Godey's Lady's Book 1847-01: Vol 34 Iss 1

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GODEY’S LADY’ S BOO. PHILADELPHIA, JANUARY, 1847 AOD ~ BY T. S. >IERRE, THE ORGAN a A ower BOY ARTHUR (See Plate—“ Sigkness and Health.) ” from here!’’ exclaimed Mr. Thornton, throwing open the window shut- **Go ’way—go ’way ters and addressing in angry tones an organ boy who had stationed himself in front of the house, and was filling the air with the not very melo- ** Clear out from here, or I'll have you taken up for a vagrant and sent to the workhouse,’’ he added, as the startled lad ceased playing and hastily lifted his organ to be gone. ** Idle, Mr. Thornton, as he drew in his head and partly closed the shutters he had thrown open so sud- dious tones of his poor instrument. loafing vagabonds!’’ muttered denly. ‘‘If I had my way I'd send every rascal to the workhouse. What right have they to disturb peaceful citizens with their hor- rible din? I'd as lief hear an old tin pan and a "poker as one of these squealing organs.”’ Thus grumbled Mr. Thornton as he reseated of them himself and took up the newspaper he had thrown Two or three circumstances combined to put Mr. T down in a passion. .in an unamiable humor. In the first place, his family had been absent in the country for some weeks with his oldest child, who was an invalid, and he was left at home to keep bachelor’s hall. He could only manage to visit them about twice a week. On his last visit, Caroline was not so well as usual. She was too feeble to sit up. To his earnest inquiries, the physician replied evasively. On this day, the third since he had seen or heard from his family, he had intended going out to visit them, but let- ters by the morning’s mail notified him of the re- turn of two dishonored bills, for which it was necessary that he should make provision in order to save his own credit, as they had been dis- counted. Besides, an old and good customer from the west was in town, and it would be necessary. VOL. XXXIV.—l * for him to be at the store when he called. These causes combined would probably keep him from seeing his family for at least a couple of days long er, and made his humor a very unamiable one, as may be supposed from the expression of it when the organ boy’s music broke suddenly upon his ear. Mr. Thornton, notwithstanding the very unfa- vorable light in which he is presented on his first introduction to the reader, was not a passionate, ill-natured man; but he was governed by impulse, and easily affected by external circumstances. He was much attached to his family, and particularly to Caroline, whose ill health and the uncertainty of her recovery from the disease under which she labored, touched all his feelings for her with un- usual tenderness. All the while that he was ab- sent from her he felt uneasy, and was inclined te fretfulness. The particular reason of his tirade against the ergan boy was the following editorial ‘*expression’’ which he had just read in one of the morning newspapers, the conductor of which happened to have a very exquisite taste for music. ‘*Horriste Nursance—Music- Grinding.—We beg leave most earnestly to call the attention of the city authorities to the horrible nuisance of music-grinding, which prevails in our city to a most outrageous extent: Scarcely an hour in the day passes that you are not disturbed by a crowd upon your pavement, and, worse accompaniment, the ear-piercing din of a bad hand-organ, turned by some loafing vagabond who is too lazy to earn his living in some honest, useful employment. Sometimes a grinning, chattering monkey, or a dozen white mice are thrown in to season the en- tertainment; and sometimes—to give the nui- sance a climax—there is a squalling wife thump- ing upon her clattering tamborine, while her chil- dren are neglected at home

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** There is no question that this thing is a great evil. It encourages vagabondism and disturbs peaceful citizens. ting rid of the wretches when they have once sta- If there was any way of get- tioned themselves on your pavement, it would be some abatement of the evil; but there is none. Your quota of music you have to take, pay or not pay. If you tie up your purse-strings, they will play a quarter of an hour under your window in the vain attempt to loosen them; if you fling them a shilling in hopes they will take it and begone, they will play a quarter of an hour in return for your bounty. There is but one fellow that we can get rid of without taking our allowance of He came along one day and planted himself right op- music so bad as to put our teeth on edge. posite to where we had seated ourselves by the window, and struck up such awful music that our hands went to our ears instinctively. In hopes that he would go off after getting what he was grinding for, we threw him a sixpence and mo- tioned for him to be gone. With the coolest im- pudence in the world he looked up at us, grinding with one hand while he pocketed his money with the other. ‘Go—go ’long,’ said we, impatiently. ‘I never goes on for less than a shillin’,’ he re- plied, turning still more vigorously and eyeing us with a half-comic, half-resolute expression. We threw the other sixpence instanter, and the air became at once silent. About every fortnight this fellow takes his stand opposite our window, and gets his shilling to pass on! But it’s too se- In the hope of getting in hand and suppress it, we called upon him one day and related this incident. He appeared to take the matter into serious consideration, although the twinkle of his eye did not make us think him very deeply in earnest. Thus far we have heard We now publicly rious a matter for a joke. his honor, the mayor, to take the thing of no arrests of these vagrants. call upon him to do something to abate the nui- sance. It is his duty, and we demand of him, in the name of hundreds of his aggrieved fellow- citizens, protection from this growing evil.’’ Mr. Thornton felt the force of this article when he read i‘ ; he saw with the editor’s eyes, and his own mind came to the same conclusions. Street musicians were all a set of idle vagabonds, and should not be allowed to annoy people in the way they did. Unfortunately for the poor organ boy, who was a stranger in a strange land, with no means in his power of earning bread for himself and a sick sister but his organ, he had happened to play before Mr. Thornton's door just at the inauspicious moment when the latter had finished the editor’s tirade against ‘‘ music-grinding,”’ as he was pleased to call it Pierre Merlin started in alarm at the angry ex- clamations of Mr. Thornton. Although he could not understand the words that were uttered, he comprehended, from the tones of his voice and the expression of his face, that a threat of conse- what he said. MHurriedly he quences was in GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’sS BOOK, moved off, and did not again venture to play on his organ until he was several squares distant from the house of Mr. T. Pierre was of agentle, timid disposition, but love for his sick sister made him firm and brave in meeting his lot in life and striving to overcome its evils. The children were orphans in their old home in sunny France, and had been tempted to visit America from having heard through those who had friends there, much that made the land desirable. There were none to dissuade them from their purpose, for none felt much interest inthem. 'To America they came. Not until they were a few days in Philadelphia, without friends, without the means of support, and with only a few francs in their pockets, did they understand the great error they had com- mitted. Marie was younger than Pierre by two years, and he was but sixteen. She had thought but little herself about the change of home. She had confidence in Pierre, and was ready to go wherever he thought it best for them togo. Under this feeling and with this confidence she had ac- companied him to the United States. They had been in the country for only a few a@sveeks when Marie began to droop. She was pining for the vine-clad hills and bright streams of her own land. The bloom left her cheek that had lost its roundness ; her eye was sad and full of tears just ready to gush forth. They had been taken in by a countryman of their own, who hap- pened to find them at the hotel where they went on first landing, and where they stayed until all their money was gone. This person thought that Marie would make an excellent domestic for his wife, and that Pierre would serve him as an ap- prentice in his business of cordonnier. To Ma- rie’s low spirits and failing health was added labor beyond her strength, and Pierre’s own po- sition was by no means an easy and agreeable one. Of that he would not have complained had Marie been well and happy; but he could not bear to see her look so pale and weary, and to find her so often weeping. ‘*T wish we were home again, Pierre,’’ Marie said to her brother one day, expressing for the first time the feeling that had long subdued all others, while her lip quivered and her eyes became blind with tears. ‘* Home in France, Marie?’’ said Pierre, quick- ly. ‘* Then we will go home.”’ ‘* But how are we to get home? We have no money.”’ **T will earn money,”’ brave look and a confident tone. ** But Pierre? How ?"’ doubtingly, and yet with anxiety. **T’m strong—I can work—I can earn money,”’ said Pierre. ‘* Mr. Martin will not give you money for your work ?”’ ** No; but I won’t stay here. thing for money.”’ ‘* What can you do, brother ?”’ said the boy, with a asked Marie, how, I will do some- +

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PIERRE THE ORGAN BOY. 3 ww This question Pierre could not answer very satisfactorily, but his confident manner inspired Marie with hope. Weeks passed, however, with- out any way opening before the lad’s anxious eyes by which he could earn money. Inthe meantime Marie’s condition became more and more distress- ing to him. She grew paler and weaker; yet no eye but his seemed to notice the change, nor did any heart but his feel for her any sympathy. She was to Mrs. Martin a good household drudge, and was treated as such. If kind words had accom- panied her daily toil, they would have lightened it; but there were no kind words for her ear ex- cept those spoken by her brother. One day a customer in the shop, a Frenchman, mentioned to Mr. Martin that a man living near him had died leaving a wife and child without the means of support. The man had only been in the country a short time, and had supported his family by going about the streets with a hand organ. ‘* He was doing very well,’’ remarked the cus- tomer, ‘‘ with his organ, and would soon have got alittle ahead. It is a great pity for his widow. I don’t know what she will do. I think her an excellent woman.’’ Pierre thought a good deal about the poor widow and the organ, but said nothing to any one. As soon as night came around he went to see the woman. She was in sorrow and trouble, but there He business was something about her that Pierre liked. asked a great many questions about the her husband had followed, and learned that he sometimes made as much as two dollars a day— rarely less than one. Finally he proposed to pay her three dollars a week to board himself and Marie, he organ. To this the woman gladly Marie very happy when Pierre told her what he had done, but Mr. and Mrs. that they should not go, and would and one dollar rent for t! assented. was Martin were angry, and said that they could compel them to stay. Poor Marie was dreadfully frightened, but Pierre told her, as soon as they not to for he knew that Mr. were alone, cry, Martin could not make them stay. ‘* We will go away this very evening as soon as it is dark,”’’ he said, ‘‘ and if they come for us we will not go back.’’ ‘*But they may force us to go back,”’ Marie. ‘* They can’t; I know they can’t. and that we may go said Robert says we are not bound by law, away if we please—and Robert knows.”’ Robert was the oldest apprentice of Mr. Martin, and had answered the anxious question which Pierre had put to him, truly. Without further debate, the children, as soon as night came and they could get away unob- served, tied up their clothes in two stout bundles, and stole away from the house of Mr. Martin. As soon as the Frenchman discovered their ab- sence, he was very angry, and went with threats to the house of the poor widow. But she was unmoved by them, and told him that if the chil- dren preferred her house to his they were very welcome to stay. Finding that both Pierre and his sister, as well as the poor widow, were not to be moved by anything he said, Mr. Martin went away and left them to themselves. It was quite time that Marie was removed from the service of her hard mistress. On the second day after she had entered her new home she was taken very ill, the consequence of over-exertion and exposure to cold, and remained sick for a long time. Pierre went out with his organ, and was able to earn enough to pay the widow the four dollars a week as agreed upon, and a small sum over. But it was very fatiguing for him to carry the organ all over the city and to stand in the hot sun to play; and often after he had stood before a house and played for some time, he had to pass on W ithout receiv ing evena penny. Some- times he was driven off with threatening words, and sometimes rude boys would annoy him sadly ; For Marie’s If for a would grow weary and despond of ever but he was patient and persevering. sake he was willing to bear anything. time he earning enough to take them back to their old home, the thought of his sister, whose cheek grew paler and paler, would inspire him to new efforts. On the day that Mr. Thornton so angrily drove him from before his house, he had met with two or three similar repulses, and when evening came to Marie, he was sad and nstead of going and he returned home dispirited. On the next day, about the streets as heretofore, Pierre left the city and wandered some distance into the country, playing from house to house as he passed along. At almost every place where he stopped he was offered refreshments, besides having a few pen- nies or a coin of greater value dropped into his hand. So grateful to his spirit was the kindness he received, that he which he usually experienced, and wandered on lost the sense of weariness farther and farther from the city, meeting with a warmer welcome as the distance increased. As early as it was possible for him to leave his business, Mr. Thornton, on this day, mounted his horse and rode at a rapid speed into the country His anxiety for Caroline had She St emed worse when he to see his family. become very great. last saw her, and his fears were much excited in consequence. An hour’s ride brought him to the pleasant farm-house where his family were board- Giving his horse to the ser- entered the ing for the summer. vant who met him at the gate, he house and passed into the parlor, but found no one there. The sound of an organ struck upon his ear, but not quite so offensively as on the day before. into the pleasant yard in the rear of the house, a Stepping to the window that looked out scene met his eyes that caused a dimness to come over them. Caroline was sitting In an easy chair, with her mother by her side, a light breaking out from her young face such as he had not seen

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glowing there for weeks. Two younger chil- dren were dancing just before her, and the music that gave life to the whole scene was from the organ of the lad he had driven from his door on the previous day with angry words and menace. Silently he regarded the group before him, and particularly the delicate, mild, but sad face of the minstrel boy whom he saw to be a stranger in a strange land. From his face his eyes turned to that of his sick child, and in his heart he thanked the lad, and felt that music was indeed a blessing. For a long time Mr. Thornton stood silently gazing on the scene without, his thoughts revert- ing to what he had done on the previous day and At length yard, and at his appearance to the feelings he had then entertained. he ste ppe d into the the music ceased and the children gathered round him Caroline smiled sweetly as he took her hand and placed on her cheek a tender kiss. ‘* How are you, my dear ?’’ he asked. ‘*T feel better now, father,’’ she replied ; ‘‘ bet- ter than I have felt all day ‘* What has made you feel better, dear? ‘“*Tt is the much better since I heard it.’’ While Mr. the lad, organ and walked hastily away He nized Mr. T’. as eningly to him on the day ” music, I believe. I have felt so Thornton was talking to Caroline, who was no other than Pierre, lifted his had recog- the man who had spoken threat- before, and he was now going off in alarm as fast as he could. Seeing this, and guessing at the cause, Mr. Thornton called after Pierre; but the boy only retreated the more rapidly. He could not under- stand what was said to him, but believed that the man who had driven him away the day before Finding that he rted after him, was angry at seeing him there. still retreated, Mr. Thornton st: and on overtaking him laid hold of his arm, and when the boy looked up fearfully in his face, he smiled so kindly upon him that tears came into his eyes. Then placing a dollar in his hand, he motioned him to return. The lad went back gladly. Thornton to his said Mr oldest son, who was about twelve ‘* Now, Thomas,”’ years ol age, GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’sS BOOK. ~ ‘* vou must try your French upon this organ boy and see if you cannot get something of his his- I am sure it must be interesting.”’ around Pierre, while Thomas At the first word ut- tered in his native language, the lad’s face bright- tory from him. All gathered spoke to him in French. ened as if a gleam of sunshine had gone over it. With earnestness he related his history, which at short intervals was interpreted to the eager listen- eners by Thomas. When the lad spoke of Marie, his eye wandered off with a sad expression to the face of Caroline. She, too, was a pale child of Sickness, and the tremulousness of his voice told that his love was full of anxious fear. Deeply was the heart of Mr. Thornton touched by the lad’s story. ‘‘ How little,’’ he himself, ‘‘do we know of the hopes and fears, the said to cares and peculiar anxieties of those around us. How quick are we to take offence where none is there is no real that I could meant, and to find fault where occasion. It hardly seems possible have been angry with this poor boy.”’ Mr. Thornton kindly inquired of Pierre where he lived, and when the lad finally went away, with a heavier purse and a lighter heart than he had owned for many days, he promised that he would call and see him and do something towards aiding him in his earnest wish to return to his home in France. Mr. Thornton was as good as his word. In a few days he went to see Pierre and his sister. In Marie he felt even more interest than in the boy. Thomas, his oldest son, was with him, and when he informed Marie that them home in a ship that was about sailing for Havre, the little girl sank down in tears beside him, and clasping his knees, invoked the blessing his father would send of Heaven upon him. In a week Mr. Thornton had the pleasure of seeing them on ship-board—a light in Marie’s eye and a flush of returning health on her cheek—and of receiving their ardently expressed thanks for his kindness. It need hardly be said that the merchant felt happier by far than on the day he drove from his door, with angry words, the poor organ boy. rr 20 & FOF Fr - IDA. BY MARY BeavtiFut Ida, to thy deep dark eye A thousand thoughts flow up unceasingly, Like sparkling fountains leaping toward the sky: Bearing a beauty with them that might rest In purity upon angel’s breast, Could they but reach those mansions of the blest. DENVER. And music, like the dropping of a tear, That, could it penetrate an angel’s ear, Angels would pause and turn aside to hear And why not? From the heart in which they lie They come in throngs, to be received on high, And sparkle in the diadem of the sky.

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THOUGHTS ON MARRIED LIFE. ‘ Feew’st thou no joy, no quiet happiness, No soothing sense of satisfaction, in Loving, and being loved? Isthere no weight Removed from the heart, in knowing there is one To share all, bear all with thee ? To soothe grief,— Yea, to soften away its human pain { By a superior love, the cup to temper With words of consolation and sweet hope, That even its very bitterness shall seem sweet, Forgotten in the love that offers it!” Marrtiep Lire—how interesting, how full of ! What a ' agreeable associations does it call into existence ! meaning, the very phrase variety of The theme itself has given origin to the most fascinating productions of the poet’s mind; and has ever been, especially to those in the bloom of life, a favorite subject, fraught with the most cheering hopes; the sweetest and fondest antici- pations. Why is this? It is both innocent and reasonable. We are naturally social beings. excusable—it is The human heart, prompted as it were by a rational instinct, seeks an object to love, with whom there can be ‘an unreserved community of thought and feel- ing ;’’ and much of the pleasure which we realize in this life is in consequence of the active opera- tion of this socializing principle. So that, as a general practice, it is neither wise nor desirable for man to live and move in an isolated state ; nor should he determine to pursue a selfish life of sin- gle blessedness without having some very strin- gent reason to justify such a course. The happiness of man, in paradise itself, was seemingly incomplete without a suitable counter- part, and the virgin mate was no sooner prepared than they were matched; and an example was then given to be imitated by their descendants, whose duty and privilege it is to secure eligible companions to share with them the responsibili- ties and enjoyments of life. At the commencement of our race, and that too in the judgment of Infinite Wisdom, it was ‘‘ not good that the man should be alone ;”’ nature of man in this respect continues the same, what was good for him then must be good for him now. ‘ Therefore shall a man his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife ; and they shall be one flesh.’’ Moreover He who gave this positive direction has further declared, that ‘‘ Marriage is honorable in all.’’ Every kind of sincere and faithful friendship among the children of men is productive of some solace, amidst the ills and evils incident to hw» manity. Now, if this be true, then, how much greater and purer must be the happiness enjoyed by him who has a definite character in view—a 1* and as the leave particular object of special regard—for whom he cherishes the strongest affection; one who can sublimate his every joy, and sweeten his every sorrow ; between whom and himself there exists constantly a free, full and delightful interchange Verily, this is the con- And we use not the of views and feelings! summation of earthly bliss. language of amatory extravagance when we say, that, there is no attachment so strong, no affection so fervent, and no tenderness so great, as that which is originated and cherished by the marriage relation. The persons united are joined together in an alliance unquestionably more intimate than any other which does or can exist among man- kind. So very intimate is it, that, ‘‘they are no more twain flesh.”’ It is a complete union of amity and love, of life and fortune, of but one interests and sympathies, of comfort and support, of desires and inclinations, of usefulness and hap- piness, of joys and sorrows. Such indeed is the true nature of the union ordained to exist between husband and wife ; and yet such a union is frequently viewed by many persons with feelings of fear and suspicion, which sometimes seriously operate against the formation of it. us, that the marriage state is comparable to a lot- These persons will warily surmise and tell tery, because those who enter it cannot foresee, with absolute certainty, what shall be the real character of their destinies in life,—they are un- able to determine, beforehand and with unerring exactness, what shall be the proximate and remote effects consequent upon such a change of relation. Certain it is, that the state in question will deter- mine the happiness or misery of the parties united. But to assert, that it resembles in every instance a game of chance, detracts from its inherent dig- nity and importance, as well as reflects upon the wisdom and goodness of Him who kindly instituted it. Besides, such an assertion is at variance with the truth. Because it is not in the nature or legi- timate tendency of marriage to produce wretched- ness or any unexpected calamity. Misery, in whatever form it appears, is not its natural fruit, but a monster-excrescence of foreign growth. Should, therefore, any infelicity accrue to persons 5

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married, it ought in justice to be attributed to something else than the mere change of relation : —this, we admit, may possibly occasion it, but it cannot be the proper cause of it, and surely is no valid objection to such a change itself. As the union in question is an infrangible one— except in very rare cases—and as it will decide the weal or woe of the parties concerned, it should not be consummated prematurely or precipitately. At- tachments formed immediately, or from first im- pressions, are in many instances of an evanescent kind, and often productive of disappointment and chagrin,—hence, as it is not wise generally to act from the impulse of the moment in anything, much less is it so ina question involving consequences of the greatest importance. Moreover, he who con- ceives an exclusive partiality for a lady, founded solely upon her personal charms, should beware of the results!—the lily or the rose, however lovely and attractive, must fade and fall,—but the qualities of the heart and mind are permanent, and susceptible of increasing culture and improve- ment. And those who marry merely ‘‘ for con- venience,’’ or with the mercenary hope of living in ease and banqueting in affluence, must lay out their accounts to meet with incidents calculated, if not intended, to wound their feelings and mor- tify their pride. The ordinance of marriage, as established by the Creator, invariably contemplates a union of a singularly close and endearing character, founded on mutual consent, and a reciprocity of love regu- lated by prudence. When this is the case, it will require no unusual degree of perspicacity to fore- see the consequences. A union of this description is, and will be productive of happiness—happiness sui generis. Very much, however, depends on the persons united,—the views they entertain, the feelings they cherish, and the conduct they ex- hibit,—or, on the amount of practical attention that is given to the obligations arising out of the connubial state. We have intimated that marriage, being an ordinance of divine origin, is both designed and adapted to promote the comfort of our race. But it should not be forgotten, that, in instituting it, the beneficent Author of our being appointed vari- ous indispensable duties, which are incumbent upen all those who enter into this relation—duties, the proper discharge of which cannot but enhance and sweeten the peculiar felicity of such a relation; and duties, the culpable and inexcusable neglect or omission of which will also most certainly oc- casion conjugal indifference and domestic discord. If this be true—and we think it will not be even called in question—then we will here be excused for stating, briefly, some of the most important of these duties; and, in doing so, we would have our married friends, especially the more youthful portion, to impress them on the tablet of their memory, and carefully observe them in their lives: —in this, we consult your present and future wel- fare. GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. As husband and wife it is your place, severally, ever to entertain and cherish a high esteem and mutual love for one another ; this, indeed, is the proper basis of the strongest and purest amity. Repose implicit and unwavering confidence in each other : let the demon-monster, jealousy, find no resting-place in your breast,—to this end, never upbraid each other with the meanness or comparative obscurity of each other’s parentage, * and never reproach each other on account of any personal or mental defect ; neither should the hus- band, in the presence of his wife, enthusiastically praise the sterling qualities of other women, nor should the wife, in the presence of her husband, invidiously eulogize the seemingly incomparable character of other men. Cultivate a spirit of mutual and generous for- bearance, carefully avoiding anything like angry contention or contradiction. Beware of the first dispute, and deprecate its occurrence. Kindly and patiently bear with each other’s in- firmities and weaknesses, to which human nature is ever liable in its present fallen state. Con- stantly endeavor, by all proper means, to promote each other’s happiness and usefulness : se far from thinking it atask to please, devise ways and seek opportunities to do this very thing ; and let your whole deportment unequivocally indicate that the one is only happy, when fully assured of the con- tentment and happiness of the other. Encourage each other under the various ills of life, for anentire exemption from these cannot be expected in this world, where absolute perfection does not exist. A wife, particularly, should try to make her hus- band’s residence inviting and delightful to him,—it should be a sacred retreat, to which his heart may always turn from the corroding cares and anxieties of life, and turn to meet the pleasant smiles and cordial welcome of an ever-cheerful wife : and in her dress, she should not only study his taste, but always appear neat when with him. Attend upon and comfort one another in sick- ness. On occasions of this kind, oh, how sea- sonable and soothing are the kind and unremitting attentions of an affectionate wife, ever ready to anticipate each little want, and minister to the gratification of every innocent desire !—and should not she share largely in the kindly offices of her husband, when she is herself prostrated on the couch of languishing ? By honesty, industry, and judicious economy— avoiding the extremes of extravagance and parsi- mony—provide for each other’s temporal support. In every undertaking the husband should consult the wife, and he should engage in no important enterprise without her advice and approbation ; because their interests are identical, courtesy— if not necessity—demands consultation, and if the enterprise should not succeed, he is relieved from ' * Even should any exist, for “ Honor and shame from no condition rise ; Act well your part, there all the merit lies.”

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THE CHILD TO eee her reproaches and those of his own feelings.* Pray for and encourage one another in the things which pertain to God and your never-dying souls. Strive to have your affection for each other to increase in strength and purity, and let it be ex- ercised in subordination to that supreme love And ever live together as heirs of the grace of immortal life and glory. These duties, faithfully performed, will carry with them a rich, a priceless reward, the relation to which they belong, will then prove a channel —deep and wide—of special happiness. We cannot well resist the temptation of insert- which God demands and deserves. ing here, by way of conclusion, a poetic effusion from the pen of Lindley Murray, which we ad- mire both for its rhythm and sentiment :— “TO MY WIFE. “ When on thy bosom I recline, Enraptured still to call thee mine, To call thee mine for life; I glory in the sacred ties, Which modern wits and fools despise, Of Husband and of Wife. “One mutual flame inspires our bliss, The tender look, the melting kiss, E’en years have not destroyed ; Some sweet sensation, ever new, Springs up and proves the maxim true, That Love can ne’er be cloyed. ‘Have I a wish,—'tis all for thee; Hast thou a wish,—’tis all for me ; So soft our moments move, * There is an English proverb that says, “ He that would thrive, Must ask his wife.” HER PLAYMATE. 7 That angels look with ardent gaze, Well pleased to see our happy days, And bid us live—and love. “Tf cares arise—and cares will come— Thy bosom is my softest home; I'll lull me there to rest : And is there aught disturbs my fair? Ill bid her sigh out every care, And lose it in my breast. ?—'tis all her own ; “ Have Ia wish All hers and mine are all in one— Our hearts are so entwined, That, like the ivy round the tree, Bound up in closest amity, *Tis death to be disjoined.” This is a proper spirit. The grammarian had a kind heart as well as a correct mind, and was doubtless happy in having one for his nearest and dearest companion, between whom and himself there was such a perfect oneness of much of that Now, were the thoughts and feelings, embodied in the which is essential to domestic comfort. foregoing stanzas, always entertained and cherish- ed by every husband and wife, and at the same time carried out in acts of a corresponding charac- ter, what an incalculable amount of bliss would be found in our apostate world !—bliss, that would be almost a foretaste of the ineffable felicity be- longing to heaven itself, where natural relations are supplanted by moral, but where human affec- tion will be purified and rendered perfect forever. And why is it not so?—or, who is responsible for the non-existence of this bliss! Patient reader, let the monitory voice of conscience answer. J. A.M $NA ye PO THE CHILD TO HER PLAYMATE. BY ANGELE Sister, come back! I do not love To hear my sweet bird sing, Nor see the flowers as they bend Beneath the zephyr’s wing I do not love to see the sun, Its glad beams on the earth, For then I think how oft we two Have laughed in joyous mirth I do not love the fairy bow’r Where we were wont to play ; The flowers are fresh and blooming still, But then—thou art away ! The books are there we used to read, As, seated side by side, Thy arm around me, we forgot How fast the hours glide. The stream whereon we used to sail Our fairy bark of shell, No longer mirrors the sweet face I used to love so well. HULL The butterfly, with varied wing, Bends down the tiny flow’r, But then it looks not half so well As in that cherish’d hour When thou wast here, and hand in hand We chas’d the gaudy thing, And wept to see the down that came From off its painted wing. Sister, come back! I watch for thee, And weep for thee alone ; I call thee, yet no voice is here In thy low soothing tone They tell me thou wilt ne’er return To comfort my sad heart; That thou hast found another home, And we must dwell apart. Oh, sister! take me to that home ; I care not where it be, So I but kiss thy willing cheek, And gaze once more on thee!

