three years hence you will find more pleasure in its perusal than now: but reach me down the volume, and 1 will read to you some beautiful lines, intended to illustrate 'God's care for his creatures by the ministration of angels :—

'" Aim! it there care is hesvea ? sad is there lore
In heavenly spirits to these ereatares base
That may eompassioa of their eras more?

There is: else curb more wretched were the raw
Of net than, beasts. Bit oh! the exceeding enact
Of highest Got, that loTes bi» creature* so,
And all hii works with merry does embrace,
In; bj eased anccis he sends to ud fro
To serve to wicked nun. to serve to.wicked foe!

'• Hot ofi o.- they their silver bowers leave.
To coast to SDccrar us that succour want!
How oft do they with sol Acs pinions cleave
The Sceziac skies, Etc £y£a£ psrsnivint
Against fool fiends, to aid ss militant!
They for n» first, liber watch and duly ward,
AW their bruit snaadross round us plant,
And all far lore, sad nmbiar for reward!
Ok! why should heavenly God to asen have suck

Ida. Of course I shall Eke the poem better now you hare put the meaning plainer. What are we to call the game. Papa?

Ethel. - Papa's Game" is the best.

Papa. "The Century Game" would be better, because you see, my love, it would only be your Papa's game.

Richard. Will "The Children's Century Game" do, Papa?

Papa. So let it be, my boy; and mind you get some good puzzles for next time.

(From "Dogs and their Ways,")


"Every family," says Dr. Brown, "should have a dog; it is like having a perpetual baby; it is the plaything and crony of the whole house. It keeps them all going; and then he tells no tales, betrays no secrets, never sulks, asks no troublesome questions, never gets into debt, never coming down late to breakfast, or coming in too early to bed; is always ready for a bit of fun, lies in wait for it, and you may, if angry, kick him, to your relief, instead of some one else, who might not take it so meekly." • Mr. Youatt had a brace of greyhounds, which he says were "as arrant thieves as ever lived." Not that they committed their thefts without judgment, for, in some of their movements, they displayed a sagacity which such dogs have not been supposed commonly to possess. Now and then they would steal into the cooking room belonging to the kennel, lift the lid from the boiler, and if any portion of the joint or piece of meat rose above the water, suddenly seize it, and, before there was time for them to feel much of its heat, whirl it on the floor, and eat it at their leisure as it got cold.

On these pranks being known, it was gravely determined to prevent them in future; so the top of the boiler was carefully secured by an iron rod passed under its handle, and tied to the handle of the boiler on each side. But not many days passed before the greyhounds discovered that they could gnaw the cords asunder; and so successfully did they achieve the task, that they obtained the meat, and regaled themselves as they had done before. Small chains were now substituted for the cords, under the notion that the meat would now be perfectly safe; and so it remained for nearly a week. But now the greyhounds found out that by rearing themselves on their hind legs, and applying their united strength to the top of the boiler, they could lift it out of its bed, and rolling it along the floor, get at the broth, though the meat was beyond their reach. The only course appeared to be to remove the dogs; and the man who had charge of them was glad at their departure; for he said he was often afraid to go into the kennel, and was sure they were devils, and not dogs.

Samuel Wood, one of the bravest of the brave

men who form the fire-brigade, it was said some three years ago, has saved nearly a hundred men, women, and children from the flames. Bill, a very remarkable dog that has greatly contributed to this amazing result, distinguishes him from all men similarly employed, as the special object of his strong attachment. As he has, like his master, to be very wakeful, and at his post of duty throughout the night, he sleeps during the day, and, at the time just mentioned, had done so for nine long years. Bill never allows his master to sleep-too long; he, at least, is sure to wake in good time; yet he never attempts to run out of doors until the time approaches for them to go to the station. How is it that he keeps time, as he undoubtedly does, 60 well?

When the fire-escape is wheeled out of Whitechapel churchyard, at nine o'clock, Bill is sure to be there. On an alarm of fire being heard, though commonly very quiet, he begins to bark most furiously. Wood has no occasion to spring his rattle, for the policemen come up at this well and widely-known sound. If the alarm takes place when few people are in the streets, he runs round to the coffee-houses near, and pushing the doors open barks his "Come and help I— Come and help 1" and his call is promptly and cheerfully obeyed.

In dark nights the lantern has to be lit, when Bill seizes it, and runs on before his master; and when the ladder is reared, active as Samuel Wood is, the dog is at the top before him. He leaps into the rooms, and, amidst thick smoke and approaching flames, bounds from chamber to chamber, helping bis master to find and bring out the inmates.

On one occasion, so rapidly did the fire burn and so dense was the smoke, that Wood and another man could not find their way out, and feared, at length, that escape was hopeless. But as if fully aware of their danger, Bill began to bark, when Wood and his comrade, half suffocated, crawled after the dog, and in a few moments they providentially reached a window and their lives were saved. At another time a kitten was found by Bill in a house on fire, when be drove it down from stair to stair until it reached the door, when it was cared for by a policeman.

