maica, but the best trees are mostly cut | Woollaston also complained that it was down in all accessible situations; and too hard; the doctor said that he must the same thing holds good in the other get stronger tools. The candle-box at last islands. The principal importations into was made, and so highly approved of, Europe and the United States, are made that the doctor insisted on having a from Brazil, Campeachy, and Honduras. bureau made of the same wood, which That which is brought from the islands was accordingly done; and the fine is usually called Spanish mahogany, but colour and polish were so pleasing, that it is not so large as that from Honduras he invited all his friends to come and and Brazil. The trees are seldom found see it. Among them was the duchess of in clusters or groups, but single, and Buckingham, who begged some of the often much dispersed. wood of Dr. Gibbons, and employed Woollaston to make a similar bureau.' From this introduction it came into general use throughout the civilized world. The mahogany flourishes as well in India as in its native country. Dr. Roxburgh, in the "Transactions of the Society of Arts," at London, for 1806, states that two plants were sent from Jamaica, in 1795, to the court of directors of the botanic garden at Calcutta, and that in 1804, about five hundred trees had been grown from them. And, according to Mr. Royle, in his Essay on the Productive Resources of India," published in 1840, this tree thrives so luxuriantly in Bengal, that many thousands of them are growing there, and even small pieces of furniture have already been made of the wood. 66 The excellency of the wood of mahogany for all domestic purposes, has long been known. It was used by the Spaniards in the sixteenth century, in the construction of ships, for which purpose it is better adapted than most other kinds of timber, being very durable, resisting gun-shots, and admitting the balls without splintering; nor is it so liable to be attacked by marine insects as that of the oak; and hence is preferable for the construction of ships intended to sail in intertropical seas. It was used in repairing some of sir Walter Raleigh's ships at Trinidad, in 1597, but was not brought into use in Britain till 1724. According to Mr. Burrowes, the first use to which it was applied in England, was to make a box for holding candles. "Dr. Gibbons, an eminent physician in the beginning of the last century, had a brother, a West India captain, who brought over some planks of this wood as ballast. As the doctor was then building a house in King-street, Covent-garden, his brother thought they might be useful to him; but the carpenters finding the wood too hard for their tools, they were laid aside as useless. Soon after, Mrs. Gibbons wanting a candle-box, the doctor called on Woollaston, his cabinet-maker, in Long-acre, and requested him to make one of some wood that lay in his garden. The largest log of mahogany on record was cut in Honduras, and shipped to England. Its length was seventeen feet; breadth, fifty-seven inches; depth, sixtyfour-inches; cubic contents, four hundred and thirty feet; and weight, eight tons. The next largest log we have on record, was a few years since sold by auction, at the docks, in Liverpool. It was purchased for 378., and afterwards sold for 525l. It is believed to have realized, to its final owners, 1,000l. It is likewise stated, that the cost of labour, in the process of sawing into veneers, was 750l. The weight, on the king's beam, was six tons, thirteen hundred weight. According to Mr. M'Culloch, a few years ago, Messrs. Broadwood, the distinguished piano-forte manufacturers in London, gave the enormous sum of 3,000l. for three logs of mahogany, all the product of a single tree! They were each about fifteen feet long, thirty-eight inches square, and contained, all together, about four hundred and fifty cubic feet. They were cut into veneers of an eighth of an inch in thickness. The wood was peculiarly beautiful, capable of receiving the highest polish, which, when done, reflected the light in the most varied manner, like the surface of a crystal; and from the wavy form of the fibres, offered a different figure in whatever direction it was viewed. The cutting of mahogany at Honduras takes place at two different seasons of the year, one soon after Christmas, or at the end of the "wet season," and the other early in August. At the last-named period the colour of the foliage of the mahogany is of a reddish yellow, and is an unerring guide to the woodman in distinguishing it from that of other trees. At these periods the labourers are actively employed in felling the trees, conveying them on wheels to the rivers, or precipitating them into the streams which are to forward them to their places of shipment. The trees are usually cut about twelve feet above the ground, and a stage is erected for the axeman to stand upon to perform this work. The trunk of the tree, from its size, is deemed the most valuable; but for ornamental purposes, the branches or limbs are generally preferred, being of a much closer grain, and the veins are more rich and variegated. Hence, to avoid injury by the fall of the whole tree at once, they are removed separately. The wood felled between February and September is very liable to crack in seasoning; but to avoid this, it should be immersed as soon as possible into deep water, and remain until