Godey's Lady's Book 1844-07: Vol 29 Iss 1

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( — i uA, 2 x : ; ) | ; : | : : ! | | : GODEY’S Lo Ld AIX’ S JULY ’ BO OK.. 1844, ~~." SPORTS OF TH (See Tnis splendid plate represents a scene which must have been of the most joyous and exciting character. The sport of falconry or hawking was, during the middle ages, the favourite amusement of princes and nob!'es; and as ladies could engage in it, it became very prevalent, particularly in France. It is recorded in some of the old chroni- cles of that period, that one great advantage of falconry was, that queens, duchesses and count- esses, were allowed by their husbands to carry the falcon on their wrists without offending propriety. The knight was anxious to pay his court to the ladies, on such occasions, by his attentions to the falcon. He was obliged to fly the bird at the proper moment, to follow her immediately, never to lose sight of her, to encourage her by calls, to take the prey from her, to caress her, to put on the hood, and place her gently on the wrist of her mis- tress. The falcon was a bird of the hawk species, about the size of a raven. They were taken from the nest when young, and fed for months with the raw They were then taught to rest on posts, &c., in order to inure them to sitting on the hand. were kept for a long time without sleep, and accus- flesh of pigeons and wild birds. To make them tame, they tomed to endure a leathern hood, which was drawn over the head. After all this preparatory discipline, (and much more not worth recapitulating,) the hawk was taken to the field, always hooded, so as to see no object but the game, and as soon as the dog had sprung it, the falcon was unhooded and tossed into the air after its prey. VOL. XXIx.—1 Sew oe E v ‘ OLDEN TIME. Plate.) The sport continued in favour until the seven- teenth century, but it was gradually superseded by the invention of fire-arms. In England there is still an hereditary grand fal- coner, whose office it is to present the king, (or queen,) on the day of coronation, with a cast of falcons. The Duke of St. Albans is the present grand falconer of England. Some attempts have recently been made to revive the sport in that country; but on account of the general inclosure of the fields, and probably, too, because the amuse- ment was incompatible with the present modes of life, the affair was a ridiculous failure. This sport will never probably be known in our country, except by descriptions and delineations. As in the tournaments, and all the obsolete cus- toms and observances of the chivalric ages, the novelists are the best authorities we can consult for the minutiz of hawking. In their pages we meet with the living and moving pictures of that social life in Europe, when one of the most potent kings* kept an establishment for falcons which cost him forty thousand livres annually, the grand falconer of which had under him ‘fifteen noblemen and fifty falconers!”’ Every reader of Scott must remember the stirring scene in the ‘‘Abbott,’’ where the hero Roland first displays his brave spirit in defence of the young falcons he had run such risk to obtain; the violence of his anger because the English falconer had fed the bird with ‘‘ unwashed meat, and she an eyas!’’ * FrancisI. He began his reign in the year 1515. 1 een eS eer OO OOOO eer we

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APPEAL PP PL PL PLP PLD PALAIS Oi crchisehanntinciinnnnndtionion 2 THE 3ut in one of James’s novels—‘‘ Mary of Bur- gundy’’—is a description which our plate strikingly illustrates—-when the princess, ‘‘mounted on a beautiful white horse, adorned with many a goodly trapping, which, though full of fire and life, she managed with that easy and graceful horsemanship NOONDAY MEAL. for which she was famous,”’ bearing upon her wrist the falcon, which showed the object of her expedi- tion, and accompanied by ladies (not seen in our picture) and falconers, with their dogs, and other attendants, rode forth to enjoy the sport she so well loved and understood. SOL BOF THE BY H W. HER3ERT, AUTHOR OF NOONDAY “AMERICAN BALLADS,” MEAL. Cc i] 4 “THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS (See Plate.) It is the very lull of noon—the sun Which smote the champaign, but an hour ago, With violent heat, in pity hath concealed The intolerable splendour of his brow In tabernacles of cerulean cloud, Gold fringed and gauze-like. Buta milder glow Streams over hill, and dale, and meadows green Besprent with the rath cowslip; lanes o’erhung With clustered woodbine; clumps of sycamore; And immemorial oaks; green sepulchres Of countless centuries; and proud roofs between Peaked and embattled; homes transmitted down From sire to son for ages—since the day When Norman William smote the Saxon force Of Harold on the hill With diamond casements flashing to and lowly cots the morn; And happy hearths, though humble; and tall spires Pointing the heavenward road to who would ask, And find An English landscape, such as lie Stretched out by thousands through the seagirt isle From farthest Tweed to those white walls, which frown Her southern bul warks o’er the subject sea. It is the very lull of noon—the thrush, Which all the morn has poured his richest strain In musical gushes from the umbrageous tent Of yon gnarled thorn bush, stills his liquid throat Mute by his silent mate—the lark, down dropt Amid the young green wheat with trailing wing Pants in the furrow, by excess of song Faint, and forespent with bliss. In limpid pool, Or shallow reach of the quick glancing stream, The spotted heifers shun the midday glare Half hid i’ the willows pale, or on the bank With open nostrils quaif the cooling breeze. There ie no life astir, save in the beam, Where float, like dusty atoms, or the sand On the sea-shore, wheeling their short-lived dance, The myriad insect tribes, born but to die, Most beautiful and briefest. Oh! ‘tis strange, And passing sad, that in this human world, Where all is fleeting transitory show, Naught should so fleeting be, as what is best, And dearest, and most lovely, and most loved. ? IIIA ARN rene enenemen> v Alas! alas! Is it indeed, that those “ Whom the Lord loves die young,”* thus spared the lapse Of years, which are but sorrows; rescued thus From trial and temptation, to look down In perfect bliss on that uncertain state Which once to them was happiness and love? Or is it that our world, those left to strew Its weary paths with gladness, and illume Its shadows by their inborn light of soul, Would e’en too happy be, too bright; and so Our aspirations to the mortal bind, Which should to the immortal and eterne Rise hopefully, and leave the dust of time Enough for us, that it is He, whose hand Gives to the painted insect but one day Of joy and beauty, and an age complete To the slow sensel«ss reptile—He it is, Who takes the purest and the sweetest souls Early away, and leaves the rude and vile To grow apace and ripen—He it is Most merciful and wise! and thence we know This b Strange, and intolerable to endure! st and wisest: though to mortal eyes Bright insects! ye have led me from my theme Devious, and like a child whom o’er the mead Your downy wings invite to dubious chase Iilusive—but small things will thrill the chain Of memory which links all time, and binds All things that are, or have been, or shall be, Into one present! When the heart is bruised, Even blissful things and gay their nature change, Making its sadness sadder yet—the boon, Long wished and long denied, which, had it fallen Yestreen, had been esteemed a gift from God, To-day comes as a grief, and adds new pain To that needs no addition. Thus it is That I have wandered— Yet, it still is noon In the fair landscape—the swinked husbandman Sits in the cool blue shadow of the oak, His garments spread beside him, and the tools APL PLP LPP PPO LLLP LD LAPP D PAPA DA LILLIE DL LLLP APPA RAN nnnnnnnn~ $8

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; THE CENTENARY CHERRY TREE.

> $ That win his scanty bread, dismissed awhile, Lit by her coming. ; Yet soon to be resumed. A little hand Happy, happy they, > Rests on his knee, a delicate small voice Though poor, and weak, and lowly in estate, » Speaks music to his weary ear—his girl, And haply scorned by the proud, who have on whom § Bare-headed, in the sunshine, with bare feet, To lean in sorrow, and with whom in joy Yet fair and graceful as a prince's child, To feel joy doubled by the radiant smile Has brought across the fields his noonday meal, That thanks the giver of ’t. And o’er the stile, and by the deep woodside— And wretched He, Nor stopped to gather king-cups in the mead, Who, blest albeit with riches, honour, youth, Or gay marsh-marigolds beside the brook; Vigour of bone, and intellect sublime, Nor—when her litie sister clapped her hands, Would barter, oh how freely!—youth, and wealth, And laughed, till the old trees sent back her glee Glory, and strength, and genius—and the last In mellow trebles, to see Carlo chase Perchance most willingly, as adding most The light-winged swallows o’er the new-mown hay— To that he suffers—for one little hour ; Tarried to share her glee; but hastened on, Of who no longer is; although she live § Meek type of sweetest womanhood, to soothe In bliss forever, by no sense of his The toil of others, careless of her own, Perceived or apprehended, and perhaps— Gentle, and uncomplaining, and most glad Most sadilest thought of all—no more to be, > To mark a smile steal o’er the face she loves, Or known, or loved, beyond the pitiless tomb.

tt HOO ODO Dt THE CENTENARY CHERRY TREE.* Respectfully dedicated to Miss S. G , of Winchester, Va. BY DR. JOHN C. MCASE. OIIIIUVFPPLPLI INL AAA APPR RE Years, years have rolled above thee, yet still unscarred, And at sweet sunset’s holy hour have sung soft touching unriven, hymns; Thy teeming branches wave aloft to catch the winds of Our childhood’s friends! And where are they, the beau- heaven; tiful, the fair? The lightning and the tempest, the sunshine and the We ask, and echo from the hills repeats the mournful storm, “ where?”’ In fury or in beauty oft hath played around thy form; The old are not, the young are gone—the green mound Yes, years have brought their joys and griefs since first tells the rest! the twig took root (May the flower-decked turf lie lightly on each coldand = y : . r 1 Where the lowly drooping willow in its mournful beauty sod ; waves We all may pluck immortal fruit “fast by the throne of ¢ é Beside some silvery streamlet’s banks which softly winds Ged!” $ aan f kinker, Esqr., in Stafford : * the farm of Samuel Skinker, Esqr., in Staffor ; And with the gentle breezes blends its sad funereal song On ’ i ; county, Va., there stands a cherry tree one hundred years ; . . is oi “oe ore ‘ ” ; Our childhood’s friends have stood with us beneath your old, yet stili flourishing in “a green old age. ; r ; yr. ? spreading limbs, Norfolk, Va. 3 } eepengs xX

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EE eeer eee ee PPP LLL LLL LL LEPPARD PPP LLP DAADL NAAARAAALRA (PAP ALAA ADA DDD DDD PPL PPP PPP PLP PPP PL LLP LLL LLLP bs THE HAND, AND ITS WORK. Whatseever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.—Sotomon. BY MRS. 8. J. HALE. —PLLELPLP LOPE PDD ~~ All work is noble.—Labore orare.—Work is worship.—CaR.isLe. ; Tue stars that shine in Afric’s sky, Still bear this record, undefaced Lighting all lovely things, By time or change, by war or waste:— $ Have seen, though hid from human eye, That Tueses had men of patient care,— $ Two tiny, trembling Springs That strong and cunning Hands were there ; $ Whose silvery, sofi-ton’d flowing seems And thus the workman’s fame, : Like whispers heard in lovers’ dreams, His own by honest toil, remains secure, 2 That wake an answering smile ;— When vanishing like foam by winds up-tost, And yet those star-kiss’d springs send forth Ambition’s towering eminence is lost ;— 3 The proudest flood that tracks the earth— The artisan that chisell’d Pharaoh’s name g The world-renown’d Old Nile:— His work abides,—the monarch’s sinks obscure. ; Swart Egypt's sands, beneath his wave, $ Are whelm’d, as in an ocean grave; Earth's desolate places! Oh, who that hath trod $ Anon, from out his slimy tide, *Mid ruins, once fair as a city of God, ; Like earth from Chaos raised again, But felt, as he ponder’d the work of his race, 2 The rich green harvest waveth wide, The spirit’s deep yearning each movemeut to trace? And hope, and joy, and beauty reign. To sweep o’er the Ages, and gaze on the Past, With the eye of the sun, and the wing of the blast? Thus powerless, as the oozing rill, —’Tis vain—the dark pall of oblivion is spread ; The infant’s small, soft hand appears, But Hist’ry, though cold as the hand of the dead, But wielded by stern manhood’s will, Still holds the quench’d torch, that once blazon’d their And strengthen’d by lite’s rolling years, fame, > That wonder-working Hand may pour, And points out a clue to the place and the name:— 2 Like Nile, when bursting every bound, “These stones are Palmyra!—and high in those rocks, A flood of devastation o’er The haunt of the owl, and the hole of the fox, The prostrate world around ; Were thy palaces, Edom—the queenly, the proud!” Or, like Nile’s fertilizing tide, And thus, as the light of some tremulous star, May scatter blessings far and wide. That shows its pale beam through the murk midnight cloud, The human Hand! Would’st number o’er Antiquity shineth, so faint and so far! Its mighty works of strength and skill ? So faint in the east, where her genius had birth,— The trophies cumber every shore; But who may discover her light in the west? ’Mid desert wastes,—on mountains hoar, Where the ages are mute, as the mines of the earth, Where foot may press, or eye explore, When the “blackness of darkness” above them is Its presence meets us still ;— press’d! From Babylonia’s crumbling tower, The Nile, hath it witness’d destruction and change? (Religion’s earliest dome of power,) The Amazon waters a region more strange ! $ To Zion’s holy hill, And downward, through the lapse of time, Where’er is heard the voice or chime, That summons men to praise and prayer, From minaret or Gothic pile, From shingled roof or pillar’d aisle— The Workman’s Hand is there. The monuments of power and pride, Whose shadows aw’'d the elder world, Like broken toys, at eventide, By careless childhood cast aside, Now lie in ruin hurl'd ;— Temples and palaces o’erthrown,— But scattered brick, and sculptur’d stone, 4 Pompeii was whelm’d in her lava-seal'd tomb— Palenque and Uxmal—oh, what was their doom! Where roams the red man through the thorn-tangled brake, And the jaguar’s yell drowns the hiss of the snake, On a mound, Titan-like, by dark forests o’ergrown, Wild ruins of palace and temple are strown, And o’er them, like watch-towers of silence and fear, Vast structures, in desolate grandeur, appear,— As though the Storm-demon had swept in his wrath, And Death, with closed vizor, had fullow’d his path, And “sealed up’’ the things which the heavens beheld, Ere the dark gods of earth by the Cross were expell’d ;— ’Tis the empire of wonder, the realm of blind doubt, Where the light of man’s soul has forever gone out.

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THE HAND, AND ITS WORK. 5 Thus thought, as he roam’d through those dust-darken’d halls, And gaz’d, with strain’d eye, on their dim-pictured walls, A son of the land, whose star-banner unfurl’d, Bears terror to tyrants and hope to the world. As cheerful as lark, mounting upward from earth, From the home of his father’s that searcher went forth ; And wider than mountain-fledg’d eagle hath flown, His foot o’er earth’s strange, storied places had gone: On Sinai’s lone summit his spirit bow’d low, With the Greeks, at Thermopylae, challeng’d the foe; All noble achievements he felt to the core Of his heart, and all mysteries deep would explore ; A man among men—aye, right worthy was he To uphold the renown of the brave and the free, And glean, from the ruins of ages, the lore Of wisdom and truth, which are new evermore. But now, on his soul the dark shadow is cast, As vainly he struggles to fathom the Past ;— All dumb rise the phantoms he summons around, Their signs have no meaning, their language no sound: Ha! the form of a Hand* on the ceiling impress’d, Bright red, as with blood, flowing warm from the breast! And the heart of the traveller leap’d at the view,— ’T was humanity’s symbol, the perfect, the true! He feels as though brothers their welcome was bringing, And tones of glad voices around him were ringing ;— He is not alone in that desolate place, Man’s Hand had been there—’twas the work of his race! The Hand—what wondrous wisdom plann’d This instrument so near divine! How impotent, without the Hand, Proud reason’s light would shine! Invention might her powers apply, And Genius see the forms of heaven, And firm Resolve his strength might try— But vain the will, the soul, the eye, Unquarried would the marble lie, The oak and cedar flout the sky, Had not the Hand been given. The frost’s ice-breath the seas may block,— Aa earthquake’s arm the mountain’s shake,— The lightning’s eye dissolve the rock,— The heaving breast of waters break A pathway through the solid land ;— No form, that Nature’s force could take, Such changes in the world would make, As doth the human Hand! Its slender palm the forest clears, And sows the nurturing grain, The harvest springs, the vine appears, And pastures dot the plain, * “On the walls of this desolate edifice (in Uxmal) were prints of the ‘mano colorado,’ or red hand. Often as I saw this print it never failed to interest me. It was the stamp and form of the living hand: it always brought me nearer to the builders of these cities, and at times, amid stillness, and desolation, and ruin, it seemed as if from behind the curtain that concealed them from view, was extended the hand of greeting.” Travel in Yucatan. 1* —Stephens’ Incidenis of 5 ) > Where flocks and herds secure may lie, Nor prowling beasts will venture nigh,— They feel their Maker’s stern command, And yield to man the cultured land. Then cities lift their stately spires, And orchards bloom, and household fires Are kindled up, with song and glee; And art and taste their riches pour; And strong swift ships have bridg’i the sea, While nations meet on either shore, Like neighbours, stepp’d from door to dvor ;— And savage Hands, whvse work was strife, Now clasped in social compact, prove Justice and peace may govern life, If man his work perform in love. Man’s work— how much the word hath said From Merris’ Lake to fountain, set, Like diamond in a coronet, Within some emerald shade; From garden-pale to China’s Wall; From Pyramid to plaything small Which infant's touch hath sway’d; From mud. scoop’d hut to royal hall; From burial vault to lighthouse tall,— The loftiest work, the lowest—all The master Hand hath made. All wants that from our nature rise, Life’s common cares, the Hand supplies,— It tends and clothes our myriad race, It forms for each a resting place, And ceaseless ministry doth keep, From cradle dream to coffin sleep. All rare, rich, curious, costly things, Which fashion seeks, and commerce brings, To fill our homes with comforts sweet, And make it joy for friends to meet; And all that deck ambivion’s train, And gild authority's command, Were wrought with toil, and care, and pain, And fashioned by the skilful Hand. Art’s glorious things, that give the Mind Dominion over time and space ; The silken car, that rides the wind ; The steel, that pathless seas can trace; The engine, breathing fire and smoke, Which first old Neptune’s trident broke, And sails its ships gainst wind and tide; The telescope, that sweeps the sky, And brings the pilgrim planet nigh, Familiar as the Sun’s pale bride; The microscopic lens, which finds On every leaf a peopled land, All these, and more, which aid the mightiest minds, Were wrought and finished by the good right Hand. And even where Mind unquestioned empire claims, And eloquence can spell-bound chain the throng, Still must the Hand embalm the deathless names, And carve the cenotaph, or trace the song That keeps their glories, as ihe star its light, Drawn from the sun’s bright day to gild its n'ght ;— PLP PPP LPL LPL PL PLL LIP PLD DDD PPP LPP PPP PPP PPP PEPPER PP PPR IPP * een nnn PLP LLL LLL LL LLL LLP NE a s. ores eee

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38 OW ewOoewowworrowwOwererwrOwowowowrmrrwrwrmrrmrwrrwrmrww wr mr OY 6 THE EMPIRE OF MAN. Egyptian wisdom hath no more a tongue, Save in the hieroglyph the Hand hath wrought; And Pericles and Cicero would sleep, Like diamonds wasted in the unfathom’d deep; And Angelo’s or Allston’s fame be nought, Except the Hand, with wizard power could seize Imagination’s burning reveries, And give material form to heavenly thought. And thus, through all our round of life, The Hand a sovereign sceptre sways, It wields the battle brand of strife, The olive branch of peace displays; Its touch can waken and control, Of heavenly harmony the soul ; (What wonders hath its masters done, From Jubal down to Norway’s son!) Pour floods of sound on ravish’d ears, As though an ange! struck the spheres! It writes the laws that govern man ; The books, that make him glad and wise, And tests, from Britain to Japan, From Niger to the Polar Sea, ’Mong poor, or rich, or bond, or free, The sum of human energies. Oh, when its gathered trophies stand, Like magic forms on sea, on land, In fancy's view, who doth not cry, As the bright vision glideth by, In beauty, power, and majesty “ Though Mind Aladdin’s lamp might be, His Genie was the Hand!” While thus to ceaseless task-work doom’d, to make the world his own, — Lest, in the struggle, sense should drag the spirit from its throne, Woman’s warm heart and gentle hand, in God’s eternal plan, Were form'd to soften, soothe, refine, exalt, and comfort Man, And win from pleasvure’s poison cup to life’s pure fount above, And rule him, as the angels rule, by deeds of peace and love: — — ARARARAALR ARAL L ELL ALLL And so the tender Mother lays, upon her nurturing breast, With her soft hand, her infant son, and lulls him to his rest, And dries his tears, and cheers his smiles, and by her mild control, She checks his wayward moods, and wakes the seraph in his soul ; And when life's work commands him forth, no more to dwell with her, She points him to the Hanp that saved the sinking mari- ner, And broke the bread for famish’d men, and bids him trust that stay— And then, her hands unclasp’d from his, are lifted up to pray. But man could never work alone, and even in Eden’s bowers He pined fur woman’s smile to cheer his task of tending flowers ; And soon a fair young bride is sought and found to bless the youth, Who gives, for his protecting hand, her heart of love and truth ;— And now his work hath higher aims, since she its bless- _ ings shares, And oft her hand will roses strew, where his would scatter tares: And, like a light within a vase, his home enshrines her furm, Which brightens o’er his world-toss’d mind, like sunshine o’er the storm ; And when she pleads in sorrow’s cause, he cannot choose but hear, And when her soul with Heaven communes, she draws his spirit near ; And thus they live till age creeps on, or sickness lays him low, Then will she gird her woman’s heart to bear life’s bit- terest woe, And soothe his pain, and stay his head, and close his dy- ing eyes— h, then, his work well done, his Hand may rest in Para- dise! a tt 09 BOOT Hr THE BY MRS 8 EMPIRE OF M AN. HALE (See Plate. “ Suppve and rule the world,’ was God’s command.— With slow and toilsome tread man urges on His conquests o’er the stern and savage land: w? Yet still Earth cries—“ Thy empire is not won Next, with the dark and storm-rob’d ocean king, Man, compass-arm’d, the conflict hath begun He triumphs, and the seas their tribute bring: Still Earth repeats—-“ Thy empire is not won!’’ The bolts of heaven man grasps with daring hand— In vain the fiend of fire his fate would shun! Fore’d like a slave he toils on sea and land: Still Earth exclaims—*“ Thy empire is not won!” One effort more, yon monarch of the wind, Seize his bold wing, the battle will be done; Air, Fire and Water as thy vassals bind, Then Earth will shout—* Man hath his empire won !’” ow ~~

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> ini tae a * LOLOL LLL LOLOL IPPPPDAAANWADAADAAAAAAAAAAA nnn nnn PDDPAPDPA LS Pann satire ePROOODOOORDODDIPODDDS aaa weer THE CANTATRICE. BY H. T. TUCKERMAN. “Tl cantar che nel’ anima si sente.”—Psetrarca. Tue scent of violets always reminds me of Bi- anca C Her love of the flower amounted to a passion. She almost invariably wore a bunch in her girdle, and a porcelain vase that stood on the little centre-table beside her chair was often filled with them. I have seen her in winter, when the noonday sun warmed the atmosphere, pour a drop or two of the perfume upon her fingers, and throw- ing open the window, wave her hand to and fro, and as the breeze wafted in the fragrance, you could easily fancy that it was the first delicate breath of spring. The association is not incongru- ous, although Bianca was a public character. Her spirit was as meek and her affections touched to as pensive a sweetness as the violet. She was but an indifferent actress. You could never lose sight of the woman in the character. Her imitative power was very limited. It was impossible not to be conscious that she was feigning the queen, the lover, or the priestess; and, at the same time, such was the personal fascination that you felt, that ‘only herself could be her parallel.’’ Her profes- siunal success was owing entirely to her voice. It was not of great compass, but liquid and true to a marvel. She warbled rather than sung. I never heard any thing so bird-like. Often have I instinc- tively ran my eye suddenly from her face to the lofty ceiling, as if the notes were rising visibly. They seemed to escape so perfect, and well upward like the air bubbles through a gaseous spring— “ And then my youth fell on me like a wind Descending on still waters.” I grew buoyant with the melody, and could, as it were, feel every mortal weight fall away from my heart. Not that the sensation was always joyous; Bianca’s voice had a silvery pathos in its most lively overflowings; but whatever the sentiment of, the music, her cadences were wonderfully aerial. They gave one the feelings of wings. I could apply to her Shelley’s apostrophe to the sky-lark— “Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine; I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a rapture so divine. “ What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? What ignorance of pain?” The excitement of such vocalizing lingered with me long after its audible vibrations died. I used to walk the streets for hours on leaving the opera- house, to lull my nerves into weariness. Nothing vivifies consciousness like high and exquisite mu- sic, especially that of the human voice. The waves of emotion palpitate beneath it like a sea. While singing, Bianca gave you the impression of a pro- phetess, or a sybil won momently from her super- human attributes by love. When crown.:d with the garlands of public admiration, she drew near the foot-lights, and standing with a Niobe-like in- clination, extended her beautiful arms— “ As if the expanded soul diffused itself, And carried to al) spirits with the act Its affluent inspiration.” To the burst of applause, a silence ensued almost sublime in its pervading quietude; and then, moved by the grateful homage, and kindled by the vast expectancy of a thousand hearts, she would become quite oblivious of the prescribed music, and fear- lessly utter strains of unpremeditated melody that thrilled the hushed multitude with delight and awe. The bewildered orchestra forgot their vocation and rose to listen. Fair heads leaned from the long range of boxes intently. Strangers, side by side, unconsciously grasped each other, by that instinct of sympathy which ‘‘ makes the whole world kin.”’ At the close, there always succeeded a feeling of vivid surprise, so great was the lapse from ideal height to a sense of the immediate and the actual. It seemed as if upon that stream of harmony we might have attained some infinite good. Fora moment, the heart vacillated with the pain of awaking from its exalted dream, and then turned its baffled enthusiasm into plaudits to the genius of the hour. But it were as hopeful an emprise to attempt to paint the lightning in its momentary effulgence, or impart in words an idea of the most innate grace of character, as strive to convey any adequate conception of triumphs so etherial. When death chills the sculptor’s heart, some tokens of his life survive in marble. The bold design, the lines of tasteful skill, the expression of saintly beauty, yet assure us how nobly he thought or how earnestly he felt. And thus is it with the limner and the bard. But the song expires on the lip. Its only trophies are in the auditor’s memory. Its triumph endures alone in the heart it stirred and the imagi- nation it fired. Yet how endearing are even these frail oblations, since they belong to that vast array of latent agencies which perhaps have more to do with our weal and wo than all the apparent en- ginery of life. ‘Truly, music is the most spiritual of the fine arts. Apart from her vocalism, it is 7 eer emer ~~ eee ew ON mn mn memrmrmrnmnnrrren eee of ra)

