should the article have been in any way
tampered with, the loss is not unusually as
much as thirty or thirty-two per cent.

The assaying the lengths of silk is done by
ruling off four hundred yards of the fibre, and
weighing that quantity; the finer the silk, the
lighter will these four hundred yards be. But
as this gossamer fibre is liable to break, a
beautiful contrivance exists for instantly
arresting the reel on which it is being wound
off, in order that it may be joined and the
reeling continued. Another means exists for
stopping the reel immediately the four
hundred yards are obtained.

The degree of elasticity is shown by a
delicate apparatus which stretches one thread
of the silk until it breaks, a tell-tale dial
and hand marking the point of fracture.
Equally ingenious and precise is the apparatus
for testing what is termed the "spin" of the
silk;—its capability of being twisted round
with great velocity without in any way being
damaged in tenacity or strength.

The last process is also purely mechanical.
A hank of the silk, on its removal from the
boiling-off cistern, is placed upon a hook;
and, by means of a smooth round stick passed
through it, a rapid jerking motion is given to
it, which after some little time, throws up a
certain degree of glossy brightness. This
power of testing its lustre is employed to
ascertain its suitability for particular purposes.
Should it come up very brilliantly,
the article will be pronounced adapted for a
fine satin; with less lustre upon it, it may
be set aside for gros de Naples, or velvet, and
in this way the manufacturer can determine
beforehand to what purpose he shall apply
his silk, and so avoid frequent disappointment
and loss. In short, instead of working in the
dark and by chance, he works by chemical
rules of undeviating correctness.

After each of the above assays, or
conditionings, the owner of the silk is supplied
for a small fee with an authenticated certificate
of its various qualities.

JANE MARKLAND.

A TALE.

IT needs not beauty to adorn the face,
Nor flexile limbs to give the motions grace.
As from the shapeless block Apollo broke
And glowed with lovelier life at every stroke,
So glows with freshening charms the homeliest maid,
When warm Affection plies the sculptor's trade.

When young Jane Markland came to teach our school
The village children loved her gentle rule;
So mild the mistress learning won the child,
And hardest words grew easy when she smiled.
But not all smiles; the teacher knew to frown
And keep disorder by a whisper down;
Heavy her brows when idlesse mocked her reign,
And, half by chance, her hand would touch the cane;
So ermined judges thrill the crowd with awe
By useless mace, and sword they never draw.

Our curate—white his hair and warm his heart—
By merit fitted for a loftier part,
But pleased and happy 'mid the flock he tends,
Unmarked by bishops—rich in humbler friends—
Our curate ne'er grew tired of lauding Jane,
And soared at once to Ciceronian strain:
"Since first," he says, "to teach our school she came
I scarce believe the village is the same;
A neatness now pervades our cottage rooms;
Our cottage walls are sweet with summer blooms;
I find a book on every table spread,
Where morn and eve the word of God is read;
Neat prints—the fruit of gathered pence—bestow
Refinement never dreamt of long ago;
The school-boys sweep the road before the door,
The weather's self seems better than of yore;
And then, in all she does she's so sincere,
'Tis pity she's so very plain, my dear."

Yes; Jane was plain; in truth, I 've often heard
A stranger paint her by a harsher word.
For coarse she was in feature, dull her eyes,
Her gait ungainly and enlarged her size;
Yet ne'er came child of Eve bereft of all
The charms, Eve's only dowry since the fall;
Some link remains by which the bond we trace
Between the loveliest and the plainest face.
Some one expression that, with instant thrill,
Tells us the ugliest is a woman still;
White teeth had Jane, and lips that well exprest
Each thought, fear, feeling of her gentle breast.

One night, when winds that had been loud all day
Beneath the troubled moonlight died away,
And left the trees unmoved, while overhead
Large jagged clouds o'er all the blue were spread;
Swiftly across the sky their squadrons passed
As if for safety flying from the blast;
You seemed to hear the tempest as it swept
Though sound was none, and calm the village slept.

To Jane's low casement came a stealthy tread:
A voice was heard. "Are you still up?" it said.
Jane laid the iron down. "Who's here so late?
What, Widow Snow! Come in."
                                                 " I may not wait—
The moon is hid; a piping gust I hear
That shows too well a storm is drawing near;
The boats are all returned, save only one,
And that—oh, Jane! I tremble for my son;
Heedless and bold lie is, nor used to guide
The boat in darkness to our jetty's side."
Jane heard the widow and no word she spoke;
But struck the lanthorn's light and pinned her cloak;
"'Tis a wild night; I hear the sea," she said,
And swiftly to the shore the way she led.

A dreadful scene! With unresisted sway
Wave rushed on wave, as howling for their prey,
And dashing from their heads the blinding spray.
High o'er the pier they swept as if in pride,
And fell in thunder on the leawnrd side;
Then, as in wrath, they struck the rocks, and tore
Deep furrows in the sand and shook the shore.
"Can you see nothing, Jane?" the widow cried.
"There is no boat in motion far or wide;
There's nothing to be seen but the tall crest
Of the land breakers; blackness hides the rest.
Stop! there was something dark, a moment seen,
Now sunk in the deep trough, the seas between;
Again! it is a boat! Heaven help the crew!
Through all this coil I heard a wild halloo.