it is ready to be shipped. The billes or logs of mahogany which are shipped from Campeachy and Honduras are usually from ten to fifteen feet in length, and three, four, or five feet deep; those from St. Domingo are from seven to ten feet long, and fifteen to twenty-five inches deep; and those from Cuba are from twelve to eighteen feet long, and the same number of inches deep. The wood of the mahogany-tree varies in its weight, texture, and grain, according to the nature of the soil and situation in which it grows. On rocky and mountainous places it is of a smaller size, heavy, of a close grain, and beautifully shaded; while the product of low and rich lands is observed to be more light and porous, of a paler colour and open grain; and that of mixed soils holds a medium between the two. The mahog. any which is accessible in Honduras grows upon moist land, and is, generally speaking, decidedly inferior to that of Cuba and St. Domingo, being soft, coarse, spongy, and weighing, when dry, only thirty-five to forty pounds to a cubic foot; while the other is hard, close-grained, of a darker colour, sometimes strongly figured, and weighs, when dry, from fifty-four to sixty-six pounds to a cubic foot. Honduras mahogany has, however, the advantage of holding glue admirably well, and for this reason is frequently used as a ground on which to lay veneers of finer woods. The trees which are grown on the Bahama Islands are not so large as those of the warmer parts of America, but are more curiously veined, or mottled, and are known in England by the name of Madeira-wood. The colour of mahogany is a reddish brown, of different shades, and various degrees of brightness; sometimes yellowish brown, often much veined and mottled, with darker shades of the same colour. The texture is not uniform, and the concentric layers are not always distinct. It has not much taste nor smell, shrinks but a very little, and warps and twists less, perhaps, than any other kind of timber. It is durable, when kept dry, but does not last long when exposed to the alternations of moisture and dryness. There are several varieties of mahogany, much admired and sought after, for the beauty of their figures, and the gradations of their colours, which may be described as follows: 1. PLAIN MAHOGANY. Acajou uni of the French, the wood of which is of one colour, and equal throughout. 2. VEINY MAHOGANY. Acajou veiné, French. The wood of this variety is veined longitudinally with the grain, displaying alternately dark and light streaks, continuous, interrupted, or reappearing. 3. WATERED MAHOGANY. Acajou moiré, French. This variety is known by the transverse waves which exhibit to the eye an effect similar to those of a watered riband. 4. VELVET CORD, OR CATERPILLAR MAHOGANY. Acajou Chenillé, French. This variety is distinguished by its whitish lines, accompanied by a figured shade of fragments of roseate sprigs, here and there disposed diagonally, longitudinally, interrupted, or crossing one another. 5. BIRD'S-EYE MAHOGANY. Acajou moncheté, French. This variety is besprinkled with little oval knots, which, when duly proportioned, render the wood half light and half dark. 6. FESTOONED MAHOGANY. Acajou ronceux, French. This variety offers in its colour a mixture of light and shade usually resembling sheaves of wheat, feathers, wreathes, festoons, or figures of shrubs. As the wood of mahogany is generally hard and takes a fine polish, it is found to serve better than that of any other tree for cabinet-making, for which purpose it is universally admired. It is very strong, and answers well for beams, joists, planks, boards, and shingles, for which it was formerly much used in Jamaica.-D. J. Browne. MY LODGERS. No. VI. THE FRUITS OF EQUIVOCATION. "Oh, what a tangled web we weave, MRS. PERCY-Sad, melancholy Mrs. Percy! It is with a faltering hand that I commence the history of one, once so happy, then so miserable, and whose misery was the result of one foolish weakness. I knew nothing of Mrs. Percy when, on the recommendation of my tried and dear friend Lucy, she first became my lodger, except that she was a widow lady, a pious woman, but unhappy-most unhappy. "I cannot tell you more," wrote Lucy to me, "than that a secret grief, more poignant even than the stroke that bereaved poor Mrs. Percy of a husband and two sons, preys upon her soul. Be kind to her, dear Miss Bellamy, and bear with her sadness, for she is my father's friend, and mine." Oh, with what utter indifference did the forlorn widow, on the first day of our acquaintance, mechanically pace through the apartments which were thenceforth to be her own. I had had some experience in the moods of dissatisfied, fantastic, of haughty and self-important lodgers; but for once I wished that the blank look of utter and most melancholy mental absence were exchanged for a glance of disapproval; that one word of remonstrance, one desire for some trifling re-arrangement, would vary the freezing disregard for everything around, which marked the demeanour of this very sad lady. Mrs. Percy lived with me many years; and, while she lived, never sought another abode: but only once did I ever see a cheerful, happy smile on her countenance—it was the smile of a peaceful dying. Solitary females, both of us, it is not to be wondered at that sympathy exerted its influence to draw us often together, to say nothing of our common friendship with my former lodgers, or