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[IRON.—A POEM. BY MRS. SARAH J. HALE. “Truth shall spring out of the earth.”—Psa.xms, lx cxv. 11. As, in lonely thought, I pondered On the marv’lous things of earth, And, in fancy’s dreaming, wondered At their beauty, power and worth, Came, like words of prayer, the feeling— Oh! that God would make me know, Through the spirit’s clear revealing— W hat, of all his works below, Is to man a boon the greatest, Brightening on from age to age, Serving truest, earliest, latest, Through the world’s long pilgrimage. Soon vast mountains rose before me, Shaggy, desolate and lone, Their scarred heads were threat’ning o’er me, Their dark shadows round me thrown ; Then a voice, from out the mountains, As an earthquake shook the ground, And like ‘frightened fawns the fountains, Leaping, fled before the sound ; And the Anak oaks bowed lowly, Quivering, aspen-like, with fear— While the deep response came slowly, Or it must have crushed mine ear “Tron! Iron! Iron!”—crashing, Like the battle-axe and shield; Or the sword on helmet clashing, Through a bloody battle-field ‘Tron! Iron Like the far-off cannon’s boom; Iron '’—rolling, Or the death-knell, slowly tolling, Through a dungeon’s charnel gloom! ‘Tron! Iron! Iron !”—swinging, Like the summer winds at play Or as bells of Time were ringing In the blest Millennial Day! Then the clouds of ancient fable Cleared away before mine eyes Truth could tread a footing stable O’er the gulf of mysteries! W ords, the prophet bards had uttered, Signs, the oracle foretold, Spells, the wierd-like Sybil muttered, Through the twilight days of old, Rightly read, beneath the splendor, Shining now on history’s page, All their faithful witness render— All portend a better age Sisyphus, forever toiling, Was the type of toiling men, While the stone of power, recoiling, Crushed them back to earth again ! Stern Prometheus, bound and bleeding imaged man in mental chain, While the vultures, on him feeding, Were the passions’ vengeful reign ; Sull a ray of mercy tarried On the cloud, a white-winged dove, For this mystic faith had married Vulcan to the Queen of Love! Rugged strength and radiant beauty— These were one in nature’s plan; Humble toil and heavenward duty— These will form the perfect man! Darkly was this doctrine taught us By the gods of heathendom ; But the living light was brought us, When the gospel morn had come! How the glorious change, expected, Could be wrought, was then made free ; Of the earthly, when perfected, Rugged Iron forms the key! “Truth from out the earth shall flourish,” This the Word of God makes known,— Thence are harvests men to nourish— There let Iron’s power be shown. Of the swords, from siaughter gory, Ploughshare’s forge to break the soil ;— Then will Mind attain its glory, Then will Labor reap the spoil,— Error cease the soul to wilder, Crime be checked by simple good, As the little coral builder, Forces back the furious flood. While our faith in good grows stronger, Means of greater good increase ; Iron, thundering war no longer Leads the onward march of peace ; Still new modes of service finding, Ocean, earth and air it moves, And the distant nations binding, Like the kindred tie it proves; With its Atlas-shoulder sharing Loads of human toil and care ; On its wing of lightning bearing Thought’s swift mission through the ar! As the rivers, farthest flowing, In the highest hills have birth; As the banyan, broadest growing, Oftenest bows its head to earth,— So the noblest minds press onward, Channels far of good to trace ; So the largest hearts bend downward, Circling all the human race ; Thus, by [ron’s aid, pursuing Through the earth their plans of love, Men our Father's will are doing, Here, as angels do above!

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MY FIRST HUNTING AND FISHING. BY GRACE GREENWOOD. ‘*Tuat’s what I call a title distinguished for its feminity,”? says a roguish-eyed friend, peering saucily over my shoulder. ** Ah, never you mind, Fred; it’s a harmless little fancy of my own,’’ as the lady said when she led her footman to the altar. I love to look upon a sportsman. I don’t mean one of your moustached amateurs, who sallies out once a year, perhaps, in white gloves and gaiters, and with scarce manly strength sufficient to hold his fowling-piece at arms’ length—one whom you might fancy mistaking a hen for a pheasant, and taking aim at her through an eye-glass, while it re- quires no violent exercise of the imaginative faculty to behold her placing her claw upon her bill and per- forming certain contemptuous gyrations therewith. Bah! not such an one—Ais has been bad shooting from the very root; he has never known a goad aim; his whole existence has missed fire. But a full-chested, strong-limbed, spring-footed, keen- eyed, fearless-hearted, born and _predestinated Nimrod! One who snuffed power in his cradle, whose first known amusement was peppering the cat with potatoe-balls from a pop-gun—one who from his boyhood has gone forth shooting and to shoot, feeling within himself a divine right to scat- ter the plumage of the proudest young turkey that ever strutted on a prairie; to call down in the crack of a rifle the circling eagle from the arch of heaven; to bring to a death-halt the bounding ca- reer of the finest stag that ever tossed his antlers through the wilds or snuffed the air on the peaks of the Alleghenies. Such an one, oh, most courteous reader, allow me to present to you—Harry Grove the younger, son of the colonel, and a citizen of the west. He has been and is the very cousin of cousins; was my first tutor in mathematics and mischief, phi- losophy and play-acting, history and horsemanship, logic and leaping fences—a very jewel of a joyous- spirited fellow, full of fun, frolic and frankness; with a heart ‘as large as all out-doors,” and as warm as all in-doors, and with just sufficient beauty to save himself from vanity and susceptible dam- sels from a too sudden bestowal of their unsolicited affections. Yet I have remarked the dash of the dare-devil in his composition to be peculiarly cap- tivating to young ladies just out, who have been Puritanically reared. I do not intend to intimate that my well-beloved kinsman is that horror of careful mammas, ‘‘a wild young man.” I am in- clined to believe that the goodness of people, now- a-days, is in inverse proportion to their pretensions. Harry Grove makes few pretensions—erge, he is quite good enough to serve as a hero, in these de- generate times, when our mental dishes to be pa- latable must be slightly spiced with wickedness. 3ut Harry is not my present hero—I am my own heroine—yet he will figure largely, though secondarily in ‘‘ this strange, eventful history.” Though the very embodiment of health, in the main, Harry had once a long and distressing ill- ness. We came near losing him the summer he was fifteen. As soon as the crisis of his fever was passed, I, by special request, was appointed sick- room companion and supernumerary nurse. [ never left him foraday. ‘Though a fragile child of ten years, I never wearied of those heart- prompted cares ; my whole soul was whelmed with joy, gushing heavenward with fervent thanksgiving to the God of life. Ah, is it not a blessed thing to behold eyes beaming upon us, all light and love, we had thought to have seen dim with the eclipse of death—smiles on the lip, a glow on the cheek we had thought to have seen stiff with the rigidity which no affection and no passion may move, touched with the icy chill which not even a mo- ther’s last, lingering kiss may melt into warmth— to see the spirit of life pervading that form we had thought to have lain away in silence and dust for- ever! One beautiful and summer-like morning in Sep- tember, when Harry was just strong enough to walk about the yard with the assistance of a cane, a large hunting party left our town, taking con- veniences for camping out, provisions and wine— armed and equipped as the law of sporting directs, for a week’s crusade against all sorts of game to whom Heaven had given the freedom of the woods, and who had been obligingly fattening themselves to furnish glory and good-living to as arrant a set of scapegraces as ever broke college with a whoop and hurrah! Half-a-dozen merry fellows came dashing and ha-ha-ing up to our door for Harry’s elder brothers, who were to join them. Harry, like a noble, manly boy as he was, strove hard to be happy with and for them, but I saw his lip quiver as he offered his favorite dog and gun to a young stran- ger from the city. At last, with many regrets, politely and earnestly expressed, that the invalid could not accompany them, they were off —all gone! Harry watched them sadly as they wound up the hill opposite the window, and when the last of all, his noble hound, after giving one long, wist- ful look backward, turned again and disappeared, the poor boy, sighing deeply, sank back into his ; arm-chair and covered his face with his emaciated 9

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10 hands. Presently I saw fast tears gliding through the pale and almost transparent fingers! They were the first I had seen him shed, and seemed wrung from my own heart; so, winding my arms about his neck, I spoke words of affection and good cheer, which, though childlike, were effectual. He began by calling himself hard names—he was a ‘‘ woman,” ‘‘a girl,” a ‘‘very baby, and a booby-baby at that.”” Then he drew up his head, and curled his lip, and dashed away his tears, and ** Richard was himself again.’? “*Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose !”? **Oh, Cousin Harry,” I exclaimed, ‘“‘ there are flocks of birds in the orchard. Go out and shoot them! Ill carry the gun.”’ ‘* What gun, Grace? Did you not see that they took them all ?” Here was a damper; but trust a woman, even in I sat out instanter on an Every chamber and cioset embryo, for scheming. exploring expedition. in the roomy old mansion was ransacked, and finally my labors were rewarded by finding among some rubbish in the attic a clumsy musket, once Its battered ap- pearance was presumptive evidence of its having belonging to our grandfather. **seven long and bloody wars ;”’ It was a bona fide engine of destruction and death, and I bore it away in triumph, though with a slight shud- der, as I thought how many red-skins it might have sent to their spiritual hunting-grounds. Harry smiled as, with a mock-heroic air, I pre- sented arms, but laughed outright when he came to examine the musket. ‘* Why, Grace,” said he, ‘‘ there is no hammer to this lock !”” After a little explanation as to the offices of the important agent in the discharge of fire-arms which had thus inopportunely ‘‘come up missing,” I sud- denly exclaimed—‘‘I have it now! You just load the gun, and pour the powder into the pan, and I will follow with a coal of fire in the tongs, and— and I think I dare touch it off, cousin.”’ I thought Harry would have died of extravagant merriment. He rolled on the floor in a perfect paroxysm of laughter, but after becoming calm, vowed he would take up with my proposition for its very fun and oddity. So behold us sallying forth—Harry, to whom a strange strength seemed given, bearing the gun, and I very busily engaged in efforts to keep coal and courage alive. The first bird at which we took aim was a ‘*chipmunk,” who sat on the fence leisurely gnaw- ing a kernel of corn. Never shall I forget the mo- ment when Harry whispered ‘‘now /” I reached out the tongs, but a sudden mist came over my eyes ; then a quiver started from my heart and ran along my arm; the coal descended on to Harry’s wrist instead of into the pan: he, with an exclama- tion more hot than holy, dropped the gun; the gun fell on to the coal and then went off, frightening gone through the but there were barrel and stock entire. GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. eee PAR rrnwrnrnmsnmen rrr } away the “‘ chipmunk” with its report, but (believe it or believe it not, my reader,) sending a ‘‘ whiz- zing death’? through the fat sides of a toad, which we had before remarked demurely seated on a stone near where we stood. This laughable accident having restored to Harry his good nature and to me my courage, the gun was re-loaded, a new coal procured, my eyes and nerves were true to me—there was a flash, a smoke, a stunning report, and “ Lo, the struck blue-bird stretched upon the plain!” At last, wearied with our labors and satisfied with glory, we gathered up our spoils and turned homeward. It is strange, but though many years have passed, I still remember distinctly just what game I held in my pinafore on that day—viz.: one blue-bird, two chipping-birds, a meadow-lark and a red- breasted robin. The toad I did not count. All of these, with the exception of the robin, a part of whose neck only had been carried away, were lite- rally shot to pieces. To my disappointment, I found none but servants to whom to display the proofs of my valor. My sweet cousin Alice was at school, and my aunt and uncle taking their morning drive. I waited impa- tiently for their return, and meeting them on the portico, held up my bloody trophies, exclaiming— ‘* See the game that Cousin Harry and I shot while you were gone!”? The colonel, patting my cheek, pronounced me ‘‘a brave girl;”? but my aunt, sadly smiling, said only—*‘ This must have been the robin that sung on our lattice at prayer-time this morning. Poor bird! its song of praise is ended !”” This gentle reproof quivered like an arrow in my heart. I turned hastily, threw away the man- gled remains of all but the robin, and with that sought my room. There I folded the dead bird to my breast, and wept over it bitter and passionate tears. I was agonized with contrition when I be- thought me that He who had created worlds on worlds had not disdained to mould that tender form, to tint its plumage with one of the colors glowing in the bow which He hung in the Heavens, and to breathe the soul of song into its trembling little bosom. Then bowing down my head, I fervently promised never, never to take from a happy- winged creature the existence which the Father of all in His wisdom had bestowed. Thank Heaven, that vow is yet unbroken—the necessary destruction of wasps, musketoes and horse- flies always excepted. CHAPTER II. Turee years had passed since the woman in my nature got the better of the heroine, and the day of my first hunting closed in tears. Methinks that the glorious maid of Orleans, the night after a battle, may have wept over the dying and the dead,

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MY FIRST even as I wept over those birds. What an ab- surdity is the doctrine that there is no sex in soul. I would even then have laughed contemptuously had I seen Harry Grove whimpering over the most beautiful songster that ever flashed its plumage in the morning sun. But to return. Three years had passed since my daring exploits as a huntress, and I was again spending a few merry weeks with the Groves. Please picture to yourself, my oblig- ing reader, a tall, slender girl of thirteen, just out of short frocks, but retaining still her long, black, Kenwigsian braids, having a downward look with her eyes commonly, and gifted with a weer ee “ complexion The shadowed livery of the burnished sun,” and you have my daguerreotype at that period of my humble existence. It was summer, and Harry came home for a va- cation, accompanied by two college friends. As one of the young gentlemen was hopelessly lame, hunting was out of the question, and fishing par- ties on the lake took its place. Every favorable morning their boat put off the shore, and every evening they returned, famously dirty and hungry, with wet feet and dry canteens, and generally, with the exception of Harry, cursing their luck. I well recollect that, however large the party, Harry al- ways insisted on furnishing the fishing-tackle. The colonel once remonstrated with him on this extra- vagance, but was archly reminded that ‘‘ he who spares the rod spoils the child,” and that as a good parent he should ‘‘ give line upon line’ as well as ‘‘precept upon precept.”? So the old gentleman turned laughingly away, being, like all other ama- teur soldiers, proverbially good-natured. Those parties were, I regret to say, made up of the sterner sex exclusively, but after Harry’s friends had left, I proposed one morning that he should take Cousin Alice and myself to the lake on a fishing excursion. ** Alice is quite skillful,’ he replied; ‘‘ but do you understand angling ?”’ ‘*No; but there is nothing which I cannot learn.”’ “Very well, my modest coz; put on your bon- net, and we will go down and practice awhile by catching small fish for bait in the old mill-pond.”’ The sheet of water to which my cousin referred was nothing more than an enlargement and a deep- ening of the stream which ran through our town. The mill which its waters once turned had been destroyed by fire, and all the fixtures so fallen to decay that Harry remarked, that as a mill-pond it was not worth a dam, but a capital place for catch- ing bait, nevertheless. I did not smile approvingly at this profane pun—not [—but reminded the of- fender, with chilling dignity, that I should be full fourteen in eleven months and nine days. After spending a half-hour in initiating me into the mysteries of angling, Harry took a station farther up stream. Near me lay a small log, ex- tending out into the pond, the top only lying above HUNTING AND FISHING. Il the water. Wearied at last with sitting on the bank, and catching not even a ‘‘ glorious nibble,’ I picked my way out to the very end of this log and cast my bait upon the waters. Presently I marked an uncommonly large ‘‘ shiner” glancing about hither and thither, now and then tantalizingly turning up his glittering sides to the sunlight. My heart was in my throat. Could I manage to get that fish on to my hook, it were glory enough for one day. Reader, have you ever seen a ‘‘ shiner ?”’ Is he not the most finifine, dashing, dandyish, D’Orsay of the waves that ever cut a swell among ‘* sheepsheads,’’ or coqueted with a young trout. The conduct of this particular fish was pecu- liarly provoking. It was in vain that I clad the uninviting hook in the garb of afresh young worm, and dropped it, all quick and quivering, down be- fore his very nose. Like a careful wooer who fears ‘‘a take in,’’ he would not come to the point; he had evidently dined, and like an old Reformer, played shy of the Diet of Worms. At last, as though a sudden appetite had been given him which required abatement, he caught the worm, and the hook caught him, and—and— but language fails me Ye may tell, oh, my sisters in another land, of the exquisite joy, the intoxicating bliss which whelms a maiden’s heart when love’s first kiss glows on her trembling lip, but give to me the rap- turous exultation which coursed through every vein and thrilled along every nerve as my first fish bent the top of the slender cane toward the water ! But, ah, the instability of human happiness! That unfortunate ‘‘shiner’’ was strong—very. [| had just balanced myself on the rounded three inches of the log; I now saw that I must drop the rod and lose the fish or lose my balance and win a plunge. Like a brave girl, as I flatter myself that I am, I chose the latter. Down, down I went, into six feet depth of water, pertinaciously grasp- ing the rod, which, immediately on rising, I flung, with its glittering pendent, high and dry on the shore; and having given one scream, only one, went quietly down again. Just then, Harry, who had heard my fall at first, reached the spot, plunged in, caught and bore me safely to the bank. When I had coughed the water from my throat and wiped it from my eyes, I pointed proudly toward my captive ‘‘ shiner.’’ Alas! what did I behold !—that fish, my fish, re- leasing himself from the hook and floundering back into his native element! Yes, he was gone, gone forever, and for one dark moment, “ Naught was everything, and everything was naught!” I need not tell of our walk homeward, of the alarm and merriment which our appearance cre- ated; or how I was placed in bed and hualf-smo- thered with blankets; how a nauseous compound was sent up to me, which Harry kindly quaffed and grew ill as I grew well. All such matters can be safely left to the imagination of my intelli- gent reader.

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12 I will but add that though of late years I have angled more extensively and successfully, have flung a lucky hook into the beautiful rivers and glorious lakes of the west, have dropped occasional lines into the waters of American literature, I have GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. never since known that pure, young delight, that exquisite zest, that wild enthusiasm which led me to stake all on one mad chance and brave drown- ing for a “‘ shiner.” —$—rwr 06 & DOG THE EMPTY CRADLE. (See Plat.) *“ And the mother gave, in tears and pain, The flowers she most did love ; She knew she should find them all again In the fields of light above.” Tue death of a little child is to the mother’s heart like the night dew on a plant from which a bud has perished. The plant lifts up its head in fresher greenness to the morning light; so the mother’s from the dark through which he has passed, a fresh brightening soul gathers sorrow of her he avenly hope s. As she bends over the empty cradle and in fancy brings her sweet infant before her, a ray of divine light is on the cherub face. It is her son still, but with the seal of immortality on his fair brow. She feels that heaven was the only atmosphere where her precious flower could un- fold without spot or blemish, and she would not recall the But the anniversary of his de- parture seems to bring his spiritual presence near her. She indulges in that tender grief which soothes, like an opiate in pain, all the hard pas- lost. sages and cares of life. The world is no longer with her. She lives in the past, so sweet with human love and hope—in the future, so glorious with heavenly love and joy. She has treasures of happiness which the worldly, unchastened heart never conceived. The bright, fresh flowers with which she has decorated her room, the apartment where her infant died, are emblems of the far brighter hopes now dawning on her day-dream. She thinks of the glory and beauty of the New Jerusalem, where the little foot will never find a thorn among the flowers to render a shoe neces- sary. Nor will a pillow be wanting for the dear head reposing on the breast of the kind Saviour And she knows her infant is there, in that world of eternal bliss. She has marked one passage in that Book—to her emphatically the Word of Life —now lying closed on her toilette table, which she daily reads: ‘‘ Suffer little children, and for- bid them not to come unto me; for of such is the kingdom of heaven.”’ THE “EVE” BY J. A FAULTLESS being from the marble sprung— She stands in beauty there, As when the grace of Eden ‘round her clung— Fairest where all was fair! Pure as when first from God's creating hand She came, on man to shine ; So seems she now, in living stone to stand— A mortal, yet divine! The spark the Grecian from Olympus caught Left not a loftier trace ; The daring of the sculptor’s hand has wrought A soul in that sweet face! He won as well the sacred fire from heaven, God-sent, not stolen down : And no Promethean doom for him is given, But ages of renown! The soul of beauty breathes around that form A more enchanting spell ; There blooms each virgin grace, ere yet the storm On blighted Eden fell! OF POWERS. BAYARD TAYLOR. The first desire upon her lovely brow Raised by an evil power Doubt, longing, dread, are in her features now— It is the trial-hour! How every thought that strives within her breast In that one glance is shown ! Say, can that heart of marble be at rest, Since spirit warms the stone ? Will not those limbs, of so divine a mould Move, when her thought is o’er— When she has yielded to the tempter’s hold And Eden blooms no more ? Art, like a Phenix, springs from dust again— She cannot pass away! Bound down in gloom, she breaks apart the chain And struggles up to day! The flame, first kindled in the ages gone, Has never ceased to burn ; And westward, now, appears the kindling dawn That marks the day’s return

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THE SKEPTIC IN LOVE. A STORY FOR COQUETTES. BY EPES SARGENT. I ‘Ar length, thank Fortune, we are alone, Josephine.”’ ‘** And why do you thank Fortune for that, Mr. Smith ?”’ ‘* Because it gives me the opportunity that I have long coveted, and yet hesitated to embrace— the opportunity of declaring—that is of—of—’’ ** Of what, sir?) Prayspeak out. You know how fond I am of candor.”’ ** In one word, then, Josephine, I—I love you.”’ ** And is that all? How provoking! I pre- sumed you had something interesting to say— something piquant—something new.’’ ‘*Ah! you are jesting, Josephine. I pray you, be serious.”’ ‘* Then you must change the subject; for it is one that will not admit of gravity.”’ ‘* The season is hastening to its close, Jose- phine. Summer is near; and I must soon rejoin my family at the north. my departure, another opportunity of speaking In friendship’s name, if by no tenderer I may not have, before with you. appeal, I beseech you to give me a moment’s earnest attention.”’ ** Well, sir, proceed.”’ ‘* That coldness is assumed, I see it is. Ah, Josephine, your heart can surely distinguish the tones of true affection. the ball-room that I proffer you now, but the homage of my fervent, my unspeakable love. Vouchsafe to me the hope that I may love you hereafter, not merely as the most beautiful of your sex, but as a wife.’’ And with these words Mr. Smith knelt at the lady’s feet. But she with a disdainful gesture rose, and exclaimed :— ‘* When and how, sir, have I given you autho- rity, by my conduct, to address language of this import to me ?”’ ‘* When and how, Josephine ?’’ returned the young man, rising, and riveting a gaze of intense earnestness upon her, as if doubting whether or not she was making sport of him by the inquiry. ‘* Is not the report of our engagement current in all the circles, wherein you visit? At every ball during the season, have I not neglected all others present to bestow upon you my undivided atten- tions—and have not those attentions been received —ay, not only received, but encouraged? Have I not a thousand times protested more eloquently than words could do it, by looks and actions, that VOL. XXxIV.—2 It is not the gallantry of I was deeply, passionately enamored, and have you not suffered me to repeat, time and again, those protestations, without intimating either to the world or to myself that they were unacceptable ? Ah, Josephine, do not trifle with a heart over which you have such absolute sway. Let your lips tell me what your eyes have so often affirmed —tell me that mine is not a hopeless passion.”’ Josephine moved with the step of a tragedy queen towards the door, and placing her hand upon the knob, turned and said :— ‘* When Mr. Smith has cured himself of the folly, which has led him to the declaration he has done me the honor to make, I shall be most happy to receive him once more as a friend.”’ And Josephine quitted the room. It was true, as Smith had asserted, that she had given him abundant encouragement to make the offer, into which we have seen him betrayed Josephine De Valville was the only daughter of Few observers were so fastidious as not to admit that In stature she was one of the wealthiest planters in Louisiana. she was singularly beautiful. somewhat petite, but the symmetry of her figure was such that nothing seemed wanting to its per- fection. Her features were just the features to catch the gazer’s attention, even among a crowd of beautiful women. Her eyes of a dark, rich slate color, riante, sparkling and animated in their expression—her mouth as delicately curved and tinted as the daintest sea-shell—her exquisitely moulded forehead, over which fell curls so fine and thick that they felt like down to the touch— imparted a combination of traits to her counte- nance, which extorted ejaculations of admiration from the most obtuse judges of the beautiful. Josephine was in the habit of passing her win- ters in New Orleans. Deprived of her mothe: while yet an infant, she had entered society at an age when many young ladies have hardly left the nursery. ‘The consequence was, that long before her heart could learn to distinguish between real and fictitious affection—between the common- places of flattery and the utterance of true feeling —she had become so accustomed to the adulation of ball-room danglers and men of the world— that what an unsophisticated girl would regard as a formal offer on the part of an admirer, Josephine would laugh at as the rhodomontade of a half-jest- ing spirit. Often when a mere child with pante- lettes and braided hair, her father’s friends would make love to the little lady in sport, until Jose 13

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14 phine came to look on love, which is a very serious matter to some people, as a joke rather the worse for wear. Ah! her heart had never been touched. ‘* But who is Smith ?’’ asks the reader. All that I know of Smith is, that he came to New Orleans from one of the great northern cities as the agent of a mercantile house. with the vocation of the man of business the habits, tastes and appearance of the gentleman, he easily It was at met Jose- Combining found access to the choicest society. her father’s own house that he first phine ; and thenceforth he embraced all opportu- nities, and they were numerous, of enlarging the acquaintance. ‘There were few young men, who could more fluently discourse on topics grateful to a lady’s ear; and Josephine encouraged his attentions without troubling herself to inquire into But what was amusement to her was death to her victim. He was all the while adding fuel to the flame that she had kindled; but Josephine’s heart was as innocent of love as his motives. an iceberg is of vegetation. which the reader has already been informed, Smith resolved to seek a After the interview, of He made an early morning But one Mr. Fitzfool, an opulent dangler, was present in the final understanding. call, expecting to find her alone. drawing-room; and Josephine was apparently listening with a pleased attention to his innocent babble ball, and the merits of the waltzers the last great She bowed carelessly to Smith as he entered—addressed to about the newest flirtations, him a common-place observation of ordinary cour- tesy, and then resumed her conversation with Fitzfool, who had raised his eye-glass upon the entrance of the intruder. Smith took upa French and tried to read; but his brain was in a whirl, and his thoughts were all with Josephine. Every time she laughed, the sound chilled his heart, as if an ice-cold hand had been laid upon it. ‘‘Is it not appalling’’—he murmured to himself, ‘‘ the extent to which I love this woman ?”’ copy of ‘ Picciola’’ And as the interrogation passed through his mind, another laugh from her was the response. At length Fitzfool took his leave. Smith threw down the book he had been holding, and drew near to Josephine, and looked her in the face. ** Josephine,”’ he said, ‘‘ may I ask it of your friendship to answer me one question with the most perfeet frankness and sincer‘ty ?”’ ‘*Do not doubt, Mr. Smith,’’ was the reply, ‘* that if I give you any answer, it will be a true and candid one.”’ ‘*If you knew how much rested upon your answer, Josephine, I am sure it would be an honest one. Do not suppose that I am uttering the rant of an ordinary lover. As heaven is above us, I speak no idle or unmeaning words. ‘This is the most critical moment of my life. Nay, my life hangs upon it.”’ ** Really, Mr. Smith, I am growing quite curi- ous ; pray, What is your question ?”’ GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. ‘* Do you, Josephine, positively forbid my en- tertaining even the distant hope of ever winning your consent to be my wife ?”’ ‘* Yes, Mr. Smith, most positively, most con- clusively, most irrevocably.’’ ‘*Be guarded, I beseech you, Josephine, in your language, and understand well the spirit of my inquiry. Ido not ask if you love me now, but I would know, with all respect, believe me, whether your indifference springs from perfect freedom and vacuity of heart, or whether you pre- fer any other suitor to myself.’’ ‘* Now,”’ thought Josephine, ‘‘ by an innocent fib I can put a stop to his plaguing me in this way.” She paused ; and then hanging her head as if half ashamed of the falsehood, she replied: ‘‘ Mr Smith, pray regard the confession as confidentiad —yes, I do prefer another.”’ Smith seemed confounded for some moments as if he had received a stunning blow. He looked in her face without speaking, then turned, took up his hat from the floor, where he had dropped it; and, with one mighty effort stifling his emotion, said in firm tones, ‘‘Do not fear, Miss De Valville, that I shall ever again molest you upon Forget my presumption in mistaking what was mere friendly partiality on your part, for an indication of your heart’s pre- ference. I am amply punished for my folly Farewell !”’ ** You will be at Mrs. Dazzle’s ball to-morrow night, of course ?”’ ‘Tt is a question whether I[ shall have it in my power,”’ this subject. said Josephine, carelessly. replied Smith, with a strange smile Good morning !”’ The ball took place the next night, and all the fashion of New Orleans was assembled on the Josephine was present, and never had she seemed in such exulting spirits or looked more radiantly beautiful. During a pause between one of the dances, while the musicians were re- tuning their instruments, she saw a knot of young occasion. men collect about one of their number, who had apparently been communicating the news of some occurrence, which created a profound sensation Josephine’s curiosity was excited, and she deter- mined to find out what was the matter. Beckon- ing one of the group to her side, she asked, ‘* What is it, Mr. B——? I am dying to know.”’ ** You will know it in the morning,’’ replied Mr. ‘*It is not appropriate news for a ball-room.”’ ‘* Leave me to be the judge of that. Come, tell me, and by way of reward, you shall dance the next waltz with me.”’ ‘* Since you insist, this isit,’’ replied the youth, thus importuned. ‘‘ Your friend Smith was found shot through the heart this evening in the public street. He undoubtedly committed suicide.”’ Josephine turned pale, and seemed to shudder fora moment. And then the exclamations from her lips flowed in this wise: ‘‘ How very shock- B—.

