and that the sexton's book and the registrar's
report can tell the reason why. Do these
Banquo's seats, which every loving heart will
fill with the ghosts of those who occupied them
last year—do they help to make the feast a
merry one?

Nor are these Banquo's seats all caused by
death. Will not the mere absence of some
dearly loved face, hundreds of miles away, spoil
the family picture of which it was so bright an
ornament? That lady who had been seated next
me at the table d'hôte, was there no family
circle in England in which the absence of her
kind and honest face had made a blank?

And one again, to turn from the serious to
the absurd—and they are ever cheek by jowl—
is there never a more material reason for this
depression, or shall we say oppression, of the
animal spirits, than any which we have been
considering? Is it not a fact that the feast on
Christmas–day is preceded by a feast on Christmas–
eve, and that the mince–pie and the sausage–
trimmed turkey are known on both occasions?
To put it then roundly—Is indigestion a
thing unknown on Christmas–day, and can any
merriment co–exist with that grim tormentor?
Does the bilious eye see the funny side of
things? Do yesterday's sausages, and yesterday's
mince–pies, and yesterday's champagne,
and yesterday's punch, combine to make
today's stomach a calm and peaceable one? Oh,
surely not. Surely there is in such a
conglomeration the material for a gloomy morrow, and
surely in the superadded sausages, mince–pies,
champagne, and punch of the Christmas meal
itself, there are found not uncommonly provocations
to an after–dinner disputativeness, and
even to a snappish tendency during the round
game of the evening.

These were some of the thoughts with which
I consoled myself as I turned out into the cold
night air after my Chistmas dinner at the table
d'hôte. As I left the hotel, I glanced down the
long corridor into which the doors of the smaller
and cheaper class of bedrooms opened.

The English lady who had sat next me was
just entering her solitary apartment, and I could
see by the faint light of the lamp in the passage
that she had still the letter in her hand.

MORE ABOUT SILKWORMS.

IT is not surprising that our article "Silk for
the Multitude"* should have brought in
communications from correspondents. The storm
which is hanging over the cotton–growing States
of America, the stagnation of business, the
unsettled condition of politics in India, and the
manner in which China has hitherto fulfilled her
treaties with the European, render the supply of
textile material an important question at the
present moment, and a serious consideration for
the future. There is, besides, a great prize to
be drawn. Whether individual speculators or
the community at large are to reap the benefit,
does not much matter; but our mills and factories
are insatiable; their iron teeth are ever
craving for more; their capacious stomachs
rapidly digest whatever alimentary substance is
offered to them; and whoever can furnish them
with a further supply at a cost of production
remunerative to himself, will be certain to make
fortune after fortune. The amount of silk
imported from China, which was insignificant fifty
years ago, is now so enormous and so constantly
increasing, that it is well worth any one's trying
to find, not perhaps a substitute, but certainly
an auxiliary filament. Whatever it may be, if
only of sufficient strength and sufficiently cheap,
the skill of our manufacturers will be sure to
turn it to good account.

* See page 233 of the present volume.

As already stated in our previous article,
ailanthine, or the silk of the bombyx which
feeds on the leaves of the Ailanthus glandulosus
(a perfectly hardy, robust, and vigorous tree),
has been judged, on no light grounds, to
promise well and to merit further cultivation in the
warm and temperate regions of Europe. A sure
and plentiful supply of raw material from abroad
is undoubtedly a very good thing; but a plentiful
home–growth is still surer and better. This
is the point which gives such encouraging
brightness to the prospects of the ailanthus silkworm.
The pressing necessity, the urgent cry of all
silkworms, of whatever species, is, "Food, food!
Give us food, abundant and fresh! Half–fed,
we perish; three–quarters fed, our produce is
inferior, and our offspring feeble. Glut us, if
you mean to profit by us. But you cannot glut
us; our appetites are ravenous. Bring leaves
again, ever fresh and fresh!"

The difficulty in silk–producing has hitherto
lain in furnishing an army of silkworms with an
adequate commissariat; it is now partially
removed by the discovery that a very useful, if
not a brilliant species of silkworm, feeds on the
foliage of the ailanthus, from which a continued
succession of substantial meals are obtainable
all summer long. True, the ailanthus is late in
leafing; but the mulberry–tree also is late. And
by the peculiar mode of growing the ailanthus
recommended when the subject is to feed
silkworms—namely, as a copse–wood starting from
permanent stools—the leafing will be earlier
than it would be on tall forest trees; it might
also be forced by a top–dressing of manure, and
likewise by planting a certain quantity of
ailanthuses in the most sheltered and sunny nooks
to afford the earliest food of the new–hatched
worms. The hatching would be retarded, as
with other silkworms, by keeping the eggs in a
very cool place until the leaves which are to be
their nourishment are sufficiently developed.
After a certain time, indeed, it is almost
impossible to prevent the hatching of the eggs;
but except in exposed and rigorous localities,
the ailanthus will be ready to receive them.
Common sense will indicate where experiments
are likely to be successful. Sanguine expectations
could hardly be entertained respecting a
trial in Caithness or Sutherland.

The history of the mulberry silkworm teaches