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DOMESTIC RECEIPTS.

French way of Dressing Cold Beetroot.-Take your cold beetroot-chop it very small and put it in a saucepan to heat, with a little cream; immediately before serving, put in a spoonful of vinegar and a little brown sugar; serve hot.M. C. S.

White Soup à la Jenny Lind. Take three quarts of white stock, seasoned with white pepper and mace; put in three ounces of sago; let it boil twenty minutes, stirring occasionally: beat the yolks of four eggs with a gill of cream, and stir into the soup immediately on taking it off the fire.-M. C. S. Edinburgh.

Boiled Cheese.-Put one table-spoonful of milk into a saucepan, with a bit of butter, the size of a nutmeg, and one quarter of a pound of prime cheese, grated finely; stir the whole over a slow fire, until it boils, then add one egg, well beaten; stir all well together, turn it into your dish, brown it, and serve hot. "A dish worth knowing."-W.

Apples.-This fruit is both nutritious and wholesome, and deserving a more prominent place in the catalogue of table-fruits than is generally assigned to it. Sweet apples contain a large amount of saccharine matter, and are probably more nutritious than the sour varieties. The apple, however, like all other fruits, should never be eaten in an unsound or unripe state, and the fairest and most perfect fruit should always, if possible, be selected for use.

Ginger Cup Cake.-Cut up the butter in the milk, and warm them slightly. Warm also the treacle, and stir it into the milk and butter; then stir in, gradually, the sugar, and set it away to get cool. Beat the eggs very light, and stir them into the mixture alternately with the flour. Add the ginger and other spice with the pearlash, and stir the whole very hard. Butter small tins, nearly fill them with the mixture, and bake the cakes in a moderate oven.-B. WILSON.

Apple Paste.-Pare your apples and cut them down. Weigh them, and allow an equal quantity of white sugar; put them into a jar, and boil till quite soft. Boil your sugar to a syrup, then drop in the apples with a teacupful of marmalade, and a little grated ginger; let them simmer ten minutes. Wet your shapes with spirits, and dish them. They will turn out firm, and keep for years. The apples must be put into cold water, as they are pared. The proportion of water is a breakfast cupful to two pounds of

sugar.

To Bake Apples. -Sweet apples properly baked and eaten with milk, are excellent. The best method of baking tart apples is, to take the fairest and largest in size, wipe them clean if thin skinned, and pare them if the skin is thick and tough; cut out the largest portion of the core from one end, and place the fruit on well glazed earthen dishes or pans, with the end which has been cored upwards, and fill the cavity with refined powdered sugar. Then place them in the oven or other apparatus for baking until sufficiently cooked. Take them out, and when cold, they are perfectly delicious.

Baked Faggots.-Having procured your pigsfry (the quantity to be regulated by the size of family), wash and set it on the fire, in a saucepan, with just sufficient water to cover; add a bunch of sage, and four or five onions; let all boil ten minutes; take out the meat, and cut in slices; then take out the sage and onions, and chop it all finely together; season with pepper and salt; cut the caul in pieces, and fill with the meat about the size of an ordinary tea cup; place them on a tin and bake in a moderate oven; do not throw away the water it was boiled in, but boil it down to a sufficient quantity to serve with the faggots as gravy.-Recommended and much approved. ONE

OF THE FAMILY.

Preserved Fruit Tarts.-Roll out some very good puff-paste, about a quarter of an inch thick; cut it into pieces about four inches square. Line with a knife. Put in a sufficient quantity of your patty-pans, paring them very neatly round aprieot, raspberry, strawberry, currant, damson, apple, or any other preserved fruit. String them crossways with paste, made in the following manner: mix an ounce of fresh butter, with your hands, in a quarter of a pound of flour, and a little cold water; rub it well between the board and your hand till it begins to string; cut it into small pieces, roll it out, and draw it into fine strings. Lay them crossways over the tarts, and bake them from eight to ten minutes in a quick oven, taking care to keep them of a very light brown colour.-B. WILSON.

