tion is destroyed by the removal of the causes which produce it; and we all know that, without previous fermentation, decay cannot occur. It is so pre-eminently nasty to the taste (in spite of its appetising effects) that even the voracious teredo will not touch it, but abandons it for the more luxurious feeding which he finds in uncreosoted timber.

One of the most observable points of this process is that it bestows its gift of longevity mainly on the poorer and more despised sorts of wood, and comparatively refuses it to the aristocrats of timber. Pine, fir, and all soft porous woods, obtain from it an apparently endless grant of life; while oak and beech, and all the harder trees, are prevented, by their own superior close grain, from an equal participation in its benefits. The oil cannot get into them in sufficient quantity to thoroughly fill all their pores.

It was imagined, some few years ago, that all the effects which we have described as consequent upon the application of creosote, could be produced with equal certainty by corrosive sublimate. The latter preservative has, however, failed completely, especially in cases where wood imbued with it has been subjected to the excavating propensities of seaworms. They have eaten the sublimate (poison though it is) and the wood together; and they in no way risked their valuable lives when partaking of such deleterious food, for corrosive sublimate, when mixed with white of egg, or any form of albumen, such as that contained in the sap of timber, is as harmless as the most tender-hearted entomologist could desire.

The application of creosote to railway sleepers appears to be becoming almost universal in England, and it is also very extensively employed for the same purpose abroad. If it continue to faithfully discharge its duties, and to watch with the unfailing care it has hitherto exhibited over the wooden interests committed to its charge, shielding them from all enemies, however powerful or cunning, we may expect that, in the course of time, forests will begin to grow all over the world again, because there will be no use for them when cut down. When that happens, what will become of the timber merchants? But perhaps the end of the world may arrive in the interval, so that the question will not have to be asked.

LISETTE'S CASTLES IN THE AIR.

FROM THE DANISH OF H. P. HOLST.

BY MRS. BUSHBY.

I HAVE always considered a garret as one of the most poetical abodes on earth. Ye happy beings who, from that lofty altitude, can look down upon the paltry bustle of the world, do ye not also appreciate the advantages which ye possess? Envy not those whose cradles were rocked in palaces or gilded saloons, for their good fortune cannot be compared to yours. In these airy regions peace and freedom reign. Ye are surrounded with the purest atmosphere--ye have but to throw open your elevated casements to inhale the clear, fresh air, whilst the rich beneath you, in their close chambers, seek eagerly for one breath of it to refresh them, and assist their stifled respiration. No prying opposite neighbour

watches you, or disturbs your peace; there is nothing except the swallow which builds its nest upon the roof, or the linnet that flutters before your window, and greets you with its song. Ye are raised far above all human misery, for none of it is apparent to your eye; the manifold sounds of the busy street-the itinerant vendor's varied cries-the rumbling of carriages and carts, scarcely reach your ears. Ah, happy tenants of those lofty regions! how frequently, and with what magnetic power, do ye not draw my glances upwards towards you!

Far up yonder-high-high-mounting towards the clouds-where the rosebush and the white curtains adorn the window, lives a little milliner girl, about seventeen years of age. Courteous reader, if you are not shocked at the idea of ascending that steep staircase, and these innumerable steps, we will visit her together. Be not afraid! Your reputation shall not suffer-I will cast Peter Schlemil's cap over you-you shall see all, and be yourself unseen. You will! Then follow me, but be silent and discreet; it is a charming girl whom we are going to see.

We enter-hush! Make no noise, for Heaven's sake; Lisette is occupied. At this moment she is busy trying on, before the mirror, a bonnet of the newest fashion, which she has just finished making. This is one of the most important incidents in a milliner's life. It is to her of as much consequence as his pieces are to a dramatic writer; with every new bonnet which she has constructed-with every new play which he has composed-comes the deep anxiety, whether the work shall add another blossom to the garland of their fame, or shall despoil them of their renommée. Let us not disturb her, but rather let us take a survey of the little apartment which contains all her treasures.