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~n~ 8 THE CANTATRICE. WAAAAALLS RARRAARenn ee easier to describe Bianca. In her by-play, and, indeed, at all times, she gave you the idea of a lady. There was nothing professional in her looks or attitudes. Her manner of standing and moving, the expression of the eye, every glance and gesture was perfectly refined. Without being sylph-like, her gait was winning. It was unique upon the stage. There is something exceedingly significant in a woman’s step. It is marvellously indicative of character. There is a certain indescribable gait which I have but rarely witnessed,—neither the queenly tread of the Tuscan peasant, nor the grace- ful step of the fair Spaniard, nor the lightsome trip of the Grisette; it is a modest, gentle, candid move- ment, breathing alike of rectitude and dependence. It hath something in it irresistibly appealing. Such a gliding about one makes home divine. Scott's perception of it is evinced in his picture of Dum- biedikes for hours silently watching Jeannie Deans as she moved upon her household duties, through her father’s cottage. ‘There is no little integrity in natural language, and that of woman hath not a more meaning chapter than her gait. You could not watch Bianca as she paced the stage, (trod is too bold a term,) without feeling it would be a glorious privilege to walk beside her through the world. Another attraction belonged to her of which nature is not prodigal. Her shoulders were expres- sively beautiful. ‘They rounded so full and deftly, that the head was thrown slightly forward, giving an air of the most sincere humility, which was the more affecting from its union with such noble gifts. I delighted to watch her slow progress up the stage when arrayed in a most becoming oriental costume. The full white drawers, brought tightly round the ankle, the snug embroidered jacket, the short skirt, and the turban of rich merino, finely displayed her symmetrical form and gave relief to every move- ment. It was grace personified;—not that of art, but the free, dignified, and yet meek grace of genu- ine womanhood. The ‘success of a vocalist, however scientific, is liable to many interruptions. A slight illness or depression of spirits will often obstruct that delicate instrument, upon the clearness and facility of which the exercise of the art depends. Bianca was re- markably even and sustained. I could never de- tect any waywardness in her moods. She appeared happy, indeed, in the triumphant display of her rare powers, but there was in this feeling no elation or oppressive excitement—all seemed resolute and placid. She bore herself like one serene and pa- tient, as if above the minor cares of ker profession, and devoted to it from love and duty rather than ambition. I remarked this to one of the very few individuals who enjoyed her society; she repeated the observation to the prima donna. She was pleased at the recognition of character it implied, and soon after consented to gratify my earnest de- sire for an introduction. We became intimate; and as I gradually learned her rare worth and the cir- cumstances of her life, my original enthusiasm was deepened and confirmed. 5 Her family were nobly allied, but unfortunate; and they regarded her vocal powers as a blessing destined to redeem them from poverty. On the very night of her debut, the Duke of ——— be- came her passionate admirer. At length he ad- dressed her and was rejected. Her father’s pride was enlisted, and his commands, united with her lover’s importunity, at length induced her to yield. A year had not elapsed afier the marriage, before her husband proved himself a brute. ‘To add to her misfortunes, his estate was seized by a swarm of abused creditors. With the forbearance of a lofty soul, she forgot his unkindness and cheerfully returned to the stage. Yet he gambled away her earnings, and continued to abuse and neglect the benefactress not less than the wife. In vain her friends remonstrated and urged a separation. Her affection, if it had ever been cordial, was long since destroyed; but a moral heroism inspired her. She resolved still to suffer and to hope. a season of extraordinary brilliancy, a benefit was arranged for her on a scale of liberal patronage worthy of the artist and the woman. It was a tempestuous night, but every nook of the splendid opera-house was crowded. An audience whose faces had grown familiar by their uninterrupted attendance, thronged to pay a heart-felt tribute and revel once more in the delicious strains of the prima donna. That very day, on her husband's applying for money which she had not to bestow, in a fit of disappointment and rage, he felled her to the earth. Hours passed away before she rallied sufficiently from the insult to prepare for the exertions of the night. But necessity at last nerved her tothe task. How few of the delighted assembly who warmly greeted her appearance, dreamed of the base injury she had so recently suffered! How little were they aware that the dark ringlet that unwontedly rested upon her left temple, concealed a scar which she carried to her grave! Acute pain or wounded feel- ing will not seldom inspire genius to achieve won- ders. Byron was roused to poetic effort by harsh criticism, and the annals of eloquence boast no more glowing pages than those dictated by the fer- vour of moral indignation. Bianca, on that night, astonished and transported the coldest hearts. There was an almost superhuman energy, a sublime depth, a tearful sweetness in her tones. ‘They were like the swan’s dying strains. Alas! that the flower must be crushed ere its sweetest odours are breathed! When the last quivering note had ascended, there was a pause, as if the repressed emotion so long accumulating gathered itself up for utterance; and then came the long, thrilling outbreak of grateful admiration. Crowned like a victim for sacrifice, exhausted by intense effort and self-control, Bianca remained in her dressing-room, with her face bowed upon the table, her frame trembling, her long hair dishevelled, and every vein fevered with the throbs of contending impulses, until the pro- found quiet around made the beatings of her heart audible. She had locked the door, and was wholly unconscious of that absorbing reverie. In a few At the close of ~~~ ——

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OL ld ~~ eer % SPRING moments she was arrayed for her departure from the deserted scene of her glory. Not another being remained in the extensive and dusky theatre but the porter who had charge of the keys. He stood muffled up in his cloak holding a flambeau. The lights were all extinguished. ‘The stillness of the desert reigned through the house. When Bianca appeared, the man lifted his cap respectfully, and planting the torch upon the stage at her feet, went out to announce her readiness to the coachman. Several minutes elapsed, and he returned only to declare that neither equipage nor servants were visible. ‘The heartless tyrant for whom she had so patiently toiled, was too worldly-wise to neglect the appearance of kindness towards one so idolized, and accordingly her carriage was invariably in at- tendance. Its absence, at such a moment, could only be ascribed to him. It was a scene for a tra- gedy. There she stood in the silent gloom of that desolate temple, so recently alive to countless hearts entranced by her magical tones, utterly abandoned! The echoes of wild applause had but just died away. Dreams of love and beauty, kindled by her song, even at that moment haunted countless pil- lows. Her name lingered yet on many a lip ten- derly eloquent in her praise. ‘The idol of the multitude was more solitary than the meanest denizen of that populous city. It is difficult to imagine a more agonizing contrast than this be- tween the triumphant artist and the injured woman. Awhile she was immovable, allowing the blasting truth to feed like a vulture on her heart. The poor BELLS. 9 spectator of her voiceless anguish looked upon her despairing features, rendered more impressive by the red glare of the torch-light, and scarcely breathed for reverence and pity. Many a kind word had she spoken to him, and often were his children’s wants supplied by her bounty. She was even thoughtful for the humblest of her fellow- creatures, and the rude bosom of that unenlightened drudge swelled with a monarch’s anger even at the faint surmise of her griefs. Her resolution was taken; and, before the wonder-stricken attendant could remonstrate, she had rushed past him into the tempest. On through the driving rain she walked, and, like Lear, taxed not the elements with unkindness. To reach her residence, (it had never been a home,) it was necessary to cross a fashionable street. A flash of light almost blinded her as she entered the thoroughfare. One of the large mansions was illuminated, and she heard above the wailings of the storm, the gay music of the dance. A carriage stopped before the portico as she approached, and the blaze of a street-lamp revealed to her the livery of her own groom. She checked her rapid steps, and her husband, glittering in arich ball-dress, with a woman of high birth but questionable fame leaning on his arm, hastily en- tered the palace. The last drop was added to her cup of bitterness. Endurance had reached its acme. She turned back, and in a few moments was be- neath her father’s roof. The wretch who called her his at the altar, had lost the only jewel of his being forever. $n 00 OO Fre SPRING BELLS. TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY ANNA FLEMING. Snow bells ring,—kling—ling—ling! What can it mean ?}—A very merry thing, The little Spring was born last night, A very pretty child. He lies in his snow-bed so white, Till the weather is more mild. So hasten from the south, ye birds, Bringing with ye songs; Ye little streams, hear ye my words; Awake, and come in throngs: Awake the child to meet— Awake the Spring to greet. Blue bells ring,—kling—ling—ling! What can it mean?—Another merry thing. The Spring to-day a bridegroom is, The green earth is his bride; These banners gay and tall are his, And the flowers are full of pride. So hasten to the banquet, Pink! Hasten all ye elves; Tulips, bring fresh dew to drink ; Roses, adorn yourselves: Haste the bride to see— Bridesmaids shall ye be. May bells ring—kling—ling— ling. What can it mean!—A sad and mournful thing. To night the Spring from us must part: Alas !— alas !—alas !— Sadly it sounds o’er hill and dell, To moss, and flowers, and grass. Mosses rustle, flowers complain, Grasses wish him back again: Glow-worms light him on his way, His northward course brooks no delay. In vain, in vain we mourn, Already is he gone. LLL LALA PLA

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PARRA eee eeeTTeTeT APA eee eee eee eee es PPP PPP Lette tnttatladendh x “NOT SURE ABOUT, THAT SAME.” “AN OWER TRUE TALE.” BY MRS. E. OAKES SMITH, AUTHOR OF THE “‘SINLESS CHILD,” ETC. ** AnD so you have had two wives, Robert, they tell me, and you are a very young man still.’’ This was said by way of parenthesis to Robert Kennie, the gardener, who had a year before mar- ried a pretty seamstress, very much to his own happiness and the discomfort of certain families in the neighbourhood, who from that time forth de- spaired of having ‘‘ gaging,’ stitch,’’ or ‘over and over,’’ ever again done to their liking. And now Jeannie was slightly ill, began to look shy, and her blushes were brighter than ever; and many were the old baskets and ‘‘ budget bags’’ examined in her behalf. **'T'wo wives did you say, ma’am?”’ ** Yes, Robert,’’ and the last parcel was thrust into the basket in the same breath with the re- ae side sponse. Strange enough, Robert set the basket upon the floor, and the smile of honest pride and pleasure, at the interest we all took in the affairs of little Jeannie, passed from his face, and he replied, in a thoughtful, musing manner— *‘T am not sure about that eame, ma’am. ’T would be a great easing to my mind, ma'am, if ’ you would explain things a bit to me.’ **Certainly, Robert, | will aid you in any way I can, to the best of my judgment; but will not Jean- nie be expecting you home?”’ ‘*No—Kate Randell is staying with her; and I think I might be made a happier man by telling a bit about poor Mary.”’ He had taken a small rake seem, into the room; and now having respectfully taken the chair I pointed out, he leaned his two hands upon the handle of the implement, and to my astonishment I beheld the large tears dropping from his eyes upon the floor. I did not interrupt his grief, for it was too late to tell him he had no unawares it would right to call little Jeane his wife, if the memory of Mary was still so painfully dear to him. Besides, he was a poor unlettered youth, and while so many of his betters sanction all sorts of inconsistency in matters of sentiment, it seemed idle cruelty to at- tempt to set him right. **So many of his betters!’ But Robert shall tell his own story, and then we shall see if the un- learned and simple-hearted do not live nearest to the Temple of Truth. ‘*T am thinking, ma'am, I committed a great wrong in the matter of poor Mary, and my mind is never quite easy about it. I did'nt think so much about it till the day she died, poor thing!”’ Here Robert was silent, for his voice was fairly 10 ‘ choked by his emotion. I, too, half arose from my seat, and nervously re-arranged the geranium stand, with that instinctive selfishness natural to persons of quick sensibilities, who dread to have their sympathies painfully awakened. The movement aroused the professional jealousy of Robert, whose habits of forethought in the taste of these little ar- rangements seemed to be impeached by my inter- ference. It gave him, too, a more defined current of thought. ‘*T am thinking, ma’am, that some women folks are just like these flowers. They must have just the right kind of sile, and the right light, and the right heat, and every thing suited to their natures, or they willdie. ’Tis’nt so with all plants, for some will seem to get along and grow, and flower, and look well, under any treatment, and so it is with most of women. these geraniums, and when she withered away, it seemed a kind of cruelty, just as it always looks to me, to see a geranium dying out of place.”’ This professional illustration of the point in hand seemed to linger upon the fancy of Robert, as if by dwelling upon it, his taste and his sentiment were both alike gratified. ‘*Why, Robert, you are certainly indulging a sickly fancy in talking in this wise of Mary; and as to any self-reproach, it ought to be out of the ques- tion, for I am sure you have too good a heart to neglect any one. And then too, Robert, I shall speak frankly, for I have heard that Mary was a sickly, complaining, melancholy creature, likely to make both herself and you miserable. Now, Jeane kaa a “God her,’’ interrupted the gardener, rising to an attitude of respectful earnestness; ‘‘ but indeed, ma’am, that is why I wish to tell of Mary, because she was blamed when I was the one to bear the blame. God forbid that I should ever have neglected Mary. No, no. I cared for her night and day, but it wasn’t the right kind of care, nor from the right one, and she grew sickly, pined, She didn’t love me, ma’am, as a woman bless ‘ and died. should love to become a wife.’ ‘*Robert, have you ever been to your priest, and Did you ask counsel of told him of this matter? him?”’ ‘*TIn part, ma’am, but he doesn’t seem rightly to understand me, and things are not clear to my own mind; only I believe but for me Mary Duncan might at this day be fresh and blooming, and sing- ing like a bird, as she always did, poor thing! But poor Mary was like one of LLLP LL P_PIPPIPIIIOOnnmnmnnnnnnmmnmennnnonwnmn LLL LOLOL Ltt

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NOT SURE You see, when I first came to this country, ma’am, I was employed by old Mr. Brewster upon his grounds, and Mary was a bit of a lass doing small At first she was Then she be- work for the ladies of the family. always smiling like, and singing. gan to grow pale, and mute; and I—I, a fool of a boy, must needs think she was pining for me. Then I began to think how wondrous lovely, and meek, and good she was. One day I did some- thing tender-like to her, and she burst out a crying as if her little heart would break. I put her head on my shoulder, and comforted her, and she seemed like a dear child to me. You must know that Mary talked the whole matter over before she died, and she seemed more like the holy Virgin in spirit than any thing else. ‘*T never talked love to that child, ma’am, never; and yet I began to talk about going to the priest's. Mary was fearful in her nature, and she did not tell me all about herself. She was an orphan with neither kith nor kin, and like one of these plants made to cling to something else or they cannot grow. She had a lover, to whom she had been at- tached like ever since they were little children. She did not tell me this till I began to regard her so much mine, that it would have been terrible to part with her. He was to come out at a certain period, and she was to keep her faith till that time. If he did not come, she might suppose he was dead or changed. ‘* Poor little Mary!—this was the time I first be- gan to notice her. She moved about heavy-like, and grew pale, and the smallest thing set her to crying. She sometimes thought he had forgotten her; and then come the fear that he might be dead. My sympathy—for I thought maybe the child is ailing for home,—helped to turn her away from gloom; and we sat hours talking about auld Ire- land, and the places and people we had known there. Then when I began to go with her where- ever she went, never talking about it,—for some- how I did not, yet I could never bear to see any body else near her, and even was angry when Mary did not look to me for protection. Then Mary told me of the absent lover. She was gentle and loving in her nature, and had regarded me as a brother whom she might love and trust with no thought as to the future. **Ma’am, I was nigh on’t wild when I heard of this; and I made Mary promise, that if Dermott did not come within two weeks after the time ap- pointed, she would be my wife. You may think she was unhappy, ma’am. No; she was so like a sweet child, that when she saw all smiling and happy about her, she couldn't be miserable herself, even though things weren’t quite to her liking. 3ut I remember now, and, ma’am, I shall never forget how tearful her eyes looked sometimes, and how she tried to smile and it came faint-like, and her hands grew icy cold, and her voice stopped its singing. But I would’nt regard these things then; and God forgive me, often and often I wished Dermott would never come—for I was selfish, and ABOUT THAT SAME. 5 RRR mnnnmnmnmnmnrv 11 ~ . eer —PRPLPLD ADL full of a blind love for the meek, innocent crea- ture.”’ Robert was for many moments silent, as if a per- plexing and painful current of thought oppressed him. He resumed. ‘* Well, the time come, and no lover come with it; the two weeks were over, and the bridal made ready. We had a few of our own people, and the priest made Mary mine; and she seemed quite gentle and content, and I thought more beautiful, and lovable than ever. I don’t know why it is, ma’am, that a sorrowful face should go so nigh to the heart; but so it is. ‘* We were to have a fine treat; and while the females prepared that in one room, the younger folks were making merry in the other. We heard a knock at the door, and then some one spoke. Mary sprang for the door, and I, ma’am,—yes, I, —held the poor chifl back with a grasp that left the printsupon herarm. I held that child from the heart that Robert’s eyes were distended as if with horror at the recollection, and then suddenly drawing in his breath, he sank like a stricken child upon his knees, and scarcely above a whisper, uttered— ‘*Tell me truly, ma’am, was it not my duty then at that moment to have given her to her lover?”’ ‘*Most assuredly, Robert. God forgive you that you did not.’’ ** Amen.”’ The voice was so sepulchral, that I started and looked around to see from where it could have come. ‘*T did not. Ah! she was so beautiful, so lovable, and the priest had bound hertome. She was mine. I could not, would not resign her to another. ‘The very peril of losing her made me more fiend than ” human.”’ ‘*What did Mary say, Robert?’’ ***Poor girl!’ She only looked into my face, so 1, so sorrowful, her blue eyes without a tear, and her dear cheek white, and the light curls all away from one side of her face, just as they had fallen when J thrust her back. I thought she had stopped breathing. Then the door opened, and closed softly, and the room was hushed as if for the dead. ‘*My mother whispered how Dermott was there, and how she had told him all; and that he was sit- ting by the door with no powerto move. And then she turned to Mary, and said, ‘He only asks one kiss of ye, Mary, and then he will never trouble ‘One, Robert, only one,’ said poor ‘Ye are my wife, Mary, and stl ye again.’ Mary, rising to go. James Dermott shall never, never kiss your cheek;’ and I held her with a strong hand. Mary neither spoke nor moved.”’ ‘*Robert, Robert, you may well pray God to forgive you —’’ I stayed my speech, for the man yas crushed at his own recollections. ‘Mary never uttered his name from that time forth. She strove to smile. She was gentle and good; and oh! so quiet, that I would have given worlds to have met an angry glance. I would aroovontenccnn, i LLL LL OE LLL EEO were errr wow new Vw reer rrr we Airey wer

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PAP DAP PPP PRA PD DPD ALP L PAP D PEPE PL PPP RPPAAAD i PPE LL LPI Orem 12 have given worlds to have had her reproach me. But night and day I watched over her. I was doomed to early lose the being I had wronged, and whose patient misery was a perpetual reproach tome. I neglected every thing to meet her slight- est wishes; while she, as she never reproached me, so did she forbear always to call upon me for the slightest attention. She had a forlorn aspect, as a plant will have that has been left to the mercy of a storm.”’ ‘* Did she live long, Robert?”’ The man started with a sharp expression of pain. ‘*One day my mother came in and told us that Dermott was dead. It was not a year from that fatal night. ‘The third day Mary was in her grave. A blossom of beauty, and a bud never unfolded to the light. My mother—for women feel differently about these things from what.we do—my mother bade me bury Mary beside ‘of Dermott, and I obeyed.”’ **Robert,’’ [ said, ‘‘ you are ill. This is so unlike you, that I cannot believe it to be a real truth you have told me.”’ ** Aye, ma’am, it seems like a terrible dream to me. I have tried to think it over. I have tried to find an excuse for my cruelty. But poor dead It was not love that I bore her—it was the love of power—the tenderness of a brother;—but I could never bear opposition. I could not sacrifice my own will for the happiness of any creature, till this great grief changed my ” Mary,—it is too, too true. whole nature. 3ut where is Jeane all this time? Did you con- ceal this strange story from her?’’ PAPAIN THE MOURNER. ‘God forbid. I told it her when I first found what it meant to lose another. And to-night she bade me talk with you, thinking you might see it in a different light from what I did.’’ ‘‘No, Robert, no; do not hide your great fault from your own eyes. Dare to look it in the face, and repent manfully therefor. Mary was no wife of yours in the sight of God, and you should have yielded her to the lover, the betrothed lover, whom you defrauded by a miserable quibble—for days and weeks are not to be named in the calendar of vows between true hearts.”’ Robert bowed his head in silence. At length he resumed, in a tone trembling from anxiety— ‘* Jeane is not in the least like poor Mary; and yet now when she is moving in the very room where poor Mary used to sit so quietly, and she is silently making this small work, I have more than once shuddered to see just such a look pass over her face as Mary had. I sometimes fear I am to be punished in a still greater manner—that the four years of agony is not atonement enough!”’ And the tears gushed from the eyes of the dark- ened man, and he grasped the chair convulsively. Little can be said upon subjects like these. They are viewed according to the enlightenment of sentiment, and conscience; and only to the Great Comforter can the weary heart carry its burden. Robert’s presentiments of evil, however, were unrealized. Jeane is as blooming, and more cheer- ful than ever—for a house is ever prosperous where love presides at the altar; and the smiles of infancy will of themselves chase away all the spirits of evil. THE MOURNER. BY MRS. M Droop not, pale mourner! clouds of transient sorrow May dim life’s brightest day.— Sleep thou with hope, and thou shalt wake to-morrow, To find them pass’d away. The rose that droops and withers, does not perish ! But, with its mother earth, Its forces mingling, serves to aid and cherish The plant of later birth So, if beneath the blessed eye of heaven Blooms the eternal mind; Even in our ashes will some good be given, To those we leave behind Be thou in faith’s white beauty so excelling That all shal! miss thy loss! As a fair spire, that threw o’er humblest dwelling, The radiance of the cross. eee mmr OOO wr CARPENTER. eee emer nme We know, to him whose footstep does not falter, But onward, upward tends— Whose prayer, an incense from the pure heart’s altar, To Heaven alone ascends, Death comes not like a doomsman of dread presage ; 3ut with such sweet command, As if he were an angel with a message From the soul’s fatherland. And each good deed he flung on ocean’s bosom, While sailing o’er life’s wave, Shall bear to him an odour and a blossom 3eyond the silent grave Then be of cheerful heart, O weary mortal! For after this world’s wars, The narrow valley hath a glorious portal Of sunbeams and of stars.

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——ewr WARAARAARAARAARARAR LN ~~ ~ 8 rene mmr nn ” DROWNE’S WOODEN IMAGE. BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE, AUTHOR OF “TWICE TOLD TALES,” ETO. Ont sunshiny morning, in the good old times of the town of Boston, a young carver in wood, well known by the name of Drowne, stood contemplat- ing a large oaken log, which it was his purpose to convert into the figure-head of a vessel. And while he discussed within his own mind what sort of shape or similitude it were well to bestow upon this excellent piece of timber, there came into Drowne’s workshop a certain Captain Hunnewell, owner and commander of the good brig called the Cynosure, which had just returned from her first voyage to Fayal. ‘** Ah! that will do, Drowne, that will do!’’ cried the jolly captain, tapping ‘the log with his rattan. “TI bespeak this very piece of oak for the figure- head of the Cynosure. She has shown herself the sweetest craft that ever floated, and I mean to de- corate her prow with the handsomest image that the skill of man can cut out of timber. And, Drowne, you are the very fellow to execute it.”’ ‘* You give me more credit than I deserve, Cap- tain Hunnewell,’’ said the carver, modestly, yet as one conscious of eminence inhisart. *‘ But, for the sake of the good brig, I stand ready to do my best. And which of these designs would you prefer? Here’’—pointing to a staring, half-length figure, in a white wig and a scarlet coat—‘‘ here is an excel- the likeness of our gracious king. Or, if you lent model, Here is the valiant Admiral Vernon. prefer a female figure, what say you to Britannia with the trident?”’ ‘* All very fine, Drowne; all very fine,’’ answered the mariner. ‘‘ But as nothing like the brig ever swam the ocean, so I am determined she shall have such a figure-head as old Neptune never saw in his life. And what is more, as there is a secret in the matter, you must pledge your credit not to betray it.”” . ** Certainly,’’ said Drowne, marvelling, however, what possible mystery there could be in reference to an affair so open, of necessity, to the inspection of all the world, as the figure-head of a vessel. ** You may depend, captain, on my being as secret as the nature of the case will permit.”’ Captain Hunnewell then took Drowne by the button, and communicated his wishes in so low a tone, that it would be ‘unmannerly to repeat what was evidently intended for the carver’s private ear. We shall, therefore, take the opportunity to give the reader a few desirable particulars about Drowne himself. He was the first American who is known to have attermpted,—in a very humble line, it is true,—that art in which we can now reckon so many names VOL. XXIX.—2 2 SR eee Aen APO OPOLODOOUOODDODDIOOPDP ODED OLDEORPOOID DODO D ORAS already distinguished, or rising to distinction. From his earliest boyhood, he had exhibited a knack—for it would be too proud a word to call it genius—a knack, therefore, for the imitation of the human figure, in whatever material came most readily to hand. The snows of a New England winter had often supplied him with a species of marble as dazzlingly white, at least, as the Parian or the Carrera, and if less durable, yet sufficiently so to correspond with any claims to permanent ex- istence possessed by the boy’s frozen statues. Yet they won admiration from maturer judges than his schoolfellows, and were indeed, remarkably clever, though destitute of the native warmth that might have made the snow melt beneath his hand. As he advanced in life, the young man adopted pine and oak as eligible materials for the display of his skill, which now began to bring him a return of solid silver, as well as the empty praise that had been an apt reward enough for his productions of evanescent snow. He became noted for carving ornamental pump-heads, and wooden urns for gate- posts, and decorations, more grotesque than fanci- ful, for mantel-pieces. No apothecary would have deemed himself in the way of obtaining custom, without setting up a gilded mortar, if not a head of Galen or Hippocrates, from the skilful hand of Drowne. But the great scope of his business lay in the manufacture of figure-heads for vessels. Whe- ther it were the monarch himself, or some famous British admiral or general, or the governor of the province, or perchance the favourite daughter of the ship-owner, there the image stood above the prow, decked out in gorgeous colours, magnifi- cently gilded, and staring the whole world out of countenance, as if from an innate consciousness of its own superiority. These specimens of native sculpture had crossed the sea in all directions, and been not ignobly noticed among the crowded ship- ping of the Thames, and wherever else the hardy mariners of New England had pushed their adven- tures. It must be confessed, that a family likeness pervaded these respectable progeny of Drowne’s skill--that the benign countenance of the king re- sembled those of his subjects, and that Miss Peggy Hobart, the merchant’s daughter, bore a remark- able similitude to Britannia, Victory, and other ladies of the allegoric sisterhood; and, finally, that they all had a kind of wooden aspect, which proved an intimate relationship with the unshaped blocks of timber in the carver’s workshop. But, at least, there was no inconsiderable skill of hand, nor a deficiency of any attribute to render them really works of art, except that deep quality, be it of soul 13 wae ®