Hill's silver collar bore the following inscription:

"I am the Firc-cscapc-man's dog—my name is Bill;
When 'fire' is called, I am never still.
I bark for my master, all danger I brave,
To bring the 'Escape,' human life to save."

Poor Bill, too, has had his sufferings as well as honours. Once, at a fire, he fell through a hole burnt in the floor, into a tub of scalding water, from which he suffered dreadfully, and narrowly escaped a bitter death; and on three other occasions he was unfortunately run over, but was soon restored to perform his usual services.

Bob, a low-standing, long-bodied dog, of a sandy colour was also very useful. He wore a brass collar, on which was engraved—

"Slop me not, but let mc jog.
For I am Bob, the firemen's dog."

Whenever the fire-bell at the station rang, he was in the habit of making ready to start, and then running in front of the engine to clear the way; and when he reached the fire he would run up ladders, force his way through windows, and enter jeopardized rooms better than the firemen could. Some time ago, at the time of the explosion in the Westminster Road, Bob darted into the burning house, and was seen to bring away a cat in his mouth. At another fire in Lambeth, Bob was present as usual, and the firemen were told that all the inmates had been saved; but Bob went to a side door and barked loudly, which attracted the notice of the brigade, who felt convinced that some one wag in the passage, and on opening the door a child was found nearly suffocated.

Poor Bob got very severely burnt on one occasion, and became in consequence a muclicared-for inmate of the hospital of the Veterinary College. As soon as he was equal to the effort, it was only for a fireman to say, "Show the gentlemen how you can pump," or, *' How you can run up a ladder and fetch," for Bob to obey, exciting the admiration of all the lookers-on. In a little time Bob was fully restored by the attentions he received in that establishment. In May, I860, he went through his various extraordinary performances at the annual meeting of the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, for the purpose of showing how obedient dumb animals may be made by kindly treatment; and so greatly were the audience gratified that he was to have appeared again before them at the next anniversary, but unhappily a few days before its occurrence, he was run over by an engine while proceeding to a fire, and killed, like all his predecessors.

A dog belonging to some friends of the writer, was especially fond of a game at "hide and sei'k," and would frequently express, in all possible ways, his importunity, till his master went to the drawer containing the ball. The moment he saw the drawer being opened, he scampered into the hall to wait the hiding, until he heard a well-known whistle, when he commenced a thorough search for the ball through the room. On finding it, he always threw it at his master's feet, and ran into the hall to await for another hiding.

A friend of the writer, Mr. B , had a spaniel of the long-nosed and long-eared tribe, approaching in appearance that of a small waterdog, whose movements were not a little amusing. They lived in the suburbs of the metropolis; and one of its habits was, when bis master returned from town, as he did daily, to watch for his being quietly seated and at leisure, and then to spring up, hug him round the neck, licking hm face and behind his ears; and this warm

embrace once over, he never took any farther notice of his master till he next came borne.

It was this dog's practice to shake paws with every visitor. With great gravity would he go round the drawing-room, holding out his paw to each one there, with a sort of grunt as hi> word of welcome. It was easy for those who knew him well to work powerfully on his feelings. Ask him if he would like a mutton-chop, say "Such nice eating"—"O, so good I" and at each successive stage of the appeal his tongue would take a wider range, and his gustatory powers seem revelling in the ideal repast. In ; like manner, when seated before his master or mistress, if either told a doleful story, | interspersing it with such phrases as ," Poor dear!" "O, so sad!"—in a mournful tone of voice, his look was that of great interest; then he would give a slight grunt, as if indicative of comprehension, gradually the tears would come into his eyes, and at last his sympathy was expressed in a howl. This dog was very jealous of a baby; and it ! one were in the room he would creep under tbe 1 sofa, and look with extreme dissatisfaction at J the little creature. So long as it was there he i would not come out, but sulk. All attempts to 1 pacify him were utterly in vain; the proffered 'cake was indignantly refused; and it was ooljr for one of the family to take the baby, thus add| ing insult to injury, to excite bis wrath to tbe i utmost. On the next day, however, he fairly I recovered his composure.

When any of the family were going; out aod said W, this dog would get up from the hearth and listen attentively; the utterance of A would increase his excitement; but it reached its height when L and K were added; though till be heard W he was perfectly still. He wanted, too, to be off at once, of which he gave many sufficiently practical illustrations, Thus, if hu master lingered, he would go down-stairs, bring up a boot, and lay it at his feet, as much as to say, "What on earth are you waiting for ? — h it for this?" Any boot would be seized, bowever, as answering his purpose; he knew as weli as anybody about him that a boot, like a hat, was wanted for a walk.