our Christian sisterhood; for I trust we had a mon Saviour." But it was long before the mourning widow divulged the source of her deepest grief. It happened thus: "com "I am going to drink tea with Mrs. Percy, in her room, this evening," were my instructions to old Sally, on a cer tain occasion; "so if Mrs. Ednitt calls, you may say that I am gone out." Oh, never shall I forget the look of intensity with which my lodger-for she was by me-regarded me at that moment. The agony of years was surely concentrated in that one look. "You are not going out," she said, in a tone of trembling earnestness, as soon as Sally had left us. "You are not going out?" "Oh yes," I replied, somewhat carelessly, although conscience-stricken at hearing the phrase repeated thus reprovingly, and almost alarmed at the more than usual solemn sadness of my friend, "in a certain sense I am going out; your room is not mine, you know.' "Never stoop to such an equivocation," replied my monitor; "You do not know-you cannot know-may you never know-the fatal consequences, the bitter remorse, that may follow one, only one, deviation from truth!" "But, surely," I rejoined, "you would not, my dear friend, suppose me indifferent to truth and falsehood. As I said before, in a certain sense "Ah! but not in a straightforward sense. Forgive me, if I am too plain with you. This evening I will, if I can muster courage, explain my meaning. 99 and tears started from Oh, my friend, her eyes, "but for one vile equivocation, I should perhaps now be a happy wife and mother, instead of a lonely, childless widow." My readers will not wonder, after this introduction, that I waited impatiently for the promised disclosure, and listened with interest to THE WIDOW'S TALE. I was married, while young, to the man of my choice; and how happy my married life was, I can hardly bear to think. Mr. Percy was but no matter; I must not venture to give words to my full heart. We lived in London. My husband's profession made a city residence almost necessary, and confined him very closely to his office. But what signified this? There are happy hearts, and unspeakable enjoyments, in the closest and most crowded street of a city; and ours was a happy home. For ten years after our marriage, we had never left London, except for an occasional day's recreation. Would that we had never thought of leaving it. But at that time we had two children-boys; and I, foolish that I was, thought that they were delicate that they pined for fresh country air. I said so; and urged my husband: for he, too, I thought, was wearing himself away by keeping so close to his office. I urged him to retreat from business and London for a few weeks, and take us all into the country for a change of air. I had never proposed any plan to which Mr. Percy was not willing to accede; and he now took pains to gratify me. He could not leave London entirely, he said; but he would look out for a cottage, a few miles in the country, to which I might take the boys, and he would come and see us as often as possible. Well, we went into the country; I and my children. It was in a pleasant village (at least, I thought it pleasant then) about eight miles from our London home; and two or three times a week, my husband left business early in the afternoon, to spend the evening with us, and returned early the next morning. One day-oh! I shall never, never forget that day-I received a note from a friend who lived three or four miles from our cottage, inviting me to spend the day with her: that friend was the mother of our dear LucyI determined to go; and after taking lunch with my poor boys, I prepared for the walk. I preferred walking there, and my friend had engaged to see me safe home at night in her chaise. I had no expectation that my husband would visit us that day. Indeed, I believed it impossible that he could, as I knew he had an appointment to keep with some committee on that very evening. I had given directions to my servant, and told her that I should not return until late, but had not said whither I was going; and was leaving the door of our cottage, when my youngest boy, dear little fellow! then not quite five years old, ran up to me, and asked "Are you going to London, to see papa?" Unguardedly, thoughtlessly, and yet, oh, how criminally! I answered, "Yes, yes, to be sure, I am going to London." Little did I anticipate the train of miseries which followed upon that answer. How could I? More than once, during my walk, the thought obtruded itself that I had deceived my children; and I felt ill at ease; and if I had, even then, listened to the reproofs of conscience, forgone my anticipated pleasure, and returned to undeceive them, all might have been well. But I quieted myself with the wretched sophistry; I have not told an untruth: I am going to London, though not today; and I did not say that I was going to-day. I had my pleasure the last day of pleasure in this world that I ever enjoyed, or shall enjoy, though I live to be a hundred years old; and then I returned. It was about nine o'clock. I found my boys out of their beds; and the first question they put to me, was"Did papa.find you ?" "Find me! Papa find me! What do you mean? and why are you not in bed?" I replied. Their story was soon told. My husband had arrived at the cottage about an hour after I left it, and was told that I was gone to London; that I was walking thither, even then; that I