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R~. 14 or intellect, which bestows life upon the lifeless, and warmth upon the cold, and which, had it been present, would have made Drowne’s wooden work- manship instinct with spirit. The captain of the Cynosure had now finished his instructions. **And Drowne,”’ must lay aside all other business, and set about this forthwith. And as to the price, only do the job in first rate style, and you shall settle that point your- self.”’ ; ‘* Very well, captain,”’ answered the carver, who looked grave and somewhat perplexed, yet had a ‘* Depend upon it, said he, impressively, ‘‘ you sort of smile upon his visage. I'll do my utmost to satisfy you.”’ From that morning, the men of taste about Long Wharf and the Tower Dock, who were wont to show their love for the arts by frequent visits to Drowne’s workshop, and admiration of his wooden images, began to be sensible of a mystery in the carver’s conduct. Often he was absent in the day time. Sometimes, as might be judged by gleams of light from the shop windows, he was at work until a late hour of the evening; although neither knock nor voice, on such occasions, could gain admittance for a visitor, or elicit any word of response. Nothing remarkable, however, was observed in the shop at those hours when it was thrown open. A fine piece of timber, indeed, which Drowne was knewn to have reserved for some work of especial dignity, was seen to be gra- dually assuming shape. What shape it was destined ultimately to take, was a problem to his friends, and a point on which the carver himself preserved arigidsilence. But day after day, though Drowne was seldom noticed in the fact of working upon it, this rude form began to be developed, until it be- came evident to all observers, that a female figure was growing into mimic life. At each new visit they beheld a larger pile of wooden chips, and a nearer approximation to something beautiful. It seemed as if the hamadryad of the oak had shel- tered herself from the unimaginative world within the heart of her native tree, and that it was only necessary to remove the strange shapelessness that had incrusted her, and reveal the grace and loveli- ness of a divinity. Imperfect as the design, the attitude, the costume, and especially the face of the image, still remained, there was already an eflect that drew the eye from the wooden cleverness of Drowne’s earlier productions, and fixed it upon the tantalizing mystery of this new project. Copley, the celebrated painter, then a young man, and a resident of Boston, came one day to visit Drowne; for he had recognized so much of moderate ability in the carver, as to induce him, in the dearth of any professional sympathy, to culti- vate his acquaintance. On entering the shop, the artist glanced at the inflexible images of king, com- mander, dame, and allegory, that stood around; on the best of which might have been bestowed the questionable praise, that it looked as if a living man had here been changed to wood, and that not PAAAAAAA AEE DROWNE’S WOODEN IMAGE. Oe aww err only the physical, but the intellectual and spiritual part, partook of the stolid transformation. But in not a single instance did it seem,as if the wood were imbibing the ethereal essence of humanity. What a wide distinction is here, and how far would the slightest portion of the latter merit have out- valued the utmost degree of the former! ‘*My friend Drowne,”’ said Copley, smiling to himself, but alluding to the mechanical and wooden cleverness that so invariably distinguished the images, ‘‘you are really a remarkable person! I have seldom met with a man, in your line of busi- ness, that could do so much; for one other touch might make this figure of General Wolfe, for in- stance, a breathing and intelligent human creature.”’ ‘*You would have me think that you are praising me highly, Mr. Copley,’’ answered Drowne, turn- ing his back upon Wolfe’s image in apparent dis- gust. ‘‘But there has come a light into my mind. I know, what you know as well, that the one touch, which you speak of as deficient, is the only one that would be truly valuable, and that, without it, these works of mine are no better than worth- less abortions. There is the same difference be- tween them and the works of an inspired artist, as between a sign post daub and one of your best pic- tures.”’ ‘* This is strange!’’ cried Copley, looking him in the face, which now, as the painter fancied, had a singular depth of intelligence, though, hitherto, it had not given him greatly the advantage over his own family of wooden images. ‘‘ What has come over you? How is it that, possessing the idea which you have now uttered, you should produce only such works as these?’’ The carver smiled, but made no reply. turned again to the images, conceiving that the sense of deficiency, so rare in a merely mechanical character, must surely imply a genius, the tokens of which had been overlooked. But no; there was He was about to withdraw, when Copley not a trace of it. his eyes chanced to fall upon a half-developed figure which lay in a corner of the workshop, surrounded by scattered chips of oak. It arrested him at once. ‘* What is here? Who has done this?”’ he broke out, after contemplating it in speechless astonish- ment for an instant. ‘‘ Here is the divine, the life- What inspired hand is beckoning this wood to arise and live?) Whose work is this?’’ ‘*No man’s work,’’ replied Drowne. ‘‘ The figure lies within that block of oak, and it is my business to find it.”’ ‘‘Drowne,”’ said the true artist, grasping the carver fervently by the hand, ‘‘you are a man of giving touch! genius!”’ As Copley departed, happening to glance back- ward from the threshold, he beheld Drowne bend- ing over the half created shape, and stretching forth his arms as if he would have embraced and drawn it to his heart; while, had such a miracle been pos- sible, his countenance expressed passion enough to communicate warmth and sensibility to the lifeless oak. nWAAnannae nnn rrr 8

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~e ee “8 8 LLL LLL LL LLPLFPPIPPPPPIPLSPSSII SLPS A APLAR nnn nnnnnnnnnnannnnn WAAAARARARnnneennnnnnn nnn PO DROWNE’S WOODEN IMAGE. 15 ‘*Strange enough!’’ said the artist to himself. ‘** Who would have looked for a modern Pygmalion in the person of a Yankee mechanic!”’ As yet, the image was but vague in its outward presentment; so that, as in the cloud-shapes around the western sun, the observer rather felt, or was led to imagine, than really saw what was intended by it. Day by day, however, the work assumed greater precision, and settled its irregular and misty outline into distincter grace and beauty. ‘The ge. neral design was now obvious to the common eye. It was a female figure, in what appeared to be a foreign dress; the gown being laced over the bosom, and opening in front, so as to disclose a skirt or petticoat, the folds and inequalities of which were admirably represented in the oaken substance. She wore a hat of singular gracefulness, and abundantly laden with flowers, such as never grew in the rude soil of New England, but which, with all their fanciful luxuriance, had a natural truth that it seemed impossible for the most fertile imagination to have attained without copying from real proto- types. ‘There were several little appendages to this dress, such as a fan, a pair of ear-rings, a chain about the neck, a watch in the bosom, and a ring upon the finger, all of which would have been deemed beneath the dignity of sculpture. They were put on, however, with as much taste as a lovely woman might have shown in her attire, and could therefore have shocked none but a judgment spoiled by artistic rules. The face was still imperfect; but, gradually, by a magic touch, intelligence and sensibility bright- ened through the features, with all the effect of light gleaming forth from within the solid oak. The face became alive. It was a beautiful, though not precisely regular, and somewhat haughty aspect, but with a certain piquancy about the eyes and n mouth which, of all expressions, would have seemed the most impossible to throw over a wooden coun- tenance. And now, so far as carving went, this wonderful production was complete. ‘*Drowne,’’ said Copley, who had hardly missed a single day in his visits to the carver’s workshop, **if this work were in marble, it would make you famous at once; nay, I would almost affirm that it would make an era in the art. It is as ideal as an antique statue, yet as real as any lovely woman whom one meets at a fireside or in the street. But I trust you do not mean to desecrate this exquisite creature with paint, like those staring kings and admirals yonder?”’ ** Not paint her?’’ exclaimed Captain Hunnewell, who stood by;—‘‘not paint the figure-head of the Cynosure! And what sort of a figure should I cut in a foreign port, with such an unpainted oaken stick as this over my prow? She must, and she shall, be painted to the life, from the topmost flower in her hat down to the silver spangles on her slippers.” **Mr. Copley,”’ said Drowne, quietly, ‘‘I know nothing of marble statuary, and nothing of a sculp- tor’s rules of art. But of this wooden image—this and here his voice faltered and choked, in a very singular manner—‘‘ of this--of her—I may say that I know something. A well-spring of inward wis- dom gushed within me, as I wrought upon the oak with my whole strength, and soul, and faith? Let others do what they may with marble, and adopt what rules they choose. If I can produce my de- sired effect by painted wood, those rules are not for me, and I have a right to disregard them.”’ ‘*The very spirit of genius!’’ murmured Copley to himself. ‘‘How otherwise should this carver feel himself entitled to transcend all rules, and make me ashamed of quoting them.”’ He looked earnestly at Drowne, and again saw that expression of human love which, in a spiritual sense, as the artist could not help imagining, was the secret of the life that had been breathed into this block of wood. The carver, still in the same secrecy that marked all his operations upon this mysterious image, pro- ceeded to paint the habiliments in their proper colours, and the countenance with nature’s red and white. When all was finished, he threw open his workshop, and admitted the townspeople to behold what he had done. Most persons, at their first en- trance, felt impelled to remove their hats, and pay such reverence as was due to the richly dressed and beautiful young lady, who seemed to stand in a corner of the room, with oaken chips and shav- ings scattered at her feet. Then came a sensation of fear; as if, not being actually human, yet so like humanity, she must therefore be something preter- natural. There was, in truth, an indefinable air and expression that might reasonably induce the query—who and from what sphere this daughter of the oak should be. Eden on her head; the complexion, so much deeper and more brilliant than those of our native beauties; the foreign, as it seemed, and fantastic garb, yet not too fantastic to be worn decorously in the street; the delicately wrought embroidery of the skirt; the broad gold chain about her neck; the curious ring upon her finger; the fan, so exquisitely sculptured in open work, and painted to resemble pearl and ebony;—-where could Drowne, in his sober walk of life, have beheld the vision here so matchlessly embodied! And then her face! In the dark eyes, and around the voluptuous mouth, there played a look made up of pride, coquetry, and a gleam of mirthfalness, which impressed Copley with the idea that the image was secretly enjoying the per- plexed admiration of himself and all other beholders. ** And will you,’ said he to the carver, *‘ permit this master-piece to become the figure-head of a vessel? Give the honest captain yonder figure of Britannia—it will answer his purpose far better,— and send this fairy queen to England, where, for aught I know, it may bring you a thousand pounds.”’ ‘*T have not wrought it for money,”’ said Drowne. ‘* What sort of a fellow is this!’’ thought Copley. ‘*A Yankee, and throw away the chance of mak- He has gone mad; and thence ” ing his fortune! work of my hands—this creature of my heart’’-— : has come this gleam of genius.’’ heer The strange rich flowers of PPAR D POD ADEE DLO T ORDA D EDR NEOL DOL OPLODLODETER OSDIR

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# LLDIIIS 16 DROWNE’S WOODEN IMAGE. There was still further proof of Drowne’s lunacy, if credit were due to the rumour that he had been seen kneeling at the feet of the oaken lady, and gazing with a lover's passionate ardour into the face The bigots of the day hinted that it would be no matter of surprise that his own hands had created. if an evil spirit were allowed to enter this beautiful form, and seduce the carver to destruction. The inhabitants visited it so universally, that, after a The fame of the image spread far and wide. few days of exhibition, there was hardly an old man or achild who had not become minutely familiar with its aspect. Had the story of Drowne’s wooden image ended here, its celebrity might have been prolonged for many years, by the reminiscences of those who looked upon it in their childhood, and saw nothing else so beautiful in after life. But the town was now to be astonished by an event, the narrative of which has formed itself into one of the most singular legends that are yet to be met with in the traditionary chimney-corners of the New England metropolis, where old men and women sit dreaming of the past, and wag their heads at the dreamers of the present and the future. One fine morning, just before the departure of the Cynosure on her second voyage to Fayal, the commander of that gallant vessel was seen to issue He was from his residence in Hanover street. stylishly dressed in a blue broadcloth coat, with gold lace at the seams and button-holes, an em- broidered scarlet waistcoat, a triangular hat, with a loop and broad binding of gold, and wore a silver- hilted hanger at his side. But the good captain might have been arrayed in the robes of a prince or the rags of a beggar, without in either case at- tracting notice, while obscured by such a companion as now leaned on hisarm. ‘The people in the street started, rubbed their eyes, and either leaped aside from their path, or stood as if transformed to wood or marble with astonishment. ‘Do you see it?—do you see it?’’ cried one, with tremulous eagerness. ‘‘It is the very same!"’ answered another, who had ar- ‘“*What do I see only a sea-captain in his shore- ‘“‘The same?”’ rived in town only the night before. you mean? going clothes, and a young lady in a foreign habit, On my word, she is as fair and bright a damsel as my with a bunch of beautiful flowers in her hat. ”? eyes have looked on this many a day! ‘* Yes; the same!—the very same!’’ repeated the ** Drowne’s wooden image has come ‘w life!’’ Yet, illuminated by the sunshine, or darkened by the alternate shade of other. Here was a miracle indeed! the houses, and with its garments fluttering lightly in the morning breeze, there passed the image along the street. It was exactly and minutely the shape, the garb, and the face, which the towns- people had so recently thronged to see and admire. Not a rich flower upon her head, not a single leaf, but had had its prototype in Drowne’s wooden workmanship, although now their fragile grace had become flexible, and was shaken by every footstep that the wearer made. The broad gold chain upon PRR" ae eee the neck was identical with the one represented on the image, and glistened with the motion imparted by the rise and fall of the bosom which it decorated. A real diamond sparkled on her finger. In her right hand she bore a pearl and ebony fan, which she flourished with a fantastic and bewitching co- quetry, that was likewise expressed in all her movements, as weil as in the style of her beauty and the attire that so well harmonized with it. The face, with its brilliant depth of complexion, had the same piquancy of mirthful mischief that was fixed upon the countenance of the image, but which was here varied and continually shifting, yet always essentially the same, like the sunny gleam upon a bubbling fountain. On the whole, there was something so airy and yet so real in the figure, and withal so perfectly did it represent Drowne’s image, that people knew not whether to suppose the magic wood etherealized into a spirit, or warmed and softened into an actual woman. ‘*One thing is certain,’’ muttered a Puritan of the old stamp. ‘‘Drowne has sold himself to the devil; and doubtless this gay Captain Hunnewell is a party to the bargain.”’ ** And I,’”’ said a young man who overheard him, ‘‘would almost consent to be the third victim, for the liberty of saluting those lovely lips.’’ ‘*And so would I,’’ said Copley the painter, ‘*for the privilege of taking her picture.”’ The image, or the apparition, whichever it might be, still escorted by the bold captain, proceeded from Hanover street through some of the cross-lanes that make this portion of the town so intricate, to Ann street, thence into Dock-square, and so down- ward to Drowne’s shop, which stood just on the water’s edge. The crowd still followed, gathering volume as it rolled along. Never had a modern miracle occurred in such broad daylight, nor in the presence of such a multitude of witnesses. The airy image, as if conscious that she was the object of the murmurs and disturbance that swelled be- hind her, appeared slightly vexed and flustered, yet still in a manner consistent with the light vi- vacity and sportive mischief that were written in She was observed to flutter her fan with such vehement rapidity, that the elaborate her countenance. delicacy of its workmanship gave way, and it re- mained broken in her hand. Arriving at Drowne’s door, while the captain threw it open, the marvellous apparition paused an instant on the threshold, assuming the very attitude of the image, and casting over the crowd that glance of sunny coquetry which all remembered on the face of the oaken lady. She and her cavalier then disappeared. ‘*Ah!’’ murmured the crowd, drawing a deep breath, as with one vast pair of lungs. ‘* The world looks darker, now that she has van- ished,’’ said some of the young men. But the aged, whose recollections dated as far back as witch-times, shook their heads, and hinted that our forefathers would have thought it a pious deed to burn the daughter of the oak with fire. PPP PPP PPL PILL III II III LPP LL LLL LLPPIIIPOPPnrwwmrmrwrwwww0> enn 8 wee wow Ww LLL Onn nw roms

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I INIINIIRNIRLRL NLL AAPL LIL LIS LLLP I PLL PILLS vata "eatats een ews. ween enn enn nnn nnn nnn ns nn nnnnnnnnnnnnnnn, PRI arn Bherrrrrrrwrwrrrrerrmeerremeernnnns manne we A ARARORRARPRR RRR panos TO MY BOY. 17 “*Tf she be other than a bubble of the elements,’’ exclaimed Copley, ‘‘I must look upon her face again!”’ He accordingly entered the shop; and there, in her usual corner, stood the image, gazing at him, as it might seem, with the very same expression of mirthful mischief that had been the farewell look of the apparition when, but a moment before, she turned her face towards the crowd. The carver stood beside his creation, mending the beautiful fan, which by some accident was broken in her hand. But there was no longer any motion in the life-like image, nor any real woman in the work- shop, nor even the witchcraft of a sunny shadow, that might have deluded people’s eyes as it flitted along the street. Captain Hunnewell, too, had vanished. His hoarse, sea-breezy tones, however, were audible on the other side of adoor that opened upon the water. **Sit down in the stern sheets, my lady,’’ said the gallant captain. ‘‘Come, bear a hand, you lubbers, and set us on board in the turning of a minute-glass.’’ And then was heard the stroke of oars, ‘‘Drowne,”’ said Copley, with a smile of intelli- gence, ‘‘you have been a truly fortunate man. What painter or statuary ever had such a subject! No wonder that she inspired a genius into you, and first created the artist who afterwards created her image.”’ Drowne looked at him with a visage that bore the traces of tears, but from which the light of imagination and sensibility, so recently illuminating it, had departed. He was again the mechanical carver that he had been known to be all his life- time. ‘“*T hardly understand what you mean, Mr. Cop- ley,’’ said he, putting his hand to his brow. ‘‘ This image! Can it have been my work? Well—I have wroucht it in a kind of dream; and now that I am broad awake, I must set about finishing yon- der figure of Admiral Vernon.”’ And forthwith he employed himself on the stolid countenance of one of his wooden progeny, and completed it in his own mechanical style, from which he was never known afterwards to deviate. He followed his business industriously for many years, acquired a competence, and, in the latter part of his life, attained to a dignified station in the church, being remembered in records and traditions as Deacon Drowne, the carver. One of his pro- ductions, an Indian chief, gilded all over, stood during the better part of a century on the cupola of the Province House, bedazzling the eyes of those who looked upward, like an angel of the sun. Another work of the good deacon’s hand—a re- duced likeness of his friend Captain Hunnewell, holding a telescope and quadrant—may be seen, to this day, at the corner of Broad and State Streets, serving in the useful capacity of sign to the shop of a nautical instrument maker. We know not how to account for the inferiority of this quaint old figure, as compared with the recorded excellence of the Oaken Lady, unless on the supposition, that in every human spirit there is imagination, sensibility, creative power, genius, which, according to cir- cumstances, may either be developed in this world, or shrouded in a mask of dulness until another state of being. ‘To our friend Drowne, there came a brief season of excitement, kindled by love. It rendered him a genius for that one occasion, but, being quenched in disappointment, left him again the mechanical carver in wood, without the power even of appreciating the work that his own hands had wrought. Yet who can doubt, that the very highest state to which a human spirit can attain, in its loftiest aspirations, is its truest and most natural state, and that Drowne was more consistent with himself when he wrought the admirable figure of the mysterious lady, than when he perpetrated a whole progeny of blockheads? There was a rumour in Boston, about this period, that a young Portuguese lady of rank, on some occasion of political or domestic disquietude, had fled from her home in Fayal, and put herself under the protection of Captain Hunnewell, on board of whose vessel, and at whose residence, she was sheltered until a change of affairs. This fair stran- ger must have been the original of Drowne’s Wooden Image. s aS TO MY BOY. In the azure pavilions and halls of the blest, Is a picture for each one below, From vice come the dark-rolling shadows that dim, From virtue the radiant glow. Reflected from scenes in the drama of life, And chang'd by a thought or a breath, Interchanging and blending the various hues, Till the picture is finish’d by death. 9* The watchers on high—the bright angels of God, Can thus all your actions discover, Though dark be the picture, one penitent tear Can brighten the darkest all over. Then wisely when prompted to action decide, Whether govern’d by virtue and love, If brighter or darker your picture would be, In the halls of the angels above, J. 8. F. ~~ RB

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rrr 8 een, errs THE CONFIRMED BACHELOR. BY MYSELF. Benedick. 1 do much wonder, that one man, seeing how much another man is a fool when he dedicates his behaviours to love, will, after he hath laughed at such shallow follies in others, become the argument of his own scorn, by falling in love.—Much Ado about Nothing. ‘*Wett, Mary, is there no end to that letter you are reading? I have been waiting fifteen minutes for my second cup of coffee.”’ ‘** Excuse me, brother—I am really so overjoyed at its contents that I forgot your cup.”’ **Overjoyed! strange kind of overjoy, crying as fast as you can. But that is the way with you wo- men, there is no understanding you—pshaw, sister, you have emptied the sugar-bowl into my cup. If,”’ said her brother rising from the table, ‘‘ people would write letters of a proper length, there would not be such a waste of valuable time in reading them—as if a half dozen lines could not say all that was necessary.”’ ‘** You don’t ask whom my letter is from, brother. You do not know how much you are interested in its contents.”’ **Oh! from some love-sick girl, telling you of all the conquests she has made at the last ball, and how many declarations followed.”’ ‘You were never more mistaken in your life; there is not a word about lovers in the whole letter. Fanny Thorn is no love-sick maiden, but a—’’ **Oh! nodoubt a very charming interesting lady, like all your sex, Mary. But it’s nine o’clock and I must go; a man of business stopping to chat with a girl like you.”’ ‘* But business or no, brother,”’ said Mary, with an affectionate smile, ‘‘ you must waste a little time to hear my letter—and a woman's letter too.”’ **W hat can a bachelor like myself have to do with your letter; but hurry, child, | have a dozen things to attend to before court opens.”’ ** Well then,”’ said Mary alittle diffidently, ‘‘ my letter says, my dear friend Fanny Thorn will be here the day after to-morrow to pay me a visit of two months.”’ ** Let her come, Mary. I do not wish to interfere with your plans, your happiness. Only remember I am a man of business; and besides, I am a con- firmed bachelor—an unchangeable Benedick; so that you and your friend must take care of your- selves—no attentions from me, sister. Do as pleases yourself, and let me do the same.—Two young ladies in the house,’’ said her soliloquizing brother, **how the deuce am I to get along with them?’’ and with this puzzling point in his mind Henry Dor- rance, attorney at law, entered his comfortable office rooms, and in a few minutes had totally for- gotten that there was such a thing as a woman in the world. 18 Henry and Mary Dorrance were brother and sister, and had been separated from each other ever since the death of their mother, which took place when Mary was ten years old. Henry was the eldest of several children, all of whom died except Mary, the youngest, the darling of her mother and the play- thing of the tall handsome man, her brother, who for some years had been established as a lawyer in the town of Bedford. Mrs. Dorrance, on her death-bed, called her son to her and told him to write to his aunt, a widowed sister of his mother who lived about two hundred .miles distant, and to say that her dying request was to fulfil a promise long since made, that if her child was left motherless she would become a mother to her, and that now she committed to her the sacred trust, with full confi- dence in her affection and faithfulness. Henry wept bitter tears before he could comply with her commands; for his mother was dearer to him than ‘*aught beside;”’ and now to realize that he was to lose her, his best counsellor, his affectionate friend and parent, one who had so often cheered and sus- tained him under difficulties, wrung his heart with grief, and the man and the lawyer were overpowered by the deep affliction of the son. After a few days of suffering Mrs. Dorrance died; her last look of affection rested upon her two children who stood by her bedside. She had placed her hand for a moment on the head of the bewildered Mary, and ere it was raised she had ceased to breathe. After the sad ceremonies for the departed were ended, Henry had another painful duty to perform, to take his little sister to her new home. How much did he wish she was to remain with him, and how sorrowful and lonely did he feel, as he saw the preparations for her departure. On the journey he found her becoming dearer to him than ever, and he was only induced to leave her with his aunt by the remembrance of his mother’s request. Mary threw her arms round his neck, and said he should never leave her; but when the violence of her grief overcame her she was gently forced away, Henry kissing her again and again, and telling her that when she was a woman she should come and keep his house. Years passed on and the brother at first wrote frequently and tenderly to his sister, but as the duties of his profession increased, he became so ab- sorbed by them, as to become forgetful of his sister, and regardless of the claims which society had upon him. He avoided marriage, and though proverbial Ann AAA nn~nnnnn LOPLI LD OPPO DPD OOP LLLP LLLP PALI IAAP IPI III III ENEMA i

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ti i i i i i i LLLP ALLEL PLL ” PPAPRAALLD 1 ceencinsteesrtinprrencinnnneanneninmainnniiminnitinibiniinntmmmmnnne, THE CONFIRMED BACHELOR. 19 eee eee ~~ for his indifference to female fascinations, the emi- nent lawyer of Bedford was still regarded by the la- dies as a matrimonial speculation of the first quality. When his letter of a half a dozen lines was sent to Mary it still bore the same heading, ‘‘ My dear little sister,’’ for in his abstraction he had totally forgotten that she was any thing else; so that he was roused and somewhat bewildered on receiving a letter from the town where she lived, stating the sudden decease of his aunt, and requesting that he would imme- diately come to his sister, who was overwhelmed with grief at her loss. His kindly feelings were moved at the mention of his sister's sorrow, and he sat out on the journey with alacrity; and when he found in that sister a tall, graceful, handsome girl of twenty-two, wiih all the intelligence of his mother in her face, he felt like a new being, and it seemed as if he was once more the young man leaning again on a mother’s counsel and love. In her aunt, Mary Dorrance found all that she had lost in her mother, so that under her wise, pious direction, she was charming both in person and mind, free from affectation of manners, and pure and elevated in her pursuits. ‘There was now no relative left to her except her brother, and under his roof she must henceforth obtain protection. With a comfortable fortune of her own she was independent; but there she must be, notwithstand- ing the bachelor had a great many embarrassing thoughts as to how it would be possible for him to get along with one of that sex that he had classed as troublesome and trifling. He did not hesitate, however, to assure the weeping girl that he would both protect and love her, with a brother's true affection. He immediateiy wrote to a friend to have a house prepared for his return so that it might suit a ‘‘bachelor’’ and his sister, and leaving the arrange- ment wholly to his taste and judgment. After an absence of about two weeks he returned to Bedford, and established Mary as mistress of his house, and she had been in that office nearly six months, when the conversation we have related took place at the breakfast table. Mary had felt deeply her aunt’s death, and with it the loss of the society of all those dear friends among whom she had lived so happily. The sister of Mr. Dorrance did not want for civilities of a flattering character in her new position, and she received and reciprocated them with good breeding and gratitude; but still her affectionate heart missed the dear old friends she had been taken from, and in the necessary loneliness of a bachelor’s home, sighed often for their pleasant society, and for none more so than that of Fanny Thorn. No wonder then that her joy was great, to learn that it was now in Fanny’s power to visit her. They were congenial in taste and character, had been com- panions from childhood, and were friends out of pure esteem for the worth which each saw the other to possess. When Mr. Dorrance returned to dinner, he appeared to have no recollection of Fanny’s intended visit, though Mary asked him many ques- tions about the weather, the safety of railroads and the time of the cars coming in. He answered her, and then said it was natural he believed for ladies to ask questions, and yet as he left the room he was struck by the very happy and lovely expression of her countenance. The next morning proved fair and bright as Mary’s hopes; she had not slept soundly &nd fancied she had much to do. As she handed her brother his coffee she said, ‘*T’o morrow we shall be a trio at breakfast, and I hope my brother is prepared to be very agreeable to my friend Fanny.”’ ‘*Acreeable, Mary! What doyoumean? That I am to flatter and talk nonsense to your friend? Suppose I take breakfast in my own room. With you, Mary, I have managed to get along; but with another lady, I cannot see how it is to be done. She will expect me to bow, compliment and ofler my arm on every occasion. I cannot do it. My mind must not be cobwebbed by such trifles. Do not look so sad, Mary. Make Miss Thorn as wel- come as you can. Act freely, only no attentions from me.”’ ‘* But, brother, Miss Thorn will not feel pleasant to know she has driven you from your breakfast table; besides, it will be uncivil.’’ ‘*Miss Thorn, my dear Mary, will have to learn that I am a man of business, and have no time to 1 told you, sister, that you would not like a bachelor’s ways. Women do so many things that there is no use of doing, that a man of business who knows the value of time can scarcely get along with them. Women ought to live a great deal longer than men; for twenty years of their life is ” waste on ladies. not equal to ten of a man’s, they trifle so. ‘But still, Henry,’’ said Mary, her beautiful eyes involuntarily filling with tears, ‘‘ 1 must insist upon your not altering your old practice of breakfasting with me; do not, for my sake, I entreat you.’’ ‘* Well, if that will satisfy you, I won’t.’’ And heaving a deep sigh, as if he had a presage of further evils, he said, ‘‘1 hope that this is all.’’ ‘*All for the present, brother,’’ said Mary, laugh- ing. ‘‘I shall see you at dinner.” ‘* No, not at dinner, for I am obliged to go out of town on the Green- Hill business, and will not be in until late in the evening.”’ Fanny Thorn arrived safely in the town and was welcomed amid the smiles and tears of the warm- hearted Mary. They embraced again and again and kissed each other with all the ardour of the purest kind of love. Mary conducted her friend to the apartment she had prepared for her reception, and there they poured out their hearts, the one totally forgetting thet her brother was to be no abettor in all her plans, and the other unconscious that she was an inmate of the house of the most important gentleman in the neighbourhood — the celebrated Mr. Dorrance—still a bachelor in defi- ance of the ladies. It will not be worth while to tell what the ladies said between their meeting and tea-time, lest some of my readers might charge the fair couple with PAPE AL III ILE LLL LL IIA PL LLP PLP LD DLL LAA | sieaanslsesnaneneteri dita inivhinaedes : x“ POPPA DDD DPD DDD D DRL RDD DD ODP DDD R DLP PDD D IPP R DDD DODO ORDER