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THE SKEPTIC o ing! What a foolish fellow! I really believe he did it out of spite. Well: he has spoiled our amusement for the rest of the evening. Of course, you don’t expect me to waltz with you now, Mr. > ’ > —— ‘*I do not desire to waltz with you ever again, Miss De Valville,’’ heels; for he had heart enough to feel chilled and repelled by the cold-blooded indifference with which she had received the news of the death of said B——, turning on his one whom her own frigidity had driven to de- spair. But Josephine was not passionless. The mas- ter-spirit of her destiny had not yet crossed her path, that was all. Il. The calamitous circumstances of poor Smith’s death were soon forgotten in the fashionable world, to which they had communicated a mo- mentary shock. ‘Two years rolled away; and the season of 184— commenced in all its gayety and glory. Josephine had now reached the pleni- tude of her fascinations and power as a belle. She was more beautiful than ever ; and apparently more indomitable. Of the many suitors who sighed at her feet, it was evident that she cared just about as much for one as for another. The dancing at one of Mrs. R,’s brilliant as- semblages was beginning to flag. Josephine, wearied and oppressed by a slight headache, had retired to one of the embrasures of the windows, and seated herself upon an ottoman. Two or three new-fledged dandies were bending over her, making tender inquiries after her health, and striving to engage her attention, while she, with a sort of froward indifference, was motioning them away, when suddenly some object in the adjoin- ing room appeared to engage her attention. ‘* Tell me, Flutterwell, who is that gentleman, who seems but to have just arrived, if we may judge from the manner in which our hostess greets him ?’’ asked Josephine. Flutterwell detached his quizzing-glass from his white vest, rubbed it with his handkerchief, and deliberately adjusting it to his eyes, after a pause, replied: ‘‘ Never saw him before in my born days—’pon my word can’t inform you—but if you have any particular object in knowing, I'll inquire, shall I ?’’ ‘* Do just as you please,’’ said Josephine, petu- lantly. ‘* Now, really, Miss De Valville—’pon my word—you cut me to the heart when you—aw— look at me in that killing—may I say killing ?— manner. But just to show you how much I am your slave, I'll go and make inquiries into the biography of the individual, who seems to have attracted your notice, happy dog !’’ And so saying Mr. Flutterwell walked out of the room as if he were picking his way over egg- shells, which he was reluctant to break. In five minutes he returned. But in the mean time the IN LOVE. 15 object of his inquiries had entered the room where Josephine was seated. She seemed to be regard- ing him with an earnestness of admiration, which drew upon her the remarks of several of her own sex. But on seeing Flutterwell returning, she withdrew her glance, and seemed to relapse into her former mood of indifference. ‘* He is unmarried, to begin with,’”’ said F lutter- well. ‘* His name is Smith—he is from the north —and a lieutenant in the army—served with re- nown in the Florida war—was accounted the bravest man in the ranks—escaped from a fight with half a dozen Indians, in which he killed them all with his own hand—in short, he comes here on some government mission, to inquire into the state of our frontier fortifications. There! I’ve told you the best I know of the man; and now I'll tell you the worst. He is a Yankee—he doesn’t play billiards—he is shy of the ladies—he reads books—and, what is most disgusting of all, he doesn’t know how to waltz.’’ Josephine rose, and taking Flutterwell’s arm, sauniered into the adjoining apartment. ‘The heu- tenant had preceded her there. At the dozen balls which succeeded Mrs. R.’s in rapid succession, Josephine invariably met the lieutenant. He seemed to have made the acquaint- ance of all the principal ladies in society, but as yet had not sought an introduction to ber, who had fondly regarded herself as deserving to be the paramount object of attraction. She was piqued and mortified at his apparent indifference ; and when finally he made her acquaintance, it seemed more the result of accident than of inclination on his part. They met at the house of a mutual friend during a morning call; and, without con- the lady of the house intro- duced the lieutenant. Another ball took place that night; and he could not do more than ask the honor of Josephine’s hand in the dance. We will not describe in detail the progress of sulting either party, that acquaintance, which was destined to have so powerful a bearing upon the happiness of our We need only remark, that the lieu- tenant was always respectful, though cold ; and, heroine. that in proportion to his frigidity, the enamored Josephine appeared to betray more and more the depth and fervor of an attachment, which began now to be a matter of public observation and com- It is said that love cannot exist without Josephine proved that there could be an exception to the rule. A word of common-place courtesy, a distant bow, or an icy, melancholy ment. hope. smile from the lieutenant, were enough to feed the fatal passion, on which she now brooded with an intensity, of which no one had believed her nature capable. She lost all taste for society and amusement, except so far as it might afford her the means of being in the society of the man for whom she was ready to make any sacrifice. The spring was drawing near; and the lieu- tenant, having brought to a satisfactory conclusiog the public business on which he had been en-

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16 gaged, was making preparations to leave New Orleans to join his friends at the north. A letter announcing the illness of a favorite sister, sud- denly determined him to quit the city the next morning. Ordering his attendant at the hotel to see that all his trunks were packed, he took a car- riage and drove round to bid farewell to the many acquaintances from whom he had received atten- He hesitated the street where Josephine resided ; but suddenly recollect- ing that an unanswered note of invitation from her to a small family party lay upon his mantel-piece, he resolved to call and decline it in person. It tions. as he entered was the hour of morning calls; and several ladies and gentlemen were assembled in her spacious As Jose- phine caught sight of the noble figure of the lieu- and richly-furnished drawing-room. tenant, as he was ushered by the servant into the apartment, she stopped short in the midst of a which with sparkling eyes and a smile of triumph light- conversation in she was engaged, and, ing up all her features, rose, and hastily advanced to greet him. The lieutenant received her prof- fered hand with that frigid politeness which was How differ- ent was the cordiality of look and tone with which habitual in his manner towards her. he turned to greet Miss H , one of the ladies present! But if others noticed the change, Jose- phine was blind to it. After interchanging a few of those conven- tional common-places, which the lieutenant could utter as gracefully as any one, he rose and ap- proached Josephine, who was vainly trying to appear to be listening to the fulsome flattery of a newly-imported exquisite, whom one of the ladies had brought to see her for the first time. ‘*Tam sorry I shall not be able to be present at your little gathering to-morrow evening,”’ the lieutenant. ‘* Why so ?”’ ‘**T leave New Orleans for New York to-mor- row morning.’’ said At this announcement, sudden and unexpected, Josephine’s perturbation was strikingly apparent. The color fled from her cheeks. Her heart beat and rose so as to choke her utterance. It was some moments before she could regain her com- posure sufficiently to say with an unsuccessful attempt to disguise her emotion :— ** But one day’s delay can make no difference to you. Indeed, you must attend my party. I shall not let you off.’’ ‘* News I have just received of the illness of one of my sisters, will compel me to deny myself the pleasure of remaining on any pretext. Indeed, Miss De Valville and ladies, I must bid you good- by.”’ ** But—but you will return next winter ?’’ said Josephine, with an attempt to command her voice and to force a smile, the sound and sight of which were almost painful to the spectators. ‘*T see no present prospect of returning for many years—if ever—but need I say, that if duty shall ever lead me back, inclination will most GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. heartily welcome its guidance. Good morning, ladies !’’ The phine made a movement towards the bell-rope, that she might give her customary signal to the servant to open the street-door for the departing guest, but her strength failed her, and, swinging round, she sank into the arm-chair, upon the back of which she had been leaning. The evening had set in before the lieutenant found himself in his own apartment at the hotel. lieutenant bowed and withdrew. Jose- He had still many preparations to make and some important letters to write; and it was with the determination of completing his arrangements with all possible dispatch that he took his seat at his writing-table. He had hardly dipped his pen into the ink when a note was brought tohim. The superscription was in a delicate female hand. It was a message from Josephine, requesting him to let her see him that evening if it was only for five minutes. The lieutenant bit his lips. ‘*'Tell the bearer of this note to wait for my reply,’’ said he to the negro in attendance. He then expeditiously penned a reply, in which he briefly stated, that it would be impossible for him to comply with Miss De Valville’s summons, but that he would be very happy to fulfill any com- mission she might honor him with. Having dismissed his attendant with this reply, he applied himself to the epistolary task before him ; but he had not been engaged long in writing when a knock at his door gave signal of another interruption. ** Well, what is it, Horace ?’’ he asked, some- what petulantly. ‘** Two women want to see you, massa,”’ replied Horace. ‘‘ One is a white lady, and th’ other a colored lady. Wheugh!”’’ ‘*It must be some mistake. them in,”’ And the females were ushered in by Horace, However, show said the lieutenant. who seemed disposed to tarry to see the result of the interview. The taller of the females, however, who was veiled, pointed to the door until he took the hint and quitted the room. Then throwing back her veil she disclosed the features of Josephine De Valville. The lieutenant rose and uttered an exclamation of surprise. ‘* And can you not divine the motive that has brought me here ?’’ asked Josephine in a tone at once of humiliation and tenderness. The lieutenant looked inquiringly at the colored girl, by whom she was accompanied. ‘* She is a deaf mute,’’ said Josephine; ‘‘ and so devoted to me, that I fear not to trust her with the dearest secrets of my heart.”’ ‘*T pray you to be seated, Miss De Valville,”’ said the lieutenant. Josephine complied; and then placing both hands before her eyes, she remained silent, and with heaving bosom seemed to be struggling with an agony of tears. The colored girl knelt by her

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y) O 7.2 THE SKEPTIC IN LOVE. 17 RAPRAPRAARAAAA AAAS ~~ ~ side, and affectionately tried to look into her face ; but, on a wave of her mistress’s hand, she betook herself to a distant corner of the room, and stood there immovable as a statue. ‘* Sir, you need no explanation of this visit,’’ at length Josephine faltered forth—‘‘ my tears, my anguish proclaim all.”’ ‘* Proceed, Miss De Valville,”’ said the lieuten- ant, with an iron-hearted deliberation of tone and a freezing manner. ‘*O sir, be merciful—be merciful !’’ she ex- claimed, in a voice choked by sobs—‘‘ and do not compel me to humiliate myself farther.’’ ** What is the meaning of all this ?’’ asked the lieutenant, with an air of innocent inquiry. ‘** Listen to me, then,’’ she said, curbing her emotion by a violent effort of the will. ‘‘ Young as lam, I have been nearly ten years a spoiled child of society. I have had suitor after suitor kneel at my feet and woo me with the earnestness of desperation. But never, I affirm to you, was my heart even for a moment touched by the faint- est thrill of emotion akin to love, until—’’ ** Until what, Miss De Valville ?’’ ** Until I saw you—listened to you—loved you, as never woman loved before. Is it manly in you to extort from me such a confession ?”’ And thus saying, Josephine bent her head and wept pas- sionately. ‘* Have I solicited your confidence, madam ?”’ asked the lieutenant with a haughty coldness. Lifting her head abruptly, Josephine looked him in the face, and continued :— ‘* Have you not been aware long since of the infatuation which has possessed me, and which you have fed by your presence and your attentions, distant as they always were? ‘Tell me, have you not been aware of this ?’’ ‘6 Ves.”’ ‘* And you still had the cruelty to encourage the fatal passion, which you saw enveloping in its inextricable folds my very soul !—You knew this —and you would not seasonably protect me from your presence !”’ **T would not.” ** Alas, sir, common humanity—’’ ‘* Humanity !’’ exclaimed the lieutenant spring- ing to his feet, and bending on her a glance which made her cower—‘‘ Humanity ! Josephine De Valville, profane not that word by your utter- ance! I have heard your story—now listen to mine. I had a brother—a younger brother—the pride, the joy of my father’s household—how dearly I loved him I will not say, for you have not the heart to comprehend me. He visited this city, and daily wrote me a journal of his adven- tures, his plans and purposes, his hopes and fears. At length he wrote me that he was in love. He confided to me a description of every look the loved one gave him, of every word she uttered. ‘She must love him,’ I exclaimed as I read. He thought so too; and, emboldened by my acqui- escence in his conviction, he sought an explana- Q* ” PPARs tion—declared his passion, and was laughed at for what the lady had the heartlessness to call his presumption! Frenzied with disappointment at finding himself deceived, betrayed, the wealth of his affection wasted,—he committed suicide—the news killed his mother, brought a premature old age upon his father, and desolated the happiest household in the village of his birth. You, you, Josephine De Valville, were the heedless creator of all this misery !”’ With a groan Josephine sank despairingly upon the floor. ‘‘ Forgive, forgive !’’ she murmured ; ‘*I knew not you were brothers.”’ ‘* Revenge has come to me unsought for,’ resumed the lieutenant. ‘‘It was through no deliberate design that I crossed your path. No one can accuse me of seeking to gain your affec- tions. I have never overstepped the limits of , frigid respect in my intercourse.”’ ‘* True, most true !’’ sobbed Josephine. ‘It was in my madness that I accused you. Your conduct has been generous, noble, and the oppo- site of mine. But forgive me—say, that you for- give me!’’ ‘*T do, Miss De Valville, most unreservedly. Rise, I beseech you; and now that you have found that you yourself have a heart, let me hope that you will manifest some consideration here- after for the hearts of others.”’ ** O fear not I shall again put myself in the way of temptation,’’ sighed Josephine ; ‘‘ but make this allowance for me, sir, when you recall this unhappy meeting : remember that I was bred a skeptic in love,and never believed in it till I felt too painfully its power. Enough! You have forgiven me. I have but one favor more to ask— it is, that you forget me.”’ The lieutenant bowed ; and Josephine beckon- ing her attendant to her side, leaned upon her for support. ‘Then nerving herself for the effort, she murmured, ‘* Farewell, sir,’’ and turned to depart. ‘* Farewell, Miss De Valville,’’ returned the lieutenant. ‘* We part in kindness, do we not? Trust me, if I have ever harbored a thought of rancor towards you, it is effaced from my heart. I wish you all happiness.’ ‘* Happiness !’’ sighed Josephine, in a tone of bitter incredulity. ‘‘ But why would I thus resist my fate? Once more, sir, farewell !’’ And dropping the veil over her face, she leaned upon the shoulder of the slave, and with a crushed and humbled spirit quitted the room. The lieutenant paced the floor for a couple of minutes after she had gone, and then simply mut- tering to himself, ‘‘ she will get over it soon,’’ he resumed the labors upon which he had been en- gaged. He left New Orleans the next morning for the north. The ensuing summer he married Miss O’N , to whom he had been for some years attached. Soon after the news of his union reached New Orleans, Josephine De Valville was the inmate of aconvent. She has since taken the black veil.

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LAST WORDS TO THE DEAD. BY ELIZA PRATT. A HYMN was sung at early morn, where an old chapel stood, And mournfully its sad tones broke the hushed glen’s solitude, Where many an humble grave lay low beneath the shell’ring trees, That gave forth a wild spirit tone to every passing breeze ; And reverent seemed the group that knelt, with heads uncovered, there, While the deep voice of a holy man filled the still morn- ing air. Oh, those were blessed words he spoke o’er the unan- swering dead, While they gently laid the soft green turf upon her quiet bed ; Then solemnly their voices rose to the blue, tearless sky, As swept through the reposing woods the parting melody, Till distance caught the last faint tone, a sad one of farewell, And silence on the new made grave for one brief mo- ment fell. *T was broken by an old man’s voice—*“ And thou art laid to rest! Wherefore! oh, wherefore, is it not as ever on my breast? Beloved! beloved, can this be so! Hast thou thy home forsaken, And with thee all its pleasantness to earth’s dark bosom taken? Oh, my old heart was fresh and green, for wert thou not its spring? The sunshine and the dews are gone !—the flowers are withering ! There is not one on earth to bring the summer back to me ; Life’s loveliness for aye has fled, my gentle one, with thee. Now let me bend this white head down, and weep on the cold sod, And try to hush my selfish grief—for art thou not with God™ Then a band of youthful voices breathed the old man’s last words o’er— “ Thou’rt with thy God! thou’rt with thy God! we shall not see thee more ! We will miss thee when we turn our steps to the for- saken hearth That shall never, never ring again, as once it did with mirth. Oh, fondly will we oft forget, and think to meet thine eye, And through the dreamy evening hours, speak as if thou wert by; Then vainly turn our longing gaze to the half-opened door— Thou’rt gone to God, and we on earth may hear thy step no more.” 18 And as they, weeping, passed away, through the low whisp’ring trees, A sound of mourning and of prayer came back upon the breeze. It died upon the mother’s grave—that sad, bewailing tone, And the churchyard, with its holy dead, again was left alone. On—on flew the glad summer hours—when, from the tossing wave, Another and yet wilder sound rushed to that quiet grave. A lone voice from a distant land—whose tones of deep lament, With wailings of the ocean wind were sorrowfully blent. “Oh, the spot is green and beautiful where my dead mother lies, With a thousand golden clouds above in her own na- tive skies; Those blue, mysterious skies that shroud her spirit from my sight, While I gaze through the long troubled day and in the sleepless night. Oh, mother, sad have been the hours, and slowly they have passed, Since I looked into thy loving eyes, and on thy gray hairs last! Could I have knelt beside thee when thy parting words were spoken, I might have borne away some spell to keep this heart unbroken. Had I but caught one angel smile to those who bowed there given, Methinks I would not sorrow thus that thou art gone to Heaven. But woe for thy poor absent child! Her heart beat high with life, While thine grew faint and sorrowful in the last weary strife ; Her eye lit up with earthly hope while thine was grow- ing dim, Her laughter ringing lightly while they sang the funeral hymn. Oh for some calmer thoughts to still remorseful memo- ry’scry! Oh for some spirit’s love to bear this grief above the sky; Beyond the sky—to where thou art, beloved and glorious one, With thy earthly tear-drops wiped away—thy earthly labors done. Dare I but hope that yet awhile, and I shall be with thee, Although our graves be parted wide by mountain and by sea? Oh, thine is green and beautiful among the Summer flowers, And mine—it matters not how fast speed on these lonely hours— Let my sleep be beneath the wave, or in the loneliest wild, So that I hear thy voice in Heaven whisper once more, “ My child.”

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e, THE MAN WHOM EVERYBODY PITIED. BY J. K. PAULDING, ESQ., AUTHOR OF “THE DUTCHMAN'S FIRESIDE,” “THE OLD CONTINENTAL,” ETC. Tuere is nothing in which mankind make so many mistakes as in estimating the happiness of others. We often envy those who are objects of pity, and waste our commiseration on those who are in reality worthy to be envied. ‘The hovel is not necessarily the abode of misery nor the pa- lace of pleasure; the beggar may be happier than the king, and the slave than his master. He who is at the top of the ladder is in perpetual fear of falling, while the man at its foot thinks only of rising. The outside of the house is not always the criterion of the comforts within, nor can all the gifts of fortune atone for what nature has de- nied. A cheerful and contented mind is the best gift which Providence can bestow on man; and a patient submission to the inevitable rubs of life, though often mistaken for hardened indifference or stupid insensibility, is a much surer basis of happiness than an insatiable craving for its enjoy- ments. Instead, however, of an essay, a mode of instruction entirely out of vogue in this story- telling age, I prefer illustrating my theory by giving a sketch of a ‘‘ poor devil,’’ as he is usually denominated among his neighbors in the country, who sometimes pity him for his folly, at others for his poverty. Jubilee Posey, as might be shrewdly deduced from his name, was predestined to happiness in this world. He was born with a cork jacket on, and fated to float while all the rest of the crew were drowning. He was born poor, has been all his life poor, and will most undoubtedly die poor, unless he should become rich by some great mis- fortune and cheat the world out of the moral of my story. His father was an old revolutionary hero, who, among other exploits, with the aid of two or three of his neighbors, captured one of the British squadron which, as is recorded in history, sailed up the Hudson and sat fire to the good old Dutch town of Sopus, vulgarly called Esopus. The vessel grounded near the shore in ascending the river, and as the tide receded, inclined to- wards the land, so that her deck became com- pletely exposed to the fire of an old swivel, pro- cured from the neighborhood by the old revolu- tionary hero, and the flag was pulled down at the first fire. The vessel being, however, full of men, the party on shore was too weak to attempt taking possession, and recourse was had to some “‘ regu- lars’’ stationed at a position some miles distant, who came, took possession, claimed and received the prize money, and thus robbed the real captors of both the honors and profits of their gallantry. But the old man was not without his reward, in the pleasure he derived from telling the story whenever occasion offered—and indeed when it did not offer—during the rest of his life, which was lengthened almost to the age of the patriarchs, for he afterwards obtained a pension, and, as has been shrewdly observed, pensioners seldom or never die. The revolutionary hero, however, did at last die, and his pension with him, leaving behind the character of a simple, worthy old soul, whose only fault was telling long stories, an aged, infirm wife, a dumb daughter, and our friend Jubilee, who, in his livery of rags and tatters, was always as merry as a cricket, and during his boyhood, might be seen every day in the week, and, if the truth must be told, sometimes on Sunday, making dirt pies in the road, playing at gambols with a queer little mongrel cur with whom he was on terms of the strictest intimacy, or sitting with a stick, a piece of twine and a pin hook at the end of it, fishing for mummy chubs at the side of a lazy, unmusi- cal stream, aptly called Black River, with most exemplary patience, laughing at nothing. At the period of his father’s death, Jubilee was about fifteen, or perhaps sixteen years old, and though from the hour of his birth he had never enjoyed any single one of what are called the comforts of life, was steeped in poverty to the very lips, surrounded by age, decrepitude and in- firmity, and an object of pity or contempt to everybody—still it may be said, with perfect truth, that he had never experienced a single hour of actual suffering. The death of his father, how- ever, and the loss of his pension, threw the whole family on Jubilee for support. The mother was aged and infirm, the daughter dumb and an idiot. But Jubilee was one who always adapted himself to circumstances. If fortune gave him a buffet on one cheek, he laughed and turned the other. He had idled away his boyhood, and it might truly be said of him that he had steered clear of that ‘* little learning’’ which the poet says ‘‘ is a dan- gerous thing,’’ and that ‘‘ too much learning’’ which, according to Festus, ‘‘ maketh a man mad.’’ He could hardly tell a B from a bull’s foot ; yet he did not want for common sense, and was gifted with more than ordinary shrewdness, though everybody wondered how he came by either. The neighbors all pitied the poor lad, but, as is usual in such cases, only speculated on how the poor Poseys could manage to keep clear of the county poor-house. ‘‘I’ll soon show you,”’ said Jubilee, laughing ready to split his sides. The neighbors held up their hands and threw up 19