Dr. Edward Walsh described, some years ags, a dog in his family, well deserving a high place in the records of canine sagacity. Quail was a brown water-spaniel; she stood nearly lira feet high; her hair was dark auburn, curled in different parts with a crisp and graceful wave. but her bosom was of snowy whiteness. Vivacious as she was usually, she was particularly so when spoken to and receiving direction, she then inclined her head a little on one skk, and looked at the person addressing her with ihi most inquirtng sagacity. She was, in fact. model of canine beauty and intelligence.

The accomplishments taught her by the boys

of the family, bore no proportion to those Qea

obtained without instruction. When young, i^

first step was to make her perfect in fetchiw

nd carrying whatever she was sent for, both <'

nd out of the water, till both elements werr alike to her; and this seemed the foundation of everything else. She soon learned to distinguish what belonged to every person of the family,' and to every part of the person. If a glove were lost, it was only to dhow the hand to Quail, and she set out on a quest, searched every place in and near the house, and almost always succeeded in finding it. This she soon improved into finding of herself whatever was dropped, and conveying it safely to them. Many a pockethandkerchief was saved in this way, for which they never thought of sending Quail in search.

If one of the family met out of doors a companion, who asked him to walk, and he did not wish to lose time by returning for his hat, he had only to touch bis head to Quail, and go on. The hats lay on the hall table, and she never failed to return to the house, select the one required from the rest, and, holding it out of the dirt as she had been taught, carry it to him. When sent back on such occasions, she sometimes found the door shut, and could not get it; when, having tried in vain to gain an entrance by scratching, she adopted another method. As there was no rapper at the backdoor, and persons generally thumped it with their fist, Quail learned of her own sagacity to imitate the action with her tail, and never failed to bring some one to open the door.

"On one occasion," says Dr. Walsh, " I remember I went out to shoot raits, and having fired at a bird, I prepared to charge again, but could not find my powder-horn. This loss Quail soon comprehended, and instantly went back in search ol it. My way had been through several meadows and fields, and across roads and ditches, since I had last used it: through all these she retraced my footsteps, frequently questing through the intricate crossings I had made several times over the same fields, and so unravelling the whole distance I had gone for several miles; at length found the powder-horn, and returned to me with it, after an absence of nearly an hour."

A very old woman in the family was fond of snuff, but not able to fetch it herself; and as the servant boy was not always willing, he taught Quail to be his substitute. Putting a halfpenny into the empty box, he gave it to the dog, who forthwith carried it in her mouth to the snuff-shop; and then, rising up to the counter with her fore-legs, she shook her head and rattled the halfpenny. This was soon understood by the shopman, who took the money and filled the box, which Quail bore safely to the old woman.

Her sagacity within doors was equally in requisition. The family sat in the winter time in a large parlour, reading round the fire, with Quail between the legs of one of them, and her head resting on the knees, waiting for any orders which might be given her. Told to shut the door, she lifted up her right fore paw—for she actually had a preference for the use of the right paw—and pushed the door forward till the lock clicked. On one occasion she could not move the door; and after sundry efforts she

relumed, whining in that peculiar way by which she expressed embarrassment. It appeared that the room was smoking, and the servant having open d the door to let the smoke out, placed a smoothing iron against it. Quail, with her head on one side, pondered the case, when, as if the cause suddenly struck her, she ran at the iron, dragged it away, pushed with both feet against the door, shut it, and returned to ber friends, with no ordinary exultation. Similar obstructions were often placed at the door; but the cause was no longer a mystery to Quail; she always, however, barked at it and shook it after its removal, as if to express her displeasure at the trouble it bad given her. But the instances of her sagacity appear absolutely endless. The following fact is stated by Dr. Walsh. During the absence of his mother from home, a portrait of her arrived, and was placed, prior to its being hung up, on the sofa where she used to sit. He could not account for the boisterous joy of Quail in the dining-room one day, when, on looking in, he saw she had recognized the portrait, and was wagging her tail and frisking about, as she always did to express her joy, frequently looking up and licking the face, a mark of affection she tried to pay to those she was fond of. When the picture was hung up, she never failed to notice it when she entered the room, and lay for some time before it on the carpet, gazing at it intently; and this she did till Mrs. Walsh's return, when the original, whose constant kindness she most warmly repaid, detached her attention from the portrait. The artist frequently declared—naturally enough —that he considered this recognition the highest compliment that could be paid him.



Obedience in children is a desirable trait; it is one more readily observed than many others. The command or request mildly, calmly, yet earnestly made, is promptly and properly obeyed. The child takes a pride in its obedience.