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20 THE CONFIRMED BACHELOR. OLPLPLLPL ILLIA P PPP PPDPPEOP OOO 4 ORLA td ae PPPS LPL PPL LPP PPP PPO LPL PLL PPP PPP POPP ae nnn Dernnannnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnne ‘ t ¢ 5 2 ¢ trifling, which Mr. Dorrance pronounced to be the province of women; but never tea-table was graced by two lovelier maidens than that of the invulner- able Mr. Dorrance. ‘* I must apologize for the absence of my brother. Business of importance has called him out of town, and I shalf not have the pleasure of presenting you to him until morning; but he desired me to make you perfectly at home.”’ ‘*He is very kind, Mary; but is he at all like you? What must I expect to see? You wrote me word he was a ‘confirmed bachelor.’ Has he been de- ceived by one of our sex, and therefore emptied his ink bottle over the whole of us?”’ **Oh no—he has lived apart from the influence of females since the death of my dear mother, and has denounced us all as a body of triflers—harmless I believe he thinks we are, but rather an unnecessary part of creation.”’ ‘*Well then, what we do will make no impression on him—be it good or ill—he will range it under the gems, trifles—and so let it pass.’’ **Oh yes—he is very kind to me; but as he says in his odd way, I am his sister, and take attention or do without it as a matter of course.’’ ** And that circumstance is no fault of his. But your house is in very good taste, and your piano of excellent tone,’’ said Fanny as she rose from the table and ran her fingers over the keys. Mary was soon at her side and they sang toge- ther all their old songs as they were wont to do in the large old-fashioned parlour of their aunt at Taunton. On entering the breakfast-room the next morning, Mary was somewhat surprised to find her brother already there reading the morning paper. She led Fanny forward, and with a sweetness and affection that might have awakened a sympathy in the bosom of old Cato, said, ‘‘ My dear brother, allow me to present Miss Thorn to you, or in other words, my friend Fanny, that you have heard so much about.”’ Mr. Dorrance rose, bowed, and lawyer as he was, stammered and was embarrassed by the presence of the lovely girl who stood before him. He soon, however, regained his composure, and made the usual inquiries as to Miss Thorn’s journey, her health, and hoped Mary would make her visit agreeable. ‘They were scon seated at the breakfast- table. Mr. Dorrance seemed scarcely to know whether he was to pursue his old plan of reading as he sipped his coffee. The ladies talked as if he were not present, and had he looked up he would have seen a mischievous smile in Mary’s eyes occasioned by his perplexity, which she in vain tried to conceal. He got through the breakfast, and Mary thought she heard him give a sigh of relief as he closed the door. Certain it is that he looked round his office rooms that morning with an air of peculiar satisfac- tion to find nothing that in any degree resembled a woman, and turned over the pages of his books with **These speak,’’ said the ba- ” a feeling of luxury. chelor, *‘ without tongues. ** Your brother is by no means an ogre, Mary, RLPRPAPPPLP LPL PREPPED or any thing like the beast that Beauty lived with; but a handsome, intelligent looking gentleman. When I know him better I shall venture to inquire to ‘what dread cause’ we owe his aversion to our sex.”” ‘* Not only intelligent looking, but really so. If we could open his eyes to regard ‘ Heaven's last best gift’ as he ought, what a charming addition he would be to our society.”’ Days passed by, and Miss Thorn had become quite accustomed to the grave manner of Mr. Dor- rance. She could laugh as lightly and sing as sweet- ly in his presence as if he were some lifeless statue ‘* who had ears and heard not.’’ But ears he had, and eyes too, and though the book or paper was always in his hands, yet his thoughts were oftener occupied with the two ladies of his house than with the contents of either. They were problems he could not solve. ‘They talked so much about inci- dents unworthy a thought, their movements were so rapid and light, and they were always pleased. It was a mystery to him what they were made of. One morning as Mary and he were alone, Fanny having gone out, her brother remarked, ‘‘I thought you said Miss Thorn was entirely unacquainted in our town.”’ ‘* So she was, before her visit.’’ ‘*Why, Mr. Grey speaks of her as though he knew her very intimately, and detained me a long time yesterday with a tirade of congratulations on my having so delightful a lady an inmate of my house, asking me what I thought of the contour of her face—her voice—her conversational powers— her form—when, in fact’’— ‘* When, in fact, my dear brother did not know that she possessed any thing worth looking at, or listening to. Mr. Grey is not so insensible to female charms as Mr. Dorrance, and yet Mr. Grey is no trifler. Fanny is riding with him this morn- ing.”’ ** Riding! ride with the ladies? such proceedings will ruin them. he is, he told me, far from expert at driving. Thorn is not safe with him.”’ **Do not be concerned; they are on horseback; and if you could have seert how exceedingly lovely Fanny looked when mounted, even you would have wished Mr. Grey anywhere else than by her side.”’ Mr. Dorrance was silent for a few minutes. ‘It is strange, Mary, when I have a carriage, that you should not have mentioned the pleasure I would It seems you have no Has Grey nothing more to do than His prospects are fine, but And moreover, Miss have in driving her out. proper idea of things. I am acquainted with all the drives round the country, and Miss Thorn ought to see them before she leaves you.”’ **Oh Fanny has been to them all.”’ ** All?) When and with whom?”’ ‘*Mr. Grey and other gentlemen,”’ said Mary, laughing as her brother closed the door muttering, ‘*The deuce take Grey—he had better have been ” ’ in his office. We cannot divine why, but during dinner Mr.

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“eo —" 98 nnn nr nnn wee wenn ere n $0 rrnrnrrrrnrrrrrrrrrrrrrrmrrrrrermeermemrrrmrrmmmrrmrrernnne THE CONFIRMED BACHELOR. 21 ” Dorrance certainly looked very often at Fanny while she talked of her pleasant ride with Mr. Grey. ‘*Miss Thorn, my carriage is at the service of yourself and my sister whenever you desire to ride,”’ said Mr. Dorrance, with an easier and more sociable manner than he had ever yet assumed towards her. Fanny thanked him, and insensibly they fell intoa conversation concerning scenery and builiings, and the difierence between town and country pursuits, until Mary said it was four o’clock, and the bachelor, with an embarrassed air, at the thought of conversing an hour with a lady, rose and bowed to them as he left the room. While Mr. Dorrance had been so indifferent to Miss ‘Thorn and her charms, they had been fully ap- preciated by his friends. Mr. Grey was not the first who had spoken to him of her beauty, and whether he was piqued into noticing Fanny, or whether he feared he had not been sufficiently polite to an inmate of his own house, we cannot say; but certainly hence- forth he lingered longer at the table, and even was guilty of a few little acts of gallantry to the ladies. After dinner, one day, he threw some concert tickets on the table and said, ‘* The concert of to- night promises much. ‘There are tickets for Miss ‘Thorn and yourself.”’ ‘Oh thank you, brother, but how shall we get there? unless Mr. Grey or some one comes in, we shall have no escort.’’ ‘* Why, is it too entirely unfashionable for one gentleman to attend to two ladies?”’ ‘*But we have not one,’’ said Mary, hesitating, ‘unless you spend an evening for once in so useless a manner.”’ “‘Of course, Mary, Lintend going. I once thought you had more quickness than most of your sex; but I do not know what is the matter with you; you are dull at comprehending the most simple thing.”’ ‘* Oh, remember I am only Miss Dorrance, not Mr.’’ said Mary laughing, as she ran up stairs to Fanny. ‘* What wonder next, Fanny? My brother asks you to sing after breakfast, brings concert tickets after dinner, and accompanies us in propria persona after tea. Oh, my confirmed bachelor brother, | begin to have hopes of you after all.’’ ‘The concert was delightful; Fanny and Mary two of the greatest beauties there, and Mr. Dorrance the most envied of men. As they prepared for sleep, Fanny said, ‘‘ Really, Mary, your brother was almost as agreeable as Mr. Grey.”’ ‘‘T had little opportunity of judging,’’ Mary in a sleepy tone, and the conversation ended. ‘To Mary’s deep regret there remained but one replied week of Fanny’s visit; nearly two months since she came. Why does time when we are happy travel on so quickly?) How they counted the hours when they must part to meet again, under such pleasant circumstances perhaps no more. ‘* With your approbation, Henry, I shall have a number of friends, to spend Wednesday evening with me before my dear Fanny leaves me.”’ ‘* Just as you please, my litile sister; but why must Miss ‘horn go so soon? Is she weary of this place and its gaieties?”’ ‘* Fanny has only one sister, and she is a deeply afflicted one. ‘lo be away any longer, she says would be heartless and unkind.—I suppose I shall have your company if not your assistance on Wed- nesday. Mr. Grey, knowing your distaste for such things, has oflered his services.’’ ‘* Mr. Grey has grown officious,’’ said Mr. Dor- rance, pettishly; ‘* 1 don’t see how he can know any thing of my tastes and distastes.”’ **Oh,’’ said Mary, colouring, ‘‘he meant no offence; I thought you esteemed Mr. Grey as one remarkable for every virtue.’’ ‘* Esteem him? So I do; but he need not inter- fere with my duties.”’ Every thing in the way of preparation went on well; but a few refusals came, and Fanny and Mary were beyond description beautiful as they stood together to receive their guests for the evening. Many bright eyes, fair forms, and light hearts filled the rooms of Mr. Dorrance, and by many was the question asked, ‘* Will Mr. Dorrance favour us with his company?’’ Mary herself felt anxious for his appearance, and cast her eyes frequently towards the door. ‘**So many of his friends are here, Fanny, he will surely come. It is so contrary to etiquette for him to be absent without a cause.”’ ‘*Without acause, Mary? Cast your eyes around on the array of female beauty and fascination, and then say if there is no cause for the absence of an ‘unchangeable Benedick,’ ‘a confirmed bachelor.’ He dare not trust himself here lest he be made captive against his wiill.”’ ‘*T come to claim your hand, Miss Thorn,”’ said Mr. Grey, looking the perfection of elegance as he led her out to the dance. ‘‘ Pray, what were you and your friend discussing? the subject has height- ened your bloom.”’ ‘* What we have often done before, finding fault with your sex.”’ ‘* Our sex is grateful for being noticed on any terms by such ladies.” Just then there was a slight whispering, and Mary saw that her brother’s entrance occasioned both surprise and pleasure. She looked at him with admiration. He had certainly paid some extra attention to his dress, and was conspicuous for his tine form and intelligent face. ‘** Well, my little sister, how are you succeeding in your evening entertainment. ‘lo prevent a scolding to-morrow | have come among you—I did not know Miss Thorn danced. I thought she had too much mind for such frivolity; and Grey by her side. After capering about to-night like a grasshopper, how is he fit to come into court on serious business to- morrow?”’ ‘* Why, Henry! I shall tell Fanny to what you have compared her partner. Mr. Grey like a grass- hopper!—and pray what is Miss ‘Thorn like?”’ ‘*Oh, I cannot possibly tell you what she is like, } Orne PELOPLLPD PIP LIP EPIL IP LPO POP OP OPO OOOO LOOP OOD DODO PELL P LAI IS SPL PLIIISN PPA III II yew prrnernenes we ww x POLL LALOR LLL PLDI PPP PPP

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22 THE CONFIRMED BACHELOR. without it is a chameleon. Now Miss Thorn this morning was a reasonable conversant being, and to night—”’ ‘*She is the same,’’ said Mary, interrupting him, ‘*with only a vast increase of personal charms—Do come quickly, Fanny, Henry is complimenting you this evening. Mr. Grey, you have had a share too, and if you de not offer me your arm for a short prome- nade, I shall have my turn in the hearing of you all.’’ ‘*A compliment from Mr. Dorrance,”’ said Fanny pleasantly; ‘‘I must make a note of it, if I can only tempt you to repeat it.”’ ** Mary’s spirits are high, and Miss Thorn’s ears are familiar with compliments,”’ said the bachelor, somewhat confused. What was the subject of his conversation with Miss Thorn we do not know; whether of the folly of dancing, and especially with Mr. Grey; whether of mind, matter, clouds, sunsets or poetry; but they conversed about something until the company sepa- rated, each declaring it was an agreeable evening. But a day or two remained of Fanny’s visit, and her lovely manners, so devoid of pretensions beyond her merit, had made her coming departure a matter of regret to all who knew her. Parting civilities flowed in upon her. ** Miss Thorn does not return alone,’’ said Mr. Dorrance to his sister. ** OF course not.”’ ‘Is any one coming for her?’’ Mr. Grey will accompany her.”’ ‘* Mr. Grey does every thing. 1 should suppose propriety would have induced her to have preferred “Oh no. your brother.’ ‘* Mr. Grey has business in that direction; besides, we did not suppose for one moment it would suit you to go.”” ‘*Has Mr. Grey any particular claim on Miss Thorn that he is always at her side?”’ ‘*You must ask Fanny yourself, or shall I ask her for you?”’ said Mary, archly. ‘* Nonsense, Mary, why should I want to know? It is of no importance to me.”’ The parting of the two friends I will not describe. Many tears flowed, ere either of them could say farewell. Fanny was exceedingly pale, and Mr. Dorrance again and again expressed his fears that she was not well and had better defer her journey for a few days. None seemed happy save Mr. Grey, and when the carriage door closed, he looked out of the window and nodded to Mr. Dorrance, who still remained at the door, with an expression that seemed to say, do you not envy me? ‘* Grey has become a perfect coxcomb,’’ said Mr. Dorrance as he walked in and slammed the door behind him. For a few days the house was silent and sad. Mr. Dorrance appeared as if he was looking for some At length No accidents on the familiar object each time he came in. letters came. All were well. road. Mr. Grey was very kind, and would return in a fewdays. Mary told her brother, who said he was very happy to hear it. annem PPD LDPLP PPP PP PPA LPI Mr. Grey had been at home for more than a month. All marks of sadness had disappeared from Mary’s face, and she had fallen into her old routine of duties, when her brother, who had been particu- larly restless that morning, entered the parlour for the fifth time and said ‘‘ Mary, what think you of a short visit to T'aunton?’’ ‘Delightful, brother! Who is going?”’ ‘Why I am going, Mary; it never occurs to you that I am to do any thing. I have particular business there, and I suppose your friend Fanny will be glad to see you, though you are not accompanied by the fascinating Mr. Grey.”’ ‘* You never appreciate Fanny. When you see her in the midst of her own family, so amiable, so loved, you may learn to do so too.”’ Mr. Dorrance coloured and said, ‘‘Don’t be angry, Mary, but be ready for our journey in two days.”’ ‘They arrived at Taunton, and Mary was left at Mr. Thorn’s, while Mr. Dorrance drove on and took lodgings at a hotel. The suit that was to be decided was one of general interest, and the legal acumen of Mr. Dorrance was universally commended. soon settled in favour of his client. A week had passed, business was over, and Mary wondered that her brother did not speak of returning. Another week passed, and she told him her arrangements It was would not admit of a longer stay. ‘* 'To-morrow,’’ said Mr. Dorrance, ‘‘I am en- gaged to drive Miss Thorn out. The next day we will leave.”’ Mr. Dorrance on his return had intended to have stopped at several small towns, on his way; but perhaps his prolonged visit prevented him, as they went directly home. Mary thought her brother was very dull and unobservant on the journey. They had been at home about a week when Mr. Dorrance came into his sister’s room and said, *‘I have letters for you, Mary.”’ ‘*From Fanny? There is no post-mark. Who brought them?’’ exclaimed Mary asshe opened them. Her brother closely watched her varying counte- nance as she read—aye, more closely than he had ever watched a legal opponent while speaking. ‘* You to be married!”’ cried she springing up and taking her brother’s hands—‘‘ You to be married in I thought you de- We were triflers, vain, inconsistent two months—and to dear Fanny! spised the race. chameleons— Yous the unchangeable Benedick, to be married. When did you begin to love her?’’ ‘* Not till some time after you did Mr. Grey. Fie, sister, not to tell me and I thinking he was Fanny’s all the time. But Grey is a fine fellow, and you have my approbation to marry him.”’ ‘* A prasshopper!’’ said Mary, demurely. ‘*Nonsense, Mary, do you never forget any thing?”’ ‘*T am quite breathless,”’ said Mary to Mr. Grey the day preceding that on which they were to set off for the wedding. ‘‘ I’ve often heard of ‘ wed- ding haste;’ but the climax of it is when a ‘con- firmed bachelor’ finds it time to be a confirmed husband.”’ PPP PLP D LPP PPP PPP LPP PLL PPP PLP Annnnnnrnnr LPL PAs nnnnennnnennnnnnnnnmnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnrannan~n~>n ae LAPP ALAAS x ww

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PPLOLLP PPL LLLPIPPIPIPAPPLLmrmmnwnwnwnww" LLLP LPL prow —LPLPLAS “ LLL LIAS PPL PLL LLLP LLP EPP SID DDD PDP PDP PPD POD DPD OPID DIA PIII LLALLIPSA SSDS SPS PL PIPPI PAPA SDAP SPSS SAPP PALAIS SIA SAILS SALIDA, | - abineaaincieniniiintninneianieriaiennipennee ONE OF MR. WILTGON’S REMINISCENCES. BY MARY CLAVERS, AUTHOR OF “A NEW HOME,” ETC Wuen I was a young man, just commencing the practice of law in the city, I became exceed- ingly fascinated by a young lady who happened to be boarding, with her aunt, at the same house with myself. This fair damsel was bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked, and always looked as if she had just stepped out of a French print—so exactly fashion- able and becoming was her costume. But above all, she had that enviable ease and self-possession which is the one thing hopeless to a bashful youth like myself, country bred, and only just beginning to learn the manifold ins and outs of conversational good breeding. ‘This self-possession of hers had a magical power of putting me at ease in her so- ciety, and I became in consequence more fond of being there than anywhere else. I had never asked myself whether my liking for Miss Ebrington was founded upon any thing that would bear the inquisition of my sober judg- ment; and I had never frequented society enough to be able to compare her manners with those of other young ladies. She was always surrounded by admirers, and yet always seemed to me to show peculiar favour towards my timid attempts at a gallantry which, I dare say, sat as ill upon me as would the numberless frills and flounces of my fair friend upon one of my plain, sober sisters. So I could not afford to be reasonable in the matter. If a girl of Miss Ebrington’s claims would over- look my awkwardness, it was not for me to ques- tion her various excellencies; and I was about to surrender without any discretion at all, when I re- ceived from the country a large packet of letters directed to Miss Isabella Walton, accompanied by a special request from my sister that I would de- liver the important budget with my own hands. Miss Walton’s name was not unknown to me, for | was intimate with some relatives of hers in the country, but to call upon her at her own house was a task indeed. All the woodland moss which I had vainly flattered myself had been rubbed off in Miss Ebrington’s society, seemed to come back upon me thick and threefold as I turned over and over in my own mind the probable circumstances of my visit. In the agony of my sheepishness, I was about to entreat Miss Ebrington to lend me her countenance on the occasion, when I recollected having heard her speak slightingly of Miss Walton, as a prim, exclusive pattern-woman, and concluded that she would not wish to visit her. So after much brushing and more misgiving, I started on the genturous quest alone. Pas ushered into a very handsome room, fur- nished with greater regard to comfort than to LPP LPI LILI PLD IID PPL PAP PLL POPP PDO PPLE NEE splendour, yet deficient in pone of the refinements of modern elegance. It was not so French as the parlour in which Miss Ebrington and her aunt re- ceived morning visitors. ‘There were fewer mir- rors and less bijouterie; but there were good pictures and elegant books, writing materials and work-baskets—and in the midst of all, a young lady in a plain white morning-dress, with her brown hair simply arranged, and her finger gar- nished with a golden ornament called a thimble— an article which I had never yet observed among the manifold decorations of Miss Ebrington’s snow- white hands. I was happy to observe that the va- riety of suggestive objects which lined the room on every side aflorded some security against those awful pauses which sometimes occur in the collo- quies sublime of young ladies and their morning beaux. And this, with the simple and unaflected manner of Miss Walton, helped to rid me of a portion of the embarrassment which I had been dreading. I had time to draw conclusions while the young lady was looking at the superscriptions of the va- rious letters contained in the parcel I had brought her—letters probably as important as young ladies’ correspondence usually is, and which, judging from their variety of outside, I concluded to have come from cousins of all ages. After this glance at the externals of her despatches, Miss Walton inclined herself very graciously to the little I could find to say, and contributed a generous share to the conversation, which I felt irresistibly impelled to continue, without remembering to consider what sort of a figure I was making. But in a few minutes—at least but few by my computation—a sharp ring at the door announced an impetuous visitor; and before I could gather myself together for a parting bow, Miss Prynne was announced, and she followed so close upon the servant’s heels, that he had nearly trodden on her as he turned to make way for her entrance. The room was so darkened, a la mode de New York, that I passed unnoticed in my corner. ‘*My dear Miss Walton,”’ said the lady, with the most puckered mouth possible, ‘‘my dear Miss Walton, how do you do this morning? I know how you must feel, but I am delighted to find that you are not so much overcome as I had feared. From your intimacy with that miserable girl, I was dreading to find you entirely overwhelmed. But you are right, quite right! She is not worthy of your notice or concern. Oh! what a hypocrite! This comes of all her quiet elegance, her fastidi- ” ousness, her 23 LIDAR III *

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PLP PLP PLL LDL LPP LIL PADD 24 ONE OF MR. Here the lady made her first pause, and drew her mouth up into a mere button hole in her endeavour to find terms sufficiently expressive. ‘This auspi- cious interval gave Miss Walton an opportunity to edge in an exclamation— ‘*What can you mean? Pray, explain, for I am entirely ‘*Tgnorant!”’ exclaimed Miss Prynne, throwing ignorant up both hands and both eyes in an agony of asto- nishment; ‘‘are you the last to hear what the whole town rings with? Well! this is worse even than I supposed. You! her mostintimate friend! I came to condole with you, little supposing I was to be the bearer of evil tidings! Can it be that you are yet to learn that your bosom friend, Lucilla Farley, has eloped in the most disgraveful manner?’’ ** Yes indeed,’ said Miss Walton; ‘*but ——”’ ‘* Yes, it is but too true; and with her father’s And to think that she should not even have confided in you, and given clerk—a mere nobody. you an opportunity to dissuade her from rushing on ruin. Oh! itis too much! I never wasso shocked in my life! But here the door opened suddenly, for we had I can tell you all about it —— not heard the bell—indeed, the fire bells might have rung unheard while Miss Prynne was speaking,— and in came two ladies, Mrs. Lamkin and—Miss Ebrington. ** My dear Isabella,’’ said Mrs. Lamkin, in tones of the most overcoming softness and pathos, ‘‘ my heart bleeds for you. I have but just heard the particulars of this melancholy affair from Miss Ebrington, and we flew to offer you our sympathy, knowing how you must sufler.”’ Here Mrs. Lamkin threw down her eyelids pa- thetically, and wiped her lips with a transparent mouchoir brodé. **I do assure you—’’ began Miss Walton, with great earnestness. ‘*Oh! you need not assure us,”’ said all three ladies at once. ‘** Nobody supposes,’’ continued Miss Ebrington, who had been too earnest to recognize me as I sat with my back to what little light there was, ‘‘ no- body suspects you could be guilty of assisting in For my part, I am not so I always so degrading an affair. much surprised at it as some people are. knew there was deception in that meek, saint-like countenance. I always distrust your pattern- people.’’ (I had heard her say the same of Miss Walton.) ‘Only think how Lucilla Farley has been held up as a model of duty and affection! Scarcely a party did she attend last winter because her father’s health did not allow of his going out in the evening, and this wonderfully good daughter must stay at home to keep him company! It is well recollected now by many peopie that this young man—this Worthington—was always sure to be there in the evening, on some pretence or other; and so Miss Lucilla’s sacrifices are all very satisfactorily accounted for! Oh! itis most amusing! The poor father was only a blind; and he, believing her to be all that was excellent, never suspected her WILTON’S REMINISCENCES. Poor old soul! his gray hairs will go ” duplicity. down Here enters Mrs. Wentworth, a lady in whose eye sat something which did not promise to submit as patiently to interruption as Miss Walton had done. Butthe torrent of Miss Ebrineton’s virtuous indignation suffered scarcely a momentary check as Mrs. Wentworth took her seat. ** Poor Mr. Farley,’’ continued my voluble friend, who evidently considered the floor as still her own, poor Mr. Farley had not the least suspicion of any attachment when he found she was gone, and had even sent off her trunks while he was at the country h He was like a distracted man they use. He tore his hair, and-——’ observed Mrs. Wentworth, say. ‘* He wears a wig,’’ quietly. ‘* Well, his wig then,”’ persisted Miss Ebrington. ‘*Be that as it may, he is beside himself with grief and mortification. ‘They say it is absolutely heart- rending to hear him crying, ‘My daughter! oh, my daughtes!’ The housekeeper was so much alarmed at his distressing condition, that she sent for the bishop. A friend of mine saw him go in, so there is no mistake about that!’’ ** Ah no!”’ had been most unjustly treated by Miss Ebrington began Miss Prynne, who felt that she in this long speech; ‘‘ah no! it is all but too true! And it is feared by some that the misguided girl is not even married ——’”’ ‘*This is too much, really,’’ said Mrs. Went- worth, in a tone of more energy and even com- mand than Miss Walton had ventured to assume in her various attempts to be heard. ‘‘ You must allow me, ladies, to set you right in this matter.’’ ‘Then taking from her pocket a scrap cut from a newspaper, she read aloud— ** Married, Right Reverend Bishop on Tuesday evening last, by the ——, William Worth- ington to Lucilla, only daughter of Edward Farley, Esq.”’ There was silence for full half a minute. But Miss Prynne was nothing daunted. **T don’t know what that can mean,’ ‘*T had my information from the best authority.’ **Oh! poor old man, what could he do,’’ charita- ’ she said. ’ bly interposed Miss Ebrington. ‘‘She is his only child—her character at stake—what could he do better than have them married? For my part, I pity him from my heart.’’ ‘‘So do I, I am sure,”’ said the silver-tongued Mrs. Lamkin; ‘‘and it is rumoured that the worst A friend of mine, whose brother-in-law is a director in one of the banks, told me in would not wish it to go any further,) that consider- able apprehension is entertained that all the checks purporting to be Mr. Farley’s that have been paid This would of this sad business is not yet known. confidence, (of course I during the past week are not genuine! ” indeed —— ‘* Allow me to correct this mistake,’’ : gentle Isabella, with a sweet smile and a sWeeter blush, though she had evidently gained courage WARARARAAAAAAN wor