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20 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. their eyes, and pitied him more than ever for being such a ninny as not to be miserable when he had such special occasion. All at once Jubilee underwent a complete meta- morphosis in everything but his inveterate predis- position to laughter. He sought employment, and the neighbors readily gave it; for however human nature may be scandalized, the man who is willing to help himself will generally secure the help of others. In a little time everybody was anxious to employ him, for he laughed himself, made others laugh through sympathy, and did more work in a day than any youth of his inches in twenty miles round. Squire Smith White Brown, the richest man in the township, used frequently to employ him, and though he some- times could not resist the contagion of his merry spirits, would often shake his head and say— ‘** Poor Jubilee, I can’t help pitying him. He is insensible to his situation. According to all com- mon sense and reason, he ought to be miserable, and yet he seems as happy as the day is long. The fellow must be either a natural fool or a natural philosopher, though, to tell the truth, I don’t know exactly the difference.”’ With all his labor and economy, however, poor Jubilee, though he manfully fought the good fight, could hardly keep the gaunt spectre poverty from the door; and if he sometimes succeeded in this, the fiend would either fly through a broken pane in the window or squeeze through the keyhole. Want, like the wind, finds its way through every cranny of the homely hovel; and Jubilee, when he came home of evening with a light pocket and heavy pence, found so many uses for his money that it always gave out before itstime. Age with increasing infirmity brings increasing wants, and the years of the old mother increased much faster than her wisdom. In the fatuity of almost se- cond childhood, she became querulous and impa- tient, and sometimes vented her ill humor on the poor dumb girl, who, idiot as she was, could dis- tinguish looks, though she could not comprehend words, and would creep into a corner and weep bitterly. that the buoyant spirit of Jubilee sunk under him It was at such times, and such only, for a moment, and that the neighbors might have been excused for pitying him; but the sturdy hickory sapling only recoils the more irresistibly by being bent to the ground, and his cheerful On one of these occasions an old female neighbor, a very worthy spirit soon regained its level. woman, as times go, happening to be present, ex- claimed, when she got home—‘‘ Well, I must say, that Jubilee Posey’s heart is as hard as a black- smith’s anvil. Anybody that can laugh with such a load of misery on his back is an object of pity.’’ Jubilee was often urged to permit his mother and sister to be placed in the county poor-house. At that time—and would it were so now—the poor of this country cherished that proper pride which revolts at a dependence on public charity ; and never was it known, except among the most worthless or helpless of the human race, that a grown-up child consigned a phrent to a hospital or poor-house to get rid of his or her maintenance. It inflicted indelible disgrace both on children and all their kindred, when age and decrepitude were abandoned to the care of strangers, and their latter days bereft of all the kind ministrations of filial or kindred love. But the times are altered, and it is feared not for the better in this respect. Charity now goes begging for customers; the ties of kindred and the obligations of filial duty are gradually weakened by the interference of stran- gers, who volunteer the performance of those offices which God and nature have solemnly dele- gated to filial affection and kindred blood. It is painful to observe how that pride of independence, which is one of the very best preservatives from meanness, idleness, extravagance and beggary, and those holy ties of kindred affection and kin- dred blood that constitute the best and brightest links of the social chain, have become, as it were, almost neutralized by a mawkish spirit of univer- sal charity, which, while it undermines the one, usurps the functions of the other. Parents have become ambitious of having their children edu- cated at the public expense; children are not ashamed of thrusting their parents on public cha- rity to get rid of their maintenance; and the solid substance of the domestic affections is in imminent danger of being sacrificed to the phantom of uni- versal benevolence. Jubilee, though the slave of toil and the victim of poverty, always rejected the temptation of relieving himself of a burden by imposing it on the public. ‘‘ No,’’ would he say ; ‘*the old woman and the poor dumb girl shall never eat any other bread than mine while I have strength to earn it for them.’’ The neighbors all pitied Jubilee for having such a burden on his shoulders, but for all this he seemed to grow more cheerful every day, and laughed louder than any ten rich men in the country. Perhaps the con- sciousness of being a dutiful son and a kind bro- ther lightened his spirits, though it always seemed to me he had not the least idea that he was either one or the other, and merely obeyed the impulse of a kind heart without the least consciousness that he was doing anything extraordinary. In process of time the old mother, after living to become a burden to herself and all around her —except Jubilee, who never carried, or at least never felt he carried a burden in his life—depart- ed this world, which, though it had treated her somewhat roughly, she still loved, as a mother loves a wayward child which is continually trying her patience. The people about the neighborhood had said ten thousand times at least, that as she had nothing in this life to live for, it would be a great blessing for her to die. But the old woman was of a different way of thinking. She clung to existence with all the tenacity of youthful an- ticipation, and the habit of living seemed to sup- ply the absence of all that makes life desirable. There appears to be a positive pleasure in living

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"~~ wer ae g >r st t- er er 1 od he an ng n- ip- le. ng THE MAN WHOM EVERYBODY PITIED. 21 and breathing in this goodly world in spite of all that has been said or sung in its disparagement; and instead of shaking our wise heads in pity or wonder at the phenomena, it would be better were we to rejoice and be thankful that there are still sources of enjoyment in this life to poverty, old age and decrepitude. Jubilee looked serious for some time after this event, which caused him to be still more pitied— for everybody said he ought to be glad at this re- lief from one of his burdens, and his being other- wise was only another proof of his folly. Habit, however, soon resumed its influence, and he was again as merry as ever, though he shortly after committed another act of folly which drew down on him divers violent shakes of the head from the female overseers of the poor. He hired a little damsel to take care of his sister, and whistled and sung at his work more blithely than before, al- though divers wise people held up their hands and predicted that his extravagance would ruin him at last. Squire Smith White Brown went so far as to stop him one day as he was passing by a tavern, where the squire generally halted at least fourteen times a week to give lectures on temperance and talk politics. In truth, he was a great politician, and had attained his high dignity through the in- fluence of a county member to whom he gave long credits, the squire being a shopkeeper in the county town. However this may be, he called Jubilee to him and gave him a long lecture on temperance and economy, which our hero heard with great gravity, though he was overheard laughing at least two miles on his way after taking leave of the squire. Providence—according to the decision of the neighbors—again interfered in behalf of Jubilee, who some two years after the death of his mother followed the poor dumb girl to the grave, which was dug close by her side. Again he drew down the denunciations of the areopagus of the neigh- borhood—first by being very sad, and afterwards by recovering his spirits and laughing as merrily as ever. ‘‘ He ought to rejoice that the poor crea- ture is gone,’’ said Mrs. Poodle. ‘‘ He ought to be ashamed,’’ quoth Mrs. Noodle, ‘‘ at not being more sorry, for after all the poor soul was his sis- ter.’” Both, however, pitied him heartily—at least so they said—one for grieving without cause, the other for laughing at nothing. Poor Jubilee was now left alone—at least he had no one at home but the little girl he had hired to take care of his sister. The awful rural tribunal which presides amid the groves and fields, and exercises despotic sway over village lads and lasses, at once decided it would be exceedingly improper that the aforesaid little damsel, being now rescued from the protecting wing of the dumb sister, should any longer officiate as housekeeper to Ju- bilee the bachelor. Scandal began to twang her trumpet, rousing the tongues of elderly ladies and venerable dryades of the woods, and one day the little housekeeper came home from a neighboring village—consisting of three houses and a milliner shop—her eyes red with weeping, just as Jubilee had finished his daily labors at Squire Smith White Brown’s cider press. With his usual good nature he inquired the cause of this strange phe- nomenon—for there was no weeping or gnashing of teeth in his domicil. ‘*The whole world is talking about you and I,’’ exclaimed she, in a burst of eloquence water- ed by torrents of tears. ‘* And what does the whole world say about you and I?’’ asked Jubilee. 7 They ; ‘* But what do they say ?”’ ‘* They say that—that—that you and I are no better than we should be.’’ ‘* Well, there’s no great harm in that—it’s all ” y—they say—they—they—— true as Gospel.’’ ‘True? Why, you wicked, you abominable man; you ought to be ashamed of yourself to join in with the world in taking away the character of a poor girl without father or mother. You know —you know, Jubilee, there isn’t one word of truth in the whole story.”’ ‘* What story ?’’ asked he, astonished at this ebullition. ‘* What else does the world say ?”’ ‘*Why, they say—they say’’—and the little damsel covered her face with her hands and burst into a real inundation of tears—‘‘ they say if we an’t married it’s high time we should be.’’ Hereupon Jubilee began to whistle, after which he rubbed his hands, and catching the little wo- man round the waist, kissed her most reveren- tially a great many times. Finally, he burst into a grand explosion of laughter, and whipping the little woman up under his arm, carried her forth- with to Squire Smith White Brown, where they were married in a twinkling. After this the squire bethought of cautioning Jubilee against hasty marriages among poor people; and the affair was no sooner known to the whole world, as the bride called it, than the whole world de- nounced the whole affair, not only as a violation of decency, being his sister had not been dead above three months, and a most aggravated act of impudence, inasmuch as the bride was as poor as Job’s turkey and the bridegroom still poorer. The universal decision was, that, being so poor, they would undoubtedly have a prodigious num- ber of children, one-half of whom would die of want or neglect, and the other half come on the parish. But it seemed as if Jubilee was destined to bring disgrace on the prophets and inflict blind- ness on second sight. His wife certainly brought him a goodly number of children, and some- times threw doublets, as they say at backgammon. On these occasions people redoubled their pre- dictions, but Jubilee only laughed twice as much as he did before. ‘What in the world will become of the poor creatures ?’’ said Mrs. Noodle to Squire Brown, one day. ‘‘ Suppose Jubilee Posey was to break

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22 his leg or get the rheumatism, or suppose his wife were to die and leave a house full of little children—this last one makes eight—what would become of the poor little wretches? Why, the oldest is not twelve. It’s absolutely flying in the face of Providence.”’ ‘** To be sure it is,”’ ** Do they think Providence has nothing to do but take quoth the squire. care of children? I'll go and give them a good lecture.”’ Accordingly he mounted his trusty steed, and after stopping at the aforesaid tavern to wet his whistle, proceeded at a stately pace towards the lowly dwelling of Jubilee Posey. It was just after sunset, in a long twilight of June, when the squire, approaching the asylum of poverty, distin- guished peal after peal of joyous laughter becom- ** Did ever anybody know or hear of such a stupid, un- ** Of all the least is a sin and a shame for ing gradually louder the nearer he came. feeling set?’’ thought the squire. miserable sinners I know, they have the reason to be merry. It people to be laughing when they don’t know but that in less than a month they may all be on the parish. But, after all, what can we expect from such stupid, ignorant fools ?’’ rin the sanctuary of his infinite Thus cogitatin wisdom, he rode on, and turning a sharp corner, came suddenly in view of the group whence this unseemly merriment proceeded. The whole fa- mily, parents, children, dogs, cats and pigs, were congregated in front of a log-house, little better than a hut, whose only appendage of rural beauty was a large oak tree, which quite overshadowed it, and whose gigantic body and wide-spreading limbs, hoary with moss, seemed to be authentic chronicles of ages past. ‘There was a little grass growing beneath the shade, but it aspired not to the honors of a lawn, and on this was displayed a group whose merriment and heartfelt peals of ringing laughter never found their prototype on the sacred lawn ef the monarch or under the windows of a palace. The squire, who had spent his whole life in heaping up the sand hill of riches, and could not conceive even the abstract idea of happiness de- rived from any other source, instead of contem- plating the merry group with that complacency which it seemed calculated to inspire, shrugged his shoulders in token of contemptuous pity, and giving three loud hems, rode up majestically, as became a magistrate. Never did fairy rout, dis- porting by moonlight on the dewy lawn, by the side of some twittering stream coursing its way through forest shades, when, perchance, disturbed by the intrusion of some blundering rustic lout, disperse more rapidly than did the merry group under the old oak tree. Jubilee alone stood his ground, or rather he came forward ‘‘ louting low,’’ with hat in hand, to greet his dignified visitor, who he supposed had come to offer him some welcome job. He wished him to dismount, but the squire stiffly declined, and placing himself GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. - AAA PLA LAL LLP “— erect in his stirrups, while Jubilee stood respect- fully by his horse’s side, addressed him with great solemnity as follows :— ‘* Jubilee Posey, as a justice of the peace, and an overseer of the poor besides, I have thought it my duty to come over and talk seriously to you on the folly, not to say wickedness of your con- duct. Hem!”’ Jubilee looked up in the face of the squire with all the simplicity of innocent wonder. His con- science was clear of all offence, and he felt a great inclination to laugh, for just then he felt uncommonly happy from the influence of the scene I have just sketched. The squire having cleared his throat with a suc- cession of ‘‘hems!’’ and gathered his wisdom to- gether, continued his exhortation—‘‘ Jubilee Po- sey, as a justice of the peace and overseer of the poor, as I before observed, I consider it my duty —as I said before—to talk to you seriously on the folly, not to say wickedness of your conduct.’’ ‘* Why, what have I done, squire ?’’ asked Ju- bilee, smiling. ‘* Done, sir? Why, you have married a wife ; and not content with that, you have got a house- ful of children, when you have no business to have either one or the other.’ ‘* Why, squire, I didn’t know there was any harm in getting married; and as for children, that ’ comes natural, you know.’ But I tell you, sir, there is great “sé No harm? harm in a man getting married without any means of making his wife comfortable, and having a pack of children with ragged clothes and dirty faces, who are born for nothing but to suffer hun- ger, cold, and all the miseries of poverty.”’ ‘* Not while I have health and strength to work for them,”’ said Jubilee, somewhat proudly. ‘* But suppose you were to die to-morrow, what would become of them then ?”’ ‘* Providence, I trust, would protect them,’’ answered Jubilee, meekly. ‘** Pooh,’’ quoth the squire, ‘‘ there is no use in talking to you !’’ and turning his horse abruptly, he trotted off, muttering to himself—‘* These poor sinners, who have no other dependence, are always trusting to Providence. We shall see what will come of it.’’ As the squire departed in wrath, Mrs. Posey, who was a little curious, though a right saving, striving, good-natured soul, came forth and asked Jubilee what had passed. Whereupon he told her the whole story, and they had a hearty laugh together. But Jubilee was destined to be sorely tried in this world. The scarlet fever came among them and swept away half his little flock, the expenses of whose medical attendance he could not pay, for all his savings were expended on their coffins and their graves. gut the doctor was—like very many of his profession—a kind-hearted man, and when Jubilee asked him if he would trust him till he could get on his legs again, he answered—

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l- y; or = ld rh in m es or nd ry nd m THE MAN WHOM EVERYBODY PITIED. 23 POO ——— eee ~ ~ ‘* Till the day of judgment, and welcome.’’ His generosity was rewarded, for Jubilee paid him before the year was out. He had begun to laugh as blithely as ever, when that fatal malady, which seems often to lurk about the house from year to year to gorge itself with the kindred blood of those it has already devoured, again made its ap- pearance, and carried away his two youngest and best beloved. The squire and Mrs. Noodle thought it a great blessing for him to be rid of so many burdens, but it was a long while before Ju- bilee laughed again. Laugh, however, he did, in good time, for not only does Heaven temper the wind to the shorn lamb, but the shorn lamb to the wind, and those who are destined to carry heavy burdens have strong backs to bear them. The buoyancy of his spirit floated him above the tide of misfortune, and again he was warming himself in the sunshine of his mind, when one cold win- ter Saturday night he was returning home from a distance of several miles with the earnings of the week in his pocket. A storm of mingled¢ hail, rain and snow came on, and pelted him so sorely that he determined to take a short cut through a path which led over a rugged, rocky mountain covered with wood, which might save him some two or three miles. The night became excess- ively dark, and the gloomy shadows of the trees, which were principally evergreens, increased the obscurity. The path was intricate and little worn; he became bewildered, lost his way, and falling over a precipice of rocks, broke one of his legs and dislocated his right shoulder. He lay awhile insensible, but at length recovered to sufier and almost despair. He called for help, but was only answered by the wind that moaned and shrieked among the trees. There was not a house within less than the distance of a mile, and that was a lonely hut tenanted by a tough old man, who lived principally by shooting and set- ting traps for rabbits and partridges. After call- ing until he was convinced it was all in vain, Ju- bilee, by the aid of his left arm and leg, managed to crawl to the foot of the precipice, which luckily projected beyond the perpendicular, and by still greater good fortune, in groping about discovered a hole in the rock, into which he made his way with great pain and difficulty. It was filled with dry leaves, driven in by the winds, and here he spent the remainder of the night in pain and misery, until towards morning, when exhausted nature overcame his agonies and he feil into a deep sleep. From this temporary cessation he was roused by a quick and furious barking of dogs, a couple of which were darting back and forth before his asyluin with violent gestures of deadly hostility. Presently some one approached, and he heard him calling to the dogs, which refused to obey, and only barked more furiously. Approaching still nearer, the person muttered to himself— ‘* What the plague can have got into these stupid creturs, | wonder?’’ Then coming still nearer, while the barking of the dogs became an eager whine, he perceived the hole, and exclaimed— ‘*Consarn me if I don’t believe they have got the fox that stole my chickens t’other night. I'll give him a blast, by jingo, at a venture.’”’ And poking his rifle into the hole, he was about mak- ing good his words, when Jubilee cried out lus- tily—‘‘ Hollo, neighbor Culver, what are you about?’’ Whereupon neighbor Culver withdrew his gun, and stepped back in such a hurry that he fell over a stump and his gun, for the first time within the memory of man, exploded without bringing down any game. But the longest story must have an end, and being a little tired ourself, it is fair to conclude the reader is not far from being out of all patience, it being seldom that the latter is so long-winded as the former. Neighbor Culver was at length brought to recognize the voice of neighbor Posey, whom he assisted in drawing forth, and carried on his shoulders to his hut, whence in good time he was transported home in a lamentable condi- tion. His shoulder was terribly swollen, and the injury to his leg was a compound fracture, which, owing to the exposure and long delay in setting, if that had been possible, soon assumed an ap- pearance which required amputation. Jubilee slowly recovered, with the loss of a leg and a shoulder that ever after remained so stiff that it was of no use to him. It may well be supposed that everybody pitied him more than ever, and yet he was not an object of pity. When he thought of the children he had lost, he said to himself, ‘‘ Providence has indeed provided for them!’’ and he was not only resigned but glad. The little he can now do, aided by the industry and management of his wife, and the kindness of the good doctor, who declares he has put out all the fees he ever received from him at interest, and pays him about four times the amount, seems to keep the wolf from the door, and Jubilee con- tinues to be the merriest man in all the country round, though Squire Smith White Brown pro- nounces him a downright fool, and Mrs. Noodle pities him terribly. He is still living, and I have his permission to publish his biography. When I made the request, he laughed like a whole swarm of flies, and replied—‘‘ Oh yes, and wel- come. I shall be quite proud to be held up as an example to the rising generation.”’

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AUNT MAGWIRE’S EXPERIENCE. BY THE AUTHOR OF WIDOW BEDOTT Don't care a snap for him, hay? Now, Nancy Harrinton, I want to know if you think you're a gwine to make me believe such a story as that? I know better. as anybody—and I know and have know’d for I can see as fur into a millstone better’n six months how’t you and Jasper Doo- little tuck a notion to one another. ’Tis extraw- nary how gals will talk! If you don’t care asnap for him, what makes you go with him to lecters, and concerts, and sleigh rides, and all kinds o’ dewins? Don't tell me you don’t care a snap for him. He’s a real nice young man tew—stiddy and industrus and dewin well—you never’|l have a better chance in yer life—mabby he haint said nothin pertickler to you yet—but that’s no sign he aint a gwine tew as soon as he gits his cur- ridge up. He’s ruther bashful, you know—it takes them sort o’ fellers longer to come to the pint in such matters; they want considrable spurrin up, and I advise you not to let nobody else hear you say you don’t care nothin about Jasper Doolittle —trouble comes o’ them kind o’ speeches. I know by experence—I come purty nigh losin yer uncle Joshaway by makin an unprudent remark I'll tell you how ‘twas, and mabby I remember egzackly o” that nater. you'll take warnin by it. when 'twas—’twas in the month o’ March, about tew year and a half arter sister Bedott was mar- ried ; yer uncle and me’d ben keepin company all winter: he come t’ our house every Sabberday evenin reglarly, besides always seein on me hum from singin-school and evenin meetins, and so forth —'twas town talk that we was engaged—Josha- way Magwire and Melissy Poole—that was the story all round. But all this time, mind you—he hadent said a word tew me about havin on him, though I was suspectin every day when he would. Well, one night, (twas in the month o’ March,) we was a gwine hum from singin-school—nary one on us dident say nothin for some ways. At last yer uncle ham'd and haw'd tew or three times, and then says he to me, says he, ‘*‘ Melissy!’’ says I, You see he was awful! bashful. ** hay ?’’—but he dident continner for some time —arter a spell he ham'd and haw'd agin—and he says to me, says he ‘‘ Mclissy !’’—says I, ‘‘ Well —what ?’’—but still he dident continner. At last I see we was a gittin purty nigh hum—so I says to him, says I, ‘* Joshaway—what was you a gwine to remark ?’’ Sothenhe says, says he, ‘‘I was a gwine to say—"’ but his curridge failed and he dident finish fore long we come to the gate, and there we stopt, (we used to stop awhile at the 24 gate in a gineral way,) and says he, ‘‘ Melissy !’’ says I, ‘‘Joshaway Maguire, what dew you want ?”’ ‘* Why,” says he, ‘‘ 1 was a gwine to ax you—”’ Jest then yer granf*ther Poole opened the door and come out, and so yer uncle went off and I went in. Well—next day Hanner Canoot come in t? our house—and she begun to joke me about yer uncle—now I never could bear Hanner Canoot —she was a reglar mischief makin old maid— always a meddlin with every body’s bizness in the place—and as sure as she see a young cupple appearantly attached to one another, she’d insini- wate syin or other aginst ’em. She couldent git no sweetheart herself, and it made her awful cross- grained and mad at them as could git ‘em. I hadent never had no diffikilty with her—but I dispised her—and yer gram’ther Poole used to say to me fraquently, ‘‘ Melissy—dew be kerful what you say afore Hanner Canoot—she’s a dann- gerous critter’’—and I was kerful ina gineral way And then, vou see, ther was another thing about it—ihere was her brother, Josiar Canoot—he'd ben tryin to be perlite to me tew or three year— and I wouldent keep company with him, nor have nothin to say tew him—and Hanner she knowd it, and she felt awful spiteful to me on account o’ that. Speakin o’ Siar Canoot—the last time I was up to Wiggletown, yer Aunt Bedott telled me he yas quite pertickler to her. He haint never ben married. I spose nobody wouldent have him—he was so lazy and so consarn-ed disagreeable, and so awful humbly. Why his hair was as red as blazes—and he hadent no nose at all—and what ther was on’t turned right up straight. When yer Aunt Bedott tell’d me about his steppin up to her, I says, says I, ** I hope you won't incurridge him, “Why says she: ‘‘ he’s ben in the Silly—for he’s a poor shiftless critter.’ no he aint, nother,”’ millentary and got to be Cappen Canoot.” ‘I don’t care for that,” says I; ‘**twouldent make no difference to me if he was Gineral—he’s Si Canoot and always will be.**» Well, I felt awful worried about it, and when I come hum, I telled yer uncle on't, and says he, ‘‘O don't you be afeard o° Silly’s marryin him. I'll be bound he haint no idee o’ marryin her. She always thinks the men has serus intentions if they look at her’ —that’s what yer uncle said—and I don’t say but what "tis so—sister Bedott’s a curus critter—tho’ she’s a nice woman in the main. Well, I was a gwine to te!l what Hanner said; she begun to joke me—and says she, (I was a spinnin ona gret wheel you know,) well she begun at me and says she,

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‘ke eel he, AUNT MAGWIRE’S EXPERIENCE. 25 ** Melissy, they tell curus stories about you ;” —whiz—whiz—whiz went the wheel, and I per- tended I dident hear her. Arter a spell she spoke up louder, and says she, ‘‘ Melissy—they tell strannge stories about you and Joshaway ;’’—whiz —whiz—whiz went the wheel, and I made as if I dident hear a word, she said—so bymebye she turns to yer gram’ther, (she was a settin there,) and says she—‘‘ How is it, Miss Poole ?—when’s that are weddin acomin on?”’ ‘* What weddin ?”’ says mother, says she-—‘‘ Why, Melissy and Joshaway Magwire, beshure,’’ says Hanner, says she. ‘‘ Never—not as I knowon,’’ says mother, says she—‘‘ I don’t know nothin about no such bizness.’” Well—she see she couldent git no satisfaction out o’ mother, so she hollers to me agin, and says she, ‘‘ Seems to me yer ruther hard o’hearin to-day, Melissy.’"” Whiz-z-z-z-z went the wheel louder ’n ever, and I dident take no notice o’ what she said. Purty soon she bawld out agin, and says she—‘‘I guess what makes you so deef, you must a ketcht cold in yer head last night—’twas rather a long journey you tuck to git hum’’—(you see yer uncle and me went hum by the turnpike instid 0’ gwine cross lots—but how the critter found it out, dear knows.) Well, I dident pay no ’tention, but I tell you I was a gittin awful mad. Arter a spell she gits up and comes and dumps herself right down aside o’ me, and says she, ‘‘ Say, Melissy, dew tell when you and Joshaway's a gwine to step off—he’s a very nice young man, tho’ I guess he won't never set the river afire.”” When she said that, I was com- pletely ryled up. I'd ben a growin madder and madder all the time—to think o’ her tellin right afore mother about our comin hum by the turn- pike—and then sayin ‘‘ he wouldent never set the oe) river afire,””-—’twas tew much, I couldent hold in no longer ;—so I turned round and shook my wheelpin in her face, and says I, ‘‘ Hanner Ca- noot—yer a meddlin old maid. I wish you’d mind yer own bizness and lem'’me alone about Josh Magwire—I wouldent wipe my old shoes on him.”” Now—what did the critter dew when I spoke so? Why she snorted right out a laffin, and says she, ‘‘O, don't git in a passion, Melissy —don’'t; dew keep your temper till yer married— dew.”’ Purty soon she went hum. This was a Friday. Well—Sabberday come and I dident see nothin o’ Joshaway. I thought ’twas ruther queer, but I reckon’d on seein on him to Wens- day evenin meetin—so I waited with patience till Wensday evenin come, and I went to meetin. Well, he was there, and I sposed of course he'd wait on me hum—but when meetin was out, lo and behold! he went straight apast me and axed Cloey Foggerson if he should have the pleasure o’ seein her hum! Then it all come thro’ my head like a flash o’ lightnin, what I said to Han- ner Canoot—and I know’d she’d told him on’t as well as if I'd heerd her. I tell you I felt like death! I never knowd till that minnit how much I sot by Joshaway Magwire—the idee o’ loosin VOL. xx!tv.—3 —_— on him was awful aggravatin. Well, I got hum some how or other and went straight off to bed— but I dident sleep nun that night. In the mornin I got up with a tremenjuous headache, and lookin as pale asa ghost. Mother, she axed me whether or no I wa'nt sick. I telled her no; but all that day I want fit for no bizness—dident have no ap- pertite—and when night come yer gram’ther felt so consarnd about me, she gin me a dose o’ perri- garlick—cause she said if I dident sleep that night I’d sartinly be attackted with the fever. In spite o’ the perrigarlick I dident sleep a wink that night nother. Next day I felt woss than ever, but I was awful high sperrited, and I was detar- mined nobody shouldent know the reason. Thinks me—if Joshaway ’s a mind to use me so, he may, and be hanged to him. I aint a gwine to kill my- self on account o’? him—he aint the only young man in the univarse. ‘That was the way I talked —to myself—but talkin and dewin ’s tew things, you know, Nancy. The more I tried to despise yer uncle, the more I couldent—the more I tried to hate him, the better I liked him. Well, so it went on for a numbero’ weeks. Yer uncle never come nigh me. I used to see him tosingin school and meetin, but he never offered to see me hum —always went with Cloey Foggerson. Afore long, everybody was a talkin about him and Cloey Foggerson. But what worked me most was—the gals begun to blagguard me about losin my sweetheart, and thinks me, I’ll git him back if I die for’t. So arter ponderin on’t a spell, I made up my mind I'd incurridge Siar Canoot, and see ’"f that wouldent bring yer uncle tew. Si was ready enough to step up, you know, but I’d gin him the mitten so many times, he was afeard to venter. So one day I goes by his shop, (he was a waggin-maker by trade, you know,)—he was a standin in the door as he always was—in a gine- ral way—(he was everlastin lazy)—well, I says, says I, ‘‘ How de dew, Mr. Canoot?”’ I tell you I never see a surprisder critter ’n what he was—I hadent spoke tew him in better '‘nayear. ‘* Well as common,” says he. Says I, ‘‘ Why don’t you never come to see us now days, Mr. Canoot ?” The critter was mighty tickled—and says he,— “* The reason I haint ben’s cause I reckoned my company wa'nt agreeable.” ‘‘O! Mr. Canoot, you mustent think so,” says I—and then I went off. Well, next night he come t’ our house, and arter that he come every night—and I tell you *twas an awful cross to me to treat him any way decent—for I hated the critter like pizen: but I managed to be perlite tew him, and afore a week's time lie poppt the question. I tell’d him ’twas very onexpected and I must consider on’t a spell afore I gin him ananser. He seemed appearantly satisfied, and continnerd to wait on me; and I could see’t yer uncle felt oneasy by the way he lookt sideways at us whenever he see us together —but still he never come nigh me nor offered to speak tew me—and so it went on for tew hull months. All the nabors begun to talk about Josiar