Occasionally I visit a friend who has a large family of children, and at each time I cannot fail but observe the order, quietness, and obedience manifested. Quite recently I was engaged in conversation with him. It was cold, and a door near us was ajar. "Willie, please shut that door," he said to one of his children. The little fellow finished his house of blocks then almost completed, got up, shut the door, and came to his father's side, apparently awaiting a pause in the conversation.

"Well, Willie," he asked, "what is it?"

"I am sorry, papa."

"Sorry for what, dear?''

"Because I did not shut the door immediately."

"Oh! well, you will do better the next time."

The father patted the child on the head. He ran away satisfied, and the conversation was resumed. It was a simple occurrence, but for some reason or other it clings tenaciously to my memory. I never asked my friend to explain to me his system of parental government; but I have no doubt that the following were some of the distinctive points:—

1. Always insisting upon a prompt obedience.

2. Keeping every promise of award or threat of punishment.

3. Never exhibiting anger in their presence. Punishing severely when he did punish; not immediately, nor when enraged, but at another time, and after a kind lecture of reproof and explanation.

4. Addressing them in a voice uniformly low and kind.

He had said "please" to his own child. It was significant. He did not preach one thing and practise another. He always gave his children a bearing, endeavoured to adapt himself to their childish thoughts and comprehensions, and to beautify them by his companionship.


Miss Sallie Booth, who was noticed specially in this Magazine for December, is still pursuing her satisfactory career at the Theatre Royal, Greenwich. She is a young lady about twentysix years of age, and niece of the famous Sarah Booth, who was "leading lady" at Covent Garden fifty years ago, when, to be in that category, at one of the two "patent theatres," was to be something prominent. Old Sarah Booth was born in 1792: she went on the stage at three years of age, and is, therefore, now the oldest actress alive, and the "Mother of the Stage." Her debut in London was at the Surrey Theatre, on the 23rd April, 1810, under the management of Mr. Elliston, who was in dismay when she left him, to make her first appearance on the 23rd of November, in the same year, at Covent Garden, where she became a reigning favourite. She remained there about seven years, during which period one of the toasts of the day was " Kitty Stephens, Mary Bolton, and Sally Booth." In 1820, she appeared for the first time in Dublin, and made a great hit. Her lact appearance was in 1841, at the Marylebone Theatre, for the benefit of a Mr. Attwood, when she played Kate O'Brien in "Perfection," and Lisette in "The Sergeant's Wife." A large picture of her as Juliet was painted, and is in the possession of the Dramatic College. Her performance of Little Pickle, in the "Spoilt Child," is now a pleasant reminiscence among old playgoers, when they prattle their recollections of by-gone but memorable incidents. Before the old Greenwich Theatre was burnt down, she used occasionally to "star it" on very nearly the same plot of ground on which

her niece is now distinguishing herself. The young lady has inherited some of the beBt point, of her aunt, viz., the powerful and clear voices the distinct articulation, the pleasing and graceful manners, the ease of deportment, and the subtle grasp and comprehension of character. These are the qualities which gradually win select public favour—more permanently, more securely, more slowly than those flashy, load, stagey, striking attributes, which, at a bound, gain the applause and the money of the mob.


No. 9, Conduit Street, Regent Street, Gallery Of The Architectural ExHibition.

The private view of this Society's Exhibition took place on Saturday the 19th ult., and ww not only well, but very fully, attended. Evidently the public interest is increasing on behalf of the works of lady-artists. The present room is, however, much better adapted for the exhibition of pictures and the circulation of visitors than some others in which it has been held; and as this is either the second or third season of their location in the Gallery of the Architectural Exhibition, ve hope we may congratulate the Committee on having obtained a permanent position in Conduit Street. The present season shows a real advance on the part of many of the exhibitor!, whose works we hope on another occasion to

j particularize; at present our time and space will only admit of our drawing our townreaderr attention to the gallery. A pleasant featureof the Exhibition is the fact that the greatest paintreu of our time (Rosa Bonheur) has shown her sympathy with her humbler sister-artists, and gracei the Exhibition with a " Doe and Fawns, from Fontainebleau" (64), Mrs. Marrable exhibits landscapes, which show remarkable carefulnes

i in drawing and excellent colour. Miss M. Rayner is very happy in her architectural pictures. Miss Fitzjames* "Fruit and Fowen" are delicious, fresh, and delicately painted; ar~ her "Woodpigeon" (104) deserves attention. Miss Rosa Place appears to have taken wildflowers for her special study, and exhibit! some very sweet transcripts of them, «" composed (a greater difficulty than may be imagined) and carefully painted; witness he "Foxglove, Mallow, and Grasses" (138). Mw G. E. Pitt's "Bird's-nest and Holly" (135) show considerable care. Miss E. Walter's "Autumn" and "Summer" (120 and 127) exhibit freedom of handling and an appreciation of colour. We shall return to this Exhibition in our nest number, the want of space preventing a $■ notice of it in the current one.

C. A. V

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