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eT ee wee we ew LLLP LPL FFI LLLP LLLLLOIIrrmrnmrnmrnmnnmnmr OY x ONE OF MR. WILTON’S REMINISCENCES. 25 from the presence of Mrs. Wentworth. ‘‘My friend was married with the full consent and appro- bation of her father. I had the pleasure and honour of being her bridesmaid, and yesterday morning parted with her on board the steamer which was to convey her to the Liverpool packet.”’ The ladies received this announcement with va- rious grace, but none ventured to reply till Miss Ebrington said— ** Well, he was nothing but her father’s clerk at any rate!’’ Here Mrs. Wentworth again came to the rescue, reading from another scrap of newspaper an an- nouncement of a partnership between Edward Far- ley and William Worthington. At this very awkward conjuncture, a young gen- tleman, with something of the dandy, but more of the quiz in his manner, dashed into the room, and mingled with his salutations the information that he had a note for Miss Walton which had been brought up by the pilot. Fortunately, Mr. Merri- man was a very rapid speaker, or he would have found it impossible to say thus much. ‘*Mr. Merriman!’’ began two or three of the la- dies, ‘‘didn’t you tell me that Lucilla Farley had eloped with her father’s clerk?”’ ‘*No, ma’am,’’ said the gentleman, with an amusing air of meekness. ‘‘I told you she had gone off, which was strictly true, for the bridegroom was her father’s clerk until to-day, as I presume the papers ——”’ ‘*Oh yes! we have heard ——”’ ‘*But sir, you insinuated ——”’ **Yes, I understood you ——’ ‘*Oh! perhaps I might shrug my shoulders, raise my eye-brows, or shake my head thus, but there is nothing actionable in those movements, however expressive; and I have so often seen you ladies use them with effect, that I may have been ambitious to try my powers a little. I merely got up this little afterpiece as some compensation for the rare wedding we were cheated out of by their sudden departure.”’ My friend and her companions did not receive this acknowledgment very amiably. ‘‘But,’’ said Miss Ebrington, who seemed de- termined to die in the last ditch, ‘‘if there was nothing wrong, why was the matter kept such a profound secret?”’ ‘*Oh, they were not to have been married until next winter,’’ said Mr. Merriman, who seemed to feel a little penitent, and rather upon honour to set the thing straight at last;—‘‘that was the original plan; but some business of the house requiring that a confidential person should be sent to Europe, my uncle Farley proposed that his partner that was to be should undertake the voyage, to which he agreed with the trifling proviso that the fair Lucilla accom- panied him as Mrs. Worthington. My uncle poh- poh’d a good deal at first, but after a little delibera- tion gonsented, and granted a year’s furlough for a trip aie Continent. Old Mr. Worthington came up to the wedding, and what is better, came down VOL. xx1x.—3 with a handsome sum for his son’s share of the concern. It was only agreed upon last week, and it came off on Tuesday, before any body but those in the secret suspected a word of the matter. Now I do assure you, ladies, I have told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, without a single shrug, nod, wink or innuendo.”’ ‘** But you have not told us how the bride’s con- sent to this sudden affair was obtained,’’ said Mrs. Wentworth, who seemed really sorry for the mor- tification of the kind trio. **Oh, I leave that to the bridesmaid,’’ said Mr. Merriman. Miss Walton seconded the attempt of Mrs. Wentworth to relieve the embarrassment of her crest-fallen visitors, by showing a splendid bracelet which had been the bride’s parting present to her- self. But it was all in vain. ‘lhe ladies were un- able to rally their spirits, and poor Miss Ebrington looked absolutely ugly. As she rose to depart, I arose too; and I shall never forget the start she gave as she recognized me. It was evident that she recollected, in that one single instant, all that she had said to me of Miss Walton, and all the fine sentiments she had uttered in the course of our acquaintance. As for myself, I had been sitting in the dark, while Miss Ebrington had been shedding a flood of light upon her own character. Light may be so brilliant as to be painful, and [ confess I found this so. The rose-tinted medium through which I had contemplated this young lady, disappeared from that morning; and she was too practised an observer not to notice the change. She saw that I was dis- enchanted, and she evidently felt a little unamiable on the subject. I considered with myself what would be the fitting proceeding in the premises, and the result of my cogitations was the present of a splendid piece of French bijouterie for the aunt's centre-table, and what the ladies call ‘‘a love of a veil,’"—the handsomest I could find,—for my quondam flame. These having been graciously accepted, | considered my amende to be equal to the occasion; and the next morning before break- fast my luggage and myself were transferred to a boarding-house, where a timid bachelor friend as- sured me they never took young ladies. Safe in this rare retreat, there was evidently no danger of a conspiracy against my liberty. Why then could I not exult in my secure position, and keep out of harm’s way? Ah! that fateful visit! That plain morning dress! ‘That thimble! My hour was come, and all that was left me was to fall gracefully. How long it took me to win Isabella Walton I shall not disclose; but we were quite ready to be married when Mr. and Mrs. Worthington returned to grace the occasion with their presence I was relieved from the anguish of seeing Miss Ebrington inconsolable for my desertion, by the occurrence of her marriag®@ with a widower of sixty, who by dint of thorough dressing, and dashing manners, was looked upon (by the ladies) as a man of fortune;

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26 THE WINTER HYACINTH.—THE IDEAL. but who in reality was attracted by the same ap- pearances about my fair friend, and equally dis- appointed with herself to find that appearance was all. They lived together awhile, as such people may, but separated before long, as such people do; and the last I heard of my original charmer, was in the character of companion to a lady about to travel in Europe. “rr 400 OOD Fr THE WINTE BY MRS. L THov’rt beautiful, my flower,—my winter flower!— hese many weeks I’ve watch'd thy graceful mesh Of silvery roots, making their busy way Down through the watery element, intent To reach the bottom of thy crystal vase, That deck’d my mantel Then, came bursting forth From thy brown bulb, a coronal of leaves, A sialk,—a spike of buds,—and last, thy head, Heavy with floral bells, and rich with sweets, My glorious hyacinth. Day afier day, Thy radiant charms attracted every eye, And many a phrase of admiration woke, As from a lover's tongue But now, alas !— Decay doth touch thy brow, my beautiful, And while we hop’d for thee a longer date, The time hath come to die. In thy brief span Didst thou remember His untiring hand, From whom is all our beauty,—al! our joy And was the perfume of thy secret soul So freely breath’d around,—a tender sigh R HYACINTH. H. SIGOURNEY. Of praise to Him? If aught remains undone, Which might thy gentle nature well befit, Haste thee, my precious one. Thy time is short. The spoiler cometh. Drooping on its stem Methought it meekly lifted its pale leaves For the last silent prayer,—while unto me, A gush of fracrance, was its parting gift At morn I came.—No more its bosom glow’d; A heavy sleep hung on its leaden eye With dews, like funeral tears O friend,— whose gift Was this bright flower, and unto whom my thoughts Oft grateful turn’d, as o’er its opening charms I hung with deep delight,—say, doet thou blend Love to our God,—with all thy kindly deeds Of love to man ?—and like the radiant plants, And plants that share thy nurture,—heavenward soar In heart-felt praise ?—Then, with unclouded brow, For sleep’s blest angel wait, in tranquil trust, And lowliness, like thine own folded flower. Wt 0D B® ODF 20 THE IDEAL. BY W. R THenre is a form I only meet Far in the twilight land of dreams, Whose constant voice is always sweet Whose eye with mild affection beams That voice—its words I may not hear IT only heed its heavenly tone That eve of liquid lustre clear I feel its tender gaze alone When first I heard that voice so dear Across my answering heart it rolled, As if I, in some happier sphere, Had met and loved its notes of old > And when that eye illumes my breast, Its cares sink sleeping to their caves, MORRIS, As lulls the brooding moon to rest, At midnight, the enchanted waves. Oh, soul-felt voice! oh, radiant eye! Let morn your mingling spells restore Be with your real influence nigh, And mock me with your shades no more Yes, come, as trembling Dian came Down to her sleeping Carian boy In dreams awhile she nursed his flame, sut waked to more celestial joy. But, if not here such eyes may shine, If but in heaven such tones may sound, Then leave me, still, my dream divine, Till there that voice, those eyes, are found. Ren een ns ~~

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THE COLLEGE BY MISS C BOY. SEDGWICE. “ What song doth the cricket sing? What news doth the swallow bring? What doth | sughing boyhood tell? What calls out the marriage bell? “Ts it mirth? Then why will man Spoil the sweet song all he can? Bid him rather, aye, rejoice With a kind and a merry voice!” ‘¢Faruenr, father, won't you speak to Harley; he torments us so?”’ cried littke Mary Oliphant to her father. ‘‘ He kisses us just to torment us!”’ Mr. Oliphant was reading his newspaper, and gave no heed to an outbreak very common at his fireside; and Harley repeated the offence, saying, as he kissed the little girls first on one round ruddy cheek and then on the other— ‘**Mary, my dear, do not you remember the rule, ‘When you are smitten on one cheek turn the other?’ ”’ ‘“*Oh Harley!’’ dignity which a treacherous smile on her lips be- trayed, ‘‘that is worse than kissing, to quote Scrip- replied Mary, bridling with a ture so.”’ ‘‘How, Mary? Did I not quote it right?’ ‘You know well enough what I mean, Harley.’’ ‘«So you do, Harley,’’ and ‘‘so you do,”’ said zen little Oliphants in a breath; and eldest, a girl of thirteen, said— the half d Jessie, thi ‘You know very well, Harley, that it is very wrong to quote Scripture upon such occasions.”’ ‘*What occasions did you allude to, Jessie?’’ asked Harley, passing around the circle of girls and snatching a kiss from each on forehead, cheek, ear, or back of the neck, as chance served him. ‘*Oh! you are too bad, Harley!’’ ‘‘I never!”’ and ‘‘how provoking!’’ broke from each, as each according to her humour, tossed her head, looked vexed, or broke into an irrepressible laugh. ‘*What is all this cackling about?’’ asked Mr. Oliphant, laying aside his paper. The children told their grievances, and Harley insisted he was the injured person, defrauded of his just rights. Mr. Oliphant proposed and Jessie and Harley concluded Harley was to be entitled to two kisses a day levied on each of the girls, when and where he pleased. a compromise, on the terms. If he exceeded this allowance, he forfeited his right of forage; and if they denied this limited requisition, all restrictions upon Harley were abolished. The next day was Sunday. Mr. Oliphant was detained from church by a cold, and the young people went to the sanctuary without any elder friend to watch over them. Their mother had died two years before, and their father was in the habit Barry CoRNWALL. of confiding in their self-regulation—a mode of dis- cipline better than the most watchful eye. Little disgraces and failures may occur, but there is a rectifying principle that brings all out right at last. We venture this remark upon an occasion that rather favours the Martinet system of education. We presume our readers to be acquainted with severe decorum of a village church, where dur- meeting, no Hem- ming, coughing, sneezing, and their usual accom- The body is immov- able, but unfortunately not in an attifude of devotion, as our stern Puritan forefathers threw away the the ing the prayer in our congregational sound is heard but the voice of the minister. paniments, are suppressed. kernel with the chaff of external observances. The men uniformly stand upright, and some among them relieve the tediousness of a fixed and uneasy posture by giving full liberty to the eye, so that if a poor little delinquent wickedly or unwarily offends against the proprieties of the place, he soon feels himself a sort of burning-glass, a focus where all these wandering eyes meet. The minister of ——— was approaching the close of his long prayer, when Harley, assured he should miss the opportunity of a bit of mischief he was preparing, leaned over the two girls who inter- vened between him and Jessie, his eye flashing fun, and the rest of his face as grave as if he were asking for a psalm book, and said— ‘* Now, Jessie, my kiss!’’ ‘Harley!’ breathed Jessie. It was but a breath, but it would have repressed any less devoted lover of mischief than Harley; but nothing daunted, he repeated— ‘*My kiss, Jessie. Keep your promise, Jessie. Jessie, my kiss!’’ Stull Jessie kept her countenance, save a little twitching of the corners of her mouth. The young girls began to titter. Jessie covered her face; she felt that eyes, blue, black, and gray were upon her; but in spite of her terror and indignation at Harley, she began to shake with laughter. Harley sat down convulsed, and stuffed his handkerchief into his mouth. The poor little girls tried their best, but in spite of them the sounds, a strange mixture of horror and mirth, would swell up and burst out. 27 %

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28 THE COLLEGE BOY. —_—_—" . ~~ RAAAAA — They were low, and manifestly involuntary; still the children were sure they were heard to the farthest corner of the church; and when the prayer closed, and they composed themselves sufficiently to look up, they were surprised to find the clergy- man was not looking at them, and that every thing was going on as usual without an earthquake or a Harley appeared singularly attentive to the discourse. Jessie’s face was flushed, and her restless eye turned from the preacher to the children in evident distress, lest there should be a recurrence of the disgraceful scene. thunderbolt. **Disgraceful you know it was, Ilarley,’’ she said, as the little group drew apart from the con- gregation at the church door and proceeded home- ward. ‘*Tt was shocking,” ‘* What in They say laughing is catching, and I declare to you I had a great mind to go away into Miss Osborne’s pew said Harley. the world were you all laughing at? lest I should take it.”’ ‘*Oh! Harley, Harley!’’ cried out the little girls upon him; ‘‘you are the horridest boy I ever knew.”’ In spite of this denunciatory language, they all hovered around him two at each hand. Miss Jessie alone was dignified, and after whispering to each of the younger children a caution to say nothing at home of what had passed at church, she turned the corner of the street and left them. She herself proceeded to the clergyman’s house, and with much trepidation and many blushes, begged his forgive- ness. ‘The good mansaid mildly to her that it was against the sacred place, and not against him she had offended. ‘** Oh, I know it very well,’’ she said; ‘‘ that is the worst of it; but we have been disrespectful to you and to the congregation, and I of all was most to blame, for I should have set my sisters a better example.”’ ** You should, my dear; and since you see your fault and are sorry for it, you will I trust hereafter. Iam glad Harley Dayton behaved with propriety. He is not always so considerate, though he should be, as he is some years older than you, I believe, Miss Jessie."’ ** Only two, sir.”’ ** Well, two years is a considerable advance upon your short lives.”’ ‘* But boys, sir, are always so much wilder than girls.”’ **Some boys than some girls,’’ he replied, smil- ing significantly; and Jessie hastened away, anxious to escape a conversation that might lead to an impli- cation of Harley. The scene of childhood we have described may seem better adapted to a juvenile miscellany than to readers pampered with romantic incident. But besides that, we deem it well for those who feed daily on such exquisite refinements as Paté de Foi Gras, &c., now and then to have a regimen of water-gruel. We think, besides, that a specimen of childhood shows the elements of the mature character. We see the warp and woof before it receives a dye, and is woven into complicated This dyeing and weaving is but the type of the events of life, and the conventialisms of figures. society. Harley Dayton had been adopted so early into the family of Mr. Oliphant, that he remembered no other home, and no possible circumstances could have made any home happier to him. His father was an Irish gentleman without relatives in this country. More generous than wise, he had wrecked a large fortune in a futile attempt to save mercantile friends from bankruptcy; and when he died and left a child of three years, Mr. Oliphant took the boy to his own home, gathered up the fragments of his father’s fortune, and invested it for Harley’s education. It was enough to secure that, and his independence till the working day of life began. Harley's mother had died at his birth, and his ardent affections were all transferred to the Oliphants. Mr. Oliphant was a man whom all young crea- tures professed to love next to their own father, He was indulgent to all God's creatures but himself. Perhaps we should except too, as part and parcel of himself, his chil- whom many loved better. dren and Harley, who was scarcely less dear to him than they. their excellence, so jealous of their least deviation from right, so fearful of himself, that he might in judging between them and others be swayed by He was so earnestly desirous of his affections, that it was not very uncommon for him to be in relation to them strict almost to injus- tice. This imperfection of a noble nature was most conspicuous towards Harley. In assuming the care of the boy, he felt responsible for his good conduct. Harley had a fine intellect, an ingenuous temper, and warm affections, but he was gay, rash, and Mr. Oliphant held up to him the highest standards, and expected him at once to form heedless. himself by them. He had not patience to wait for the growth, and gradual ripening to the strength and sedateness of manhood. He was irritated by every wasted opportunity and impulsive deviation from the straight onward path. Youth must return upon its footsteps; learn caution from its own stumbling, perseverance from its own loitering, and draw the pearl of prudence from the sea of its own folly. no borrowing that gold. There is no hereditary experience—there is Each man must work it out for himself with much toil and frequent failure; and happy is he if at last it does not prove but a se stern light.’’ ’ ‘* Patience is a great help,’’ and patience is the great necessity, the greatest help for those who Let them watch and wait, and keep the lamp of their vigils forever burning—patience and faith will have their reward. Mr. Oliphant’s girls gave him little anxiety. They were of a ductile material. various in their characters, but all gentle and docile; all expanding and thriving in the broad daylight of truth and warm sunshine of a happy home. have the care of the young.

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Gpewwrwrrmrrwmrrmmrrrrrrrww Per 5 2 ? 5 2 5 5 5 THE COLLEGE BOY. 29 Harley was abroad at school, and was cast of ne- cessity upon his own seli-direction,—not very safe to an excitable and impulsive character like his; but if a storm arose, the saving strength of the He was calm, thoughtful more vessel became apparent. and serious. A mountain stream is not changed from its bold, noisy career, over rocks and precipices to its subsequent depth and quiet force. The time came for that dangerous passage in a young man’s lfe—his college-course. At the Uni- versity, poor Harley’s infirmities clung to him like the man of the sea. His scholarship was respec- table; his compositions bore the highest mark, and his elocution was unsurpassed; but this availed him little with the Faculty while he was negligent of prescribed observances and the leader of all fun —innocent fun enough but for being ill-timed and out of place. ‘These faults in the eyes of his class- ‘mates were but ‘‘ glittering dew-drops on the lion’s mane.”’ tionateness and magnanimity. though they frowned upon him officially, loved him ‘They could not help it—for They loved him for his frankness, affec- The Faculty, too, in their secret hearts. when was the best liquor ever vitiated by the sedi- ment that rises in its first fermentation? The first vacation of Harley’s sophomore year was approaching. Perhaps some of our readers may know what the coming home of the dearest member of the family from college is? To passa winter vacation, too, when every hilarity of the season has been suspended, every promised plea- sure has been stored up; when jokes have accumu- lated to be told, stories to be related, news to be communicated; when each member of the family has contrived a pleasure or prepared a gift for the comer—when to each little heart time seems sus- pended till the hour of arrival strikes. Perhaps, too, they have known the pang of disappointment; have known what it is to study fearfully the cloud lowering on the brow of the elders; to dread and guess al its mysterious import, and finally to love the dear delinquent all the better—if not for his dis- graces, for his misfortunes. ‘* My dear Harley,’’ wrote Mr. Oliphant, ‘‘ we shall see you on Friday. In the meantime I write merely to beg you to pay your bills, and bring me an exact statement of your expenses. You know that I think your temporal salvation depends on exactness and regularity in these matters—inde- pendence, justice, truth and honour, on the punc- tual payment of your debts. Your patrimony is sufficient to take you through college and complete your professional education;—if, after that, you cannot take care of yourself, you must be a poor devil. I love you too well to interpose aid that might prevent the rigorous employment of your energies; or, my dear fellow, the just consequences of your negligence. ‘* But for a more gracious theme. is at hand, and we are all preparing for it. Fan is saving all her nuts to crack when you come; Kate has put off her birthday till next week; Jessie is working a pair of slippers—for whom she says 3* The vacation Little not, but Fan slily remarks they are just your size; and Mary and Ellen have at this moment come down from your room where they have spread a new hearth-rug of their own manufacture, put on your bed a snow-white quilt,—‘because Harley likes a white one,’—-and have converted a blanket shaw! into a curtain—‘ Harley likes curtains so much.’ They are watching their flowers, lest a tea-rose should not bloom and a red-rose should be out of bloom that are destined for your toilet. These, in one sense, are trifles, Harley; but in another, of infinite worth, as the signs of that love which is God’s best gift—our immortal treasure.”’ *'T'wo letters from Harley!’’ exclaimed Mary Oliphant, running in from the post-office; ‘‘ one for you, father, and one for you, Miss Jessie.”’ ‘*Two letters from Harley!’’ echoed Mr. Oli- phant, ‘‘ when he is to be here on Friday. What does this mean?’ ‘*Here is another letter,’’ said Mary. ‘‘I didn’t give it to you because I wanted you to read Har- ley’s first.’’ Mr. Oliphant took the third letter, and examined the superscription as if there were no other means of finding out whence it came;—he hesitated, guessing too truly at its purport. In the mean time, Jessie had opened and was reading hers. Her cheeks were flushed and her tears dropping fast upon it. Mary turned to her. ‘Mercy, Jessie, what is the matter?’”’ she asked. “*Is Harley sick—is he dead?”’ ‘*He is neither sick nor dead,’’ replied Mr. Oli- phant, throwing down his letters. ‘‘ It would be better if he were!”’ “Oh dear!’’ sighed Mary, and walked to the window. Every word from her father sunk like lead into ‘*T know,’’ she thought, ‘‘ there is ” Jessie's heart. nothing worse than Harley has written to me. ‘* May I read the president’s letter, father?’’ she asked, with a tremulous voice. He put it into her hand, and asked if he might After a moment’s hesita- It ran as follows— read hers from Harley. tion, she gave it to him. ** Dearest Jessie— ‘**T am wretched beyond description—not be- cause I have got into some foolish scrapes here, but that I am not coming home this vacation; that it will be long before I see you and the girls, and more than all, because your father—my more than father—will be offended and distressed and in despair about me. I have been publicly repri- manded and am suspended for the next term, and am to be sent off to Lynton, to the Rev'd Bar- timeus Hill, to dig away at my studies instead of having a delightful time with you all! Oh that I had minded the ringing of the bell to morning- prayers! Oh that I had done what I ought to have done, and had left undone what I ought not to have done! Oh that I had left in the chambers of my imagination those villanous caricatures of our gro- tesque tutor which have brought me into disgrace! & %

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30 ‘*T have written to your father an exact history of the whole affair. At first he will think me quite as bad as Cain; but I am not, Jessie, nor will he think so long. In the matter of the morning pray- ers, I do not feel myself much to blame—not half so much as those who insist on maintaining a ser- vice nominally religious, to which the boys come shivering and sleepy, merely to save their marks. Many among them go half-dressed and hurry back to their beds, so that it is not even a test of their early rising. If I have been present but nine times during this time, set at least a part of my delin- quency down to my disgust at the desecration of a religious service. se For the caricatures I have no extenuation to offer. ing them during recitation, and my folly and vanity My incurable levity betrayed me into draw- into permitting them to be passed round the class. I confess the justice of my punishment; and this is proof enough of my humility and contrition, since that punishment involves a prolonged separation from you—from all in my dear home. Did ever a poor orphan outcast find, and having found, forfeit such a home? ‘*Do not say a word to your father in my behalf. I deserve his displeasure, for I had reasons for straining myself to the utmost to maintain my I cannot afford to play the fool. If there be excess now in his anger, I am sure he will be Don’t let the girls think me place. just to me at last. worse than I am; and don’t you, dear Jessie, think me better. I do not deserve half the love you have all wasted upon me.”’ Harley's letter to Mr. Oliphant exactly corre- sponded with the official letter. He extenuated no- thing, nor did he magnify his sense of his offences in order to get the advantage of a rebound. When Jessie and her father had finished the reading of the letters, Mr. Oliphant walked up and down the room without seeming mollified, saying, as if thinking aloud— **Such folly! such selfishness! ciple!"’ such want of prin- ‘*Father,’’ said Jessie, in a tremulous voice, ‘‘I do not see a want of principle.’’ ** You don’t!—and no selfishness, I suppose. Is there no selfishness in his indulging his indolence at the expense of his standing in college?’ The fellow has attended morning-prayers but nine times this term, and the whole expense of going to col- lege is sacrificed to the indulgence of lying in bed. Is there no selfishness in this? Is there no want of principle in his corrupting his class by the most outrageous ridicule of their tutor?—in his throwing away the happiness of a whole family to gratify his silly impulses? I don’t know what you call want of principle. your own.” Jessie well knew that her father’s ‘‘ bark was worse than his bite,’’ but she could not help putting You young people have morals of in an extenuating plea for Harley. ‘*T know, father,’’ she said, ‘‘that Harley has wr Nn nen THE COLLEGE BOY. POPOL been thoughtless and boyish,’’"—her voice faltered, —‘‘unkind to us, and undutiful to you, dear father.”’ ‘**Oh, as to that—I don’t care about that. Duty, indeed! It’s an old-fashioned word, pretty nearly You young peuple have an improved vo- cabulary of your own.”’ obsolete. Jessie could scarcely repress her tears; but she felt that her father was unjust, and her spirit rose. ‘**T don’t know what you mean, sir,”’ she said. ‘*T thought love and duty were stamped together on your children’s hearts. I never looked for them in any other vocabulary;—there neither could be effaced without the other were obliterated.”’ ** Jessie, my dear child, | beg your pardon. You and the little girls are as good as children can be. I spoke hastily. I did not mean to complain of my children, but only of Harley.”’ ‘*Oh! father, is he not one of your children? Have you not always called him sv?’’ ‘Till now I have.’’ ‘*And surely, father, you will not cast him off now. You will not treat him as if he had been guilty of lying, or treachery, or dishonesty, or any thing dishonourable. Surely there is a great gulf between all these and levity, and even the presi- dent calls it nothing more than levity.”’ Mr. Oliphant smiled, and beautiful was that smile in Jessie’s eyes. ‘“You have forgotten, dear,’’ he said, ‘‘ that Harley desired you not to plead his cause. Well, thank heaven, the boy with all his faults is fair and We will talk over I must go to my office manly—true to the backbone. the matter this evening. now. You go and comfort the children as you best can.”’ This was enough for Jessie. She went to her task with a lightened heart—but a sad task it was. Mary, who had lingered long enough in the parlour to possess herself of the dismal news from Harley, had already announced it, and that Harley's coming home was deferred for six months. Six months, with a deterred pleasure beyond them, are an eter- nity to the eager expectation of childhood; but dis- appuintment and loss were swallowed up in sorrow for Harley's disgrace. Mary was already at her desk, when Jessie en- tered, writing to Harley; Ellen was knitting away at her purse that she might send it to him; Kate declared she would never have another birthday,— **a birthday would be hateful without Harley,’’— and little Fan, the gentlest and tenderest of mortals, laid her cheek wet with tears to Jessie’s, and whispered, *‘ What a pity that Harley did not say nine prayers!’ Oh love!—domestic love!—who can measure its height or its depth?’ Who can estimate its pre- serving and purifying power? It sends an ever swelling stream of life through a household;—it binds hearts into one ‘‘ bundle of life;’’—it shields them irom temptaiion;—it takes the sting from their sorrows. lt breathes music into the voice— into the footsteps;—it gives worth and beauty to ee