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26 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. RAAAAARAAAAALRALAAAAL ~ Canoot and me—and Siar himself was a teazin on me to know whether I hadent considered eny most long enough—and what to dew I dident know. I was nigh upon crazy—my health failed—I hadent no appetite, nor no sperrits. Yer gram'ther was awful oneasy about me. You see I was all the darter she had left to hum. ried and gone, and yer aunt Bedott was married Well, I got to be a misrable crit- ter. One evening, arter supper, I was in a dretful Yer mar was mar- and gone tew. state o’ mind. I knowd Siar was a comin that night to git his anser, and I wanted to git red on’ him. SolI huv on my things and slipt out and went up to sister Bedott’s. She lived to the upper eend o’ the village. Well, I found yer aunt Bedott to hum alone. Yer uncle Hez wa'nt in— gone to some meetin or other—and Kiar, (he was “Tm glad you've cum,”’ says Silly, says she, ‘‘ for I'm a baby then,) he was asleep in the cradle. awful lonesome. Hez has gun off somewher— dear knows wher: ‘tis amazin how any man can be willin to leave his pardner alone as much as he doos. I'm clear out o’ patience with it—if it hadent a ben for that flambergasied young one’s havin the snuffles, I'd a went off somewher my- self.’” (Yer aunt Bedott's a nice woman, but she was always an awful grumbler—they dew say she We ll, sO she went on, scoldin and frettin, and tellin her jawed the deacon out o’ the world.) troubles and trials, for ever so long; at last I broke in, and says I, ‘‘ O! Silly, don’t go on so I said it ina kind o”’ way that startled her, and says she, ‘‘ Me- lissy, what dew you mean?” I bust right out a eryin. Yer aunt huv down her knittin work and come up tew me, and says she, ‘‘ Melissy Poole, what is the matter ?”? I kept on a cryin and dident At last says she, ‘* Dew tell what ails you, —you don’t know what trouble is."’ anser. Melissy, dew—taint nothin about Joshaway Mag- wire, [hope. I wouldent fret my gizzard for him ; ther’s as good fishes in the sea as any ’t ever was ketcht yit."”. Well, arter a spell, thinks me—I may as well tell her. So Itelld her the hull from beginnin to eend—how nigh yer unc!e come to poppin the question—what I said to Hanner Ca- noot—how she provoked me to say it—how on- doubtedly she'd told Joshaway on’t—and all how and about it. Well, at fust yer aunt blowed me up sky high, for makin such an unprudent speech, (she was unprudent enough herself, but she hadent no patience with anybody else for bein so.) At last says she, ‘* What's said can't be onsaid—the only way to mend the mischief is for Joshaway and you to git together and make it up somehow.”’ **But how can we git together,” says I; ‘‘ I can’t go to see him, and he don’t never come to see me no more.” Arter thinkin a spell, says Silly, says she, (Silly was always a cunnin critter,) ‘‘ I’ve got it now ; you jest stay here and see to the baby, and I'll run into the widder Magwire's—it's a good while sence I’ve been there. It’s purty dark now, and by the time I come hum it'll be awful dark, and Joshaway hell come with me—he’s did it several times—he’s wonderful perlite—and when we git to the door I’ll ax him to come in and see husband. Hez won't be to hum taint likely—but Josh won't know but what he is—and when he once gits in, I'll bet forty gret apples you and he’ll make it all straight purty soon.”’ ** QO, Silly,”’ says I, “ but you mustent let him know I'm here, cause if **T won’t, sartin that’s a real good idee— you dew he won't come in.” sure,’’ says she. So she put on her things and off she went, and I sot down the back side o’ the room and begun a contrivin what I should say to yer uncle. O, Nancy! you've no idee what a state of preturbation I was in—one minnit I was afeard I shouldent say nothin to no purpose—and the next minnit I was eny most sure o’ gittin Joshaway back agin. Well, sister Bedott was gone a hull hour. You see Joshaway wa'nt to hum when she went, and so she stayed till he come. It did seem to me as if she was gone a year. At last lheerdemacomin. They got to the door and says yer uncle, says he, ‘‘ Good **O, you come in, dew,”’ says yer aunt Silly, says she; ‘‘ Mr. Bedott wants to see you amazinly.’’ ‘* Well,’’ says he, ‘‘ I'll step in a night.”’ minnit.’” ter Bedott, says she, ‘‘ 1 wonder where husband So in they come. ‘* Why,”’ says sis- is! you set down by the fire and I'll go call him— he can’t be fur off, I'm sure ; he wouldn’t go off and leave the baby alone.’’ So he sot down with his back to me—(I was a settin where he dident see me,) and she went off into tother room and shot thedoor. Gracious sakesalive! I never in my hull life experenced such feelins as I did that minnit—and I never shall agin if I live a thousand yeer. It seem’d as if my heart would jump right out o’ my mouth. —yer uncle he started and lookt round—and when Arter a minnit or so I ham'd he see me he riz up and made for the door. Thinks me, I've lost him now sartain, sure. Jest as he got his hand on the latch, says I, ‘‘ Mr. Magwire!” He stopt and lookt round at me, and says he, ‘‘Did you speak to me, Miss Poole ?’’ ‘* Yes,” says I. ‘‘ What did you want ?’’ says he ;—he spoke so cold and onconsarned I felt clear discurridged, and I jest bust right out a cryin. So then he come up to me, and says he, ** Melissy !”’ you so cold and distant to me lately ?” Says I, ‘* Joshaway, what makes Says he, ‘* You're engaged, aint you, Melissy?’’ Says I, ‘** No, I aint—no such a thing. Arter a minnit he says, says he, ‘*‘ What made you say you ” wouldent wipe yer old shoes on me?’’ ‘‘ Cause I wouldent,”’ says I, ‘‘and ther aint but one feller in the town I would sarve such a mean trick, and that’s Siar Canoot—he's jest fit to wipe old shoes on.’” Now, Nancy what do you spoze yer uncle done then? Why he huv his arms round my neck, and gin me such a thunderin smack as I never got afore nor sence. ‘‘ O, Melissy,’’ says he ‘‘ we'll be married arter all the fuss—won’t we?’ ‘*] shouldent wonder,’’ says I. And we was married in less than a month, and I haint

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ASKING FORGIVENES8S.—MIDNIGHT. 27 ~_— WAARAAAAAAN Re — never had no ’casion to repent—for he’s made me a fust rate husband; but only think how nigh I come to loosin on him jest for speakin as I did to Hanner Canoot. She haint never ben nigh me sence I was married—and as for Siar, he was as mad as the Dragon. FRANK. ASKING FORGIVENESS. BY ALICE G. LEE. WE met as strangers, Jennie, or friends but of a day ; With wreathed lip and mocking smile you coldly turned aw ay ; And though I strove to be as proud, my eyes were dim with tears, For memory went back to scenes of long departed years. Went back unto the time, Jennie, when first you saw my iace, And won my little heart at once, with childish, careless grace We were both young and guileless then, and had as yet to learn, That fond caress and loving smile may meet with no return I saw as in a dream, Jennie, that large and quiet room, Shrouded as evening hours wore on, with deep yet pleasant gloom. The very portraits on the walls, your brothers young and fair, And your sweet eyes looked down on me, as pure as ange!s are I seemed to sit once more, Jennie, with pulses hushed and still, While o’er the keys your tiny hands went wandering at will And then a strain of melody rose up so clear and wild, And I was once again, Jennie, a warm, true-hearted child. Oh, often in my dreams, Jennie, has that remembered strain, Seemed to be circling round the room, about my head again. Then I have seen your dear calm eyes, and felt a warm embrace, While tears of yearning tenderness were raining on my face. Those happy, happy dreams, Jennie, were all too bright to stay ; They faded, as the mellow strain in stillness died away ; And waking I have often found, my pillow wet with tears, More bitter than these eyes had known for many care- less years. Perhaps I was in fault, Jennie ; perhaps my heart was proud, So stubborn that it mighi not be, to ask forgiveness bowed. It may be when I turned away, you thought J too was cold— That my heart now no longer knew the love it bore of old. If such thoughts have been yours, Jennie, ah, little have you known, The eagerness with which Pve watched to hear your lightest tone And if my heart has been too proud before your own to bow, I pray you, dearest, to forgive,—it’s very humble now. And though I may not hope, Jennie, to be again so dear As when the hours went slowly by if I were not a-near— Could I but once more press your lips,—once more your neck entwine— But for one brief and happy space, hold that dear hand in mine: And know your eyes again, Jennie, looked love intomy own, Could hear as in the days gone by your low and gentle tone.— My heart would lose one half the load of heaviness it bears, And you could not refuse to love, thus listening to my prayers. MIDNIGHT.—A SONNET. BY MBS. E. AFAR in this deep dell by the sea-shore, So resteth all things from the summer heat, That I the Naiads hear, with limber feet, Let fall the crystal as in days of yore— Old Sea Gods lean upon the rocks, and pour The waves adown—the light-winged zephyrs greet The tittering Nymphs, that from their green retreat, OAKES SMITH. With pearl-shells play, and listen ta their roar— Endymion sure on yonder headland sleeps, Where Dion's veil floats out a silver sheen, And large-eyed Pan amid the lotus peeps, Where gleams an ivory arm the leaves between, Nor stirs a restless hoof lest his big heart, O’erfilled with love, should slumbering Echo start.

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THE GREEK ANTIQUE. BY MISS H. Have you been in Salem, Massachusetts? Did you visit its rich treasury of beautifully-arranged foreign curiosities, ‘‘ The East India Marine So- ciety’s Hall?’’ Were you a stranger there, and with only a short half-hour to pass in that com- prehensive repository of wonderful works of na- ture and of art—some of them relics of remote antiquity, brought together in so close a compass from so widely distant parts of the world? Then have you felt that in that early New England Endor there remained, indeed, still witchery enough to bind your feet to the floor of that charm-working cabinet by an irresistible spell, while you felt that you ought to be off, since time and the steam-cars wait for no man, and to send your thoughts radiating at once into every direction where the sun darts its beams. They were even inspired with a power which the sun-rays never possessed, of shooting from the present moment into past ages—into the caverns of the earth and the bosom of the ocean. As you surmounted the flight of steps that ushered you abruptly into the hall, you felt as if touched by the twinkling of an eye transported to the eastern hemisphere ! A group of oriental statuary first met your eye. And so exactly to the life were the figures repre- sented in their various castes and conditions, from an enchanter’s wand, and in the proud, erect Hindostanee, with his rich Cash- mere shaw! and turban, to the half-naked, dusky Bengalese fakir, in his squalid, beggarly appear- ance and squat position, that you instinctively cast your eye beyond them to catch a glimpse of the Ganges, on whose margin you felt yourself stand- ing, and to watch the passage of the votive offer- ing of lotus-flowers which some love-smitten Hin- doo maiden had bestowed on the sparkling sur- face of the holy waters. True, you did not find the sacred river flowing through that hall, but you beheld and touched the strong old tortuous root of the venerable banyan- tree that had grown upon its bank; and you saw the beautiful birds that had probably disported in gay plumage amid the foliage it once nourished, and the scaly reptile which lurked in the grass around it or twined and glittered with fearful bril- liancy among its spreading branches. As you turned to the left and commenced your tour of the hall, feeling that your time was far too short for so great and curious a study, unable to pause at any single object half long enough to contemplate it as you would, and aware that you must pass out from the place and do neither it 28 a F. GOULD. nor yourself justice as an observer, your mind became fluttered, your fancies took to themselves as many light and brilliant wings as shone upon the almost countless butterflies and other insects impaled in gorgeous array before your delighted and bewildered eye. Thus you hastened on till you came round to But here you stop- ped short—you could not proceed. You felt a pang in your heart and a pain in your foot, as if each were suddenly pierced by a thorn. the upper end of the saloon. The one isolated and absorbing object over which you hung your sorrowful eye in mute sympathy, was a piece of statuary thus labeled—‘‘ A Greek Antique. A boy pricking out a thorn from his foot.”? The child was represented seated on a block— his head bowed in close attention to his work— his right foot resting on the left knee, with its bottom turned out to the light, and his fingers busily engaged in picking at a puncture in the sole. You felt as if the thorn in his foot had riveted yours to the floor beside him, and that you could hardly have the heart to leave him till you saw the cruel thing extracted, and the face of the little sufferer turned up towards yours with the glad expression of relieved childhood. Perhaps your imaginaiion grew curious and questioned itself concerning the original of this truly touching piece, which must have been a copy life. child he was—where straying when thus wound- from real You probably wondered whose ed—what mother’s heart ached for the anguish of her son—if he was ever healed of the hurt—and had many other things suggested by the piece, which made you wish to know more than you had the So you came away with your any possible means of finding out about “*Greek Antique.”’ honest curiosity still unsatisfied, and thinking more of that lonely child with his aching foot than of all the other objects you had seen. The following brief story of a Greek boy, which is gathered from among the long-buried relics of an early period in the Christian era, (not far from the close of the fourth century,) may answer some of your inquiries, as it belongs pro- bably to the original of this piece. It presents but imperfectly, and through a ten- der specimen, a hasty illustration of the painful perplexity and bewilderment of thousands of the most sincere minds anxiously seeking truth and the way of life, and particularly those of the young in the polished Gentile world, during that

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THE GREEK ANTIQUE. Annee an nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnan ann tremendous and protracted crash, the downfall of When the gods were hiding their polytheism. ** diminished heads,’ of Gospel day betrayed their hollowness or their heaviness, when the cries of the bleeding victim as the morning crepuscule and the sounds of the pagan hymn that ascended together, piercing the shuddering air, to the so- the and ruins of the old unsystemized fabric of wor- ship, and finally silenced by imperial edict, how strangely must the worshipers have wandered in dreams and amazement as they beheld the mon- strous, soulless body of their divinity, which had lemn heavens, were suffocated amid dust been the object of religious veneration and faith to their fathers and themselves, lie mangled and expiring before their eyes, while as yet their doubting spirits could trust in no better deity on whom they might lean for support or to embrace with the arms of belief! But to relate the little story of the Greek boy and to hear it understandingly, we must be upon the spot where the events of his short life trans pired. We will now, therefore, make a sudden transit, and convey ourselves into the classic land of cen- tral Greece. By this we find ourselves temporarily located in the miserable little shepherd village of Castri, which straggles over the site of the once glorious Delphi! But what is there here to tell of the ancient splendor, power, wealth or fame of that renowned city—the sanctuary of the gods—the seat of the oracle whose voice could at any moment send a thrill of hope and joy, or a panic of dismay and And where is now that gorgeous pagan vision, that splendid What is terror through a whole empire ? pageant that once occupied this spot ? it but a dream of past ages? We stand near the base of the southern side of Liakura, the ancient Parnassus, the poet’s laurel- ed mountain! And here it was that the golden city hung glittering, in amphitheatre form, on the rocky mountain side, and crowned with the glo- rious temple of Apollo, with its beautiful Parian marble front, while within its sacred precincts the treasures of a republic were deposited. Here the pomp of pagan worship swelled to its height. est votive offerings of kingdom and empire were brought to the shrine. Here the art of sculpture shone in its greatest perfection and splendor; and Here was the sanctuary where the rich- here, within the circumference of less than two miles, was contained more gold than in all the rest of Greece. But where is Delphi, with all the glory, the wealth, the worship, the games, the learning, the art, the sacrifices, that invested her with such power and majesty ? Open your book, and read what has been seen and enacted here in this rude spot, and tell me if you can, whether it is the author, the place, or your own sense that has deceived you. 3* 29 The scene we now behold is a place of desola- tion. The surface of the mountain so barren and bald, must have undergone some mighty change since the early day to which we have alluded— for then it was clothed, certainly in part, with luxuriant vegetation. There were sacred groves where religious rites were performed, and where the minister of the temple repaired daily to gather laurel branches to be crowns, to wreathe about the tripod of the Pythia, and to use in sacrificial offices. Here, too, the aged fe- males employed to feed the ever-burning fires in the temple, gathered sticks of fir, of which the one lone evergreen tree, now bending over the same crystal fountain that supplied their holy waters three thousand years ago, is a specimen. The celebrated Castalian spring still gushes forth and flows down, steady as the stream of time, from between the eternal heads of the stu- woven into pendous rocks that rose gloomily over the splen- did city which time has swept away, while the fountain and the rocks remain unchanged, mag- nificent types of the immutability of the things of God, while man, his works and his idols, are evanescent, and vanish like the phantoms of a dream. From these lofty perpendicular rocks, that tow- ered up from behind Delphi, Parnassus derived its One of them was called Naupleia, the other Hyampeia, and also Phedriades. From their awful heights the Delphians used to hurl their criminals whom they found guilty of sacrilege and other acts worthy of death. From one of the crags they precipitated the inimitable and immortal Alsop, saying they would ‘* flatten his conical head.”’ He could not disguise the contempt in which he held their imagined or fictitious importance, and on one of his visits to the city, took the occa- sion to tell them they were like sticks afloat on the water, which appear like something at a dis- name of ‘‘the two-headed.”’ tance, but when you come near them, are nothing. At another time he told them that their mountain would yield them no produce, and they were de- pendent on others for their provisions for the sup- port of life. But his capital and last offence was given when he was sent by Cresus, King of Lydia, to present a grand offering of gold to Apollo, and a piece of the same precious metal as a gift to each inhabitant of the city. He made the offering to the god, but sent back the rest to the king, saying the people were unworthy of the gift. For this they gave him a speedy passage from the frowning brow of this gloomy rock to another world. Along the sides of the rock, half hidden by the ivy that drapes them, you perceive the niches where the priests deposited gifts to the god; and below, where the water still falls, is the basin hollowed, as the place of lustration, that was used by the Pythia and the priests before com- mencing their sacred rites. The cave of the

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30 priestess, over which she used to sit upon her wonderful tripod after chewing laurel leaves to receive inspiration, till she became wrought up to frenzy by the fumes she inhaled from the cave, is here to the right, and has now the honor of being used as a goat-stall. You see the wild-looking goatherd with his flock huddling about its mouth, where no oracle forbids their entrance; while, wonderful as it may seem, the ancient pillar, formed of three brazen serpents twined together in spira! form, which stood here to support the triped of the priestess, is now in Constantinople.* It stands in a remote corner of the Atmeidan, or place of horses, where the cavalry parade, and is filled with bricks and mortar to keep it firm and in shape—from a superstitious tradition of the Turks, that when this pillar is destroyed Constantinople will become a Christian city. And there it has remained since the days of Constantine, who re- moved it, with some of the finest pieces of sculp- ture that enriched the Delphic temple, to adorn the race-ground or Hippodrome in the new seat of his empire in the east. These traces, and the numerous tombs cut in the side of the mountain, are the chief vestiges to be found here of the city of Apollo. The blaze of its power and glory went out on this rug- ged mountain side, like a consumed candle in the socket, when the night has passed off and the day dawned. The time to which we are now particularly to refer is that early period of our era already al- luded to, after the rites of Pagan worship had been prohibited and the Christian religion pro- claimed the religion of the empire by Theodosius. But destroying the heathen temples to prevent repeated attempts to revive the worship, (such as had been once successfully made by the apostate, Julian,) and establishing Christian forms of devo- tion by imperial edict, were not effecting an equal change of reform in the hearts of the people. While some received the truth into good and honest hearts, and cast away their idols to the moles and the bats, others, not feeling its power, but seeing the golden cloaks of their deities strip- ped from them and coined into money, converted the naked statues of their gods into Christian saints and martyrs, and bowed down and wor- shiped them. Some confounded the philosophy of Plato with the pure, renewing principles of the Gospel of Christ, or obscured the simple beauty of the spirit of Christianity with clouds of the ancient super- stitions. obey the precepts of him who ‘‘ went about doing good,’’ was to retire into mountain caverns and the desert solitude, and pass their days in idleness and mortifying and macerating the body, till they became more like beasts of the wilderness or pro- scribed convicts than like men, free under the Some thought the most direct way to * An engraving of this pillar may be seen in the “View of the Atmeidan, or Hippodrome,” in Miss Pardoe’s “ Beauties oF THE Bosruorvs.” GODEY’S MAGAZINE ‘ 4 AND LADY’S BOOK. PRAAAAARAARA AAA AAA AAA AARAPRAPRAAAAL LOO nn law of universal benevolence, who should bear high and far the ensign of the ‘‘ Light of the World.”’ Others, still attached to the ostentatious in worship, and fearful of shocking their unconvert- ed Gentile brethren by too austere a change in externals, baptized much of the gorgeous scenery and imagery that had decorated the pageant of the heathen ceremonies, and adopted them into the church under the Christian name. At the same time, in the same community, to many of the Greeks who had seen the fallacy of their own monstrous system of belief and their deities thrown they cared not where, the Gospel was, indeed, foolishness. Others, still clung to their ancient polytheism, in the inmost sanctuary of their hearts mourning over their de- secrated gods. And some became like those who wander in dreams on airy roads, with neither wings nor vehicle, and having lost their footing on the solid earth and found no hold on aught above to keep them up. In short, it was a time when, with the many, a veil of morning mist hung before the eye of faith in the moral and religious atmosphere, mak- again, ing realities appear uncertain and visionary, and turning shadows into substance of vital import. The new-born children of light had not yet gained a clear vision. They ‘‘ while the sons and daughters of dark- saw men as trees walking,”’ ness moved close around them on every side; and the spectral form of the old religion, marked with a mortal wound from the sword of the spirit, seemed still to haunt the scenes of her former dominion, lingering about her consecrated places, winding among the pillars, leaning on her over- thrown altars, walking melancholy in her ancient groves, or sitting mournful beside her hallowed fountains, and longing for a draught of those cool, refreshing waters which her phantom lips were Thus like a guilty ghost was she condemned to go ‘‘ walking through dry finding with stains upon her hands and skirts which no foun- unable to imbibe. places, seeking rest but none,”’ tain could wash away. It was at such a time, in such a state of society, that here, on the lower border of Delphi, where nature put forth her richest show of vegetation, embosomed in flowering trees and vines, stood, unmarred by the northern invader, the beautiful classic dwelling of Myron, a high-minded, bril- liant-talented apostate pagan, and his lovely wife, Sylea, a meek professor of the religion of Jesus. Myron belonged to a proud pagan family, but he renounced their faith, and speculatively and nominally embraced Christianity during the days of his first love for the gentle Sylea, a daughter ef Christian parents, who, in her outward form and deportment, was so adorned with a myste- rious grace and beauty from the spirit which oc- cupied her soul, that her lover had been won to adopt the name of her faith, but to find himself an idolater still. It was the maiden, not the Being

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a — “. = an ng THE GREEK ANTIQUE. 31 whom she worshiped, who had his most sincere and ardent affections. He had no spiritual dis- cernment of the things of the spirit and the in- visible world which it was her delight to contem- plate, and which imparted to her character that peculiar charm of refinement which nothing else could bestow. So he satisfied himself with ador- ing the woman, adopting the form of her religion, and caring little about its spirit, except as it tend- ed to promote his worldly interest. In the outer form and bearing, Myron and Sy- lea were as dissimilar as in character. His wasa lofty person, a noble specimen of manly beauty, with a proud mien, ardent in temperament, Viva- cious and impetuous in spirit. In aspect, as in intellect, he was justly called ‘‘ superb.”’ Sylea’s beauty was of a different class, and though, in the tout ensemble as well as in its effect, tending more to perfection than that of her husband, it was less to be defined or analyzed. With a lily-like delicacy of complexion, set off by an exuberance of glossy black hair, usually twined in the simple Grecian knot, hung with a profusion of natural curls that clustered richly about her snowy neck; a mildly radiant gray eye, that threw a soit, spiritual lustre over her expres- sive face; a sweet, silvery clearness of voice, that seemed owing more to the soul that looked through her features than to physical organization. There were a willowy lightness and grace in her slight, flexible form, and gentle, airy motion; and her whole presence seemed invested with some- thing of that unearthly caste which makes one think of heaven and the good angels whenever it is witnessed, and this is, perhaps, not more than once or twice in our lifetime. Taste, modesty and meekness, with a healthful cheerfulness of spirit which should ever adorn the Christian cha- racter—the character of those whose privilege and duty it is to ‘‘ rejoice alway’’—were most happily combined in this lovely Delphic daughter of Zion. Her religion lived, moved and shone in and about her, yet it came not boldly forth in speech. Dif- fident of her power to advance theory to the en- lightening of others, and of her qualifications to teach except by example, she preferred a noise- less, unobtrusive, humble walk before the unbe- lieving, to illustrate the doctrines of her faith, unless cailed upon to give a reason for the hope that was in her. ‘Then she was readily inspired to reply in a manner which most commonly si- lenced the caviler. Yet this difference of character and of spiritual tendencies in the heads of the house, produced no discord in the economy of the domestic establish- ment or their arrangement of things temporal. Myren had too much native generosity and mag- nanimity to thwart or annoy kis beloved in the things of her faith, and too much respect for her not to treat them reverently for her sake, though he might regard them with indifference or secret contempt for their own. Their house was fashioned and furnished, not $$ oe*» for show and magnificence, but as the elegant but modest abode of enlightened, polished society. And of such it was ever a favorite resort. The poet, the painter, the sculptor, the musician, the enthusiastic amateur, the refined writer, the pro- found student and the briiliant wit, all met here in one delightful coterie, and habitually held their the feast of reason and the flow of soirées tor soul,’’ irrespective of their different religious be- lief, as far as holding to polytheism or Chris- tianity was concerned, and of the various lighter or heavier shades of faith in those who prolessed to be summarily ‘‘ of one heart and one mind.”’ The consequence of this want of unanimity in things of vital import to the soul between Myron and Sylea, was, however, reserved to come upon them more heavily, and to be felt more keenly even than in any form of infelicity trom jarring chords in household affairs, or a want of conge- niality in their aspirations after the unseen and eternal. They had only one child, the beautiful boy Nicias, in whom centered the whole glowing, ardent circle of their affections, like sunbeams that, however wide their spread, still converge and melt together at one sublime and sacred point. To each parent he was dear as their own soul. Yet neither did nor could understand how to man- age and execute so great a work as the Giver of this lovely, precious jewel had put into their hands, in the moral and spiritual education of the tender immortal. In the outer form and demeanor of the young Nicias, the contrasted personal beauties of his father and mother were most harmoniously and happily blended. Their various natural traits and attractions, so difierent in themselves, united in this beautiful boy, seemed like the several strings of the harp that produce a harmony and maintain a concord which similarity could never effect. But in the moral, the spiritual structure of the little Nicias, the soul of each parent would seem at times distinctly to manifest itself, as if that small and delicate bodily fabric had been designed and framed for the tabernacle of two separate souls, of which sometimes the one, sometimes the other, bore rule and presided over the subor- dinate agencies of the house, and which at other times seemed wrestling powerfully together for supremacy. The boy seemed to have in him a double por- tion of spirit, a mind made up of elements too mighty and abundant for one of his tender years. It was precocious, enthusiastic, restless, busy and imaginative, and ever reaching afier some- thing too vast for its embrace or too intangible for its grasp. With such a mind, not divine and directed, the circumstances of his birth, the ly enlightened scenery around him, and the unsystemized state of things in the religious world where the bud of his beiug unfolded, were eminently fitted to make >

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of him a young visionary, and to lead him into mazes peopled by creatures of his own imagina- tion, and ending only in an airy void or a longing Al- unity, both to pagans discontent and pining for something more. lied as he was by consans and Chris and in the center of a social world lans, made up of both, with the traces of the old reli- gion all around him, addressing themselves to the sense and the fancy, yet seeing that the power of the gods had apparently died out, as he increased in years he also increased in yearnings and a burning, unquenchable desire to know the truth concerning the final destiny of the spirit which he felt stirring hin him ‘*Is the religion of my mother that which will alone give salvation and conduct me to the abode of the blessed?’’ said he. ‘* Then what will be the fate of my father’s family—all my dear rela- tives who have never found Jesus?) What is be- come of all those who worshiped so many ages in the temples of the gods and sacrificed on these broken altars ? ‘* Yet my lovely mother is surely an immortal ' And she ind brighter already seems to have access to some other world than this, for which she sometimes departs—and then returns, beaming and beautiful as if she had been in the skies. If that finally disappears from earth as others do, where, is her home where she is to go when she then, will be my father?) Where shall I, their poor little Nicias, go? Shall I be drawn up into the sun and made immortal there, amid its undying splendors? Oh, if some power would only tell me, only tell me that we shall not finally be sepa- rated—that we may be gathered into that happy my day find a home among the bowers mansion above, where mother is sure that she shall one of Paradise, where nothing fades or dies, and go no more out forever! Come, oh, some good spirit, angel or deity, and tell me but this—tell me where, and how, nn & er, THE BY JULIA Morurr, dear mother, say, thinkest thou now Of thy child, so far away Wilt thou breathe a prayer so soft and low For her whom thou hast taught to pray ? Wilt thou think of me at eventide, When the air is mild and still — When the sun has sunk in his glorious pride, And thy heart with love shall fill’? Wilt thou think of me When Darkness nthe lone midnight her mantle has thrown ? GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’sS BOOK. and what we shall be, when our life has departed and our bodies are laid in the tomb! These, and similar thoughts on the one great question that oppressed his tender heart, formed the heavy burden with which his mind staggered and swayed from side to side, wearing through its frail tenement, from the windows of which it looked out on the doubtful, the irreconcilable, the mysterious, in what was passing around him. communicated his thoughts on Sometimes he these themes to others, but most frequently shut them close in his own bosom and pondered them " “ e , . At the same time, and from every direc- most extravagant and alone. tion, he was hearing the visionary traditions and tales of the miracles of the saints and the power of the gods, till the case of those who embraced the faith to which they each belonged, became in his mind like balances, of which the elevation of the one side inevitably involved the depression of the other. till he had revolved all he heard in retirement and solitude, He listened to much, but said little, when his spirits would sometimes become exhi- larated to wildness or rapture, sometimes sunk in deep melancholy. He often asked questions touching the all-absorbing topics on which his thoughts continually dwelt, but none could an- swer to his understanding. His parents and near- est relatives on either side spoke the most bewil- dering or incomprehensible things, the meaning of which they could not to themselves explain. The pagans possessed no internal evidence of spiritual discernment; the Christians felt the power of its evidence within, while it was to them like the wind when we hear the sound thereof, but cannot tell whence it comes or whither it goes. Thus the restless, eager intel- lect of the inquisitive, aspiring boy was left to feed upon the wild theories and build with the machinery which the romantic imaginations of others and his own brain supplied. (To be continued.) ABSENT ONE. PALMER. Wilt thou dream of thy child in thy slumbers light, Whose life is a part of thine own? And say, my own mother, when morning light Shall banish thy dreams all away, Wilt thou think of me still, and pray that the might Of Him who is mightiest may guard my way? Thus think of me, dream of me, love me forever; And thus thinking. and loving. my faults forgot, These bonds of charmed thought shall be broken, oh, never, For God shall unite us where sorrow is not.

