ted. And you'll all be gazetted.
_Hone's Works._ _The Times._

More than a lifetime has elapsed since the above was published, but
instead of returning to the style of 1772, our farmers have out-Heroded
Herod in the direction of the fashion, of 1822, and many a farmhouse,
like the home of Artemas [Transcriber's note: Artemus?] Ward, may be
known by the cupola and the mortgage with which it is decorated.

It is by the mysterious power of economy, it has been said, that the loaf
is multiplied, that using does not waste, that little becomes much, that
scattered fragments grow to unity, and that out of nothing or next to
nothing comes the miracle of something. It is not merely saving, still
less, parsimony. It is foresight and arrangement, insight and
combination, causing inert things to labor, useless things to serve our
necessities, perishing things to renew their vigor, and all things to
exert themselves for human comfort.

English working men and women work very hard, seldom take a holiday, and
though they get nearly double the wages of the same classes in France,
yet save very little. The millions earned by them slip out of their
hands almost as soon as obtained to satisfy the pleasures of the moment.
In France every housekeeper is taught the art of making much out of
little. "I am simply astonished," writes an American lady stopping in
France, "at the number of good wholesome dishes which my friend here
makes for her table from things, which at home, I always throw away.
Dainty little dishes from scraps of cold meat, from hard crusts of bread,
delicately prepared and seasoned, from almost everything and nothing.
And yet there is no feeling of stinginess or want."

"I wish I could write all across the sky, in letters of gold," says Rev.
William Marsh, "the one word, savings-bank."

Boston savings-banks have $130,000,000 on deposit, mostly saved in
driblets. Josiah Quincy used to say that the servant girls built most of
the palaces on Beacon Street.

"So apportion your wants that your means may exceed them," says Bulwer.
"With one hundred pounds a year I may need no man's help; I may at least
have 'my crust of bread and liberty.' But with five thousand pounds a
year I may dread a ring at my bell; I may have my tyrannical master in
servants whose wages I cannot pay; my exile may be at the fiat of the
first long-suffering man who enters a judgment against me; for the flesh
th