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— LINES.—SYMPATHY. the commonest office;—it surrounds home with an atmosphere of moral health;—it gives power to effort, and wings to progress. It is omnipotent— } God is love. ; PPP III 2 tt Od BOT 0 LINES. BY MRS. E F. ELLET. “ Forgetting those things which are behind.””— Pui. iii, 13. Loox not upon the past—the mournful past. 2 Cast off their mask, and fill thee with affright. In its stern grasp the joys and hopes of youth,— Time—that relentless creditor, there stands, The forms that smiled upon us, wreathed with light $ Presenting his account, and bidding thee Then beaming from the morning sky of life— Tremble at his dread records, and prepare Are held :—the forms to which affection clung; The reckoning ww abide. Towards which the lone and stricken spirit yearns; Look not upon And the griw gaoler will not let them go! The past—the gloomy past. ’Tis stoled in grief. Far off and dimly seen, like buried wealth ’Tis the domain of evil—dark and sad In cold dark ocean caves—the treasures lie, To human eyes ;—the mournful prison-house While o’er them rolls th’ impenetrable deep, Of human woes and errors. There, too, broods And its hoarse murmur wails the ever lost. The cloud of wrath divine. Thou may'st forget — Look not upon the past—the bitter past. } Is the kind sentence Heaven writes but for man. Its spectral pageants haunt thee !—Darkly there Forget thy years of folly— years of crime. Gathers a throng, from whose pursuing gaze { Lo, the unstained future! ’tis thine own, Thou fain wouldst turn away, The hours misspent, } With all its glorious aims, its boundless hopes; The wasted energies—the gifts abused § And thou may’st claim this brigat inheritance The feelings wronged—the blighted hopes—stand there. } Free from all hindrance—so the eye of faith The sins thou deemedst trivial, and the world ; Be fixed on Him who was content to bear Deemed virtues haply, tower to giant height, ’ For thee the shame and sorrow of the past. And flout thee with their scorn. The hidden crimes § ron noe ; } SYMPATHY. BY MISS MARION H. RAND. Hive not thy secret grief Will gently scothe and sweetly calm, in the dark chambers of the soul, Till reason’s almost fading ray W here sombre thoughts and fancies roll, Resumes its firm and wonted sway, Bringing thee no relief. And though thy burden be not less, ‘ Gloomy and cold the spirit grows, Thou wilt net still be comfortless. ¢ W hile brooding over fancied woes: 2 The lightest care, while yet concealed, Hast thou no human friend, Lies like a mountain on the breast ; To whom in hovrs like these to turn The heaviest grief, when once revealed, ? When thine o’erburdened soul will yearn > Is lulled by sympathy to rest. ¢ Its bitterness to end? ; Oh, still despair not—there is One , Relieve thy bursting heart, To whom sad hearts have often gone— And pour into some loving ear Though rich the gifis for which they pray, Each bitter thought, each chilling fear; None ever came unbiest away How soon will al! depart! hen, though all earthly ties be riven, And words of love, like healing balm, Smile, for thou hast a Friend in heaven. Bh nnnnnnnnnwrrwrrrnnrwrnnnnnnnwwww i — . ORR RRS warner “ ~~

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x x LUCY FRANKLIN. BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY. Tuere is no beautifier like happiness—no cos- metic equal to a cheerful temper. ‘‘A merry heart,’’ says Solomon, ‘‘doeth good like a medi- cine,”’ and why then should it not exert, as I main- tain it does, a beneficial effect upon the complexion. Never was there a more hopelessly ugly child than poor little Lucy Franklin. She was one ot those thin, scrawny-looking creatures, who seem to be all bones and ligaments;—her skin was the colour of dingy parchment, except when the tre- quent blush imparted a livid hue to cheeks which were never tinged with the rose; her mouth was enormously wide, and her great black eyes, which might have been fine in any other face, only gave an elfish expression to her countenance, while her jet black hair cropped close to her head, had a most inveterate propensity to stand out in all direc- tions, as if every individual hair had set up for itself. A nervous twist of her shoulders when she walked, and a habit of dropping her under jaw when she met the eyes of any one, which were the results of timidity and shyness, certainly added no charms to her unjortunate person. Yes, Lucy was hopelessly ugly. However one may moralize about the matter, the fact is not to be doubted that a handsome face is always a letter of recommendation, and never was such an advantage more needed than in the case of poor little Lucy. Left an orphan at seven years of age, Lucy had inherited only her robust father’s swarthy complexion, and her pretty mo- ther’s delicate constitution. She had neither the heaith which could enable her to work for her bread, or the beauty which could awaken interest in the hearts of strangers; and but for the kindness and a sort of family pride in her mother’s cousin, who was her only living relative, she would have been consigned to the care of some pubtic charity. Mr. Leighton, her benefactor, was a close and nar- row-minded but not an unfeeling man. He pitied the condition of the little orphan, and without consulting his wife, of whose sympathy with his benevolent impulses he had no little doubt, he determined to give her a home at least until some prevision could be made for her support. Lucy was too much overwhelmed with grief to take much heed of the manner in which she was re- ceived when she entered her new abode; but shdi olten remembered, in after years, the half- expressed anger, the determined sullenness and the grudging hospitality of her cousin's wile. Mra. Le place women whose mission seems to be merely This she undoubtedly ful- ghton was one of those very common- to replenish the earth. 32 filled, for eight sturdy children, as noisy as health and spirits could make them, already circled the household fire. She never puzrled her brains to discover the ‘‘whole duty of man;’’ but to her mind the whole duty of woman consisting in taking good care of the baby. Scolding the servants, fretting at children, lecturing her husband, and worrying about housekeeping, she looked upon as the minor duties of life, which she by no means neglected. new pins; her children were always clean and well-dressed, and her domestic affairs were most carefully looked after;—her only mistake was in the manner of accomplishing these desirable ends. There was no system in Mrs. Leighton’s mind, and of course there could be none in the govern- ment of her littlke domain. Instead of arranging her household so that the whole machinery would go on smoothly without the jarring of a single wheel under her judicious supervision, she took an especial pride in feeling that her actual presence was essential at every part of the engine. She wanted to adjust all its complications, and set it in operation with her own hand. The consequence was that every day began with bustle, tumulis and hurry, while every evening closed in weariness and The ill-temper of the perplexed and hurried servants, the turbulence of the capriciously indulged and thwarted children, and the scolding, discontent. driving, anxious carefulness of the mistress, made the household a very excellent specimen of that state of domestic chaos which the Irish designate by the expressive phrase ‘* Through-other-ness.”’ In such a home Lucy was likely to find little sym- pathy or appreciation. Naturally timid in character, and now oppressed with a bitter sense of loneliness and bereavement, she shrunk from the noisy gaiety of the children, whom she was soon taught she must not venture to regard as relatives. Mrs. Leighton was not disposed to give any thing without receiving its full value; and when she found her husband determined to befriend the poor child, she resolved to do so at the least possible expense. Accordingly, Lucy was furnished with the chil- dren’s cast off dresses; and before she had recovered from her torpor of grief she had been reduced to the conditiow of that universal scapegoat in a large family —** the little bound-girl.”’ She had been the darling of her sickly mother; and though after the death of her father, poverty had been her only birthright, yet the tenderness of her sorrowing pa- rent had veiled its harsher features from her view. But she now learned the full bitierness of her posi- tion. She wasa shy and timid child, but there was Her house was as neat as a paper of a ie

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a eS LUCY FRANKLIN. a degree of self-respect in her character which was remarkable in one so young, and which, if pro- perly directed, would have been one of the most efficient of all instruments in training her mind to virtue and nobleness. In her present condition, however, the effect of such a trait was decidedly injurious. A sense of outward inferiority was con- tinually struggling in her heart with a consciousness of real equality, until a sort of sullen reserve, espe- cially unlovely in early youth, was imparted to her nature. Mr. Leighton noticed that she was warmly clad, and that if she did not eat heartily it should not be for want of a well-filled plate at table; but beyond He had atlorded her a home, and he knew she was not ill-treated; this he gave himself no concern. therefore his conscience acquitted him of all further duty towards her. So Lucy grew up a thin, sallow, unhappy-looking creature, who did as she was bid, and moved mechanically to the will of others. No one cared any thing about her, except so far as to exact services from her;—no one interested them- selves in her comfort or amusement. She was ex- pected to do the lighter drudgery of the kitchen and nursery; and, when this was accomplished, a task of needlework employed her until bedtime,— her task being only varied by the pleasure of amus- ing a cross baby. Even ‘‘Sunday beamed no Sabbath’’ to poor Lucy. To make amends for the loss of an hour of Monday morning, when she always rose early lest the servants should be idie on the momentous occasion of the weekly wash, Mrs. Leighton usually indulged herself with late stumbers on Sunday. A late and hurried breakfast is not generally a help to devotion, and by the time the lady and her children were ready for church, Lucy was sufficiently weary of the turmoil to be glad when she found herself alone with ‘‘the baby.’’ Sometimes, however, Lucy was indulged with the privilege of going to church herself, which generally happened when Mrs. Leighton found herself uncomiortably drowsy atier a hearty dinner, and preferred a half-dreamy slumber beside the cradle to the exercises of the sanctuary. Mrs. Leighton meant to be very con- scientious, and upright and correct in her whole course of life, and she would have been shocked it it had been suggested to her that she was unjust and unkind to the poor orphan. She was only a well-meaning but selfish woman, utterly ignorant of the wants and exigencies of the soul, and only regardful of the demands of physical comfort. When Lucy was twelve years old, Mr. Leighton suddenly conceived the idea that she ought to re- ceive some education. She had learned to read and write under the instructions of her mother, but since her death, it had only been at intervals stolen from continuous duties or needful rest, that Lucy had been able to indulge her fondness for books. It was now decided, however, that she should be a half-pay scholar in the academy where five hopeless of light upon Lucy’s lot, but it soon passed away. She was only allowed to attend school half the day, and when by her application she really made such amends for this privation that she was entitled to take rank above her fellow-pupils, she found that the curse of poverty clung to her even amid the influences of intellectual culture. ‘The poor orphan girl was not allowed to take precedence of the rich though stupid scholar; and, at length, disgusted and disheartened, Lucy lost all interest in herself. With a sort of sullen resignation, she submitted to her destiny; and crushing within her the aspirations of a high nature and the impulses of a loving heart, long before she could either understand or analyze her feelings, she became the mere machine, the poor relation, earning her food and raiment by the toil of her hands, and eating her bread in the sweat of her heart if not of her brow. ‘Time passed on until Lucy had counted her seventeenth birthday. ‘Ten years of bitter thral- dom, of soul-wearing bondage, had she suflered since she looked her last upon the mother whose memory she still idolized. ‘The little ugly child had grown up into the dark, awkward, and not less ugly maiden. Her hands were hardened by house- hold toil; her form was bent from habitual stooping over her needle, and a listless air of indiflerence pervaded her whole appearance. Her sallow skin showed no trace of quick emotion, her eyes were usually veiled by her heavy lids, whose long lashes only threw a deeper shadow oVer her hollow cheek; and the expression of fixed and almost stern melan- choly which marked her pale compressed lips, made her countenance positively repulsive. Such was Lucy Franklin when I accidentally met her at a country house where I had taken board for the summer. She was in attendance upon one of Mrs. Leighton’s children, a wayward and tretful boy of ten years of age, who was suf- fering from a paintul and incurable lameness. Country air had been recommended by his physi- cian, and as his mother was far too notable to be long absent from home, Lucy was sent to take care of him. ‘The patience and judicious manage- ment of the young nurse awakened my interest, he repulsive expression of her not withstanding countenance; but when I ventured to address her on the subject of her little charge, I was puzzled exhibited. I had supposed she must dearly love the child to by the cold indiflerence which shi whom she devoted so much time and care, but what was my surprise to find she was merely per- forming a mechanical duty. She was like one whose heart did not animate their frame—like an automaton wound up to perform a certain part, but equally insensible to the praise or blame which the performance might obtain. I was puzzled beyond measure. It was to me a new phase in human nature, and I had nearly come to the conclusion that Lucy was a sort of an anomaly—a woman without vanity, without sentiment, and without # capacity for any affection. / scions of the Leighton stock were already under- Among the inmates of the pleasant and retired going the process of indoctrination. It wasa gleam “sen x “

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ad 34 LUCY FRANKLIN. mansion where we had found refuge from the dis- comforts of the city, was a maiden lady, considera- Miss Marian S had been bly past middle age, who had been for years a confirmed invalid. exceedingly beautiful, and her countenance stil! re- Descended trom one of the old Dutch families, who form the only tained traces of her early charms. true aristocracy of the empire state, she had always been accustomed to the refinement of the best so- ciety, while a competent fortune enabled her to indulge all her elegant tastes. Possessed of a highly cultivated mind and finished manners, sh had learned to find resources within herself to re- condi- While in the prime of womanhood, renowned concile her to the privations of her present tion. for her beauty and grace, she was rendered an in- valid for lite by the fall of a heavy chandelier in a ball-room, which almost crushed her beneath its le she was da r with her afiianced weight, wh lover. Ihe injury at first seemed comparatively slight, but it was productive of serious the most excruciating pains, accompanied by a gradual distortion of her fine figur showed the feartul effects of the accident. It was an awtu trial for one who had heretofore known nothing of life but its enjoyments, and who had thus exchanged the triumphs of the ball-room for the weary monotony of the sick-chamber. nan o-—— was a creajure ) nature on bore her suflerings patiently and meekly. Onee only did her courage fail, and this happened when aa — ’ : ; x she broke the bonds which umied her to the o ject of her early love. In vain did he sue to be wed to watch over her future life, even if it were only to share and soothe her pangs. Marian was too unsellish to allow his lift » be wasted mm a vain affection: and as soon as her disease was pronounced incurable, she wisely decided to free him from th The result l-lorgetting ¢ ties of honour which bound him. showed the wisdon ol her sei 0d 1es8s. Her lover vowed eternal constancy, but ‘lime olfers healing medicaments to n t ne after the lapse of a few years, he lovely, and, it may be, less beloved than Marian had been, who could yet minister to his happines Marian no one How much the ever knew; but she had loved as devotedly as a sacr fice ha 1 cost high and noble nature can, and such feelings are not to be put off as lig ily as a worn-out carment When her lover married, Marian found means to become the friend of his gentle wife; and though he was rarely admitted to the presence of her whom he had once loved, yet the sweet child-like creature who now looked up to him for happiness, was the unconscious pupil of her who had undergone the discipline of sorrow; and much of the calm joy ol his ¢ Marian’s noble aflection Years had meliorated Marian’s bodily sufferings, while } her misfortune. She was now dwarfed and de- formed in person, but with a face full of sweetness and holy resignation. She lived in handsome style er lile did he trace to the pure influence of increased the itward evidence of in the homestead near Albany, with an only bro- ther, who, though several years her junior, had resisted all the allurements of society in order to devote himself to her comfort. Some old family servants, the last remains of that system of domes- appy in- tic servitude which prevailed with such fluence in the northern states during the simpler days of the Republic, managed the concerns of the household, and in the gratification of her affection- benevolent impulses, Miss Marian (as she was usually styled by those admitted to the privi- leges of friendship) found solace and even happiness. The attention of this lady had early been called Franklin, but she had drawn her I had not seen enough of sorrow to know its paralyzing towards Lucy inferences more wisely than I had done. effects, but the patient invalid had been too often the confidant of heart-griefs, and had too sympa- thetic a nature to be in doubt as to the evidences of habitual suffering. She read Lucy’s nature with clear eve of one who was a sage in all sorrow- lore. She saw that the light within her was rouded in thick darkness, but she Her benevolent heart grieved which had thus made a living soul only as a beast of burden, and had rht of knew it w: extin ruishe d. over the weary servitude crushed its striving impulses beneath a wei petty cares and iron duties. She sought to win the confidence and awaken the kindly feelings of the orphan girl, but the task was one of no little diffi- culty, for Lucy had so long lived alone, and so long subdued every instinct of her nature, that she had become almost content with her own torpidity. But no one could be long insensible to the sweet Miss Marian’s voice, or to the pleading tones of persuasive eloquence of her words. She managed to render herself indebted to Lucy for some little kindness, awakens a high nature as a sense of its duties to Lucy became conscious of a pleasure she well knowing that nothing so soon others. had ne and gratetu Miss Marian’s so full of appreciation ‘er before known, in proffering this unbought lly received service to the afflicted lady. manner towards her was so delicate, and interest, that the poor girl’s long dormant self-respect was aroused, and her sullen individuality was suddenly exchanged for an almost cheerful consciousness of sympathy with one, at least, of God’s creatures. Ere the season came for separation, Lucy had learned to regard Miss Marian with a degree of tenderness which she knew not existed in her heart, and the hour of parting was one of intense grief to the lonely hearted girl. Miss S—— re- turned to her pleasant abode on the banks of the Iiudson; I resumed the duties of my quiet home, and Lucy again became the ‘‘ hewer of wood and Leighton’s turbulent drawer of water’? in Mrs. } household. * * * * = * * * * In the summer of 18—, some ten years after my first and only acquaintance with Lucy Franklin, I was sojourning at Lebanon for the benefit of its warm baths, when a large and gay party arrived weer 8 ‘a x Seep m a =

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LUCY FRANKLIN. there from Albany. Every body becomes inspired with curiosity at a watering place; and, I must confess, I felt some anxiety to know who these people were, especially as I was much struck with the beauty of one of the ladies. She sat opposite me at dinner, and I could scarcely restrain the im- pulse which led me to gaze on her noble face. ‘To so passionate an admirer of the beautiful, either in animate or inanimate nature, much ought to be for- given, but unfortunately society makes no such nice distinctions, and I was therefore obliged to be discreet in order to avoid seeming impolite. She was a superb creature, in the very prime of woman- hood, with a fine oval face, flashing black eyes, and glossy raven hair folded smoothly around a head which would have charmed a phrenologist. A critic eye might have discovered that her mouth was too wide, but its frank expression and its wealth of glittering teeth made amends for its slight want of symmetry. Her form was tall and stately, but with a slight bend at the shoulders, which gave a kind of willowy gracefulness to a figure that else had been almost too queenly. As 1 looked upon her beauty, a vague feeling of recognition stole over me, as if I had seen that face in some by-past dream; and when she spoke, her voice seemed to strike the chord of memory, yet I was sure I had never before heard those ringing tones of glee. I soon discovered (women soon detect these things) that she was married; but I saw no one in the whole party worthy to be her husband, except one fine-looking man whose noble bearing and classically moulded face made me almost forget to observe his gray hairs. He appeared nearly double her age, yet he was the only one who possessed sufficient intellectuality and loftiness of physiogno- my to be her equal. My womanly perceptions aided me to divine the truth. The elderly gentle- man was indeed the husband of my beauty, and he was nearly double her age; for she had only counted her seven-and-twentieth summer, while he, alas! was “‘fifty, or by’r lady inclining t'ward three- score.”’ Yet she loved him earnestly and tenderly, and had bestowed on him the pure, deep fulness of an unwasted heart. I heard the story afterwards from dear, good Miss Marian—for who do you sup- pose my beauty really was, gentle reader? It was Lucy I’ranklin,—the poor little drudge—ugly Lucy! What had wrought such a transformation?—you ask. It was the beautifyi power of happiness, my friend. Content had loosened the foldings of her pale lips; peace had smoothed her contracted brow; the quiet joy of appreciated affection had lighted up her fine eyes; health had filled out her sunken cheeks; exercise had strengthened the bowed and drooping form; and all these things combine d, had cleared the sickly complexion, and tinted it with the deep, rich rose-hue which is so beautiful on the cheek and lip of the brunette. It was marvellous, but it was true. Happiness had been a better beautifier than all the cosmetics and freckle-washes in the world, for it had awakened the healthful pulsations of a torpid heart. Lucy’s story is soon told, and, as Miss Marian said, ‘‘there is not much in it, after all.’’ Her new friend determined to rescue her from the dull sta. nation of intellect and feeling to which she seemed condemned, and accordingly proposed to Mrs. Leighton to take upon herself the future charge of Lucy’s fortunes. This, after some little demur on account of the loss of Lucy’s services, was finally agreed upon, and the orphan exchanged the grudging charity which had exacted its full reward for the frank and cordial beneficence of a noble spirit. As an inmate of Marian’s household, Lucy found herself in a new world. Her heart and mind were rapidly developed, for affection was the talisman which broke her long slumber of the soul. Self-respect taught her what were her duties and her defici« 3, While a quick comprehension and untiring industry enabled her to overcome the disadvantages of early ignorance. Mr. S—— was not less interested than was his sister, in the friendless and neglected girl. He was ilosopher, and the development of the human character was a subject of deep interest a speculative p! to him, but he had never before enjoyed the oppor- tunity of watching the quick expansion of soul in one past the age of childhood; therefore, it is scarcely a matter of wonder that he should have watched over Lucy as he would have marked the growth and blossoming of some rare fower. But such things are not like the fanciful dreams of some vague theory. When men study philosophy in women’s labyrinthine hearts and astronomy in their starry eyes, the y are apt to become strange ly per- plexed between the material and the spiritual. The grave student of books and men had little idea, however, of the nature of his own feelings, until he was called to act the part of guardian to his young pupil. Lucy’s beauty had attracted much notice in the society to which Miss Marian had introduced her, and as her birth offered no obstacle to any alliance, her hand was more than once sought by the most unexceptionable suitors. To all these Lucy re- turned a decided refusal; but one of her lovers, who possessed a considerable share of Dutch pertinacity, was not to be thus easily dismissed. He applied to Mr. S——, and begged him to use his influence with the lady. At first Mr. S posed to resent this request as an insult, but a mo- felt strongly dis- ment’s reflection showed him the folly of such an impulse. ‘The more he looked into his own heart, the more appalled did he feel at the infatuation which now possessed him; but this only determined him to be firm in the fulfilment of his duty towards Lucy, and to advise her to marry a man who could make her happy, even if his own heart rose up in rebellion while he spoke. I don’t know how it happened, and I doubt whether Miss Marian ever clearly understood the matter, but certain it is, that after a long and agi- tating interview between Mr. S—— and Lucy, the lover was formally dismissed. Not long after, it was known in the circles of fashion that Lucy Sa OOOO a enn en een meen een — %

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36 SPRING Franklin was the affianced bride of the somewhat elderly brother of her benefactress; but how he ever brought himself to the recognition of his own a tt ttt Ce SPRING BY TRISTRAM O FAINTLY smiles spring as *twere half a-cold, And winter is weeping itself away, 3ut who heeds the tears of a dotard old, In the faintest smile of a maiden gay! And a maid, with drooping flowers in her hair, Hath asked me to sing, why the flowers that spring, Hardiest and first in the cold bleak air, Are the soonest of all seen withering Sweet maiden! believe me, spring even now, While your heart the death of her flowrets grieves, Breathing on thousands just open to blow, Kisses the winter's cold tears from their leaves. FLOWERS.—A JUNE MORNING. feelings, or how Lucy managed to disclose to him the long-cherished affection which had grown out of her gratitude, yet remains a secret. FLOWERS. And flowers! wild flowers! at her whisper, your hue Is deepen’d with blushes, but say, O say! Why bloom ye soon, and then shrinking frum view, Ah! why so soon do ye perish away! Ye are not of earth! she owns nought so bright Spring coming from Eden, brought you away, The guardian angel frown’d at the sight, But she smiled—and how could he say her nay! And wild flowers of spring, ’tis from pride I fear That timidly shrinking, ye droop so soon For ye feel, sweet flowrets, degraded here, And will bloom in spring’s brief visit alone. tt ODS OOS Fe A JUNE M BY MRS. M E FLowers, flowers every where! Oh this world of ours! It is very beautiful, Garlanded with flowers Blossom-bowed acacias Greet us with their breat! Pouring out their .ragrance Like a psalm of faith The twining honeysuckle Lifts its arms above, And in sweetest numbers Chants its lay of love Blushing roses all around Scent the balmy air Dearest, leafy month of June! Oh, how bright you are! Sweet the breath of clover fields In the dewy morn, Beautiful the carpeting Of the glistening lawn ORNING. RO82INS When the sun his rosy rays Scatters o’er the hills, And the burst of melody Vale and woodland fills; Comes the music from our hearts Comes it from the streams, Where the fairies’ diamond crowns Gleam in the sunbeams ? Comes it from the loving birds? From the waking flowers? Falls it from the golden clouds, In soft silent showers Oh, it cometh everywhere! ’Tis the breath of love, Pours the tide of melody Round us and above. And how holy should we be Who listen to the strain! God is speaking in our hearts Be it not in vain TY en