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ATHENODORUS IN THE HAUNTED HOUSE. BY H. W. HERBERT, THE AUTHOR OF “ CROMWELL “ed “ MARMADUKE WYVIL,” &e. Atuens, although no longer free, no longer mis- tress of the Isles of Greece, sweeping with her un- conquered triremes the subject waters of the beau- tiful ASgean, was never fairer or more stately than The long walls, it is true, had been laid prostrate by the in the first years of the Roman Empire. shrewd and pitiless policy of the Spartan fox Lysan- der—the works of the Piraeus had been demolished Yet still the structures of Ictinus, of Phidias and Menesicles by Rome’s all triumphant Sylla. stood fresh and sharp as when they first were reared The Parthenon yet gleamed intact on the proud crags of the Acropolis, in the proud days of Pericles. and the colossal statue of Minerva still towered above its altar in all the gorgeous pomp of ivory and gold—the temples yet blazed with the votive tripods, caldrons and crowns, and bowls of sculp- tured gold, gifts of barbaric kings and classic chieftains ; the walls yet glowed with the grand masterpieces of the Grecian easel ; the priests yet ministered to the old gods before their time-hal- lowed altars—archons, though shorn of half their power, presided still upon the hill of Mars, and poets dreamed and sages taught the people in the delicious haunts of the academy and portico. Rome, in respect to her own deities, had been ashamed to despoil or desecrate the kindred gods the cold-blooded tyrant, who had succeeded to the sole sway of of Greece; and ostentatious the triumvirate, affected such respect for letters, such love for literary men, as led him to respect and even honor the fair city which claimed, and claimed with justice, to be the birth-place of the muses, the hallowed home of tragedy and ever- lasting song. It was a bright and glorious day of summer, in the beginning of the Athenian month, Hecaton- beum. The sky was such as is seen nowhere but in those glorious climes, one cloudless arch of living sapphire: the breeze faint, yet refresh- ing, came murmuring through the boughs of the sacred olives, laden with thymy perfumes from the purple slopes of Hymettus, the hum of the bee, and the shrill voice of the attic cicala, came sweetly to the ear, mixed with the distant sounds of men and chariots, half heard from the far mar- ket place. an old venerable-looking man, borne in a litter Such was the scene and season, when supported by four sturdy slaves, whose long fair hair and wild blue eyes told of their Celtic origin, was seen making his way slowly through the Ceranicus, followed by a long train of freedmen and slaves, with many beasts of burden laden with heavy baggage. It was characteristic still ) ; of the Athenian people, as in the days of their great orator Demosthenes, to be attracted ever by novelty, to be inquisitive of the affairs and con- cerns of others, to go to and fro the agora, the streets, and the suburbs, inquiring of every per- son whom they chanced to ‘*What is and this being the case, it is not to meet, there new ?”’ be wondered that sucha train as was now thread- ing the most populous part of the city, connect d with the singularly noble air, the vast and massive brow, the long silvery locks and beard of the principal personage, should have attracted the attention of the loiterers, who formed, indeed, the greater part of a population which, deprived of reduced, like the modern political rights, were inhabitants of the Italian cities, to scandal, tittle tattle, and dilettantism as the sole occupation of their lives. A crowd was speedily collected, and when the principal freedman of the party replied to the inquiries of the multitude, that the stranger was no other than Athenodorus, the great philo- sopher of Tarsus, the friend and familiar of the Emperor Augustus, who had been intrusted by him with the education of the young prince Clau- dius, and who, his task accomplished, was now desirous of purchasing a house in Athens, where he proposed to sojourn for some years, the interest intense and manifested by the people became almost ungovernable. By the time that he had reached the house of his friend, Julius Thraxas, one of the Roman magistrates who held sway in the city, at which he proposed to tarry, until such time as he could suit himself with a residence to the him had increased to many hundreds, comprising some of Athens. It was an- his taste, crowd which followed the most eminent men in nounced, however, by the porter soon after his arrival, that Athenodorus, being old and already somewhat feeble, was so much wearied with his journey, that he was compelled to decline all visits on that day ; and consequently the philoso- pher was left to enjoy himself with his friend during the afternoon and evening. The following day the house of Thraxas was thronged with visitors, magistrates and philosophers, artists and soldiers, Greeks, all crowding forward to testify their respect to the Not a few of these Romans and Barbarians, friend of the ruling emperor. visitors were actuated too by somewhat mercenary motives, as owning houses, which they were anxious to let or sell to one who promised to prove so good a tenant as the ex-tutor of the heir-ap- parent toalmost universal empire. ‘To have heard them, however ; to have listened to their protest- 33

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34 ations, to their disclaimers of all desire to make money, any one would have supposed them the most liberal, the most disinterested, the most patriotic people in the world. Among them all there were but two motives, the desire of accom- modating, if it were even to their own personal detriment, a man so renowned as Athenodorus —and the wish to secure the honor of his resi- dence and citizenship to their dear native city! They were shrewd dogs, those old Athenians, almost as keen as a land agent in a new western Sut to their great surprise Athenodorus did not seem city, and perhaps just about as honest! inclined to bite too readily—he was a wary walker that old Epicurean—it is true that this house was admirable for its view across th plain toward the quarries of the Pentelicus, and this other for its Vicinity to the lovely groves of the academies, and to the Pacile, or grand picture gallery, but, some how or this third, again, from its standing close other, the old philosopher found out that the first was particularly obnoxious to the cold blasts of the Etesian winds after the setting of the Dog- star; that the second was but a damp spot at best, and liable to be overflowed at times by the back- water from the Ilyssus, and that the third was, although in other respects quite unexceptionable, tle market and the too near the cs public slaughter- houses to be well suited for the habitation of a studious person. Much did the quid nuncs marvel at finding the old Cilician as much versed in the he had it from his childhood; and after localities of their own city, as if been brought up in sundry vain attempts to unravel the skein of his mystery, they gave it up for a bad job, and went reluctantly away to tell their friends and neigh- bors, that it was all in vain to try to sell a bar- gain Much the wonder, however, and that too, not all unmixed to Athenodorus. rreater was with exultation on the part of the disappointed sellers, when it became known on the third day afier his arrival, that he had become the purchaser of a stately mansion, indeed almost a palace, in one of the most eligible parts of the city, close to the theatre of Bacchus, and all the principal re- sorts of business and of pleasure, and that he had already moved into his new quarters, and was engaged in getting in his books and furniture, and arranging his residence as speedily as possi- ble. visited him on the day following his arrival, hur- That very day several of those who had ried again to pay their respects, and although much engaged, the old philosopher received them all with kind and cordial hospitality. The house was splendid, although it had for some years been lying vacant and unoccupied—the stables on the right hand the entrance had ample stalls for six horses, and there the sleek mules of the old man were already munching their provender apparently Then the peri- styles of the courts within were supported by well satisfied with their quarters. beautiful Ionic columns of pure Parian marble, and in the centre of that pertaining to the women’s ) GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’s BOOK. PAPAL PLA PLP LALA LALLA chambers there was a clear and sparkling fountain —statues were ranged around the inner chambers, works of the noblest sculptors, of Polycletus, Myson, Phidias and Praxiteles, the walls glowed with gay frescoes from the most approved pencils, and so well had the slaves of Athenodorus bestir- red themselves that the rooms were already as clean and as well furnished, and in short, as re- plete with every comfort of that day, as if they had been constantly inhabited for a twelvemonth past. All expressed admiration at what had been done, all were full of congratulations and good wishes, but still there was a something of embar- rassment in the air of each and all ; and after sup- per, for Athenodorus had insisted on retaining his kind friends to partake his evening meal, as it began to draw near evening they all began to manifest a singular desire to escape as it were from the hospitable mansion. At last, as if sur- prised by this, the philosopher requested one to explain to him the cause of this desire to go away so early, and of the limited and qualified commen- dation which they had bestowed on his selection of a house which seemed to him even unusually eligible. ‘* And is it possible, then, O Atheno- dorus’’—said the grave citizen, to whom he had spoken—‘‘ that Demophilus, the son of Demo- crates, of whom you bought this house, has been such a rogue as to conceal from you the fact, that it has been sold and resold fifty times within twelve years—that family after family have quit- ted it in terror and dismay, until the very name of it is infamous?”’ ‘‘ But why, my good friend —whiy is all this ?””—asked the philosopher, with- out indeed replying to the question of the burgher. ** On! up his hands. the vile cheat !’’—exclaimed one, holding ’—cried another, ‘*T never would ‘* The swindler !’ turning his eye up to heaven. have believed it of Demophilus, the son of Demo- crates, ** And yet, I don’t know,” said a fourth; ‘‘I never had a very good opinion of old Democrates ; and then his great ”’_ whined out a third. grandmother’s sister, you know; there was a terrible story about her and young Niceratus.’’ ‘* But, what—what of the house ?’’ asked Atheno- dorus, again interrupting them. ‘‘ It seems to me a very good house! What is the matter with it, pray?’’ ‘* Oh, it is haunted,”’ they exclaimed all at once, ‘‘ by the most dreadful sounds and Why, not a year ago, Glycerium, the daughter of the Archon Cassander, almost died of terrer.’’ ‘‘ And all the slaves of Artemidorus ran away from him’”’ —said a second; ‘‘ and, in short”—exclaimed all sights—no man or woman can endure it. again, together—‘‘ not a family has ever yet been able to live in it three nights following !’’ ‘Oh! I am not afraid of ghosts’’—replied Athenodorus—‘“‘ we Epicureans, you know, hardly believe in their existence ; and if there are such things at all, you may be quite sure that they have too much to do for themselves, wherever they may be, to have any time to spare in terri- fying and tormenting us poor miserable mortals.

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gS all en ied ily ich ley ver rri- ATHENODORUS IN THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 35 eee I dare say it is only the rats and mice behind the wainscots, or at most the tricks of some idle peo- ple, that have frightened all these good folks out of their wits.”’ ‘Yes! yes! that is just what the old Roman tribune, Rufus Minutius said, who had fought under the triumvirs at Philippi, and for Cesar, in the great fight at Actium; and he put on his armor and watched with his sword drawn and his lamp burning ; but long before the middle watch of night, he came rushing out into the street, with his hair standing all upright, and his eyes glaring, and said he would not stay under the roof another hour, no! va not to be as rich as Croesus! ‘* Soldiers are not the right men,” said Athe- nodorus, coolly, ‘‘to cope with such terrors. You will not see me running out into the street, I fancy. This spirit, I hear tell, or whatever else, comes from the court of the Gyna@ceum hither, but never troubles any who sleep in the rooms beyond the second court ; is it net so, my friends ?”’ ser ; Ihen you have heard of it, Athenodorus ?” ‘* Surely I have’—answered the philosopher. ‘* Demophilus told me all about it—and that was my chief cause for purchasing ; but is it not, as | g; have said ?” ‘They say so—but what of it ?—will you in truth tarry here ?”’ ‘*T will’—said Athenodorus—‘“ I will, indeed. As soon as it grows dark, I shall send all my peo- ple to bed, in the farthest chambers beyond the portico and fountain of the women's chambers, and here with my light and writings, I shall await the spectre. And now, good night, my friends ; if you will return hither betimes to-mor- row morning, you shall hear all about it. I will detain you now no longer, since I see that you are in fear even now !”’ They left him, marveling at the rashness of the man, and prophesying all sorts of strang events and terrible calamities which they deemed certain to befall him. ‘The night set in, mean- while, and the din and tumult died away through the streets, and the moon rose, and myriads of bright golden stars came forth studding the pur- ple vault of heaven; and the clear liquid trill of hundreds of melodious nightingales, those birds of Cecrops, peculiar to the Attic groves and gar- dens, gushed through the silent evening. The slaves, the freedmen of Athenodorus, had retired, and in the inmost chambers, huddled together, pale and cold with terror, lay sleepless, listening in deepest awe for every sound that wan- dered through the corridors of that mansion—but no sound penctrated those far chambers; and as the night rolled on fear yielded to fatigue, and both fear and fatigue were forgotten in deep slumber. Not so Athenodorus. In asmall chamber close to the entrance of the house, with but one door into the central court, he sat alone, dauntless but frail octogenarian. Seated upon a low and straicht-backed stool, in order that no luxurious ease should tempt him to untimely sleep, with a small table whereon lay a copy of the immortal works of Plato, a roll of parchment and instru- ments for writing, he read and wrote, and mused and methodized as quietly as though he had ex- pected no interruption of his nightly labors, no supernatural terror to disturb his meditations. Once or twice he raised his eyes from his paper and looked out wistfully into the half-lighted peristyle, glimmering in the calm moonbeams; but as he felt a sense of awe creeping upon him, caused perhaps partly by the dewy chillness of the night and partly by the consciousness of solitude, he applied himself to his task with double assi- duity, applying not his hands only and his eyes to the scroll on which he was writing, but his whole mind and spirit, that so no vain imagina- tions to which his mind might yield itself if un- occupied, should create sounds or sights and terror make them real. lor several hours he read and wrote untroubled —all around him was deep silence, or if not utter silence, none but the natural and accustomed sounds of the night came near him—the bark, at intervals, of some distant house-dog; the festive chant of some homeward reveler; the far faint melody of the nightingales singing in the groves of the Academus. As the night wore on, these too ceased, and nothing broke the lone stillness but the low tinkling of the fountain in the inte- rior of the court. Suddenly, while he was yet writing, in the far distance as it seemed, beyond the fountain, there was alow, faint, rustling sound, and then a clash as of steel, and a dull clanking noise as of chains dragged along the ground. Still the philosopher wrote on, calmly and steadily as if he had heard nothing, and in appearance quite unmoved; but in truth he felt his heart beat faster than its wont, and his breath come thick. and his hair bristle. and his flesh quiver; yet still with iron heroism he wrote on. Nearer and nearer came the fearful din, the clanking chains, now mixed with groans and querulous shuddering cries, and the slow tramp of footsteps. Nearer it came and nearer; now it seemed at the very door of the apartment —and now, now it was within it. Quietly he uplified his eyes, and there, within ten feet of the place where he sat, there stood the semblance of a human corpse, with the eyes fixed and glaring at him, though with a dim lack-lustre radiance, glazed and void of speculation. It seemed the corpse of an old man, with snow-white hair and beard, tangled and long and squalid; shackles were on his thin, emaciated legs, and heavy ma- nacles about his wrists, which he uplifted to hia head, clashing the rusty fetters with a terrific sound. Athenodorus gazed on it, and his eyes took in every minute particular. And now the form 1 d its thin arm and beckoned him as if to follow; but he, still doubting whether per- chance his fancy might not still mislead him, waved his hand sternly, and dropping his eyes he parchment, once more applied himself to

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36 PPP PP IPL LP LPL PDP LLLP PPP aan his writing. Word after word, line after line, his steady pen ran over the smooth surface ; his ma- nuscript was clear, and regular, and firm. No shapeless letters betokened any terror of his hand —no blots betrayed impatience or dismay. Yet still nearer and nearer came that hellish din— And now, his paragraph completed, once more Athen- nearer and nearer drew that awful figure. odorus raised his calm eyes and met the death- like glare of his unearthly visitant, and again the same beckoning gesture summoned him to arise and follow. And now the philosophic mind was satisfied this could be no vain fancy—from Hades or Elysium, as it might be, it clearly was a supernatural messenger. Athenodorus rose and grasped the lamp which was before him, and cried, as quietly as though he were speaking to a fellow-man—‘‘ Go on—lo, I will follow ! And the form went before him, feeble and slow, and crippled with the weight of its cruel bonds— on through the pictured chambers, and through the marble portico, and past the tinkling fountain, mirk the moon through the darkness—for now had set and a had stars. It reached the centre of the stamped with its thin foot on the ground, and vanished. Athenodorus was alone! He returned to his task, having noted well the spot, and read and wrote all undisturbed the morning dawned and the cocks crew, and the city streets were once more alive with beings busy about their daily course of petty joys and paltry sorrows. cloud obscured the golden inner court, until | | ; GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. On nnn nnn nnn,s*™>e PLP PALA LPL PPL PDD His visitors of the past day returned to hear ‘* what new thing had befallen him.’’ He waved them courteously to seats, but he spoke not, nor ceased at all to write, until one of his freedmen entered with the chief ruler of the city, and Maxi- mus Frontinus, the Roman Pretor, whom he had summoned to investigate the mystery, and if it so might be, detect the crime. To these he told his tale of horror—he showed the manuscript which he had written under such fearful circumstances—he pointed out the spot whereon that spectral form had vanished. Tools were brought speedily, and soon in that unhal- lowed soil a skeleton was found loaded with rusty chains. Foul murder had been done, but in what dis- tant times tradition even said not—rumor her- self was dumb. Banished from heaven or hell alike, the disturbed spirit had wandered nightly seeking for who should give it sepulture—in vain —in vain—until it met the brave old sage Atheno- dorus. What more? and sacrifice done to the angry manes; the house was purified, and thenceforth, as there was not a statelier, so was there not a more peaceful man- The bones were entombed duly, sion in all Athens. Verily, for a true philosopher, commend me to Athenodorus, the Epicurean Tarsus. sage ol Norr.— For the truth of this story, see Plinii Epistola, Lib. VIL, Epist. 27 Nt OS we ODS A REMINISCENCE. It was a lovely night in June, ) And in the sky the radiant moon— } A fairy bark on a silvery sea— Floated in graceful majesty. { Bencath her beams earth calmly slept; { Around bright stars their vigils kept; } ‘ Above the zephyr’s breath was heard No sound—for man, and beast, and bird Had sought repose ;—the little rill That danced in joy and gladness still Throughout the day, had sunk to rest, Rocked in its grassy curtained nest. $ But in strange contrast with this scene Of beauty, hallowed and serene, Darkness and gloom my heart had filled The dazzling light of Hope was chilled ; The dreams of youth had one by one Withdrawn, like rays of setting sun, And left my spirit in despair I loathed the world, its toil and care. Vet sadly thus not long I mused : The night into my heart infused ‘ A better feeling—that of love. For, gazing on the heavens above, And on the Sweet str earth with beauty glowing, ams of mercy, gently flowing Into my heart, came as the balm, Borne on the breeze of spring so calm, Comes to the brow of dying man Then I surveyed the wondrous plan Of God’s creation, vast and grand ; And everywhere, on every hand Beheld his wondrous love displayed, His wisdom, goodness, power portrayed Subdued I stood—I felt that He Who spread the heavens, confined the sea, And blest the earth, had even for me (An atom of immensity) A thought: and as that feeling stole Like sweetest music to my soul, A pleasing, rapturous, heavenly joy Ran through my frame, and as a boy In whose light heart there lurks no care, I leaped and bounded happy there And now, when doubts and fears oppress My struggling heart, in loneliness I wander out to look around Upon the green and flowering ground, And azure sky; and all forget Life’s turmoil and its strife, and let My spirit freed gain strength to bear The ills in which all needs must share.— Sae.tie

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THE LADY HER OWN HOUSEKEEPER. BY MISS LESLIE. AFrTer twenty years successful application to a lucrative line of business, Mr. John Whately found himself in a condition to purchase and fit up a handsome residence at the fashionable end of the town. In his long intercourse with the world, the roughness of his early and rugged origin had gradually rubbed itself off, and he had insensibly acquired a large portion of the polish which is falsely said to be found only among per- sons who have been born and brought up in that class denominated the best society. But his wife had not polished along with him. Women who begin life in the humbler ranks have not the same opportunities of improvement that fall continually in the way of the other sex. A seafaring man that marries while before the mast, often has cause to regret his choice after he becomes a cap- tain. So it is in shore life. Mr. Whately had married before the mast, and though a kind and liberal husband, he could not be blind to the deeply-grounded inelegance and incorrigible want of tact that distinguished the partner of his early struggles and his present prosperity. Mrs. John Whately was a thorough-going prac- tical housewife, and had for many years plumed herself on that character, as the only one Ifitting a woman. Her brother-in-law, Mr. William Whately, had married a lady who was excessively genteel, and of very high birth; one of her grand- fathers being a Philadelphia lawyer, the other a Philadelphia doctor. Mrs. William had done her utmost to put some elegance into Mrs. John, and had so far succeeded as to render her very touchy upon the subject of gentility, and very desirous of getting within the barricades of fashionable society. Mrs. John Whately, though mistress of a fine house and half a dozen servants, and unduly anxious to be regarded as a most lady-like personage, could not control her perpetual incli- nation to recur to the pursuits that were so com- mendable in the less affluent part of her life. She was still, never in her true element but when working about, and attending or rather assisting personally in all manner of household affairs ; like Miss Edgeworth’s Christy the blacksmith, who, after he became an earl, was often detected in the self-indulgence of repairing the door-locks. One morning, attired in a dark calico wrapper, and such a very morning-cap that it greatly verged upon a night-coif, Mrs. Whately stood mounted on a step-ladder, busily engaged in cleaning a tall looking-glass; the pier-table being covered with cloths, buckskins, a bowl of water, and a bowl of whiting. She was rubbing away VOL. XXxIvV.—4 so earnestly that she did not hear the door-bell, when a blundering Irish servant ushered into the parlor,a lady in a very modish walking-dress ; and on turning round Mrs. Whately recognized Mrs. Percy Howard, an English personage of such high distinction in her own country that her conde scension in de igning to become a sojourner in ours was above all praise. Hitherto neither of the Mrs. Whatelys had found an opportunity of admiring the greatness of Mrs. Percy Howard, except at a distance ; knowing her only by sight and by report. Under proper circumstances Mrs. John would have been exceedingly rejoiced to find herself face to face with the grand English lady; but nothing could be more mal-a-propos than this present visit, and nothing more humili- ating than to be surprised in such a déshabille, and at such an occupation, by such a guest. The buckskin, with which she was rubbing on the whiting, dropped from her hand and fell into the bowl of water; and with reddening face and star- ing eyes she stood transfixed on the upper step ; then stole a glance into the mirror and saw that her inglorious cap had twisted itself awry, and that her dark wrapper exhibited smears of white. The lady, however, was very gracious; and after giving her name, said—‘‘ I must apologize for coming so early in the day (notwithstanding the very early hours that prevail in this country), but my errand is to inquire the character of a cook, whose name I think is Mary Moore— though perhaps I am wrong; for it may be Sally Smith or Jenny Jones. I am not accustomed to remembering the names of servants, unless of those that are immediately about my person This woman (I have an idea that she does call herself Mary Moore) referred me to this house, where she says she lived three months; a long time, I believe, for an American servant. Have I the honor of addressing Mrs. Whately ?’’ Mrs. Whately, all in a flutter, hastened down the step-ladder; stumbling twice in her descent, and nearly falling on her face as she landed on the floor; overwhelmed with confusion at being caught in such acostume, and at such an employ- ment. Several strange thoughts darted rapidly through her mind; among them was the bright idea of denying her identity, as the best way of screening her disgrace. So, she replied in a hur- ried voice—** Oh, no, ma’am. Mrs. Whately is out; she’s gone out. I am her housekeeper— that is, Mrs. Whately’s housekeeper—that is I’m the lady that manages the house.’’ ‘* Then I am fortunate’’—observed Mrs. Percy »- oi