Indian Receipt for Curry.-It may be that the following real Indian receipt for curry may not be unacceptable to some of your readers.-A wet Curry.-Cut a chicken into pieces, saving the bones; fry it gently in an ounce of fresh butter, strewing over it, after it has been on the fire for a few minutes, one tablespoonful of curry powder. Have ready two large onions cut small into rings, and take care to have them fried without turning. Put the onions with the fried chicken into a stew-pan and add half a pint of good stock (or, if not to be had, of water; (cover the pan, and stew the whole gently, until the meat becomes tender. If wished, just before it is served, add the juice of half a small lemon; salt to the taste. If made from meat already cooked, it must not be stewed more than five minutes, if at all.-E. G. Fort of Apeergurgh, Pres. of Bombay.

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Infant's Food. - - Having noticed in a late number of the Family Friend a request for a receipt for "Infant's food," I beg to enclose this one, though somewhat similar to the French one mentioned by the Enquirer. Take a pound of the best flour, tie it very tightly in a strong cloth and put it into a pan of boiling water (in which put a plate, to prevent the cloth sticking to the bottom of the pan). Boil it for three hours without allowing it to go off the boil-when coldish, untie the cloth, and scrape off the out-side of ball: when to be used, grate down the quantity required and break it with cold water; boil four or five minutes only, and sweeten to the taste, Flour prepared in this way is confidently recommended by an experienced sick nurse as a soft and nutritious food for the youngest infant, and will keep for a month or more in its hard compact state. Milk may be added when about to be eaten, if wished.-S. Š. MILLER, Laverock-Bank, near Edinburgh.

SCIENTIFIC AMUSEMENTS.

To write on Paper with Letters of Gold.-Put some gum-arabic into common writing ink, and write with it in the usual way; when the writing is dry, breathe on it; the warmth and moisture soften the gum, and will cause it to fasten on the gold leaf, which may be laid on in the usual way, and the superfluous part brushed off.

TRANSPOSITION.

Forwards-backwards, read my name,
In sound and meaning I'm the same;
Infants on their mother's knee
Smile with joy at sight of me;
Add a letter-strange but true,
A man I then appear to view.

RIDDLES. 1.

I'm rough, I'm smooth, I'm wet, I'm dry,
My station low, my title high;
The king himself my master is,-
I'm used by all-but only his.

2.

A word there is, five syllables contains, Take one away, no syllable remains.

3.

By something formed, I nothing am,
Yet everything that you can name;
In all things false, yet ever true,
I'm still the same, but ever new;
Lifeless-life's perfect form I wear,
Can show a nose, eye, tongue, or ear,
Yet neither see, smell, taste, nor hear;
Swiftly I move, and enter where
Not e'en a chink can let in air.
Like thought, I'm in a moment gone,
Nor can I ever be alone-

I ne'er was born, nor e'er can die,.
Then tell me, pray! tell what am I.

4.

Why must convents be the abodes of purity?

5.

What letter must you add to your situation to remove you from it?

6.

Though I, alas! a prisoner be,
My trade is prisoners to set free;
No slave his lord's command obeys
With more insinuating ways;

My genius piercing, sharp, and bright,
Yet 'tis not in me to give light!
A new and wondrous art I show,

Of raising spirits from below.

In serving man my time I spend→

I break, 'tis true, but cannot bend!

7.

To make out my first, a lawyer will try,
And my second will much wish to make it;
My whole I am sure of whenever you're by,
And I heartily wish you may take it!

8.

My first was much used by the Romans of old; Beware of my second, 't will lead you to scold; Were my whole put away, you might find your.. self cold.

CHARADE.

When did Clymene's son conduct the train
Of Sol through skies, he show'd a spirit vain:
The fiery coursers of his heaven-born sire,
Spurning such guidance, set the world on fire!
Then was my primal part, as legends say,
Amid the hottest portions of the fray;
Such part of me, in present time, doth roll
On earth, almost wherever shineth Sol;
Its shape is different in different spots,
'Tis prized by palaces as well as cots;
Sometimes its colours are extremely gay,
Sometimes 't is plain as pitchfork used for hay.
When lovely Laura, sitting by the fire,
Sees Snap, she feels to hug him a desire;
He is her idol of the canine brood,

Though seldom seen in an attractive mood;
On such occasions, when she says "Snap, dear!"
My second part assuredly is near.