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THE CENTRE-TABLE. Mrs. WayLanp was a widow in very affluent circumstances, who lived in what is called ‘‘ hand- Like ** west some style’’ at the west end of Philadelphia. London, all their ends.’ During a long period of real mourning for the death of her husband, Mrs. Wayland had so entirely lost the habit of going into large companies Yet she found great pleasure in assembling her friends about American cities have that she never afterwards resumed it. her, a few at a time, in her own house; and in be- stowing her hospitality, discriminatingly, on such strangers as had something more to recommend them than the mere circumstance of not belonging to her own city. But as it is impossible, in the natural course of things, to select always such guests precisely as we like best, Mrs. Wayland was obliged occasionally to entertain persons who, according to the softened phraseology of the present day, ‘‘ had their peculiarities.’’ Beside her invited visitors, the neighbours of Mrs. Wayland were much in the practice of dropping in spontaneously, so that she rarely spent an evening alone; the gen- tlemen belonging to the ladies, making their appear- ance usually about nine o’clock. Of the very feminine conversations that took place round the centre-table of Mrs. Wayland, it is Our present purpose to produce a specimen, which may probably be followed up by others equally desultory and womanish; yet from which it is hoped a little amusement, and a little improve- ment in little things may be extracted. At the commencement of the evening in ques- tion, three ladies only were seated with Mrs. Way- land at the centre-table of her front parlour. One of them was Louisa Brookley, a very young and inexperienced girl from the West. Her father, before he removed ‘so far beyond the mountains,”’ had been a friend of Mr. Wayland’s. After bring- ing with him his daughter on her first visit to Phi- ladelphia, Mr. Brookley had gladly accepted Mrs. Wayland’s invitation for Louisa to become a guest at her house, instead of remaining with him at a hotel. The other ladies were from the immediate neighbourhood; had drank tea with Mrs. Wayland; and brought their work with them. One was Mrs. Cottinger, a plain, downright straight-forward woman, and a thorough utilitarian even in her reading; for she took no interest in any book from which she could not derive some new ideas in the form of useful knowledge. The next was Miss Sophia Olivant, a frank, warm-hearted, and very clever young lady of five- and-twenty; who during six years, had presided ‘excellently well’’ over the house of her father; VOL. XXIX.—4 eae — — eee

which perhaps was the chief reason why he evinced no disposition to look out for a second wife. This is a hint to daughters who do not want a step- mother. These ladies were all engaged in the discussion of a new book of travels, when there arrived an unexpected addition to their little party in the per- son of another neighbour, Mrs. Pelby, one of that numerous class of respectable women whom Pope characterizes as having ‘‘no character at all.’’ It must be from this idea of Pope’s that, in Yankee- land, a pumpkin-pie without plenty of ginger, and a chowder without plenty of salt-pork, is denounced as having ‘‘no character.’’ And they justly make the same objection to cling-stone peaches. But let us proceed with our promised sketch, comprising a small portion of this evening’s talk. We may as well begin with Mrs. Pelby; after her reception was over, and she had settled down to knitting a rachel. Lest future ages should wonder what that is, and call it a Rachel, we will kindly explain, that at this present writing it means a con- venient sort of head-gear made of soft yarn; very elastic, and partaking of the various natures of cap, bonnet and hood. And it is certainly much better to devote worsted to this purpose than to waste it in working those horrible pictures which grieve the hearts of all people that ever handled a pencil; and are more painful to the eyes of artists than sparks from a locomotive. Now ladies, attend. Raise the wicks of your lamps a little higher, or snuff shorter those of your candles; assist the subject with all the light in your power—and then you shall read what you shall read. Mrs. Pelby.—T hat is a very beautiful mousseline de laine in your dress, Mrs. Wayland. Excuse me for making the remark. Mrs. Wayland.—I excuse you with all my heart. It is easy to pardon any thing that gives us pleasure, and it is certainly pleasant to know when our own taste is sanctioned by that of our friends; so I give all mine free permission to express their approbation of any article belonging to me: provided it is done in truth and kindness, as I am sure is always the case with Mrs. Pelby. Miss Brookley.—I am glad to hear this; for I have admired in silence a great many pretty things since I came to Philadelphia, supposing it was rude to make a remark on them. Mrs. Wayland.—By no means, dear Louisa; provided that the remark is favourable and sincere. Mrs. Pelby.—Now, Mrs. Wayland, I am going to flatter. You always wear pretty things, and every thing about your house is pretty. 37 Omer

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c ve PPL LLLP PPL PP LPP PPP PPP PPP Miss Olivant.-—This is truth, and therefore no flattery. Miss Brookley.—Must not I say whenever I re- ceive a compliment—‘‘ Oh! you flatter me!’ I always have said so. Miss Olivant.—No—instead of disclaiming the compliment, you should acknowledge it silently and gaily, by a smile and an inclination of the head. Or you may say--‘‘I thank you’’—or--“‘I am highly obliged to you.’’ Ladies of ready wit can sometimes reply to a compliment in such a way as to turn it gracefully back upon the that offered it. Miss Brookley.—Oh! I never could do that; so Now you, Miss Olivant person I need not venture to try. —you are the very lady to say pretty things back again, in a smart, proper manner. Miss Olivant bows her head with a smile.) Urs. Wayland.—There is one species of com- pliment which the customs of society have inter- For to her personal beauty, he dicted to a gentleman in talking to a lady. } lad he alludes instance, i takes an unwarrantable liberty, which she should discourage immediately, by looking coldly and making no reply either in gesture or otherwise. Miss Brookley.—Dear me, that seems hard. Mrs. Wayland.—lt is always considered that if a gentleman talks to a lady about her bright eyes, her rosy cheeks, her glossy ringlets, or her fine form, he treats her with a freedom which he would not presume to indulge in if he felt any real respect for her. understanding to commend her for advantages that Moreover, it is as great an affront to her are purely accidental, as it would be to her feelings, if, on the other hand, he was cruelly to talk to her ertain defects in her face and figure. Mrs. Pelby.—Well--Mr. Pelby always praised my nose and chin. about That is, before we were mar- ried. When young ladies are being courted, they must expect to hear all sorts of foolish talk. Miss Brookley.—-To be sure they must. Mrs. Cottinger.-—Let me add, that when females have it in their power to praise with sincerity, we Above all, let gratifying should never refrain from doing so. of informing us never omit an opportunity our juaintances by whatever we may have heard friends and a from others in their commendation. Mrs. served of Wayland.—lIf the rule was constantly ob- all the reverse, which is so fre- quently and mischievously practised by ill-natured of true friendship, telling every one good we hear about them, (instead of the and vulgar-minded much kind pe ple, how more feeling, kind offices, and would exist every where throughout the world. Miss Brookley.--You are right, Mrs. Wayland. I never had the least liking for Harriet Roseley till I was told by Maria Seattergood that Harriet said to her she had never seen any young lady jump a climb a cherry-tree in so handsome a QD ] ’ manner as Louisa Brookley. fence or The next time I met Harriet Roseley, you cannot think how sociable I was with her; and from that hour we have been PPP PPPS LA them of ~[™RPPLPLPP PLP PP PLLA ALLPAPPLIPImrmnmrrmmrmmr~mwnww—” THE CENTRE-TABLE. quite intimate, and I find she improves greatly on acquaintance. Mrs. Pelby.—-I can tell you son Mrs. Stinger told me, as a friend, of 1ething exactly the reverse. her overhearing Mrs. Witmore remark that I had the silliest laugh she ever heard in her life. Now I had always liked Mrs. Witmore very well; but after this I never spoke to her again, and did not invite her to my last party. Mrs. friend Cottinger.—-Your false and malignant you should to Mrs. Stinger, was the person never have spoken to again, and not invited your party. Any one who is bad enough to convey to another such a piece of intelligence, is also bad enough to exaggera‘e it greatly——if not to invent it entirely. And the sooner you throw off such people the better. Also, whenever a lady begins by saying she begs leave to tell me something as a ndly one friend, I always find she has some very unfrie communication to make. Again, when any desires me not to be offended at what she is going to say, Iam very sure she designs saying some- thing that she knows will and ought to give offence. Mrs. Wayland.—-Y es, these prefaces rally prompted by malice prepense; and under any | are gene- circumstances, are always ‘‘ more honoured in the breach than in the observance.’’ rht. And ind a very y imperti- Miss Olivant.—-Y ou are pe rfectly r there is another introductory expression ungenteel one it is), that is also extren nent. When any one says to me (as no person of polish or refinement ever does say)——‘‘ How much did that cost you,--if it isa fair question?”’ I always feel inclined to answer——‘‘No; it is a very untair one.’” And so it usually is. re the price I have often Miss Brookley.—Is it rude to inqui of an article that a lady is wearing? done so. Miss Olivant.—-If the owner of the article wishes to designate the price, with a view of inducing you to purchase a thing of the same sort, of course she will voluntarily inform you. If she does not, you may take for granted that she would rather avoid mentioning it; and therefore it is rude to compel } merely for the gratification of your er to do so, own curiosity. ' Miss Brookley.—But, dear Miss Olivant, sup- pose I really wish to buy the same sort of thing exactly. Miss Olivant.--If you truly and positively have quire at what place is any of it left, that desire, it is sufficient to i it was purchased, and if there wv or if there were other articles like it. You can And iat your friend then go to the store and bargain for yourself. when you go, if you have learnt w wave for it, and the store-keeper asks you some- thing more, do not say that Miss or Mrs. Such-a- ; one bought it there at a lower price. ‘There may be particu! ur reasons for its having been sold so to that lady. Mrs. Cottinger.--Also, my dear Louisa, when you have seen more of the world, you will find many people who approve or despise things merely AAnArnnanr nnn nnn $B 888888 8 8 8 8888 nn nnnnrmmnmnmnnmrmnmnmmnmnmmmnnnrmwwwww errr rer K

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OPP DLP DP EIDE DDE DPD ee R~.-~ wn ener ~~ THE CENTRE-TABLE. 39 with reference to their cost; and without the slight- est admiration of their beauty, or regard for their utility. Miss Olivant.—-As a case in point, I will relate a circumstance that happened to myself, and which might be converted into a magazine story and called-- THE GREEN VELVET MANTILLA. Several years since, I chanced one morning to visit a certain emporium devoted chiefly to foreign articles of female dress, and to millinery from fo- reign patterns, over which presided a French lady who afterwards removed to another city. I believe I bought some gloves. It was near three o'clock, and it happened that no other customers were pre- sent. The high-priestess of this temple of fashion was very assiduous in showing me a variety of pretty things, which she recommended with true Gallic eloquence, and seened unusually impor- tunate (even for Madame Ladouce) in earnestly She tried to tempt me with a beautiful green velvet mantilla urging me to buy something more. scarf, which (as it was the last of the lot) she offered me at twenty-five dollars; assuring me that mantillas of exactly the same description, were selling at Vanharlingen’s and Levy’s for thirty dollars. ‘‘But’’—said she—‘‘I do want some money very particular to day, this morning; and as I know which are the ladies that pay good and quick, I will let you have it for twenty-five. So I will do one kindness to you, and you will do one kindness to me.”’ I was not the least in want of the mantilla; there- fore, though I admired it much, I declined taking it. But Madame Ladouce persisted, saying— ** Now, I shall whisper in your ear one thing. As the season for rushing at mantillas is a leetle small morsel passing over, I will lower down the cost to twenty dollar.’’ Sull I refused; for, beautiful as the mantilla was, I was perfectly contented with the articles of out- door-eostume which I already possessed. Madame Ladouce continued her persuasions, and abated the price to eighteen dollars. But, even at eighteen, I declined the purchase; knowing how well I could do without it. With no better success, she then fell to fitteen dollars; and I began to feel some pride in the steadiness with which I withstood the tempta- tion. Next she offered it for twelve, and still I held out against her importunities. Finally, with a deep sigh, she said to me—‘‘ Well, my dear miss, money does press me so to-day, and ladies have been so few this morning, that if you have ten dollar in your pourse, and will give it me here on the spot, at this instant moment, you shall have this beautiful elegant mantilla at that melancholy price.”’ There was no resisting this. So I took from my pocket-book a ten-dollar note, the sight of which made her eyes sparkle. Highly pleased with my new purchase, I left my velvet cloak to be sent home after me, and I put on the mantilla, which Madame Ladouce assured me was ‘‘ very much sé meee v PPEOPPLPIVOPOPOVPOMPPPW~P—rwm~wrww™"¥” the most warm of the two.’’ And when I seemed rather to doubt this fact, she convinced me that the weather was so mild ‘‘it was just like one day of May, and that my cloak, though it was short and open, must have been quite one suffocation to me; also, green velvet looked cooler much than purple.”’ As I was proceeding up Chestnut Street in my new mantilla, | was joined by a young lady, (merely a common acquaintance,) whose real name I shall conceal, according to the most approved fashion of story-tellers. I will call her—let me see —I will call her Miss Teazel. Part of our way lying in the same direction, she walked beside me a square or two. Miss Teazel had a velvet man- tilla herself, and looking curiously at mine, she said to me— ‘*Excuse my frankness; but allow me, as a friend, to ask if you are not a little extravagant. Notwithstanding your velvet cloak, (which I have so often admired,) I see you have been indulging yourself with a new mantilla. It is certainly a very elegant one. May I be permitted to ask what you gave for it?”’ ‘*Ten dollars’’—was my reply, looking stead- fastly in her face to see the effect. At this information she opened her eyes widely, nearly screaming with amazement. **'Ten dollars!—only ten dollars! It cannot be possible. I gave thirty for mine. You are surely jesting.”’ **Tt is a serious fact,’’ replied I. ‘* Where did you get it?’’ cried the young lady. I mentioned the place; adding that circumstances had occasioned Madame Ladouce to offer me the mantilla at far less than the usual price. ‘*Dear me!’’—exclaimed Miss Teazel—‘‘ how very astonishing! But it must certainly be da- maged, or in some way defective.” ‘* Indeed, itis not. I never buy any thing with- out a careful examination.” ‘* Are you sure it is quite new? Ladouce must have obtained it in some underhand way.”’ ‘*T am very certain she did not. It was the only one remaining; and she urged me to buy it, be- cause to-day she chanced to be especially in want of money.”’ ‘*She will make it up to-morrow by laying an extravagant price upon some other articles. I will not go to Ladouce’s for a month or two, lest I should have to assist in paying for your mantilla.’’ Here she laughed a sort of laugh, and I was saved from making an indignant reply by our ar- riving at the corner of her own street, and taking leave of each other. I had always suspected that Miss Teazel did not like me, and I knew that I did not like her; so that, though we met frequently in company, there had never been any intimacy between us. On the following day, I was making a visit at a house where I found Miss Teazel and several other ladies. As soon as she saw me, she exclaimed— ‘Oh! you are wearing that ten dollar mantilla again! I think I shall lay mine aside. Now they sees

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Rrrrnrrmm Soa 40 have got down to that price, they cannot continue gentee s ‘*T thought’’—said I, trying to speak very calmly —‘‘ you understood, yesterday, that my purchasing this mantilla at so small a cost was owing to pecu- liar circumstances. Perhaps I did not express my- self clearly.” ‘*T don’t know—perhaps you did. comprehended the story at the time you told it me; All I recollect is, ” I may have but I have such a bad memory. you bought that mantilla for ten dollars. The other ladies now expressed their curiosity to know how such an event could have happened; and I gratified them with an outline of the narrative, related in as few words as possible. There were various conjectures as to Madame Ladouce’s rea- sons for offering such a mantilla at such a price. The conversation became rather unpleasant to me, and I was glad to change it by talking of an ap- proaching marriage in fashionable society—a topic which generally seems to interest all the females of our community, whether fashionable themselves or not. The report of my having bought the mantilla for ten dollars soon spread widely around; and my ac- quaintances (I do not include my friends) continu- subject—for it really One would say to me— **Ts that your ten-dollar mantilla? Well, it is cer- I did not know you ally annoyed me on the became an annoyance. tainly a wonderful bargain. were one of those fortunate people that can always get things cheap.”’ Another would take it up and feel it, saying-- ** Are you quite sure the velvet is all silk? To me it has rather a cottony feel. I hardly think it can be real French. For my part, I always mistrust a bargain.”’ A third young lady told me she had mentioned the circumstance to her brother; and he said that in all probability Madame Ladouce wanted money to take up a note before three o'clock. A fourth informed me that her father thought Madame Ladouce had just had a bill sent to her, accompanied by threats, and that she had no other means of paying it immediately than by sacrificing the mantilla. A fifth acquainted me that it was her mother’s conjecture Ladouce’s girls had struck for wages. A sixth confided to me her aunt’s opinion, that poor Ladouce had really not money enough in the house, on that day, to purchase a dinner for her family; many of her fashionable customers being such very bad pay. In short, my cheap mantilla (as they called it) was fairly driven out of the field. I became quite nervous about it, and gave up wearing it in Phila- delphia; only enjoying its delights while on a visit with my father to New York and Boston. I thought, at one time, of laying it aside to convert into trimming for a future pelisse, and of having a bonnet made of the remainder. But I gave up the design, on recollecting that years hence it would be recognized by the same pertinacious people, and THE CENTRE-TABLE. that I should hear of it again as the identical green velvet of the identical cheap mantilla. And this would be worse than ever. So finally I bestowed it on a young friend whom I valued highly, who could not afford to buy such a thing, and who was on the eve of marriage to a denizen of Arkansaw. I rejoiced in the thought of never again seeing that unhappy mantilla, now that it was gone be- yond the Mississippi. But worse than all-—Ma- dame Ladouce received afew more of those articles, which, not being again so pressed for ready money, she offered for sale at the usual price. Yet they all remained on her hands; for when she showed them to her Philadelphia customers, she was gene- rally answered to this effect-—‘‘ Dear Madame La- douce! how can you think of asking so extravagantly high for these mantillas, when I know Miss Sophy You cannot think how she has boasted of her bargain, Olivant only gave you ten dollars for hers. all over the city.”’ I need not describe my compunction and sorrow, when Madame Ladouce, one day that I chanced to find her again alone, reproached me with having betrayed what she termed ‘‘a secret honourable between us And the Frenchwoman—‘‘I will tell you why I did want two selves. now’’--said that money so very urge. I was going the same evening to have one chris for my dear little baby, and, out of the greatness of one mother’s love, to consecrate the chris of his name by one beauti- ful French friends. proper indignation, that the cruel and barbarous But I say with grief, and very confectioners refused to furnish the delicacies of the table till I had paid some bills they said I had owed them long. And to do this purpose, I am frank to confess I possessed not money suffish just at that time. So I set hard to work the day before the chris, and made all my young girls go fast and sew up every cap and bonnet that was bespeaked, and And I was trimmings, trimmings And every thing was sended home with bills; but not one of the ladies paid any bills more besides. all day long. at all. my dear little baby’s chris. ‘The party of com- pany had all been ask; and the hard-heart confec- tioners would give nothing without money; and there was not money enough in my house to have tall ornaments of sugar, and pretty vases of bon- bons. So, in my despair, I sacrificed to maternal tenderess the last of my mantillas, and sold it you for near nothing. And, through this means, my dear little baby had his chris comme il faut.”’ Madame Ladouce had now talked herself into a good humour; and I increased it by purchasing one of her bonnets, for which she made me pay far more than the usual price. I was glad, however, to know that in the autumn she finally disposed of her velvet mantillas by very profitable sales, to some of those western ladies who think nothing of coming a thousand miles for a new supply of finery. supper. So I did invite one large party of So what could I do when come the day of erm *% are wenn ARARPAPPADRAD AL. ae x

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ee ee OL POLL A ld le “~ LE LLL LA LLL Ld metal 52 wane ; “AULD REEKIE.” BY THEO. LEDYARD CUYLER. “ Edina! Scotiand’s darling seat, All hail thy palaces and towers!”’ Epinsvuren is probably the most picturesque city in Europe. London is more vast and imposing. Paris, with its flash of courts and fountains, and boulevards, is infinitely more brilliant. St. Peters- burg has more overgrown magnificence; but for commanding prospect, architectural beauty con- trasted with primitive rudeness, and for an aston- ishing variety of new and beautiful views arising before you at every turn, Edinburgh is unrivalled. Take your seat on a bright summer eve upon Cal- ton Hill, and as you look down upon the New town with its broad streets, stately buildings all of fresh cream. coloured stone, and its princely terraces making in very deed a ‘‘city of palaces,’’ you no longer wonder at the idolatrous admiration into which a Scotchman ‘‘ goes off’’ at the very sight of Auld Reekie. On the south side of this new town you have a deep valley filled with markets, and with the dwellings of the poor. Over this valley are thrown a number of broad stone bridges, carrying the passengers above the tops of the houses below, and revealing in the darkness of the night a shining firmament of lights beneath, as well as above him. Crossing these bridges, you are carried back at once five hundred years. All around you are the lofiy, gloomy structures of the olden time, six, eight, and even ten stories in height, with their prison-like windows, bewildering flights of stairs, and frightful ‘‘closes’’ underneath, which in the slashing days of chivalry gleamed with armour and resounded with the clashing of spears. These were the garrisoned abodes of the Douglasses, the Ran- dolphs, and the Murrays. Here dwelt the Scottish Chiefs of our childish reading, at the recital of whose bloody deeds we used to quake at noonday, and steal our eyes cautiously around in momentary expectation of some huge iron arm to be laid on our shoulder, or some trap door to open under our feet, and send forth its mailed warriors— “All booted and spurred, and fit for a fight.” The romance of these grim old castles has all faded now. ‘They are only nestling places for whole swarms of hucksters, law students, barbers, bootmakers, and small tradesmen in all sorts of wares. Each of them now accommodates a colony; so that one of the dwellers near the house-top might, in the course of his daily visit to the street below, ‘‘call in’’ at the rooms of his different fel- low lodgers, and get his hair dressed, his boots mended, his gloves stitched, besides ‘‘layjng in’’ a considerable library, a box of pills, and getting in addition a bit of legal advice in regard to the suit 4* ON Renner for trespass between the flighty gentleman in the garret, and the lodger in the ‘‘ eleventh pair back.’’ There is no doubt a great saving of ground rent by this tower-of-Babel process, and blue sky ‘‘ comes cheap;’’ but this is more than counterbalanced by the grievous uncomfortableness and inconvenience of such an elevated position. From Calton Hill the great object of view in the direction of the old town is the world-known Ed- inburgh Castle, so famous in the annals of Scottish wars. “ There watching high the least alarms The rough rude fortress gleams afar; Like some bold veteran gray in arms, And marked with many a seamy scar. “The ponderous walls and massy bar Grim rising o’er the rugged rock, Have oft withstood assailing war And oft repelled the invader’s shock.” It consists of a series of irregular fortifications, and although before the invention of gunpowder it might be considered impregnable, it is now a place of more apparent than real strength. It can be approached only on the eastern side. The other three sides are very precipitous, some parts being more than pe rpe ndicular. It 1s three hundred and eighty-three feet in height, contains accommodation for 2,000 soldiers, and its armory affords space for 30,000 stand of arms. Facing the northeast is the Half Moon Battery, mounted with twelve. eighteen and twenty-four pounders, the only use of which, in these days of the ‘‘pruning hook’’ and the ‘*ploughshare,”’ is to fire salutes on occasions of public rejoicing. Upon this battery is the cele- brated piece of artillery called Mons Meg, from being cast at Mons, in Flanders. Itis large enough for a clever-sized lad to creep into, and carries a ball about the size of the ill-fated ‘‘ peace maker’s.”’ It was employed at the siege of Norham, and after- wards burst in firing a salute to the Duke of York in 1682, since which time it has been bound to- gether with iron hoops. In 1296 the castle was taken by the English, and an attempt was made by Randolph, Earl of Moray, and thirty chosen men, to regain it. Ac- cording to the interesting account in Heath’s An- nual, the enterprise was undertaken at midnight. By catching at crag after crag, and digging into the interstices of the rocks, they succeeded in mounting to a shelving table of the cliff, above which the ascent for ten or twelve feet was perpen- dicular. Here they lay down to recover breath, and could distinctly hear the tread of the sentinels 41 ——————————OOEOOOEOOOOOO%O™™NMHHEO™'”™_ sabndibionecmnonniaeiganndainianiitebdaaiditahiiidittinemintinmniteiptoninmenimeiicéan ener Ann wn? LISI Ie 8

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* x 42 AULD REEKIE. — eer ——— — — — aN above. While in this state of painful suspense, a loud shout was heard, and a fragment of the rock was hurled down at the same instant; and as rush- ing from crag to crag it bounded over their heads, Randolph and his brave followers in their perilous, helpless situation, felt the damp of mortal terror gathering on their ‘brows, and clung with a death gripe to the precipice. ‘The adventurers paused, listening breathless;—no sound was heard but the sighing of the wind, and the measured tread of the septinel who had resumed his walk. The incident proved to be but a singular coincidence; the shout of the sentinel and the missile he had rolled down were merely a boyish freak to amuse himself during his wearisome walk, and the party after recovering from their fatigue and sudden fright, laboured up- wards towards the castle wall. It was at length reached;—they scaled it by means of their ladder, and leaping down among the astonished guards sounded the war-cry, and after a desperate struggle, captured the castle. The morning sun dawned upon them, and beheld the thistle flag of Scotland waving from the battlements. The Scottish regalia are exhibited every day in the crown-room by a ticket from the Lord Provost. They consist of a crown of red velvet covered with jewels, a sceptre about eighteen inches in length, and a long two-edged sword used at the coronations. That crown once pressed the fair temples of poor Mary, and that sceptre was wielded by ‘the Bruce.’’ For a great many years these valuable and cherished relics of Scottish independence were lost, and the national joy knew no bounds when they were discovered in an old oaken chest which was opened first by Sir Walter Scott and the officers of the city. Every cay the little room is thronged. No nation is more purely national than the Scotch. To them there is no hero like their Bruce, no song writer like their Rabie Burns, and no romancer like the ‘‘Shirra’’ of Abbottsford. (And I don’t know but they are more than half right.) A Scotchman loves his country without any reservation, any ‘‘ saving clauses,’’ and with- out the slightest conviction that any other land can produce such lofty hills, and such lovely lakes, such ‘‘ honest men and bonnie lasses’’ as his own. This is an amusing trait, but a noble one. I love the man the more who loves his country more than all others. I would not endure the man even from the sea-beaten rocks of Shetland who did not love his own home more than the vales of Tuscany. Turning backward, and carrying your eye along the old town, you come to the Canongate celebrated in the Waverley romances. Beyond this in the out- skirts of the city stands the ancient Palace of Holy- rood. This time-honoured abode of Scotch royalty is a fine building of quadrangular form, with a cen- tral court about one hundred feet square. Its front is flanked by double-pointed towers, which impart to it a quaint appearance when contrasted with the gaudy, upstart structures of modern growth, which seem to stare at it out of all their—windows, and wonder how it came there. This old palace was eee LD OOO fast going to decay, but in 1822 some improvements were made in the internal accommodations, and since that time it has undergone a thorough repair at the expense of the crown. It is full of relics, the most interesting of which is the bed of Mary, Queen of Scots, which that unfortunate princess occupied during her residence in the palace. It stands against the wall of a dark, gloomy apart- ment, whose oaken floors, rude stone walls and ragged tapestries, are enough to chill one’s blood. The bed was of crimson velvet, but it is now ready to crumble into black dust. Near it is a double chair, embroidered by Queen Mary, and used by Darnley and herself on their marriage occasion. Adjoining this room is a still more crazy-looking one, which the queen occupied as a dressing-room. Her dressing-box is hardly fit to keep the roughest tools in, and the reflection of the steel mirror on the wall would not equal that of a still pool, such as our Indian belles once made their toilets over. In fact, the accommodations of the most humble servant girl of the nineteenth century are superior to those of the most elegant queen of the sixteenth! In a small closet adjoining the bed-room, the ar- mour of Darnley is exhibited—a huge helmet which I could not stand under, broad iron plates for his breast half an inch in thickness, and finish- ing off with boots whose soles were two inches high. His spear was ‘like a weaver’s beam.”’ Such &n immense weight would crush a modern soldier to the earth. The little room in which vourite of the queen, was murdered, is an object of interest to visitors. A bit of ragged tapestry dangled against the wall, and swung back and forth as the wind drew up the winding stairs from the dungeons below. I pulled it aside, and thrusting my head into the dark passage, almost fancied that I could hear the tramp of Darnley and his ruffian accomplices coming up to do the bloody deed. A dark stain is on the floor, which the lassie who exhibits the apartment roundly asserts is the blood of the murdered man. It is a pleasant delusion, and a true antiquarian always believes the fictions of guides and cicerones—Shakspeare’s chair, the wood of the true cross and all. The largest apartment in the palace is the picture gallery, which extends one hundred and fifty feet. Upon the walls of this room are suspended the pic- tures of one hundred Scotch kings in a style of art truly barbareus. ‘They appear to be mostly by the same hand, ‘‘painted either from imagination, or porters hired to sit for the purpose!’’ In the olden time many a scene of courtly gaiety has enlivened this gloomy hall. Here the manly form of Darnley led down the dance; here the dashing young Pre- tender received the loyal caresses of the flaxen- haired daughters of ‘‘auld Scotland,’’ and here poor Mary lived her short, bright day of unrivalled beauty. Farewell to thee, old Holyrood!—the asylum.of many a royal outcast who had not else- where a place to lay his head! Rizzio, the Italian fa- ~~ LLLP AAA Ann nnn nnn OLLOLEOLIEEELILIEIPILPLILL LLLP PPP PPD DODO wee enn Arr

