Tower has this year had three shawls made of his wool, one of which was examined by the committee of manufacturers, The yarn was spun by Messrs. Pease of Darlington and was woven by Messrs. Miller and Sons of Paisley. Mr. Tower’s shawl was compared with one made in Scotland, of French shawl-goat wool, to which it was evidently far superior. It was also compared with a shawl of M. Terneaux’s own make; and was considered by very competent judges to be superior to this also. (_Trans. Soc. Arts._) Mr. Tower’s goats were visited by Mr. Riley this present summer, and he declares them to be the most interesting specimens of the pure breed he has ever seen. The flock, consisting, in 1823, of two bucks and two does, now (1832) consists of 51 animals. Mr. Riley found them “grazing promiscuously with other stock in the park, and appearing extremely docile. The climate of England renders it necessary that, at night, they should be protected in sheds; and, in winter, fed with hay,” &c. “The down was at this time taking from them by a girl, with a common horse-comb; and, on comparing it with some specimens I had procured in France, received through Russia, I found not the slightest degeneration: but, on the contrary, from its very clean state, and the small proportion of hair, I should say, it would realize in Paris a much higher price than any I had seen. Mr. Tower has had some shawls made from the produce of his flock, one of which he presented to his late Majesty. It was greatly admired, and considered to rival those of Cachemire. Mr. Tower states that his flock produces an average of 2 1/3 oz. of down annually from each animal.”--_Gardeners’ Magazine._ * * * * * THE GATHERER. * * * * * _Lines on finding a withered Primrose just before the opening of spring._ The primrose has gone ere the Summer’s bright beam Had enlivened the glade, or illumin’d the stream; It died ere a bud of the forest was seen, Or Spring had appeared in her tresses of green. It bloom’d in simplicity’s meekest of form, The spoil of the winds and the gust of the storm; Like the offspring of want on a pitiless shore, No hand to upraise it--no heart to deplore! It knew not the fostering smiles of a friend, Or the dew-drops of pity on sorrow that ’tend; In its solitude drooping, like one in despair, It shrunk ’neath the blast of the wintry air. In the wildness of nature unnoticed it grew, No solace or warmth from companions it drew; Forsaken--unpitied--unwept for--unknown, Like a child of the desert, it perished alone.