Now, tiny Edwin, op'ning parlour door, Springs o'er my whole, while bounding o'er the floor,

Oft finely decorated is my frame,

Oft it is plain. Now do disclose my name.

ANSWERS TO FAMILY PASTIME. Page 180.

RIDDLES

1. The one issues manifestoes, the other manifests toes at his shoes. 2. All are wise, or otherwise. 3. You would say-Fiddle, D.D. (Fiddlede-dee). 4. She would come down plump. 5. Falsehood. 6. Candle. 7. A blacksmith. Craw-fish. 9. April-fool.

ENIGMA-Clay.

Lydia! attend to this illuming lay.

8.

1. Time's birth seems mystical as that of clay. 2. Light shone on clay in instant of its birth, Where 't was protruded from indented earth; 3. But, when deep seated 'neath maternal lap, Rays reach'd it not, for lack of fitting gap. 4. Inert was clay, till the Almighty made It groundwork of the keeper of the shade; 5. Then, spirit-gladden'd, through the guileless pair,

It revell'd righteously mid Eden's fare. 6. 'T was trodden by the twain, 'mid mould, by

brook,

7. But, too deep-set 'neath rill-bed, debarr'd look. 8. The rebel raised a city, using clay

From earth extracted, for its mansions gay; 9. Skill mark'd his race, that must have oft employ'd

Clay to make vessels constant use destroy'd; 10. The bricks of Babel were produced from clay, Harden'd for scoffers in the solar ray; 11. It is unlikely the contemning crew

Cherish'd of man's original just view;
12. It is well known how clay is now esteem'd,
So Lydia, you perceive I have not dream'd-
Rather, I trust, you will a praise bestow,
Because so simply verity I show!

REBUS - Satan, Equal, Athens, Majesty,
E gypt, N urse: Seamen.
CHARADE-Rack-rent

ELLEN LYNDHURST;

A TALE OF TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. (Continued from page 185.)

CHAPTER XIII.

THE DAUGHTER'S FIRST SECRET.

WHEN Ellen had concluded the perusal of her cousin's letter, she sat for several moments pale, speechless, motionless, like a beautiful statue. Until this moment she had never discovered the depth of her love, or tested the strength of the spell which entranced her. Hers was not only first affection, but it fell upon the heart of

woman. It bore with it the fervour of girlish attachment, with all the strength of woman's devotion. Her first impulse was to believe the object of her attachment to be the victim of some vile calumny: her own artlessness rendered it impossible for her to believe in the depth of deceit attributed to Charles Langford. He was innocent and injured. He spoke sentiments of benevolence and love, so evidently from the heart, there was no mistaking him. There was an earnestness about his words and writings which falsehood never exhibited. Her father had seen and approved of him, and he was never mistaken; his uncle had spoken in glowing terms of "his boy," and his adopted heir. Could both-could all be wrong? It was far easier to believe her cousin prejudiced, mistaken as to the identity of the person, or misinformed. It was more charitable to think so, and certainly more pleasant. The heart seldom looks calmly upon disappointment, while a single ray of hope remains. Still, doubts had been created, and in spite of her efforts at self-consolation, they sometimes gained ascendancy. She retired to bed, but slept not. In the pale rays of the moon which stole through the lattice of her chamber, her tears glistened like stars twinkling in the dark firmament. Her soul was indeed o'ercast-the storm of life had begun.

her sake might render him prone to believe the reported dangers without investigation. She might, at all events, conceal her trouble from him for a time, until, by further correspondence with Alfred, she had in some degree tested the truth of the allegations. What could she do? She would not for worlds wrong the being she had learned to love, and she equally dreaded deceiving her father, to whom she owed all she enjoyed. A fearful struggle of principle and passion ensued, and served to prove the well-known truth, that all are frail. She resolved to withhold the fact of Alfred's letter a time from her father, hoping etter for, a some new circumstance and at the same time to strengthen might arise to assist her judgher resolution.