If your eye be accustomed to rest on silken tapestry, rich carpets, elegant toilet, and costly work-tables, these principal embellishments of a young lady's boudoir, I would advise you somewhat to lower your ideas, for Lisette possesses none of these, nor does she feel the want of them. All that belongs to her is simple and frugal, but scrupulously clean and neat. The ceiling and the walls rival in whiteness the snowy coverlet which is spread over her couch. Near this stands a wardrobe, in which hang two dresses and a shawl; and on a chair close by lie a couple of caps and a straw hat, trimmed with gay ribbons. These form her little stock of habiliments. A large oaken table occupies the centre of the room; it is covered with pieces of crépe, silk, satin, artificial flowers, plaits of straw, patterns, a knife, and a pair of scissors. These are all her store, and all her apparatus. On a plain chiffonier lie a Psalm-book, a well-worn romance of Sir Walter Scott, some songs, and a little pamphlet, entitled "The Ladies' Magic and Dream Book." These comprise her whole library. I had nearly forgotten the most valuable article among her furniture-yon old lounging-chair, covered with morocco leather; I call it the most valuable, for it was her only heirloom from her forefathers. A mirror is suspended over the chiffonier, before which Lisette is standing, fully engaged in taking a survey of herself. There is no mistaking the smile that is playing around her lips-the light that is beaming from her eyes. The critical examination has been satisfactory, and she is pleased with her own handiwork. And well may she be so; for the tasteful white silk bonnet casts a soft shade over her brow of ivory, and the rose-coloured crépe with which it is trimmed seems pale when compared to her blooming check. I could venture to wager a

thousand to one that Lisette's face is a hundred times prettier than that of the fair dame or damsel for whom this bonnet is intended. Doubtless this idea has struck her also; see, she hastens to her wardrobe, and takes from it her light green shawl. She throws it around her shoulders, arranges it in graceful folds over her slender throat and fairy form, turns to the glass and contemplates herself, first on one side then on the other, and laughs in the glee of her heart.

Brava, Lisette-brava! Hark! she sings

At that moment she fancies she hears some one knock at her door. In the twinkling of an eye everything is put in due order; the shawl is hung on the peg in its proper place, the bonnet laid conspicuously on the table, and "Come in " is answered to the summons. "Come in, Ludvig," she repeats in a clearer voice; but Lisette must surely have been mistaken, for no one enters at her bidding. She goes towards the door and listens, she peeps through the keyhole, and finally opens the door and looks out, but no mortal is there.

She pa

The foregoing scene is resumed the shawl is taken again from its sanctum, the bonnet is replaced on her rich glossy brown hair; again her dark eyes shine, and again she smiles in the most captivating manner. Happy little Lisette! How unpretending must be her claims to the joys of life! A bonnet is sufficient to minister to her happiness. rades up and down the room, How proudly she carries her little head; what fascination in her air and figure! She has that grace which is neither acquired nor affected; that untaught grace which nature, in its caprice, sometimes bestows on a milliner's girl, and denies to a lady of the court, or to a princess !

At that moment her glance falls on the forgotten common straw hat with its pink ribbons, and the sight of it instantly dispels all her gaiety. Who now wears such a bonnet? It is quite, quite out of fashion, unfortunate Lisette! You-you alone are born to hide your lovely countenance under such a hideous shade; and not one single male being may behold how charmingly the modern little silk bonnet becomes you. Another is to enjoy the fruit of your labour, to sport the work of your hands, and the production of your taste and skill! Poor girl! It is hard, it is unjust, your sad fate is really to be pitied.

With the slightest look in the world of chagrin she has cast herself into the leather arm-chair to take some rest after her fatigues. The clock has struck half-past seven, and she has been working since four in the morning. She can hardly repress her impatience. "What can have become of Ludvig !" she exclaims to herself. "Everything seems to conspire against me to-day; surely he cannot have taken it into his head to visit me in the forenoon, when he knows that this is my leisure time? Why does he not come? For though he plagues me sometimes, and he is often vexed with me, he knows very well how glad I am to see him.”

Lisette becomes thoughtful, and begins to meditate upon the future. Her position is trying enough. What signifies it to her that her embroidery, her flounces, her caps, are always beautiful; that her bonnets look quite as fashionable as those of the court milliners? She barely makes a

maintenance, and she has an invalid mother to support. What prospect is there of any change in her circumstances? What good fortune has she to hope for in the future? She throws herself back in the lounging-chair, closes her eyes, and begins-to dream.

Ah! who does not know what happy miracles take place in dreams? Real joys are seldom the growth of this world, and are only found by a few; but to compensate for their absence, by the bounty of Providence, a reflection of them is permitted to all mankind; for fancy may, for an instant, bestow that happiness which never can be realised. The pleasures of imagination are open to all; in dreams we may taste of felicity, and surely none are so wretched as never in fancy to have known a moment of consolation and comfort.