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Howard. ‘‘ Most probably I can learn more about this cook from you than I could from your mis- tress herself if she were at home; though I have understood that the ladies of this country enter deeply into the details of the ménage.”’ ** Yes, they are mostly good managers’’—re- plied Mrs. Whately—*‘ that is, if they are brought up by mothers that know how. But who do you call my mistress ?”’ ‘*T meant Mrs. Whately, of course’’—answer- ed the English lady. Howard—‘‘to detain you no longer from your ‘* And now’’—pursued Mrs. task, will you oblige me by a few hints on the character of this cook, whom I am almost sure is Mary Moore ?”’ ‘* It’s dangerous work sometimes to enter into W hately— ‘or indeed of any other hired people. If you the character of a cook’’—said Mrs give them their true character (which is mostly a bad one does, they may threaten to make you suffer for it, and it comes to their-ears, as it always and sue you for scandal.”’ ** What a horrible state of things’’—ejaculated Mrs. Howard. of the fact, that in this country no one is permit- ‘*But I’ve had some experience ted to speak the truth. Yet can you not strain a point, and endeavor to give me a correct idea of this Mary Moore ?”’ ** Well’’—said Mrs. Whately—‘‘I suppose I may venture to state that she is pretty good at plain things. We've no French cooking in our house; Mr. Whately came home from New Orleans hates it, ever since he \s to preserves and puff-paste I can’t say much for her.’’ * You probably saved her the trouble of mak- ing these articles, and did them yourself ?’’—said the lady. ‘*Who, I?’’—exclaimed Mrs. Whately, with affected indignation. But recollecting her as- and add- to be sure, I’m counted a great sumed character, she changed her tone, ed—** Oh, yes; hand at all sorts of nice things. As to my puff- paste, it’s thought equal to Mrs. Goodfellow’s. And as to preserves, if they’re trusted to cooks there is no end to the waste and extravagance and carelessness. Why, one day when I was making currant jelly, I just left the kitchen for a few mo- ments to go into the store-room, and told the cook » be sure and not meddle with the fire, because it was exactly right. So while I wasin the store- room, I smelt a dreadful smell of something burn- ing, and when I ran down into the kitchen there was my good jelly all in a blaze; and the porce- lain preserving kettle cracked all to pieces and bottom but a heap And the hussy said she thought, when I ordered her not to touch the fire, I told her to make up a good one. ruined, and nothing left in the of dry burnt stuff as black as a coal And from that time, I watch all the nice things myself, from first to last; besides making them with my own hands from the very beginning.’’ ‘* Why, you must be quite a treasure to your mistress’’—exclaimed Mrs. Howard. 38 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. **T have no mistress’’—said Mrs. Whately, re- sentfully—‘‘I tell you so again.”’ ‘* Excuse me again then’’—replied Mrs. How- ard. ‘‘It is so hard to remember all the distine- tions that prevail in this country. But still we are not getting on with the cook’s character. As you seem to be a very nice person, I am sure you will answer me honestly.”’ ‘**T am not a person at all’’—said Mrs. Whately, reddening—‘‘ and as to my honesty-——”’ ‘* Of course, it cannot be doubted’’—proceeded the English lady. ‘‘ Far be it from me to hint that, in this country, there can be any dishonesty at all. I hope I know my cue better. I should have requested you to answer me sincerely.”’ ‘‘T have nothing to say against the honesty of Mary Moore’’—said Mrs. Whately. ** Of course you have not. May I ask if she is sober ?”? ‘**T never saw her otherwise’’—was the reply. ** You say she is a good plain cook ?”’ ‘“* Yes—as far as boiling and roasting goes. But I never trusted her to attempt anything like pies and puddings, and cakes and preserves.” ‘* Those are articles never admitted to our table” —said the English lady. ‘* That’s strange’’—observed Mrs. Whately. ‘** We cannot bring ourselves to the Philadelphia fashion of almost living upon sweets’’—said Mrs. Howard. portance. rably. I believe I wiil take her. any followers ?”? ‘* Followers in what way ?” ‘*T mean has she any visitors, any relations that ‘*To us our health is of too much im- I think this woman may suit us tole- Lastly, has she come afier her.”? ‘*Oh, yes; she has two sisters and two nieces, and an aunt and acousin. They often come of an evening and sit with her in the kitchen; sometimes one at a time, and sometimes two or three.”’ ‘‘That’s enough”—said Mrs. Percy Howard. ‘* She has followers then. Of course I will not take her’’—rising to depart. am sorry I interrupted you in your work; I fear your mistress may be displeased if she finds it un- finished when she comes home. I wish you a good ‘* Good woman, I ” morning She then walked out of the room with an air rather too stately for a real lady who was familiar with her position; leaving Mrs. Whately much disconcerted, and thoroughly vexed at herself for the absurd subterfuge she had so unthinkingly adopted. It is true, she had been several times on the point of disclosing the truth, but having no address and no tact, she was unable to find words for so awkward an avowal. It was some consola- tion that no servant had been present during this ridiculous scene; and she resolved to keep her own counsel, and carefully to avoid confiding tu any one her self-created dilemma. Next morning, on Mrs. Whately’s way home from market, in her market dress, and followed by her man carrying a large and well filled basket,

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THE LADY she met Mr. and Mrs. Percy Howard on their re- turn from improving their health by an early walk to Schuylkill. Mrs. Whately being again cunfused, again looked very queer, and walked still queerer. Mrs. Howard gave her a passing stare, and twitch- ed Mr. Howard’s arm. poses me a housekeeper’”’—thought Mrs. Whately. ‘* How I wish I had never told her so. have perceived something about me that proved I was no such thing. She might have had the ci- vility to tell me I looked more like a lady than a housekeeper, for I know she must have thought so in spite of my wrapper and cleaning the looking- glass.”? They passed on; and while these cogitations were revolving in the mind of Mrs. Whately, the English lady said to her husband—‘‘I saw that woman yesterday. What an odd face she has. She is housekeeper in a family whose name I have forgotten (in this country names are so hard to re- member). a cook. With that overloaded market-basket she must be orl ‘* To be sure she still sup- She must I went there to inquire the character of I am glad she is not my housekeeper. ruinous to her master and mistress. ‘* Perhaps they may like to live well’? Howard. The next meeting of the two ladies was in —said Mr. Levy’s store; where Mrs. Whately, approaching the counter at which Mrs. Howard was seated, de- Several pieces were shown to her, while Mrs. Howard was sired to look at some of the newest silks. turning over some black satins. ‘*T want something a great deal eleganter: than any of these’’—said Mrs. Whately, ostentatiously. ** You know price is no object to me, when I am buying a bettermost dress.” ‘** Heavens !?*—thought Mrs. Howard, annoyed at Mrs. Whately seating herself on the stool next hers—‘‘ what extravagant wages people in this And to think of servants going to the best shops. And country must give their housekeepers. how assiduous these people are in attending on her, just as if she was a lady. To be sure she has finery enough on her, to-day. But cannot they see what she is ?”’ Mrs. Whately, resolved on speaking to Mrs. Percy Howard, addressed her with—‘‘ Pray, ma’am, which of these shades of purple silk do you think the most stylish—the blue purple or the red purple.” ** Are you speaking to me, madam ??°—replied Mrs. Howard, freezingly. ‘““Yes, ma’am. Which would you recommend as the most becoming to me ?”? ‘* Neither of them”—was the answer, as Mrs. Howard haughtily rose from her stool, and took another somewhat farther from Mrs. Whately’s vicinity ; and, soon completing her purchases, she walked out of the store. ‘«Mrs. Percy Howard does not recollect me”— said Mrs. Whately to one of the guleswomen—“‘‘ she thinks I am somebody else. When she comes here again, just mention to her whol am. I wish HER OWN HOUSEKEEPER, 39 you had happened to call me by my name while You should always call your genteel ” she stayed. customers by their names As soon as she had decided on the red purple, Mrs. Whately departed; consoled with the idea that things were now in train to undeceive Mrs. Percy Howard, without the necessity of any embar- rassing explanation onher part. But Mrs. Howard did not chance to go again to Levy’s before leaving town for a certain watering-place which we shall call the Blackwater Springs. Now it chanced that Mrs. Whately had a great desire to go to this same watering-place, which that summer was very fashionable. Her husband being absent on business in the west, she invited herself to join Mr. and Mrs. William Whately, who were about visiting these springs. This was regarded by Mrs. William as a considerable in- fliction, and would in some way have been re- pelled, but that the John Whatelys were really rich, and had no children, and the William Whatelys only seemed to be rich, and had five. Mrs. John Whately having traveled but little, (always supposing that she had too much to do at home, ) had taken up an idea that, traveling being ruinous to good clothes, anything was good enough to travel in. Accordingly, to the great disgust of her sister-in-law, she presented herself in her favorite market-dress, a dingy striped mousseline de laine, with a dingy party-colored shawl; and a coarse heavy straw bonnet, trimmed with a durable dark blue and red ribbon; slate-colored cotton stockings ; and thick double-soled shoes. She could not refrain from bringing in her hand the same little covered basket she was accustomed to carry to market, as an auxiliary to the great basket borne by her ser- vant man. very clean, was now devoted to what she called odds and ends, and which were undoubtedly very precious, as she would on no account trust it out of This litle basket having been made her own hands. Mrs. William Whately appeared in a very gen- teel and most decided traveling dress, precisely, (as she believed ) according to the latest fashion. And her five children exhibited five different speci- mens of the varieties of unbecoming and inconve- nient habiliments with which the juveniles of that day were too often disfigured. One boy wore a monkey-jacket, and one girl a polka jacket; and another boy had no jacket at all, but only a red shirt, and a pair of checkered trowsers. The youngest boy with a brimless blue cap, banded with plaid ribbon, was squeezed into a plaid frock with atight waist of astounding length, and a skirt so short and full that it stood out all round like a ruffle or flounce. This costume was intended for Scotch. The youngest girl was arrayed in a high- necked, tight-sleeved, barege ; with a sort of over- coat or pelisse of white cross-barred muslin, the full drawn body puffing out before and behind, so as to present the idea of an infant hunchback. He of the monkey-jacket was suflering under a heavy fall } of yellow ringlets, that spread far down his back

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40 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. and shoylders from beneath a small black beaver hat. He of the red shirt had an equal mass of long tresses that would only curl sometimes, and was always obstinately straight when it ought not to be. His head was shaded by a huge white sombrero. The hair belonging to him of the flounce being quite unmanageable, it was docked off short and thick, She of the black polka jacket, short balzorine frock, and long thin white-stockinged legs, had lengthy Kenwig plats, and a small pink bonnet that sat on the top of her head, leaving its back and front both uncovered. Her sister, whose hair was strangely tardy in its growth, wore a worked muslin cap frilled thickly covering his neck like a mane. with lace, and went unbonneted; screening her head and eyes with a dwarf sunshade, when she remembered to do so; and having two bunches of false curls pinned inside the front of her coif. All the five children of Mrs. William Whately were And well they might be, as all their sleeves and bodies were too tight, and all their heads and necks too hot. When the Whately party were deposited at the Blackwater Springs, they found nearly all the company assembled in the vast veranda to inspect Mrs. Percy Howard immediately reconizged the self-called housekeeper. ‘*There”’—said she to her husband — ‘‘ there is that Housekeeper person again. The woman thin, yellow, restless and uncomfortable. the new arrivals. seems to haunt me. I suppose these people are the family with whom she lives. I should say they were evidently mere parvenues; only that in this country, there is no distinguishing the parve- nues from the sort that wish to pass for the aristo- eracy. They are all so much alike. The safest way is to regard them all as parvenues, for so in- deed they are. As to the distinctions between the different classes, they are here so slight as to be imperceptible to the unpractised eyes of Euro- peans.”’ ‘*Of Englishwomen, you mean’’—replied her husband. ‘*‘ To most other Europeans they are perceptible enough. it affords me great pleasure, much amusement, and indeed instruction, to converse indiscriminately with all sorts of Americans that chance to be thrown in my way.”’ ** Yes, yes””—returned his wife—‘‘I saw you Be that as it may, I confess this morning at the back-gate, holding a long con- fabulation with the butter man.” ‘*A very honest, sensible person, who supplies this establishment with excellent butter. He gave me some new ideas on dairy-farming.”’ At the dinner-table (to which no children were admitted) the two Mrs. Whatelys appeared in full costume; Mrs. John in the reddish purple silk, and a grand cap furbelowed with lace above lace, and glowing with bright pink ribbons; Mrs. Wil- liam in a brilliant, many-tinted, large-figured bal- zorine, with an indescribable thing at the back of her head made of white tulle, and blue ribbons, and yellow flowers. Mr. William Whately, who was placed between his wife and his sister-in-law, was no particular sort of man; which may account for his having had no particular success in busi- ness. The Percy Howards sat nearly opposite. Mrs. John gave Mrs. Howard a nod, which was returned only by a fixed stare. ‘* There’’—said Mrs. Howard, in a demi-voice, to her husband—‘‘there is that eternal house- keeper again—in full dress, and sitting at table with her master and mistress, who have shame- fully intruded her upon what is called the company. Was there ever such a country as this? She is nodding at me again. I really think I will quit the table.’’ ‘*Don’t, my dear, don’t’’—said Mr. Howard. ** You will never get on in America unless you are more conformable to the usages of the people. I'll return her nods for you. Besides, you may be mistaken in the woman. She may not be a house- keeper after all.’” ‘*T cannot be mistaken. There is no forgetting her face. She told me herself she was a house- keeper. She kept me in talk for half an hour, when I went to inquire after a cook. I found her clean- To think now that her master and mistress should have the assurance to bring her here, and publicly make a companion of her, and expect the company to tolerate her. Mr. Howard, you must really take me back to England. I cannot live in this country. Indeed I cannot. It is utterly impossible.”’ Mr. Howard had heard this utter impossibility so often that he had left off replying to it. Also, his attention was just now engaged by overhear- ing a great looking-glass. ing Mrs. John Whately’s remarks on the bill of fare; which, having finished her soup, she was engaged conning over ina state of great puzzle- ment. ‘* These entries’’—said she to her brother-in- law—‘‘ seem every one to be French dishes. I wonder what they are like, for there’s no making them out by their names. ‘ Riss de voo picky,’— * Riss de voo a juice’-—Here waiter, get me some riss de voo—and be sure it’s the picky (pointing on the bill to ris de veau piqué)—I want to see what that is.’’ The waiter thought it was not his place to tell her, and when he brought it, she exclaimed to Mr. Whately—‘‘ La! William, only look—it’s nothing but larded sweet-bread. I never fancied Let me see the bill again—I’ll not Waiter bring sweet-bread. try the other riss—Lapins in giblet. me some lappins.”’ He brought her a plate of lapins en gibelote or fricasseed rabbit. ‘*Ts this it ??’—said she—‘‘ see, William—don’t it look like pieces of stewed rabbit. But I see no giblets. To be sure the giblets of rabbits an’t much. This must be rabbit’’—dubiously. ‘Or else pussey-cat’’ —said Mr. Graves, a humorous old gergleman who sat at Mrs. Whate- ley’s elbow. ‘* True enough’’—remarked the lady—ponder-

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THE LADY HER ingly. ‘‘ It may be that, indeed—I’ve heard that French cooks are up to all sorts of abominations. Waiter, take away these two plates—I have not tasted either of them; so don’t throw the things away. It’sashame to waste even French messes. They may do for the poor. Oh! mercy! yon- der’s something like a snake all coiled round on a bed of parsley, with it’s head sticking right up. Pray sir, what is it? (turning to Mr. Graves,)—I only ask for information. I would not taste it for the world.’’ ‘*T cannot at this distance ascertain whether it is a rattlesnake or a copperhead’’—was the reply of Mr. Graves, as he cast his eyes towards an elaborate preparation of minced fish, ingeni yusly moulded into the form of a serpent, and decorated all over the surface with snake-like stripes in very natural colors. ‘* Defend us from all evil !’’—ejaculated Mrs. Whately —‘‘ Why this is the worst of all. I don’t wonder John Whately has such a spite at French dishes; so that he won't allow one of the m inside of his house. He ] ke S re al good living, such as everybody can understand. And so do ag ‘* There are plenty of plain dishes on the side- table’? —remarked William Whately. ‘‘ They are all named in the bill of fare.’’ **So they are. Well, I don’t care if I try some roast pig. ‘That’s not so very plain. I see it’s set down as just roast pig and nothing more. I suppose there’s no French for roast pig. After that, I’ll have some loin of veal, and thena bit of duck.”? While discussing these viands, one after ano- ther, Mrs. except when she turned towards Mr. Graves to John Whately kept tolerably silent, inform him that none of these things were cooked her way. When the dessert was placed on the table, she again consulted the bill, saying, ‘‘ Well, I believe I’ll try the French again. Now, waiter bring me some of this omelet souffel. Oh! pshaw—it all goes to nothing—flat, dab—as soon as the spoon is Where’s the use of suchthings. Waiter, Pho!—they’re put in. bring me some bignets de pommies. I must fall back upon only apple fritters. I see pies and puddings. There are plenty here. But I doubt if any of them are made my way.” Mr. Graves and Mrs. Howard had several times exchanged glances, but Mrs. Howard was too Mrs. William Whately sat reddening and swelling with suppressed in- much disgusted to smile. dignation, (her usual sentiment towards Mrs. John,) and the aspect of Mr. William was nothing particular. Dinner being over, Mrs. John retired to take a nap, and Mr. and Mrs. William went to their own room ; where, surrounded by all the children, (who stopped their play to listen,) the lady vented in no measured terms, her total and entire disap- probation of all her sister-in-law’s looks, ways, sayings and doings,—past, present, and to come ; 4* OWN HOUSEKEEPER. 41 finishing with—‘‘ But, remember, children, how- ever ridiculous your aunt Sarah may make her- self, she is not to see you laughing at her before Mr. William Whately heard all; but looked no way, and said nothing. her face.”? Evening came ; and most of the company had assembled in the drawing-room. By this time, they were all aware that there was a woman among them whose rank was that of housekeeper to the persons who had strangely and shamefully presumed to bring her with them to the Black- water Springs. So it was resolved, by a majority, that the whole party should be sent to Coventry, and kept there. Of course, the report emanated from Mrs. Percy Howard ; who, upon her own authority, had dis- closed the fact to the very few ladies with whom she condescended to have a speaking acquaint- ance. There chanced just new to be no Phila- delphians at these springs, except the Whatelys themselves; and, therefore, there were none to rectify the error. The ball being once set in motion, rolled rapidly round—the story was indus- John Whately, cause,) became the object of triously circulated; and Mrs. (unconscious of the much gazing, watching, whispering, sleeve-pull- ing and toe-treading. Mrs. William perceived something of this; but attributed it to her sister- in-law’s absurd sayings and doings, and lookings. Mrs. John made many attempts to get into con- versation with the best-dressed, or rather the most-dressed ladies; but was always coldly re- pe lled, for who would be seen talking to a hire ling housekeeper ? There was much animadversion on the assu- rance of Mr. and Mrs. William Whately, in presuming to bring this woman with them, and to allow her to seat herself at table and in the drawing-room as if she was one of the company. Some surmised that she must be a poor relation. Others said no—for poor relations are never drest up and taken to watering-places; unless, indeed, they are pretty young girls, who may elevate the family by chancing to make great matches. Some few supposed that the housekeeper might be so excellent in her capacity, and so valuable to her employer, that to retain her in their service, they thought it best to pay her a high salary, and allow her every possible indulgence. This idea was adopted by Mrs. Lemington. a young married lady from the south; and whose fortune and high-breeding, united with the patri- cian connections of both her husband and herself, had elevated her far above the necessity of affect- ing any airs of exclusiveness. ‘To her, no idea of degradation could be associated with her incli- nation to show some civility even to a house- keeper; particularly as the poor woman was evidently suffering from finding herself in a false position. And it was from a feeling of compas- sion she was not afraid to indulge, that the young, beautiful, and elegant bride of Mr. Lemington, her husband being engaged in talking on the last

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42 news with some gentlemen,) approached the now solitary Mrs. Whately ; who having changed her dinner-dress for an evening costume still more costly, wondered why nobody seemed to take to her. The William Whatelys carefully avoiding her vicinity, kept on the other side of the room; Mrs. William occupying herself with murmuring to her husband invidious comments on all the company ; and he making no answer. Mrs. Lemington, seeing our unfortunate heroine left alone upon a corner ottoman, kindly took a seat beside her, and very soon engaged her in her favo- rite and most natural topic, the management of household affairs; a subject on which Mrs. Whately was always at home, discussing it understandingly and improvingly, and talking far better than when she attempted to expatiate on finery and fashion. Mrs. Lemington, on her return to the south, was to settle in the mansion-house of her husband’s plantation. other respects highly cducated) having no know- Being very young, and (though in ledge whatever of housewifery, she was desirous of taking home with her some very competent mid- dle-aged person as superintendent of her establish- ment. She now thought she had found that per- son in our heroine, whose surname had not been heard by any of the company; the William Whatelys never calling their sister-in-law anything but Sarah. Mrs. John, completely in her element, now poured out upon her attentive auditor a portion of her practical experience in cookery, laundry-work, house-cleaning, kitchen regulations,” &c. ‘* What a treasure would this woman be to me !”»—thought Mrs. Lemington. Two hours wore away; and still the one talked and the other listened. Atlast, when Mrs. Whately paused for a moment to take breath, Mrs. Leming- ton ventured to ask if she was perfectly satisfied with her present situation. **'To be sure I am’’—was the reply—‘‘ What more can I wish for—I have plenty of everything I want, good health, money enough for all purposes, and I can do exactly as I please.” **Have you ever been south ?’*—inquired Mrs. Lemington. ** Never—I have very little time to travel.” ** I should be exceedingly glad to see you at my house’’—resumed the young lady. ** Thank you’”*—replied Mrs. Whately. **In short”*—proceeded the fair southerner—‘‘ I should be delighted if I could prevail on you to consider it your future home.” ** Dear me !”—replied Mrs. Whately—‘‘ I have always heard that you southern people are very kind to strangers. But this beats all. I must say that [ never before was invited to go to another person’s house and stay for ever. I am very much obliged to you—indeed Iam. But, even supposing that everything else would suit—what am I to do with my husband ?”” The lady started—‘‘ Have you then a husband ?”’ —said she. GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. LARA ALLL PP ~~ ‘*To be sure I have—why should not I? He’s now traveling west; but he’ll soon be home ; and I don’t think I’ll ever let him go away from me again ; except for a day or two.”’ ‘* A husband !?*—repeated Mrs. Lemington, in a tone of disappointment—‘‘ that alters the case. However glad I should be to have you at my house, I do not think I could in any way receive your husband.”? ‘* Why, what’s the matter with him? What’s He’s agentleman—quite as good It’s a strange your objection ? as me—and fit to go wherever I go. thing to invite a lady to visit you, and tell her you cannot have her husband.”? “* You puzzle me’’—said Mrs. Lemington—‘‘ I fear we misunderstand each other. Let me explain that my purpose is to endeavor to engage you as my housekeeper. I will allow you any salary you can reasonably ask, and all the privileges and in- dulgences that you now enjoy; for I know I shall find your services most valuable. I do not wish to seduce you from your present employers; though in Philadelphia, I conclude they would find no difficulty in obtaining a competent person to fill your place. But in case that you should, at any time, desire a change of residence, and feel an inclination to live in the south, remember that I will gladly take you, and make it well worth your while tostay with me. Nay, upon further conside- ration, your husband may accompany you. Mr. Lemington thinks of changing his overseer. In that capacity he can occupy an excellent house on the plantation.” ‘*Good gracious, young lady!—What in the name of wonder are you talking about ?’’—ex- claimed Mrs. John Whately—‘‘ Me a housekeeper ! My husband an overseer—I am quite dumbfounded! What has put all this into your head? Why, we are rich people ; living in Philadelphia; in a fine large house of our own; with Saxony carpets, and brocade curtains; and chandeliers, and silver forks ; and servants, and everything; and dinner- company, and tea-company. Don’t you see how I dress—that is, how I can dress if I choose ?— though I do not see proper to wear my best clothes when I’m attending to my house, and going to market ; and traveling in steam- boats and cars, with men spitting on me. I have no less than five beautiful silk gowns, and two satins, and a maroon velvet, and two sets of jewels; and as to thread- lace, it’s quite a drug to me. What could have put it into your head to offer me a place ?’’ It was now Mrs. Lemington’s turn to be dumb- founded. ** Who has been scandalizing me ?’’—proceeded Mrs. Whately—elevating her voice, and her head. ‘* Who has been saying I was a housekeeper ?”’ ** You told me so yourself**—steadfastly replied Mrs. Percy Howard, stopping as she passed along, leaning on her husband’s arm.’ ‘‘I found you in a very untidy deshabille, mounted on a step-lad- der, and cleaning a looking-glass, at a house to which I was directed to inquire the character of a

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cook. You yourself told me that the lady was out, and that you were her housekeeper. Look in my face, and deny it if you can.” Mrs. Whately did not look in her face, but colored crimson, cast down her eyes much embar- rassed, and murmured—‘‘ I meant that the mistress of the house—that every lady ought to be her own housekeeper.”’ ** You meant no such thing’’—sternly persisted Mrs. Howard—‘‘I first was blind enough to sur- mise that you might be what is here called a lady; knowing that, in this country, it is scarcely possi- ble to distinguish who are ladies and who are not. 3ut you told me with your own lips that you were the housekeeper, and that the lady was out. If there is any falsehood in the case, ’tis of your own making, and not mine.”’ Poor Mrs. Whately, driven into the last corner, now burst into tears ; and persons began gathering round to inquire what was the matterr ; ‘‘ Nothing but a scene’’—said Mrs. Howard. ‘** Sarah seems in trouble over yonder”—spoke Mr. °William Whately to his wife—‘‘ Let us go and see if we can relieve her.”? ‘* No—let us rather keep off’’—was the reply— ‘‘If Sarah has got herself into the mire, let her scramble out of it as well as she can. If we go near her, we may be dragged in too.” ‘*T am sorry to see you so overcome”’—said the kind Mrs. Lemington to Mrs. Whately, her own eyes filling with tears—‘‘ I fear I have unwittingly caused you much annoyance, for which I entreat your forgiveness. Had you not best retire for awhile, till you become more composed. I will accompany you out of the room.” ‘* Allow me that office, madam’?—said Mr. Howard to Mrs. Whately—‘“‘ oblige me by taking my arm !”? ‘*Percy Howard!’’ — exclaimed his wife — hastily withdrawing hers. Then lowering her voice, she added—‘‘ You are at your old democratic tricks.”’ **T may as well tell the whole truth at once”— sobbed Mrs. Whately. After a short pause, she summoned courage, wiped her eyes, and mag- nanimously spoke as follows—‘‘ The English lady is right, as to one thing—I did tell her I was the housekeeper, when I was Mrs. John Whately all the time, and a rich woman. I did pretend to be my own housekeeper, because I was ashamed that Mrs. Percy Howard should catch Mrs. John Whately cleaning a looking-glassin a wrapper. It was a sort of a fib that came upon me all of a sud- den, without thinking or planning. How could I suppose it would bring on anything uncomfortable ’ THE LADY HER OWN HOUSEKEEPER. 43 weeks afterward ; or that I should ever have cause to be sorry for it? It seemed a trifle that could hurt nobody, ever. I now see that my husband is right. He always tells me to keep clear of what he calls white lies ; and says that if they seem ever so white at first, they always look dirty enough after awhile.” ‘* And are you really Mrs. John Whately”— inquired Mrs. Howard —‘‘ house in which I saw you in a wrapper mounted on a step-ladder, and cleaning a looking-glass ?”? and mistress of the ‘You need not repeat that so often. To be sure Iam, Mrs. John Whately, and if you doubt it you may go to the bar, and look at the arrival- book ; and you'll find me set down there as Mrs. John Whately of Philadelphia, and the others as Mr. and Mrs. William Whately and family. He’s my husband’s brother, but not half sorich. Here, William and Mary, come over here—you’re want- ed.” They came—Mrs. William looking very cross. ; ‘* Now, both of you’*—proceeded Mrs. John— ‘*please to prove, as if you were witnessing in court, that I am myself, and nobody else.’’ **T don’t know who could mistake you for any- body else’’—remarked her sister-in law. ‘*An’t I Mrs. Sarah Whately, wife of your brother, Mr. John Whately, merchant of Phila- delphia, in America ?”’ ‘* Certainly you are’’—replied William. ‘** And an’t I mistress of a large fine house with elegant furniture ; and have not I plate and jewels, and handsome dresses ?”’ ‘* Certainly you have.’’ ‘« There, then—and now, if anybody twits me again about that housekeeper business, I’ll affront them, whoever they may be—English or other- wise.”? Whether it was from the fear of this threat, or from the deference usually paid to wealth, when- ever its existence is substantiated, we cannot exactly say ; but (Mrs. Percy Howard having prevailed on her husband to depart next morning) the tide at the Blackwater Springs now turned entirely in favor of Mrs. John Whately. During the remainder of her stay, she was (to the great annoyance of her sister-in-law) rather courted than shunned. The glancings, whisperings, twitchings, and sleeve-pull- ings all ceased. At least no one laughed at her, or talked about her, except in her absence. Many persons now discovered that she was quite a gen- teel personage, and every way agreeable ; it being only to new arrivals that (as soon as her back was turned) the tale was repeated of the lady her own housekeeper.