When she entered the parlour she found her father already awaiting her arrival. He was instantly struck with the paleness of her countenance, and, after kissing her fondly, he said, "Why, Ellen, your hands are feverish, and your face is as pale as death! What ails you, darling?"

Her lips quivered, and her brain swam, as she answered " Nothing."

66

"Nay, nay, my child," said Mr. Lyndhurst, "you cannot assure me of that; I see that you are ill-I have never, since your earliest childhood, seen you look so alarmingly unwell before."

Ellen tried to smile, but the quivering of her lip only confirmed her father's suspicion that there was something wrong. She knew not how to escape from the difficulty in which she was placed, and tears were just filling her eyes, when the postman's knock diverted their attention for a moment, and afforded her a fortunate escape from the difficulty.

The servant entered the room, holding a letter, which Ellen seized with great emotion. The fear flashed across her mind that it might be another letter from Alfred, in the strain of the previous one, and then her father would discover all. The colour rose to her cheeks as she exclaimed, "It is from Charles!"

"Ah, now I see," said Mr. Lyndhurst, She rose after a sleepless night, and "the cause of your paleness this morning, dreaded to meet her father. She had never-Charles has been neglectful; but the in all her life concealed a fact from him- medicine has come, shall set you right at should she do so now? He, however, last." might be more credulous. His fears for

VOL. VIII.NO. XCIII,

Ellen opened and read an epistle

P

CHAPTER XIV.

DOUBTS AND CONFIRMATIONS.

breathing sentiments of the fondest devotion, expressed in terms of the truest pathos. As she hastily ran over the lines of love and promise, that seemed as truth TIME passed on, but nothing occurred to her troubled heart, her eyes brightened, to release Ellen from the unhappy posiand her whole aspect changed. Mr. Lynd- tion in which she had placed herself in with hurst watched her countenance with in- reference to her father. She had repeatedly tense anxiety, and as he read the expres- written, and had heard from him sion of her features, he thought inwardly, as many "Truly my daughter loves.","

If Ellen doubted the truth of her cousin's communication before, she did so doubly now, immediately after reading the loving sentiments penned by Charles. She handed the letter to her father with an air of triumph.

"Really, my child," said Mr. Lyndhurst, "if it were possible for me to suppose that you would ever forget your father, I should be jealous of the influence which Charles Langford holds over you. If the reception of a letter from him can change you so much, your love must be deep indeed."

"Oh, father," said Ellen, "can you believe that there is any one for whom I could forget my duty and my love to you? It is natural that Charles's attentions should please me, since our lot is to be united. But believe me, a father's love will ever hold its rightful place within my heart."

"There's a good child," said Mr. Lyndhurst, fondly caressing her; "I could not bear to be forgotten. But what of Alfred?" he continued," he seems to have overlooked us quite!"

Ellen trembled, and again turned pale. She felt that it was her duty to acquaint her father of the letter she had received; but she paused to estimate the consequences, and thought she saw a bright dream of happiness dispelled. That moment of hesitation was fatal to her integrity, she evaded her father's remark, and for the first time in her life held a secret apart from him. From that moment she became uneasy in her conscience; even her father's sweetest looks seemed to reprove her, and his kindest words seemed to have within them the spirit of rebuke. Her prayers to heaven brought her less comfort than before, and she felt acutely that she had fallen from the high pinnacle of moral purity by which she had long endeavoured to hold.

"

And the tenderness of her letters, with the charitable priticiples they communicated, almost persuaded Alfred that he had acted hastily, and that a mistake might exist somewhere. It was possible, he thought, that Mr. Montague's brother, as a creditor of Langford, had spoken harshly

- for creditors are too

often unmerciful, and, in default of payment, magnify the faults to which they were blind before.

In the mean time the correspondence with Charles and Ellen continued. As far as his letters were concerned, there was an evident attachment; and he even ventured to urge that the day of their union should not be delayed. There was, however, upon Ellen's features an evident expression of sadness. Her father noticed that her daily duties were discharged less regularly than before; and that when she returned from her accustomed visits to the poor, she had less to communicate of tales of good done, of sad hearts made glad, of childish glee, of comfort to old age, and of grateful blessings received, than had been her usual habit. He therefore feared that her health was declining, and many of the poor of the village were heard to predict that the hand of death was upon Miss Ellen.

