“The tail should never be less than twelve, and should it even amount to twenty times the length of the kite, its appearance in the air will be more graceful; this, however, must be regulated by the weight of the string, and by the length and thickness of the pieces of paper of which the tail is composed. The length of each ought to be about three inches and a quarter, and an inch and a half in breadth, and it should be folded four times longitudinally; each of these _bobs_, as they are called, must be placed at regular intervals of three inches.” “And with respect to the size of the wings?” asked the vicar. “I should not recommend any wings; if the kite be well made, there cannot be any advantage from such appendages. Having now answered your several questions, let us proceed with our work.” “But where is the paper?” asked Mrs. Seymour. “Apropos,” answered her husband; “the box in which the London toys were packed contains a quantity that will answer our purpose.” The box was accordingly placed on the table. “Why, what a most extraordinary miscellany!” cried the vicar; “the army of Mithridates could not have consisted of a more incongruous mixture. I perceive,” added he, as his enquiring eyes glanced from sheet to sheet, “we have here a fragment of almost every description of literary and scientific work.” “The market,” observed Mr. Seymour, “is supplied with waste paper from the catacombs of Paternoster Row, which may be truly said to ‘level all distinctions.’ Without intending any offence by a pun, my good vicar, what a _tale_ will this box unfold! I never open a magazine of this waste paper, without feeling a deep sympathy for the melancholy fate of authors: to see the strange transmigrations, and vile purposes, to which their works are destined, is really heart-rending. That the _lights_ of science should be consigned to the tallow-chandler! the works of the moralist, so well calculated to _purify_ the world, to the soap-seller! that such a book as ‘Laennec on the _Chest_,’ with Dr. Forbes’s valuable _Cases_ in the bargain, should be _packed_ off to the _trunk_-maker! are events which cannot fail to furnish food for melancholy reflection. Nay, more, I have myself (can you believe it, Mr. Twaddleton?) actually received a quantity of _ureic_ acid in a Review of Dr. Thomson’s Chemistry! and I only yesterday learned, with horror, that a piece of fat bacon was positively wrapped up in a page of ‘Paris on Diet;’ while a Cheshire cheese came encased in Kitchener’s ‘Chart of the Moon.’”