art, and will therefore be preserved, while a larger portion will interest
only the few who delve into the records of human caprice and whim. Even
these will not particularly care to know or remember what factory-brand
was borne by the teapots and saucers of our grandmothers, and what
Staffordshire modeller or woodcutter was responsible for the usually
atrocious decorations of those utensils. They will smile but once over the
pleasant lunacy of a hunt, printed and illustrated, among New England
cottages for forgotten and more or less damaged crockery. The Youngest
Member herself--by that time promoted probably to the ranks of the matrons
whose treasures she delights to ransack--will be slow to recall and
understand her enthusiasm of to-day, and marvel at her ever having
detected charms in the homely things of clay she deems worthy of the
graver. We, her contemporaries, however, living in the midst of the
contagion to which she is a conspicuous victim, can follow her flying
footsteps in the chase after potsherds with some sympathy, lag though we
may far in the rear. We enjoy the lively style in which she depicts her
"finds," and the bright web of sentiment and story with which she weaves
them into unity. The receptacles of beer, tea, cider and shaving-soap that
figure in her woodcuts are old friends we are glad to see again, and none
the less so for the somewhat startling duty they are made to perform in
the illustration of aesthetic culture. We learn secrets about them we never
dreamed of before. We are told where they came from, have explained to us
the mystic meaning of their designs, and are pointed to the stamps on
their bottoms or some other out-of-the-way part of their anatomy
infallibly betraying their age, nativity and parentage. Every reader will
be treated to special revelations of this sort, some more, some less, some
one and some another. For our individual share we are favored with
enlightenment as to three of our private possessions. One of these is the
Dog Fo, a little white Chinese monstrosity. We have been familiar from
childhood with two of him, seated in unspeakable but complacent
hideousness at the opposite ends of the chimney-piece. No. 2 is a gallon
pitcher, sacred to the gingerbread of two generations, and ornamented with
a ship under full sail on one side and a coat-of-arms on the other, not
now remembered, the whole article having recently disappeared in some way
or direction unknown and untraceab