Mr. Lyndhurst called upon the Squire one day to talk over this anxiety. And meeting Mrs. Davis and the Squire together, they made the matter a subject of mutual confidence.

"I fear," said Mr. Lyndhurst, 66 that my daughter is rapidly sinking-I know not from what cause. Perhaps her anxiety as to her future settlement overpowers her."

"If so," ," said the Squire, "the sooner the settlement is effected the better. To keep her in a state of doubt, with Charles far away from her, only aggravates the evil. Let us marry the young couple at once, and depend upon it they will do well enough."

"I must say," said Mrs. Davis, "that I have noticed Miss Ellen's decline with much concern. And sometimes I have ventured to think, that it was not altogether anxiety as to the future, that makes her look so pale and sad. Are we sure that the engagement is a happy one?-does the young Squire love the girl as much as we suppose ?-and is 'she satisfied of the truth of his attachment?"

"Of course," said both the father and the Squire, "there can be no doubt of that. The letters which she received from him are of the most ardent description." This prompt testimony by two persons so deeply interested almost sbook Mrs. Davis's doubts from their foundation. But she recollected some circumstances in connection with Mr. Charles during his visit to Windmere, which had made a painful and a lasting impression upon he mind.

The two gentlemen, however, were fully convinced of Charles's integrity, and would allow no suspicion to the contrary. So far from believing him to be playing a false part, they judged it most desirable to bring about the union with all the expedition that propriety would allow. This determination was materially assisted by the perusal of a letter which the Squire had received from Charles only the day previous. It besought his uncle to bring about their settlement as speedily as possible,—complained of his loneliness in life, and of the many calls upon him for duties which he required a kindred spirit to share. The letter was read and admired very much, and satisfied the father and the uncle that Charles had a noble and devoted heart. The old gentleman was refolding the letter to return it to his pocket, when he discovered in one of the folded parts a postscript which had escaped his attention before. It read thus, "Dear Uncle,-I regret to add to this that the ample means with which your bounty last supplied me, are almost entirely exhausted. The many appeals to my benevolence on behalf of wretched poverty and ignorance, have completely stripped me, notwithstanding the most rigid self-denial. If, therefore, you can possibly aid me by a further remittance at once, it will add to the many obligations I owe you." The Squire paused for a moment after the

perusal of this appeal; a certain recollecs tion of large and frequent remittance crossed his mind, but at such a moment i; was a theme he disliked to dwell upon so, folding the letter, he returned it to his pocket without a further remark.

In a long room, within the large building described in a previous chapter, were a number of small beds, hung around with white furniture. In each bed lay a victim of bodily sickness. Some were rapidly progressing towards convalescence, and looked cheerfully around as if anticipating the moment when they would be set free from confinement; others bore the unmistakable marks of death, and groaned and wept as they turned upon the beds from which they never hoped to rise. Moving about with soft footsteps, were homelylooking women in neat attire, ministering to the wants of the sufferers under their

care.

Upon one of these beds lay a youthful invalid, upon the point of death. She bore all the marks of youth and beauty, and looked to the contemplative mind like a stricken flower. Alfred Beresford entered the room, and passed on direct to her bedside.

"I understand," said he, "from one of the nurses, that you expressed an earnest desire to see me?"

"I did," replied the sufferer, in a weak and trembling voice. "I have felt, from the kindness which you have shown to me since my confinement here, that I might make a communication to you, and ask you to do me a favour, as my dying request."

"Whatever I can do to serve you, you may rely upon," said Alfred.

"Thank you for the promise," said the sufferer; and she proceeded with her story. "I was brought to this hospital under the name of Jane Middleton. But that is not my name. I almost tremble to communicate my history, but feeling that I have only a few hours more to live, I wish to make my end known to my family, from whom I have been separated for two years, without their having the slightest clue to my fate. I am a daughter of the dowager Lady Allan, of Hertsey Park. About four years ago, I became acquainted with a man, who made professions of attachment to me, to which I

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