everything else; it even manages to work
therein, and leave traces of its craft, which
are visible to microscopic eyes alone. Some
remarkable specimens, the production of
Nobert, of Griefswall, Prussia, were
presented at the Great Exhibition in Hyde
Park. They consisted of ten bands engraved
on a slip of glass, each band composed of a
certain number of parallel lines; the lines in
each succeeding band were closer than those in
the preceding one. The closeness at which they
were ruled, varied from eleven thousand to
fifty thousand to the inch. It is difficult,
after the above statement, to convey an idea
of the real appearance of this system of bands
before it is magnified; for the entire space
occupied by all the ten bands is somewhat
greater in breadth—not much—than the
preceding lines with which we have marked,
in type, the parenthesis "not much."

More wonderful still; M. Froment, of
Paris, celebrated for the micrometer scales he
has produced, has effected an artistic tour de
force of the highest interest as an example
of mechanical ingenuity; he has succeeded
in engraving upon glass, manuscripts and
drawings on a scale of minuteness no less
surprising, though far more difficult of execution,
than the bands of Mr. Nobert. Fancy
a white circular spot, about the size of the
lower loop of the letter "a" of our usual type.
On such a spot—namely, within a circle of
glass the fortieth of an inch in diameter—
M. Froment wrote for Dr. Lardner, in less
than five minutes, the following sentence:
"Written as a microscopic object for Dr.
Lardner, by Froment, à Paris. 1852." As
the method by which these marvellous effects
are produced is not yet patented, Dr. Lardner
is not at liberty to explain its details.

But enough, for once, about invisibilities.
A good microscope will serve for several
generations; a good pair of eyes will hardly
last one. Therefore, after a long day's
pleasure with powerful instruments, let us
allow our own optics repose.

SALOME AND I.

IN SIX CHAPTERS. CHAPTER THE FIRST.

I was born at Liverpool, but left it at such
an early age that I remember nothing of it
except the Everton toffee-shop, and dimly the
Mersey, at low water. My mother died when
I was two years old. A great and terrible
misfortune broke her heart—a possibility in
which I firmly believe. On her death-bed
she entrusted me to the care of my
grandmother, who was the only near relative I
had left. When I was four years of age we
left Liverpool together, my grandmother and
I, and journeyed away by coach into the
heart of Cumberland, to a little market-town
buried from the world among the fells and
moors. This journey lives in my memory as
a magnificent panorama—a succession of
brilliant pictures, exceeding any that I have
since seen, in splendour.

The little town whither we went to seek
our new home, and which I will call
Howthwaite, was the birth-place of my mother,
and the spot where my grandmother had
passed her younger and more prosperous
days, as landlady of the White Swan,
pronounced by commercial gentlemen to be
the best inn in the county; and they are
pretty good judges of comfort, I believe.
Considering the size and population of
Howthwaite, its charitable institutions were
numerous. Among others more or less
antiquated, but good after their fashion, was
one for the relief and maintenance of eight
poor widows, being relicts of tradesmen of
the town. As my grandmother came within
this category, and as she was possessed of
considerable interest (having seen better
days), she was nominated to fill the vacancy,
by death, which happened a few months after
our arrival at Howthwaite.

Chalmy's Hospital was built by its founder
—Geoffrey Chalmy—a rich master wool-
comber of Howthwaite, in the year fifteen
hundred and sixty-five, as his arms, with
initials and date below carved in the arch
of the large gateway that opens into Highgate,
closely testify. Indeed, the architecture
of the place is proof sufficient of its
antiquity. The eight small two-roomed
cottages form two sides of a square, in the
middle of which stands a dilapidated fountain,
dried up years ago. The remaining sides of
the square are formed—one by the gate
already mentioned—over which is the master's
house; and the other by a second gateway,
over which is the library; and, through this
gateway, runs the road to the small plots of
garden, and so past them to the ivy-covered
school and the boys' play-ground. Our
windows fortunately looked into this garden,
apportioned and laid out in accordance with the
varying fancies of eight poor old women; and
I ever found a ready ingress to it through
the casement. Thence our view across the
fields was unimpeded for more than a mile,
till the towering front of Scawfell interposed
between us and the world beyond. This hill
and I were friends from the first. It
seemed to my childish fancy to reflect the
varying moods of my mind; sometimes
bright and sunny, bathed in the flush of
dawn; sometimes, and more lovely than ever,
flickered fitfully by fleecy clouds; sometimes
hid for days in impenetrable mist; while,
at other times, its bare forehead rose, dark,
stern, and immitigable into the gloomy sky.

Forming part of Geoffrey Chalmy's charity
—and blessed be his memory for it!—was a
school for the education of forty poor boys,
from the ages of ten to fourteen. The costume
of these lads may have been considered graceful,
perhaps, even fashionable, in the sixteenth
century, but is decidedly barbarous now. Mr.
Carnforth was master at the time I write.
These peculiarities struck me, I remember,
when I saw him first:—he was deeply pitted