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¢ Q 2 x NEW RECEIPTS FOR PASTE OR CEMENT. BY MI88 LESLIE. ~ Perpetual Paste-—Buy at a druggist’s half an ounce of the best gum tragacanth, and a small por- tion of corrosive sublimate, scarcely the size of a grain of Indian corn. They will cost but a few cents. Pick out carefully all the impurities of the gum, and make it as clean as you can not to waste too much of it. Pulverize the bit of corrosive sub- limate, by pressing hard on the paper that contains it. Put both articles into a wide-mouthed glass, or white ware vessel, that has a close fitting cover, and will hold somewhat more than a pint. A small sweet-meat jar (made perfectly clean) will do very well. Pour on the gum and the sublimate, a pint (not more) of clear cold soft water. Cover the jar closely, and let it rest two or three days, till the gum has entirely dissolved and looks like thick- boiled starch. ‘Take care never to stir it, lest you should disturb what sediment there is about it, and which, if let alone, will sink to the bottom and always remain there. The sublimate will prevent this paste from spoiling; and, if kept covered and in a cool dark place, it will continue good for many months, or even for two or three years; and will be found always convenient for use whenever a cement is wanted for paper, pasteboard, or things of that description—precluding the neces- sity of boiling fresh flour paste every time. By putting some of it into a small tin box with a tight cover, and tying the box up closely in strong paper, you may carry it with you when travelling, to be ready in case you should chance to require paste for any unexpected purpose. ’ Spread it smoothly and thinly on the paper with a brush, (which must afterwards be washed directly,) corrosive or with your finger, if the space is very small. We know, by experience, that for common use there is no paste better or more convenient than this. Keep it carefully out of the reach of children, as the corrosive sublimate renders it poisonous if swal- lowed. Gum Arabic Paste.—Take a common sized tea- cup of cold soft water, and dissolve in it a large tea-spoonful of the best and clearest powdered gum arabic. When the gum is entirely melted, stir in, by degrees, a table-spoonful of fine wheat flour, carefully pressing out all the lumps, and making it as smooth as possible. Keep it well covered, and in a cool place. If, after a few days, it should ap- pear spotted or mouldy on the top, remove the sur- face, and the paste beneath will still be fit for use. This is a good cement for artificial flowers, and ornamental paste-board work. Cement for Jars and Bottles.—According to the quantity of cement required, take one-third bees- wax and two-thirds rosin. Pound the rosin very fine, and then put it with the bees-wax into any saucepan or skillet suited to the purpose, and set it over the fire to melt. When it becomes quite liquid, take it off the fire, and stir in some finely- powdered brick-dust, till the mixture becomes as thick as melted sealing-wax. Then plaster it warm round the covers of your preserve or pickle jars. If you use it for bottles, first cork them tightly, and then dip their tops into the cement. It will dry in a few minutes. This cement is very strong and very cheap, and particularly useful for articles that are to be carried to sea. et 0 OOF USEFUL HINTS. BY MI38 LESLIE. Tue odour of a cologne bottle or any other scented liquid may be prevented from escaping by keeping the cork and the neck of the bottle covered with the finger end or thumb of an old kid glove, cut off for the purpose ata suitable length and breadth, and stretched or drawn down closely and tightly. ‘This is more convenient than the usual leather covers that must be untied and tied again whenever the bottle is opened. When a glass stopper sticks fast, (as is frequently the case,) and is found difficult to take out, hold the bottle in your left hand, and strike the stopper side- ways and hard with the edge of your open right hand. A few of these strokes will generally loosen it; but if it still continues immovable, grease it with a little sweet oil, and lay the bottle near the fire with the stopper towards the heat: In cutting open the leaves of a new book, keep your left hand pressed firmly on the open .page while you use the paper knife with your right. This will prevent the edges of the leaves from cut- ting rough and jagged. Cut open the tops of the leaves before you run the knife up the side edges. The best way of writing your name in a book is on the inside of the cover. The fly-leaves may be torn out, and if written on a corner of the title- page, that corner may be snipped off, if the book falls into the hands of a dishonest person. The neatest manner of putting your name in a book is to write it on a small square or oval of fine white paper, and then to paste it with gum tragacanth paste inside the cover. 43 NOON,

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OR ceneeCU ETC RROAEDEURRDADLERRERIODE OH! LADY, SING AGAIN THAT SONG. WRITTEN BY WILLIAM HARPER, JR. MUSIC COMPOSED AND RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO HER PUPILS, BY CORDELIA C. CROZET. Entered, according to Act ef Congress, in the year 1844, by J. G. Osbourn, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. Not Too FAST. ; So £059 ©. £2 ; (ee SSSEis==5 +

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nannnnnnnnnnnnnnnnonnnsoe: it Dine nnn nnn nnn RNODRORDPDPIDD DPR OOODDODLEOPODODD ED GDDIDS EDITORS’ SSSsas Saas ; AP TABLE. ———-$- es we =a = eeenlineed soon. Then wake that long ne -- glected lay, The cherish’d of an earlier day. I would not now recall the past, Nor ask of thee the boon; I would not so oppress the heart, Could memory fade so soon. In other lands I’ve wander’d far, On me bright eyes have shone; But distance never added aught But lustre to thine own. Then wake that long neglected lay, The cherished of an earlier day. rt t tan eentrer “Tue everlasting stars shine out when the horizon be- comes dark enough,” says Carlisle—thus strikingly ex- emplifying the hope which “springs eternal’’ in every “human breast.” As this beautiful month leaves little for the heart to desire,—if we only have health to enjoy the riches of nature,—in the outward world, what if, fora few moments, we look away from ourselves and devote our sympathies to those of our own sex, where the darkness seems to have extinguished even the stars. Have you ever read a book—“ The Education of Mo- thers?’’** Weare not intending to analyze or explain this work; it is within the reach of every family who reads our periodical, and we have already commended it to their notice But as we fear that far the larger part of our “fifty thousand”’’ friends have not yet enjoyed the instructive lessons of the French savan, we will give a * Translated from the French of L. Aimé-Martin, and published by Lea & Blanchard, Philadelphia. PILLAI LS LSS SIN. EDITORS’ The farther from my native land, And thy bright smiles I’ve strayed, The farther from all that was dear, I’ve laid my weary head. Nor distance nor the busy world, With all its alluring ways Could chase fond memory from my sight, Of those and other days. Then wake that long neglected lay, The cherished of an earlier day. TABLE. eee eee picture or two of his sketching, to take the place this month of the “obsolete fashions.”’ “The great misfortune of our villages,’”’ says this be- nevolent author, “is the degradation of the women through the labours whiclf belong to men. You see the women bowed to the earth, as labourers, or laden with enormous weights, like beasts of burden. There are districts in France, where they are harnessed to carts with the ox and ass. From that time their skin becomes shrivelled, their complexions like coal, their features coarse and homely, and they fall into a premature de- crepitude more hideous than old age. “If asked for examples of these things, we will cite whole provinces, the richest as well as the poorest of France—Perigord, where the women live in a state of filth and abjectness which reacts on the whole family; Picardy and Limousin, where, degraded to the lowest rank. and as of an inferior race, wives serve their hus- bands at table without even daring to take a place at his side; Brescia, where they are mere labourers, mere beasts ARR nememeenms 2 0 0 0 0° 00 0° 0°20 0 (0 2 2 iOieereonneDODeonrrlwern Oworwrnarrr"”Y PPL PLP LP LLP D OL PPP LPP PLL LL LLL LL LILLIE PPL RRAPARADRLAALAAAAAAAnnm Orns“ PILI PEAAOnennn x

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46 EDITORS’ ~ PLLA ALAL ’ on of burden; and Lower Brittany, where husband and wife and children, reduced to a state almost savage, live all, peli-mell, in the same filthy chamber, and eat black bread in the same trough with their sheep and hogs. Every- where is the degradation of the woman a sure proof of the brutishness of the man, and everywhere is the brutish- ness of the man a necessary consequence and reaction from the degradation of the woman.’ These are shocking pictures, yet sad as they are, the good Aimé-Martin sees a star or two which may rise and shed lustre on the darkness. He says * Two modesof amelioration offer themselves—the first is to establish a primary institution, sufficiently large, for young girls, where they may learn how to direct the in- terior economy of a house, and thus hereafter be them- selves qualified to instruct their own daughters in the same. The second method, a necessary sequel of the first, consists in restoring to the women of the village the natural occupations of their sex, and freeing them from the drudgery of out-door labour.” He says truly—* Never will instruction take deep root and spread in the rural districts, if it does not reach the children through their mothers, and the men through their wives. The public teacher is but a dry instrument that teaches the alphabet; the mother of the family is a moral power, which fertilizes the mind, while at the same time it opens the heart to love and the soul to charity.” No wonder that this philanthropist, oppressed with the picture of brutal ignorance and dark wretchedness which the contemplation of the degradation of woman in his own beautiful France had brought before his mind’s eye, should exclaim, while dwelling on the blessings which education, freedom, and the elevated position of woman had wrought in our United States — “Oh!' spectacle never before viewed by mortal eyes! — this young America was free at her birth! She is born with liberty, tolerance and intelligence! “ America is the star which brightens the darkness of Europe; and the education of women the light which promises civilization to mankind.” The hope which fancy draws from the contemplation of nature is more in accordance with the German mode of philosophizing. Jean Paul Richter has breathed forth a similar strain of hope for man, belief in the ameliora- tion of the human destiny, and faith in progressive im- provement, as Aimé-Martin. The little fragment we shall give is entitled “ The Changing Aurora,’’ and has never, we believe, been before translated into English. lisa relief, afier the appalling sketches of real sufferings which the practical philosopher has given, to turn to the soft, shadowy paintings of the poetical mind, seeking relief from the sad shadows resting on the human lot by delineating the beautiful changes in the morning sky. But hope is the lesson both would teach, the lesson we would inculcate. “ When man saw for the first time the glowing morning redness in the heavens, he took it for the sun, and cried out to it—‘ Hail to thee, Phebus, with roses heaped on thy far shining chariot!’ But soon the god-like sun came BOOK TABLE. from the grove of roses, and the early rose leaves of Au- rora fell to the ground before the strong light of day. ‘Lo! at evening, when Apollo guides his chariot under the ocean waves, and nothing is seen in heaven but Au- rora with her chariot filled with roses, then man returned to his error of the morning, and said —‘I know thee, beau- teous spring of heaven; thou only leadest the sun upward, but thou art not he!’ And he hoped to see the sun, and took the evening star for the morning star, and the eve- ning wind for morning air. “* But he hoped in vain. The star of love mounted not higher, but sank from cloud tocloud. The rosy chariot showed above the ocean only a few pale buds, and was led behind the earth, wading deeply and sinking down towards the cold midnight. ‘Now I know thee, robber of the dead,’* said man; ‘thou drivest before thee Phe- bus, the lovely youth, through the sea, and through Orcus!’ and tired and dejected he closed his darkened eyes. “Awake, double dreamer, and look at the blooming morning-heaven, and Aurora again coming through the broad fields of roses; and the ever young Apollo walks up behind her, his hand full of morning light. “And awake thou also, deeper dreamer; thou who seest the Aurora of man's history iu the west, and beholdest the evening redness as morning redness, and awaitest the rising of the sun,and then despairest while he is drawn veiled towards the north! Awake; for he comes again in the east, and every time to a longer day.” * The ancients ascribed the death of young people to Aurora’s carrying them away. .0.1. PARAAAAAAAAYN MPPPLLP LAL LPP PPP PPP PL Ko

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EDITORS’ maps, on a very large scale. Mr. Tanner is one of the most learned and accomplished geographers in the world. His maps are unquestionable authurity, and this new edition with the recent corrections, is of course the best general atlas extant. Messrs. Lindsay & Blakiston have sent us a copy of the “New Spirit of the Age,” edited by R. H. Horne. It consists of cursury notices of the leading British writers of the present time, written in a vein of semi-transcend- entalism. Its main object appears to be to puff some of the minnows among the London scribblers into levi- athans, because they happen to belong tothe same coterie with the author. It is not by any means a new thing for the small fry of a small clique to suppose that their spirit is the spirit of the age. Such worthies meet together in their metropolitan garret, and lay out the intellectual

BOOK TABLE. 47 feeling, accurate observation, and sturdy Americanism, form elements of extended popularity. The embellish- nents are on steel, numerous, and well executed. Mr. R. G. Berford has received a supply of “Chats- worth,’ by the renowned author of “Tremaine.” Itis published by the Harpers as a part of their Library of Select Novels. He has also the last numbers of McCul- loch’s Gazetteer, the Book of the Navy, and the pictorial edition of Dickens’s Christmas Carol, just published, with coloured plates, by Messrs. Carey & Hart. The same publishers have issued a new edition of Miss Leslie’s celebrated “Cookery Book,” with fifty additional pages of new receipts. All the world is acquainted with the merits of this highly popular and useful book Messrs. Carey & Hart continue the publication of their splendid “Fumily Bible, with the united commentaries Messrs. Carey & Hart

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2 map of the world with as much gravity as a knot of small of Patrick, Lowth and Whitby.” 2 politicians in a country town settle the affairs of the have issued a new edition of Miss Leslie’s admirable ; mation, while “news much older than their ale goes “House Book,’’ so much prized as being a perfect trea- $ round.” sury of receipts for all articles and processes used in 2 Messrs Harper & Brothers continue the publication of housekeeping. > “MM Culloch'’s Gazetteer,” “Milman’s Gibbon's Rome,” “ Poems, by Caroline F. Orne.” This collection com- § “Neal's History of the Puritans,” and their splendid prises three poems of considerable length— “Sweet Au- § «6 “Pictorial Bible.” They have also recently published burn,” “Mount Auburn,’” and “The Lady Arabella," ina neat l8mo. form, “The Young Sailor,a Narrative together with a number of miscellaneous pieces. In our Sounded on Fact,’ by Mrs. Mary 8. B. Dana. This is a opinion, these poems are far above the common standard, ¢ first rate story for young people, full of incident and and “*The Removal of Napoleon’s Remains” is one of § strong character; and what is of more vital importance, the finest modern pieces we have read. “*Sweet Auburn’”’ § conveying a striking moral in a forcible and impressive and “‘Mount Auburn,” two beautiful poems of nearly 5 style. one thousand lines each, will be read with interest by ; Theological literature continues to flourish. The Har- those who bave planted the willow over some dear friend per’s have gone into it with Dr. Malan’s “Jnguiry,’’ the in this fair garden of death. Carey & Hart have the $ most remarkable book of recent times on the Roman work. > Catholic question. It will probably become as popular “Poems, by Frances Ann Butler.”’ A collection of as Daubigne’s History of the Reformation. short poems by Mrs. Butler, better known, perhaps, as Messrs. D. Appleton & Co., of New York, and George Fanny Kemble. On the first page, speaking of stars, we S. Appleton, Philadelphia, have recently published “Dr. have § Ogilby’s Catholic Ch urch in England and America, ‘Save yon eternal eyes that now shine forth 5 dn three Lectures—I. The Church in England and ae ¢ - i ’ : Doane. Of course its doctrine is what people call Hich the pieces that follow; but our respect for the talented ¢ Church Episcopalian. We can hardly be expected to author induced us to examine further, and we were de- ¢ comment on its character and tendency; but we cannot lighted at finding both beauty and originality. “The > Yefrain from saying a good word for its magnificent paper Red Indian” is a beautiful little poem. Its title, however, ? and print, and the whole style of its mechanical exe- is a misnomer, and as here applied, Red Indian, has no > cution. meaning whatever. “The Lament for Israel’’ is the @ Some time since, Mr. R. G. Berford sent us a pamphlet conception and execution of a poetical mind. In fact, 3 novel, entitled the “Banking House,’ which we have all these pieces bear evidence of a rich poetical fancy. 5 justread Itis powerfully written, and worthy the serious One fault we discover which Mrs. Butler possesses in consideration of all business people. “ The Lady at common with most of our modern poets. In striving at § Home,” “ Destiny; or, the Chief's Daughter,” “The originality, new words are coined and old ones tortured § Picture Gallery,’ “The Comforter,’ by Miss Bremer, to express almostany meaning underthesun. Originality $ “Marion's Pilgrimage,’ by Mary Howitt, one of her is not always poetry. most beautiful and touching poems,) and “The Prairie Mr. Henry G. Langley, of New York, has just pub- 2 tird,” by Hon. C. A. Murray, have all been laid on our lished the “Poetical Works ef Winthrop Mackworth ¢ table by Mr. Berford, who appears to rejoice in a most Praed,’’ now first collected by Rufus W. Griswold. This $ abundant and auraciive stock of the cheap literature of is a first rate book. Praed was one of the most elegant the day and highly imaginative poets of Britain. With talents “Life in the New World, or Sketches of American enough to make a dozen writers of average quality, he Society,” by Seatsfield. This series of pamphlets ap- was so careless of his literary fame as to throw off every ¢ pearsto us to be the result of an awkwardly contrived composition in some fugitive form, leaving to the industry > and clumsily executed hoax. They purport to be trans- of a foreign critic the task of eathering up these diamonds lations from the German, without the least approximation antl rubies, and other precious gems, and forming them 2 to the German tone of thought; and after being puffed in into a crown of glory to shine in a foreign land. advance of publication in the most extravagant manner, Mr James Langley, of New York, has just published $6 offer strength of conceptivn and intenseness of interest, “The lrish Girl, and other Poems,” by Sarah Ellis, au- they turn out, upon reading, to be the most dull, stupid, thor of “ Women of England,” &c., with a portrait of the impertinent and intolerable trash which has come before author. Every thing from the pen of Mrs. Ellis claims the public sincethe chapters of Martin Chuzzlewit which attention. These poems, without any pretension to high refer to America. These last must be pronounced un- imaginative power or lyric fire, possess the charms of rivalled in these remarkable qualities. melody, fine feeling, and good taste. The poems are all Messrs. Harpers have published “Observations in short, embracing a very extensive range of subj@ts, and Europe, principally in France and Great Britain,” by all of them which we have found time to read, of an in- John P. Durbin, D. D., President of Dickenson College. teresting character. Some of them are very touching, This work, which is the precursor of the Doctor’s long- while the decidedly religious cast of others will give expected work on the East, will be received with a warm them peculiar value in the domestic circle. The same welcome by the reading world. Its animated style, fresh publisher sends us a copy of “The Brother and Sister, BR wrrnrrrnrrrwrwrrrerrwrrrrrrrrrrrrrnnrrmrnnnmnnnnreeenreenen “

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nanan enn Annnnnnnnnnnnnw _— PP LPL LPL LID LPL PPL LIP PPP PLP PPP PPL PLL PPP POP 48 and other Tales,” by Mrs. Ellis, an excellent collection for young people, published in an elegant form, and illus- trated with the author's portrait on steel. Mr. Langley has also published some half a dozen Hand Books, done up in beautiful style for popular use. We have only space for theirtities. They are the “Hand Book of Eti- quette,” “ Hand Book of Cookery,” “ Hand Book of Dreams,” “Gentlemen's Letter- Writer,” “Ladies’ Let- ter- Writer,” and “The Poetry and Sentiment of Flow- ers.’’ Whoever would learn how to behave in company, cook, dream, write letters, or carry on a correspondence, Oriental fashion, with bouquets, can now do it at the least possible expense by purchasing these six hand books “ Parley’s Cabinet Library,” published by John Allen, New York, promises to be a most valuable work for families. The reputation of Peter Parley is so well established, that we need only record his name connected with a publication tp insure it p»pularity. But the plan of this Library, and the manner in which it has been got It is none of the brown up, entitle it to particular favour The beauty of paper and invisible type productions the whole arrangement is complete, and we can commend it as a work pleasant to read as well as useful to be read. We have received very excellent books for Sabbath Schools, Bible Classes, and families, prepared by the Rev. Baron Stow, namely—“ The Question Book of Christian Doctrine,” “Self-Examination, or Plain Questions for Professors of Religion,” and “ Daily Manna,” ail published by Gould, Kendall & Lincoln, Boston. J.G us som: several Osbourn, of No. 112 South Third Street, has sent pretty music—"Beautiful Venice,” a ballad, by J.P. Knight, “The Merry Sleigh Bellis,” by B.S. Bar- clay, “lfenry Clay’s Grand March,” by J. R. Conner, “Oh! Lady, Sing again that Song,” by W. Harper, Jr., and “Dandy Jim” and “Old Dan Tucker Cotiillions.” All these are got up in Osbourn’s superior manner. Our lady readers should give him a call. They will find every variety of music at his establishment. Mr. Dobson has sent us No. 5 of a “Select Collection of Original Scottish Airs for the Voice,” with sympho- nies and accompaniments. This is certainly the best collection that we have ever seen, and Mr. D. deserves great credit for the style in which he has produced it.

—~— DESCRIPTION OF FASHIONS Fig. 1.—A dress of figured Balzarine; the body is full, fitting square across the bust; the waist is long, rounded from the side seams, and finished by a simple cording; the sleeves are straight, and wide towards the bottom; they come but a little way below the elbow, and are finished by a row of narrow work. The skirt is very long and full; it is trimmed with two very deep voiants set on full, each being edged with a row of very beautiful work or lace. Chemisette of fine French cambric, made full, and rows of insertion at equal distances, finished round the throat bya ruche of net. Capote of white crape, the form rather open; the crown is large, the curtain deep; the capote is edged with a full ruche of crape; the interior is without flowers, the head being disposed in large ring- lets; the exterior isornamented with a inagnificent bunch of dowers placed on the right side of the crown. Fig. 2.—Dress of rich brocaded silk, striped, green, and violet; the body is tight; the waist without point and corded; sleeves straight and wide from the elbow; under sleeve of cambric, full and confined at equal distances by bands of very narrow work, finished at the wrist by ruffles of work or lace; the skirt is very full, and has two broad flounces. Pelerine of beautiful lace, ends pointed, trimmed with broad lace and disposed to fall over the sleeve it is carelessly tied in the centre of the bust. Bonnet of pale pink tulle, covered with rich lace; form rather long, and rounded at the ears; the curtain deep, having in the centre a pink and white gauze ribbon; the flowers composing the trimming of the exterior are large, and intermingled by leaves of the most beautiful green;

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TABLE. they are placed on the left side; the interior of the brim is ornamented with corresponding flowers. Fig. 3.—Fashion of 1774—copied from an old magazine in our possession. Whata marked difference now. But query— will we not get back to these old fashins! Cer- tainly some of our ladies appear to be aiming at that point. Not tothe figure now befvre us, but to other mon- strosities of former times. Fig. 4.—White muslin dress; two skirts; the bodice plain; neck furnished with a cape and edging; sleeves to come to the elbow; under sleeves made with puffs and inserting; thin bonnet, very open on the face, and trim- med with flowers. — We copy the following tribute to our lamented friend Professor Sanderson, from the Inquirer and Courier of this city. “An Admirable Sketch.—One of the best sketches that we have read fora long time is published in the Lady's Book for June. It is entitled ‘The English Kitchen,’ and was writien by the late Professor John Sanderson Charles Lamb never wrote any thing superior in his palmiest days. It is, indeed, admirable; and had the author never written any thing else, this single sketch would have won for him high reputation. We intend to copy it into our first page in the course of a day or two. One of the most eloquent writers of the day, in a letter just received from him, says— “How admirable a paper is that by Sanderson!—how teeming with genuine wit and humour! His loss to the literature of the country is indeed great. The Saturday Museum thus notices Godey’s Magazine and Lady’s Book— “Among the excellent contributions to the June num- ber is one by the late Professer Sanderson, entitled ‘ The English Kitchen,’ which we shall copy into the next number of the Museum. The engravings are good speci- mens of the art as applied to magazine illustration.” ” English publications—their neglect and praise.—We have of late noted several of Mr. Arthur’s, one of Mrs. Embury’s, and one of Miss Leslie’s articles, copied from our magazine into English publications. Some litile credit ought at least be given to us for these productions. Chambers’ Edinburgh Journal and the Ladies’ World of Fashions are among the offending parties. While we utter complaints, we must at the same time give credit. A late Lendon paper, in noticing Godey’s Magazine, says that “it is just such a work as we want for the ladies of this country. While the wants of the gentlemen are most admirably catered for, the ladies are neglected. It is conducted with admirable skill, and is most ably edited. If Mr. Godey would establish a magazine of this kind on our side of the water, we would insure him abundant success.”’ Exclusive Wriiers.—We have had several applica- tions lately to write for us exclusively. We now say to one and all, that we do not wish to make any such ar- rangements; and our reason we think isa good one. Let the field be open to all. It is impossible for a writer to vary from month to month, from year to year, to please the patrons of a particular work. The better plan is to write for different publications. And again, if a writer of any celebrity should make an exclusive arrangement with us, and continue with us for a year or more, it is not in nature to suppose that he can possibly make an ar- rangement with another magazine, when his freshness has been exhausted upon another. Again we say, we are averse to any exclusive arrangements.

“Not Invited,” by W. H. Ellis, “The Furmer’s Boy,”’ from an original picture by Chapman, engraved by Tucker, “The Surprise,’ a mezzotint by Gross, and a Shakspearean subject, exquisitely engraved, are now in the printer's hands. Our future numbers will contain “Gens or ArT.”

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