Let us not omit noting the significance ot
the fact, that a quicksilver mine exists in
California.

FLOWER SHOWS IN A BIRMINGHAM
HOT-HOUSE.

FORTY years ago, one of the things we were
most sure to see on entering the parlour
of the farm-house, lodging-house, or
shopkeeper's back-room, or the kitchen of the best
sort of cottage, was a gaudy tea-tray, set up
against the wall on the top of the bureau, or
the side-table, or the dresser. On the tray
might be painted a yellow tiger, or a scarlet
lion, or a pink shepherdess with a green
shepherd; or a very yellow sheep beside a
very red cow; or flowers and fruit, not
particularly like anything that ever was really
seen. Those were the war-days; when the
English taste had no opportunity of being
improved by intercourse with foreign countries.
Those were the days when brown and white
cats, and green and scarlet parrots in frail
plaster, stood on the mantel-piece, where we
now see busts of great men, and casts of the
Graces and the Muses, and of Cherubs and
Gladiators, and of Joan of Arc, and William
Tell. Those were the days when we knew
nothing of the most graceful and brilliant
flowers that the great were importing from
foreign lands. The China-rose was only just
beginning to grow beside the cottage window.
Lady Holland was bringing the dahlia from
Spain; but it had not yet superseded the
sunflower in common gardens. The fuchsia
has still the small red blossom that we now
see less often than the variegated and
highly-magnified kinds which are the pride of the
window-sill in town and country. There
might be no harm in this; for there are
many who prefer the original fuchsia to this
day. But it was not common, and we do not
remember that it ever grew to half the size
that may now be seen all over England. If
there were verbenas in those days, they must
have been rare; for we saw no parterres of
brilliant lilac and scarlet and rose-coloured
verbenas, such as now catch the eye of the
traveller, as he is whirled along the railway.
Again, all the Californian annuals are new;
—but there would be no end, if we were to make
a list of the beautiful things that have become
common since the Peace; things, beautiful in
themselves, and elements of beauty in the arts
of common life. To see what the advance has
been, we need but look at the papers on the
walls of humble parlours; at the mantel-piece,
and at the grate and fender beneath,
and (to come back to our first thought) at the
tea-tray on the top of the bureau.

Forty years ago, the tray was heavy—being
of iron. It was gay when new, but the
colours soon flaked off in the middle group,
and rusty spots broke out in the black
ground. It warped, and stood uneven, and
clattered with every jog of the table. The
rim was apt to crack, and leave jagged edges,
which tore whatever they caught. When
this rim became rusty, any drop which fell
upon it from the kettle was sure to leave
an iron-mould on the sleeve, or apron, or
cloth, which touched it. In finer houses,
there were better trays; lighter to carry, less
ugly to the eye, and less mischievous when
they began to wear out. But nobody looked
for much beauty in trays, and there was little
variety. They were either of an oblong
square, or round. They were plain black,
polished in the middle, and there were lines,
and sometimes vine or oak-leaves in gilding
round the rims, but the gilding did not wear
well. Those who chose to have their trays
kept bright and clean, must make up their
minds to see the gilding rub off in patches,
leaving a dull surface which no " elbow
grease " could polish. The advantages of
lightness and steadiness remained, however,
when the first beauty was gone. This was
because the trays of the gentry were made of
a good material. They were made of paper.
It had then been known for half a century
that paper would wear better than iron, in
this particular article. Not only is paper,
under certain management, harder than
wood—turning the edges of tools sooner than
any common wood—but it was found to stand
the wear and tear of daily use better than
iron.

What could this paper be? and what could
be the management of it? The paper is a
kind of blotting-paper, soft and porous. It is
when changed by treatment to papier mâché
(which is French for " chewed paper ") that
it becomes hard enough to turn the edge
of the plane and the chisel. We went, the
other day, to see the process, and found that
we were viewing the works of the very men,
Jennens and Bettridge, who, forty years ago,
set to work to improve the national tea-tray,
and who have since carried their improvements
into every sort of dwelling—from the
cottage kitchen to the state rooms of Buckingham
Palace. There are other palaces, too, in
which this mashed or chewed paper is found,
in the shape of inkstands inlaid with pearl;
brilliant chess and work tables; folding screens
adorned with trailing flowers, with burnished
humming-birds glittering on the sprays; chairs
and couches, framed in a series of classic
groups; miniature frames, and paper-knives;
and even rosaries, for Catholic or Mahomedan
use; the beads of which are black and polished,
and light as jet, while less liable to fracture.
In Egypt, the Pasha may be found dining
from a vast tray made at these works—a tray
made to receive the filligree saucers on which
great Oriental dinners are served. And at the
Persian court there will soon be seen tables,
and screens, and flower-stands, all glowing
with our common fuchsia, and rose, and
convolvulus. But, amidst all we saw in that
wonderful show-room, there was nothing
which charmed the eye and mind so much as