had had a letter that morning which I had put into my pocket; and that I had seemed in a great hurry to go after the letter came. On hearing this, my husband, according to our servant's account, seemed troubled, and, without waiting for refreshment or rest, immediately returned; leaving word that he would be back in the evening with me, and that our boys might sit up till we came, if it were not very late. All this was mysterious to me, except that part of the account which related to my deception. I could understand that, alas, too well. But why Mr. Percy should have come so early in the day, or how he could have come at all on that day, I could not understand, nor why he should be so anxious to see me. The I did not wait long in suspense. sound of wheels was soon heard; a hackney-coach drew up at the door, and my husband sprang out. His first exclamation was one of thankfulness that he had at length found me, His first question was, you been?" "Dear wife, where have My account was soon given. "But," said he, "the boys told me that you were gone to London !" "Oh," I said, "that was a mistake." "But, mamma,' interposed Henry, our eldest boy; "you did say you were going to Londen." I did not reply, for I saw that my husband looked terribly fatigued, and very anxious; and I busied myself in doing something for his comfort; and then put the boys to bed. And then came my husband's explanation. He, too, had received a letter that fatal morning, of far more importance than mine-a letter that he thought required my consideration as well as his own; and, setting aside all other business, he had hastened to consult me. There was no available mode of conveyance to the village at that time unless he had chosen to hire a coach; and, had there been, perhaps he would have preferred walking. At all events, he did walk, and that hastily. It was a hot summer's day; but this would not so much have mattered had he found me at the cottage, or even had he known certainly where I was to be found. Even if I had left no message as to whither I was going, no harm might have arisen; for then he would have thought of our friend and have sought me at her house. But my unhappy, my wicked deceit! Oh! it was that did all the mischief. The instant he was told that I had received a letter, and had almost immediately afterwards started for London, he became troubled, anxious lest some bad news had arrived from a quarter unknown to him, and hurried back still more hastily than he had walked from London, hoping to reach the city as soon as myself. He wondered that we had not met; but it was possible that we had taken different paths on some part of the journey. another of our London friends, imagining the possibility of my being thus found, nothing doubting the reality of my journey to London. How was he to doubt it, he asked? Had I not explicitly told our boys that I was going thither? and had I ever deceived them or him? At length, distressed beyond measure, by the joint effects of disappointment, anxiety, business engagements, and bodily fatigue and sickness, my husband once more reached his office, and, finding that I had not made my appearance, determined to take a coach, and return to the cottage, with the vague hope that he had misunderstood the poor boys, or that they and the servant had misunderstood me. Thus ended this terrible day, terrible, at least, in its consequences. I must pass over, continued Mrs. Percy, the remainder of my history as briefly as I can. I dare not dwell upon it. That night, instead of enjoying the rest he so much needed, my husband complained of pain and weariness. The following day his sufferings increased: we sent for a physician. It was putrid fever. The infection might have been taken from the coach in which Mr. Percy travelled. We never ascertained whether or no it were so; but were this the case or not, mine was the guilt, and mine has been the punishment. My husband died. Poor little Willy was the next victim, and then his brother. In less than a month from the day of that vile falsehood, I had neither husband nor son. Such was the widow's story. I will not venture to say that I have adopted precisely the language she used; and I am quite sure I have not conveyed to my readers the bitter tone of self-reproach which, under such circumstances, were naturally to be expected. Whether my lodger were too morbidly sensitive, whether her deductions were legitimate or forced, whether she attributed too much of her sorrowful bereavement to her own unguarded equivocation, and too little to circumstances over which, by no possibility, she could have had control, let the reader decide. I will not weaken her testimony by remarks of my own. When my husband reached London, he found himself exhausted and unwell with the very hot, long, and fatiguing walk; and he became nervously excited when he found that I had not reached home before him. He waited impatiently for some time, too much disturbed, both by the pressing business which had This one thing is certain, and let the caused his unexpected visit, and by my truth be impressed deeply upon all who unaccountable absence, to take the re-read, there is neither safety nor satisfacfreshment he so much needed. After waiting for some time in great and increasing suspense, he went from one to tion to be found in the slightest divergence from the narrow but plain path of Christian integrity and truthfulness. I |