Lisette is smiling; she is not asleep, but she has closed her eyes, the better to enjoy her little world of phantasies and dreams. Her situation in life is altered. She is no longer the poor Lisette who must toil from day to day to supply her urgent wants, and whose wardrobe consists only of two or three dresses, a shawl, and a coarse straw hat. Oh, no; it is far different! She need no longer exert herself so much, and is no longer obliged to rise with the swallow, whose nest is near her window. She has bought silk dresses, a pretty bonnet, and a fashionable shawl. She has been to Charlottenlund; has heard the band at Frederiksberg ; and wandered in the woods with her young friends. What magic has suddenly wrought this change in her destiny? She dreams it; and who would recal her from the harmless enjoyment of her vivid waking visions? Lisette delights in the theatre; she has been there twice in her life, and has seen the "Elverhöi" and "King Solomon;" but she knows all the opera and vaudeville airs by heart, and sings them like an angel. She has just settled that she will take a box for the season, when she hears a knock at the door. "Come in!" she exclaims, languidly; and this time it is no false alarm, for a waiting-maid walks in with a parcel and a bandbox. Lisette is somewhat annoyed at the interruption; however, she rises and asks what is wanted. The maid brings an old bonnet to be re-trimmed for her mistress, and orders a new one for herself, which she desires may be ready by the next Sunday, when she is going out, and will call for it. She dares not let her mistress see it; but her lover, the mate of a ship trading to China, insists on her being nicely dressed. He has presented her with a china-crape shawl, which she begs may be allowed to remain at Lisette's until the important Sunday.

As she is leaving the room the clock strikes eight, and Lisette suddenly remembers that she has not watered the rosebush, which was given her by Ludvig. What shameful carelessness! She hastens to perform the pleasing task: that in doing this her glauce falls upon the pavement below, and that at the same moment the handsome hussar officer, Lieutenant W, is passing by-surely must be the work of chance. He bows-it must be to the family of the Councillor of State in the lower story, not to the inhabitant of the poor garret up at the roof of the house. He casts a look up towards heaven, and sees a heaven in Lisette's beautiful eyes. Perhaps he was watching the clouds, and thinking of the weather; but his eyes sparkled like the beam of the noonday sun, or like two very bright stars. He lifts his hand to his military cap-how elegant are his movements! What a pretty compliment to pass unnoticed! Unnoticed? If so, what means that deep blush on Lisette's

cheek? Is it the blush of triumphant beauty, or is it merely a passing tint, cast by the roses over which she is bending?

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Lisette busies herself with the plant, and trains its branches with more than usual assiduity. It would seem that she redoubled her care of the rosebush, by way of making up to its donor for her momentary faithlessness. "I will never see him more," said Lisette to herself; "I will never come near the window again at eight o'clock. To-day I have done so for the last time. But why so? I am guilty of nothing-I have never once spoken to him; all I know is, that he always passes this way precisely at eight o'clock; but I have no right to think that it is on my account. Perhaps it is not good for my rosebush to be watered so late; and Ludvig is so jealous-oh, so jealous! I can't imagine why; I am sure he has no cause for jealousy. It is too bad. Ah-these men! these men! They expect from us one sacrifice after another, but not the slightest pleasure will they allow to us."

During this monologue her eye had fallen on the parcel left by the waiting-maid. Her curiosity becomes excited to see what is in it, and especially what sort of a shawl the mate had bestowed upon "that stupid Lena." She stands for some time debating with herself, her eye riveted on the parcel; at length she determines to open it. What a beauty it is! No countess could have a handsomer shawl. Lisette wraps it round her, and betakes herself again to the glass, where she gazes at it with the utmost admiration, slightly tinctured perhaps with a little dash of envy. Taking it off, and laying it on her table, she places herself a second time in the old leather arm-chair, and sinks back into the world of dreams. But it is no longer the box at the theatre that occupies her imagination; her head is full of the charming shawl. She fancies that she has one as pretty; that her plain dress is exchanged for another of splendid materials; that she is surrounded by admirers, and-little coquette that she is that she gives them no hope, for she loves only Ludvig; but still, she does not quite discard them.

But where is Ludvig himself all this time? Look round, and you will behold him now!

Do you see that young man with an intelligent countenance, with bright speaking eyes, and dark curly hair, who at this moment has entered the room? That is Ludvig. His open colla rexhibiting his throat, and the rest of his somewhat fantastic costume, at once evince that he is an artist; but we must add, that he is an artist of no ordinary talent, and that as a portrait-painter he is admired and sought after. He has closed the door softly, and stealing forward on tiptoe, he approaches Lisette, who, lost in her magic world of dreams, is not at all aware of his presence. She is leaning gracefully back in the large easy-chair, her eyes closed, their long dark lashes reposing on her fair soft cheeks, and an enchanting smile, caused by the drama of her imagination, playing around her rosy lips. He bends over her as if he would fain, from the expression of her countenance, read her unspoken thoughts. What a study for a painter! What an exquisite pleasure for an ardent lover! Ludvig can no longer merely look-he snatches up her hands, and covers them with kisses.

Lisette opens her eyes. At that very moment she had been dreaming of him; she had refused all her other suitors for his sake; she had forgotten the caprice, the jealousy, the absurdities of which she had often