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MODEL COTTAGES. iN ENT a fi STITT * 2s MDa, PERSPECTIVE VIEW. Accommodation.—The ground floor contains an ‘ stair to bed-rooms, e; privy, f; and place for wood, entrance-lobby, a; back kitchen with oven, 6; best © pigs, or poultry, g. On the chamber floor there kitchen or living-room, c; closet under the stair, d; are two bed-rooms; the largest, A, which is entered a ¢ eo Tawt ee aee i " GROUND FLOOR.

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MODEL COTTAGES. 45 from the staircase, has a small closet, k; the other bed-room, J, has a press near the fireplace; and chests, and the other articles, may stand in the passage, m. CHAMBER Construction.—The walls, as high as the bed- room floor, are of brick; and from the bed-room floor to the roof, of stud work, or brick nogging plastered. The chimneys, Fig. 1, are of brick ¢ covered with composition; or they may be formed entirely of artificial stone. The roof is supposed to be thatched, the windows of lattice work, and the doors ledged. The large projecting window in the centre of the gable end, is called an oriel, or bay, or compass window, and is constructed in the following manner, viz: heart of oak bearers, Fig. 2, n, m, are projected from the walls at the given FLOOR. height in a horizontal position, and generally so as to form an angle with the wall of 45°. The ends of these beams are inserted in the walls, and the brick work is carried up over them, so that they are re- tained in their places by the whole weight of their superincumbent structure. By these means the diagonal beams afford a sufficient support to a pa- rallel beam, 0, which is dovetailed into the diagonal ones, as shown at p, p. The opening below the beams is covered in by the moulded boarding, ¢, in Fig. 3, to a scale of three-eighths of an inch ~ is w Tit ttt ttt) om OF emmereesesees “ST and the section of the front, or parallel is covered by the weather-boarding, r. to a foot, beam, 0, The beam x, n, ought to be of strong sound timber, and not less than fourteen inches by twelve. Oriel windows are generally constructed of wood-work,

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GODEY’S 46 as being lighter than any other material; but beams of the above dimensions are sufficient to support a wall of brick or stone. The manner in which oriel windows of stone are carried up, is founded upon the same principle, and will be described hereafter. Round the inside of these windows are generally formed seats, which commonly open in front, at s; or at the top, like a ship’s locker; so as to serve at the same time as a chest and aseat. Formerly these seats were called binks, bins, or bunkers; possibly a corruption of the French word, banc. The barge boards and pendants, both for the gable ends and windows, may be varied at pleasure, and they form very fit subjects of composition for exer- cising the ingenuity of our female readers. The enclosure to the pigsty is of oak pales. Remarks.—This cottage is disfigured, rather than otherwise, by the two appendages, f and g, at the ends; not but that the appendages are essentially requisite, but that they are given in a mean and common-place manner. ‘The door of f is also in too conspicuous a situation, and is too nearly re- sembling the door of the main entrance. In other respects the building is picturesque; expressive of what it pretends to be, an old English cottage, and not uncomfortable within. The mean character of the lean-to at the end, and the nakedness of the door of f, may very easily be remedied; asa glance at the plan, Fig. 4, and at the view of the end MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. Fig. 4. \ of the cottage, as so altered, Fig. 5, will sufli- ciently prove. General Estimate.—Cubic contents, 10,544 feet, at 9 cents per foot, $948 96; at 6 c., $632 64; at 4c., $421 76. THE DYING MOTHER. BY SAMUEL WEBB. DRAW nearer to my side, my son; The shades of night are gath’ring fast— My sands are wasting one by one, And I must kiss aad look my last Weep not—I do not fear to die I have a guardian God above ; He’ll bless the earth on which I lie, And smooth my pillow with his love That God shall be thy father, child, When I am gone from earth forever; Pray to Him—He is ever mild And waits to bless—forget Him never Lift up thy head—look not so pale— I'll kiss the brighi blood back again Ah, smile, my boy —that piteous wail Gives unto death its only pain I would not leave thee—no, oh God! — I would not leave thee—but in vain! It is a father’s chastning rod That parts us—I must not complain When I am dead, let not my name Be blotted from thy youthful heart; A spirit’s whisper—from al! shame ’T will sweetly warn thee to depart In after years, When on thy hearth The social fires of winter burn, Oh, think of her who gave thee birth, Who slumbers in her lowly urn Think not to raise upon my breast A monument or bust, my son; Beneath thy cherished love I'll rest Till time for thee no more shall run I’ve watched thee in thy cradle, boy, When fever parched thy infant frame, And welcomed health with beaming joy As smilingly ye lisped my name Think of the hours when o’er thy bed A mother bent in fervent prayer, Entreating Heaven upon thy head To pour rich grace and virtue rare I leave thee—but a mother’s love In death and night shall not expire; Bright forms shall bear the spark above And touch it with celestial fire Farewell—my eyes grow dim apace ; Look up, I cannot see thee now— But let me trace the manly grace That sits enthron’d upon thy brow Forget not God, my son. I hear Sweet music warbling through the air;— Nearer it comes, and still more near: Dost hear it? Now—hush! hark! there! there!

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THE WANDERING MINSTREL. GERMAN AIR. WRITTEN AND ARRANGED BY PROFESSOR FRED. W. HORNCASTLE. In Moperate TIME. , Coase SS SS SS ere a SS SS AY ol ° a — —-—-—__o—*-—__ —_*¥_#¥_-1 + —_ , —|—+ ] { , | How sweet ‘tis to wan-der, At eventide’s gloaming, A -- long the sweet — —@ _ — — a —- \ | a —|—7F I A Ae A A SE Sey Ne FEN ASSES a NS EE we my ne — f ac J=|== | ee eae Ree ° f banks of the lake, When = stars shining forth, And the sea-wave is foaming, My (ees eee eres —— —- gt | path I now cheerfully take. A poor wand’ring minstre] I left my sweet S285 === SSS SES SS EE a ee ee Ne RR SE = per Py ee ee ee eee ee eee | (eee es == [SS=i5 +— —e —— Sissi =, |=" LS eS ee eS ego—t-9— home, In quest of good fortune - To better my lot, Dut I find all the joys in _ the ae oe at re me eee eee =e bem 34 SET e ==2=34 fe | [+ Sa SI —+e—e—@e—— — -—- _-_ —-*

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48 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. oo world are but tinsel To that humble home, My own sweet native cot. Hilli O, Hilli | O, My own’ sweet native cot. Then share with the bard May all that the gods Your rich bounty bestowing In their goodness so surely On one who in poverty wanders afar Give to the kind souls who soft charity love O let all his comfort to you be still owing, Be yours in profusion And save his poor fame, If aided securely, By the world’s frowns now marr’d Your alms to the bard Your humanity prove SO — LADIES’ WORK DEPARTMENT.—NETTING. OO nnn “Familiar arts are beautiful through love,” says the worked long way, the stitches all cast on atonce. Net poet. So these fashions of “Ornamental Work,” only work should be damped and stretched until thoroughly to be found in our “ Book,” show the way of preparing dry. If a purse, it should be done on a purse stretcher many little love gifis of exquisite beauty and taste. And To make a stitch in netting, is to work two stitches it then, how dearly these will be valued by the receiver! one loop Not the most costly present bo t with money would To diminish, is to take two stitches on the needle, or be so highly prized as the delicate trifle made by the fair to net a loop over your finger without the mesh hand that presents it. Then, y fair, learn to Ner the Where beads are used, you must net with a small darn purse you present, if you would make it the talisman of ing needle. Thread a bead on the silk, and keep it there friendship. We shall now give the necessary instruc- until you have made the knot; then, the needle and silk tions, such as are followed by the noble and accomplished down at the back of the mesh, draw up the needle and ladies of England, in silk through it, which pulls the bead quite up to the knot you have just made. All beads, in netting, should be NETTING worked this way, otherwise they will move on the silk We suppose our readers understand the right way of NETTED LONG PURSE casting the stitches and netting, so we proceed to give THREE SKEINS OF RATHER FINE TWIST MESH NO. 15 & few particular directions All network looks and hangs much better by being net Cast on eighty loops. The purse must be netted or the contrary way to that in which it is intended to hang each side, leaving a space of about three inches in th For instan window curtains and purses should be centre

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LADIES’ HANDSOME LONG NETTED PURSE, WITH BEADS.—FIVE SKEINS OF VERY FINE NETTING SILK, AND LONG DARNING NEEDLE MESH NO. 18. Cast on one hundred loops, net eight rows with beads, the design of which can be taken from a Berlin pattern ; or stars are pretty There must be four plain rows of netting to divide the stripes; eight stripes make a good sized purse ROUND NETTED GENTLEMAN’S LONG PURSE. SECOND SIZED PURSE TWIST.—MESH NO. 16 Cast on one hundred loops; work one hundred rows. Mode of doing the stitch.—A loop must be made round after which, the finger, the same as in common netting; bring the needle up through the finger-loop behind the en the forefinger and mesh, turn the needle mesh; hetwe and bring it through the first loop on the foundation ; draw the needle through, and take the fingers away from the loop as in common netting BASKET rWIsT —MESH No. 11 ND KNITTING PU RSI ROI SCARLET AND GREEN COARSE WORK DEPARTMENT. 49 The size of the pins or mesh, around which the loops are made, are here numbered from one to twenty-six The round steel pin is used in all fine work, but a round or flat wood one in large work. Net a foundation of forty-two loops, tie on the scarlet and net five rounds; then take the second size ring and sew it over, taking each loop, and holding a smal! mesh at the same time upon the ring, so as to leave room for the needle to pass through the sewn-over loops; tie on the green and net eight rows; then fasten in one of the green rings cut of the foundation at the top, and fasten on the ring attached to the handle. This completes the top of the basket, and the bottom part is done in the same manner—only, after joining in the small ring, net it together to prevent the ball going through. The large rings must be covered with green, and the others with Tie the top and bottom together yith a button and scarlet narrow ribbon with a bow on one side, and to fasten loop ori the other. NETTED SCARF. MESH No. 2. Cast on seventy loops, work six rows with white; next, two rows each of six successive shades from dark to light; then recede from light to dark in the same way —those repeated again finish one end; work with white one yard and a half plain netting, and again repeat the shades at the other end; finish off with a knotted fringe at the ends. ROUND NETTED SCARF. TEN SHADES OF BERLIN WOOL.—MESH NO. 9 Cast on four hundred loops; net two rows of each shades to the lightest, then return to the darkest; net to gether the two sides like a purse ; draw up the ends, and put a tassel at each end. NETTED CUFFS. FOURTEEN SHADES OF WOOL.—MESHES No. 1,6 AND 12 Cast on twenty-five loops, with mesh No. 6; net one ht shade and back again sixth lightest shade, and row of each shade; net to the to the darkest; then with the mesh No. 1, net four stitches in each loop, edged with floss silk a shade lighter than the wool, and one loop into Double the cuff for both silk each, with mesh No. 12 edges to show, which forms a frill round the hand NETTED CUFFS. WHITE WOOL AND PINK SILK.— MESHES No. 8 AND 12 Cast on forty-four loops with mesh No. 8; then wit! silk and mesh No. 12, net one row of each alternately, until the cuff is long enough; then with mesh No. 3, ne two in each loop; then edge it with silk and mesh No 12; turn it over, and run a ribbon through the end GRECIAN NETTING. MESHES NO. 9 AND 16. Cast on an even number of loops. First row—mesh No. 9, plain netting Second row—mesh No. 16, first and second loops to be twisted together; net the small side loop by twisting the first and second loops together, making the loop on your finger, as in plain netting; pass the cotton through, the same as in round the the needle to be put into the first loop pointing to the top, pass it to the second loop, catch it through the first loop with the poin of the needle; the second loop is now on your needle again, catch the first loop, force it through the second netting ; point ot and you have your first loop on your needle; releas your fingers as in common netting; the neXt stitch to |

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50 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND. LADY’S BOOK. worked is a very small loop, appearing like a loose knot fringe on to the edge double. The colors to be arranged on the side of the twisted stitch; it is the loose part of according to fancy. The above is very pretty done in a the second loop that was twisted through the first. Al- long square shape, for a cornucopia stand, ways bear in mind to begin every alternate twisted row with a plain stitch, in order to give it a proper position. DAISY MAT. FIVE SHADES OF WOOL A ROUND NETTED PURSE. WITH DIAMONDS OF STEEL BEADS. Neton a round foundation ninety stitches. Net four plain rows; in the next row place a bead on every sixth stitch; in the next, every fifth and sixth; and in the next every fifth, so as to form a diamond. Net four plain rows, and repeat the pattern in beads, so as to come in the centre stitch of the former row ‘ "PRATCHE CROTCHET We gave ample directions for this beautiful work in our last volume. We trust these were read and remem- bered, so we will not repeat them. But we give here a very pretty fashion for mats that we think will be new to the ladies. The third engraving shows the frame with ten pegs on each of the four sides A FRAME NINE INCHES SQUARE, WITH TEN WOODEN PEGS ON EACH SIDE. TARGET MAT, WITH NETTED FRINGE.—THE CENTRE WORKED IN DOUBLE CROTCHET, WITH SHADED WOOL. Commence with the dark shade, tie it to the corne peg, cross it to the peg on the opposite side, wind it fii teen times round; do this on all the corner pegs. The tie the next lighter shade on the next pegs, and so ont the fourth shade. There will then be two centre peg> on each side which must contain the lightest shad: Thread a netting needle with strong twist, tie the cross Make a chain of six loops, join for a round, increase ings together each way, so as to form small squares work to the opposite peg and back on the next line, and frequently until it is six inches in diameter. Cast on Take a pair of small-pointed eighty loops for the fringe, with white three-thread so on till all are finished. fleecy and a mesh half an inch wide. scissors and run the points between each square, lea Second row—net two loops in every alternate loop ing about four threads at the bottom uncut. In doing Third row—with the shaded wool, and a mesh about a this, be careful not to cut the tying twist. The woo juarter of an inch wide, net two loops in every loop thus cut forms the tufis. Comb them up and cut then it requires six of these pieces to fringe the mat. Make round before you take it off the frame. Then slip it off up on a piece of milboard, and sew each piece of and comb the fringe, and cut it straight EDITORS’ TABLE, Hs drew his light from that he was amidst, happiness themselves unless they promote that of others As doth a lamp from air, which hath itself it will be best to reflect to-day on the means we can em Matter of light although it show it not.” ploy to work out any new plan we may devise. Wealth scientific knowledge, political power —we have none o It is well to form some new plan of happiness with these aids; and yet we can do more than all combined the New Year; and as ladies can never expect to gain

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n preparing the world to know and enjoy true happi- ness. If the poet was right in his axiom that ‘“‘ Reason’s whole pleasure, all the joys of sense Lie in three words—health, peace and competence,” the ladies may surely claim two-thirds of the triumph, should the world ever become reasonable enough to en- joy this pleasure. For are not the health and peace of mankind in an especial manner entrusted to their keep- ing’? From the foundation of character and constitution which every mother establishes for her children, must emanate the habits and condition of the world. We form the lawgivers, and if the laws are not good, it is a sure proof our part was not well done. We do not often obtrude our own doings or expe- riences on our readers, as egotism is not a word we ad- mire ; but for once we will give such an illustration. Once on a time we entered a railroad car and found every seat occupied save two, and these contained one person each. A stout lady, with a basket to match, had established herself in one seat, and she looked as though she would like all the room much better than our com- pany. We turned to the other side of the car. There sata gentleman close to the window, leaving a conve- nient space for us—and moreover, as he wus intently reading a newspaper, we concluded he would not be troubled. It was unpleasant to us to have a stranger dis- turb himself by offering, as a gentleman would feel bound to do, his place by the window; and so we sat quietly down, and the cars went on, and the gentleman seemed unconscious of any change. concealment. Suddenly laying down his paper, the gentleman turned and asked us to take the seat by the window. We de- clined. “TI would insist upon it,” he replied, “for I am sure you would find it the most pleasant, only I fear I should annoy you if I changed, for I am, I regret to say, in the vile habit of using tobacco. On this account I always And then he continued the conversation by regretting that he could not abandon a habit which he was convinced injured his health and knew gave annoyance to others. American chivalry was too strong for wish to occupy the seat by a window.” We, of course, answered with all due consideration for his feelings, though we could not say (as we once heard a lady) that we “admired tobacco;” but we ob- served that when a gentleman had once learned to use it, he could not well relinquish the habit. “I beg your pardon, madam,” said he; “Gentlemen never learn—boys learn, and men continue the practice.” “ Boys learn!” Remember this, mothers; and remem- ber all these were in your power when, to use the em- phatic language of Carlyle, “they were little red-color- ed, pulpy infants, each of them capable of being kneaded, baked into any social form you choose.” Shall we be considered as boasting of our own sons when we merely state the effect our opinions and wishes have had on them respecting this particular habit. They knew their mother thought the use of tobacco injurious, if not to health, at least by the waste of time, and often by lead- They knew that she would prefer they should not learn to use it— and they have never learned. ing to other idle or pernicious indulgences. CouRSE OF READING FOR LADIES.—The foregoing ob- servations are intended as a sort of preface to the coun- sel we shall give, from month to month, concerning the books we consider most appropriate for our sex. We must never lose sight of the grand truth, that the de- velopment of the human mind and the direction of pub- lic opinion are both committed to women. The books But the spirit of EDITORS’ ‘ 51 we read our children will read also; the sentiments we imbibe from our reading we shall transmit to them “ There is no universal power here below except that of women,” says the celebrated Aimé-Martin. This power is only good so far as it is based on moral and religious truth. gious feelings should be early and constantly cultivated. The foundation stone of their temple of learning must be the Gospel of Jesus Christ. Woman without the Bible is but a doll or aslave. The fire of her genius can only burn clear and bright when placed on the altar of the true God. “Our religion is that of our mother,” says a celebrated French writer; and, he might have added, this religious medium prepares the human soul for the reception of all its ideas. The mind cannot be healthy when surrounded by moral miasma. Go, then, to the source of truth. Begin with the Bible; and though it may be you have read it many times, you can never exhaust its informa tion or its interest. Itis the earliest history. It contains the first and most sublime specimens of poetry ; and one of the first poets was a woman. Its narratives, for true pathos and beauty of sentiment, are unequaled. Where, in all the ancient writers, can be found tales of such ten- der and thrilling interest for our sex as those of Esther and Ruth? If these were now published for the first time as translations from the French of some popular writer, how they would be seized upon and read without a pause in afeverof admiration! And yet, though there are few if any ladies in our land but believe that the Bible is the word of God, containing the oracles of divine wis- dom, truth and love, and revealing the hope and the way of eternal life, is not this Book of books wo often laid aside and forgotten for the last novel ? But this New Year, let us begin it with new resoln- tions and better habits. Let us resolve that, whatever else we may read, the Bible shall have its place on our tables and in our course of reading. If any lady wishes to teach herself a new language, one of the best prepa- ratives is to read the New Testament in that language An eminent English philologist reeommended this course, which he had always practised; and we can testify that in this way, reading the Gospel in different languages, has been to us the source of rapid improve- ment in such studies. Begin this reading simultaneously with the study of the grammar of any language, and by the aid of a dictionary you will in a short time be able to understand the sense, and also learn and remember the words far better than when merely studying the rules and committing phrases to memory. Let the Bible, then, be the work with which to commence a course of reading; and in our “ Book” of next month we will pro- ceed to show how, with this pure foundation, all literary knowledge worthy of a place in the heart and soul of Women. then, require that their moral and reli- woman may be best acquired. We will here give a notice, furnished by a friend, of some of our American writers. The article is worthy of attention. WORDS ON CRITICS AND CRITICISM. I have an old note-book, in which I wrote, one day, as follows:—“ None see and feel but such as are alive. Truth, Beauty and Goodness must live within us before we can have a sympathy for them, and, therefore, before we can truly see them in the out-world. They are ever divine ; yet in many souls they are drowned in the gulfs of dead seas, and, in the best, their life is not perfect. A character or a book may have the richest life, yet men see and feel it no farther than they have similar life in What is a dull, dark desert to que is a radi- As none but the pure in themselves. ant realm of light to another.

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52 heart can see God, so none can have a divine vision of the universe until it lives within them.” These words were written in the days of a youth that is not yet so far away as it might be. Perhaps Mr. Poe will read them, bite his pen, and exclaim, * Goosethe- Yet they contain a thought, expressed Very rumfoodle !” with sufficient clearness for him to understand it. possibly they are brimful of “ Transcendentalism,” for I wrote them with a very distinct remembrance of a passage in Emerson, which begins as follows—“ Nature ever wears the colors of the spirit,’ and out of which Mr structed one of his poems. The thought I endeavored to record in this passage from my note-book, I find very useful in taking account of my own feelings, as well as in my interviews with Aldrich (who does plagiarize sometimes) has con- the critics. The true critic comprehends and interprets truly all he touches, whatever may be the “subjective condition” or particular relations of the mind from which it comes. But to be a true critic, to have glorious eyes, all alive with light, to be entirely transfigured with truth, and dwell always in the heaven of Beauty, these are great With lesser attainments, perhaps, it is hardly possible to attainments; and they are not very common. escape being dogmatists. Vehement dogmatism in poli- tics and theology is useful, itis said. It may be so in criticism. However this may be, it is certainly good every way for those who endeavor to engage the public ear, io speak out honestly what they think carefully. The faithful record of a living soul’s impressions never fails to secure attention, and it is always worth reading Such records are most genial and beautiful when full of loving responses to what is divine in the tones of other voices. us to the beautiful land When a critic cannot get out of himself to comprehend If they do not contain true criticism, they direct life different from his own, and read another’s work in the very atmosphere where it was written, he will not show us the truth, though he may think he has the voice of an oracle. In Margaret Fuller’s recent “ Papers on Literature and Art,” she has recorded a very sharp, contemptuous judgment of the poetry of James Russel Lowell. She tells us her opinion in this case will grieve some and disgust others. I admire Miss Fuller on many Werela phrenologist, I should suspect she has a large brain, a accounts. She is a woman of strong talent. powerful temperament, and a respectable organ of self- esteem. But her soul does not yet live in the most azure regions, and her critical judgments sometimes fail of being radiantly serene and her voice has singular power to arrest attention. Yet her soul is living and strong, Some of Mr. Lowell's immediate friends profess that they are neither grieved nor disgusted, and wish she could be present with them to hear how they make merry over her sentence of excommunication. Yet they say so in tones that denote a merriment just ready to cry for anger. It may be that Lowell has realized rather more popu- larity than is truly his share; and so, it may be, has Longfellow. Still they both deserve much; and Lowell, we think, will yet deserve more. But Miss Fuller, evidently, is not well qualified to criticise the songs of such a one as Lowell. He is a poet, notwithstanding her sentence of excommunication. Many of his poems are true songs to me, whatever they may be to her. I know not how it is, but there may be some things in his literary course at which Miss Fuller thinks she does well to be angry, and for which she en- deavors to castigate him. I repeat it, I admire Miss Ful- ler’s genius—and perhaps I ought to admire the accom- plished lady’s lordliness. GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. There is one consideration that may do something to explain her want of appreciation in this case. It is very apparent in what they write that these two individuals have had very dissimilar experiences of life. Itis evi- dent that Lowell’s life (and he is still very young) has always been along fragrant and beautiful garden paths He does not sing of agony and darkness like one who has felt these things. His experiences have been very happy. He has never wrestled and bled in a struggle with destiny, nor been compelled to think and rend his way to light through gulfs of thick darkness. How dit- ferent in this respect is what we see in his poems from the revelations in “ Festus,” for instance. The Legend of Brittany is a poem, and the next age will say so. Yet it is not the work of a poet who had struggled in the gloom of night against shipwreck on the Black Sea of Pain. Is it not this, and nothing else, that Miss Fuller feels when she says he lacks “depth of thought?” It is plain that her experience has been different. I know nothing about it, but I presume she knows what it is to wrestle “High natures must be He has heard this said It is fre- with pain and feel darkness. thunder-scarred,” says Lowell. or observed it. She, it may be, has felt it. quently said that a bustling life of action and adventure furnishes the best materials for biography, while there is little or nothing to record in the quiet lives of literary people. But if the inward lives of some of these people could be truly, frankly written, it would appear other- wise. Souls have adventures in solitary chambers, and in places where the ways of life seem very quiet, In which bodies do not participate. These adventures are often more wonderful and far more worthy of record than any tales of the crusaders or the robbers If Lowell’s lack of painful experiences be a fault, it is If he lives shall probably some day hear voices Then we may begin He has written a fault which time will undoubtedly cure. many years, we from the lower deeps of his nature. to calculate his chances with posterity. some trash; but I think he will at length burn all such verses as those about the “Royal Pedigree,” and sing in constant harmony with the music of nature. If he never succeeds to sing like the storms, he may sing like the streams and the siars. Ovr Hotipays.— We have but two that we can call The New Year is a holiday to all the “ Fourth entirely national. world, and Christmas to all Christians— but the of July” and “ Thanksgiving Day” can only be enjoyed by Americans. The annual Thanks- giving Day was, to be sure, mostly confined to the New England States, till within a few years. We are glad to see that this good old puritan custom is becoming popu- The past year saw it cele- It was holden observance of lar throughout the Union. brated in twenty-one or two of the States on the same day, November 26th, in seventeen, we believe. Would that the next Thanksgiving might be observed in all the states on the same day. ‘Then, though the members of the same family might be too far separated to meet around one festive board, they would have the gratification of knowing, that all were enjoying the bles- sings ofthe day. From the St. John’s to the Rio Grande, from the Atlantic to the Pacific border, the telegraph of human happiness would move every heart to rejoice simultaneously, and render grateful thanks to God for the blessings showered on our favored country. As this is a subject in which ladies should take a deep interest, will it be thought presumptuous if our “ Book,” as their especial organ, leads the way in this good work of union in Thanksgiving? The “Lady’s Book” then sug- gests that, from this year, 1647, henceforth and forever, as long as the Union endures, the last Thursday in No-

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EDITORS’ eee vember be the Day set apart by every State for its annual Thanksgiving. Will not the whole press of the country advocate this suggestion ? That the coming seasons may be those of improvement and happiness. and dispose all our friends to anticipate with pleasure, the approaching holidays is our earnest wish. BOOK TABLE. 53 To CoRRESPONDENTS.— We have accepted the follow- ing articles—‘“ What though the Sky is Sometimes black.” “The White Cascade.” “Lines to-——" “A Little Meek ;” and two letters from Carthagena. We must decline “The Tribune”—“ Song”—“ Great Men and Little Deeds”—“ The New Planet”—“ A Song for the Brave”—“ The Worldly Wise”—and “A Thrill- ing Tale.” The “Christmas Tree” was received too late. It is subject to the command of the author. tt PODS BOD FG EDITORS’ “ Correggio: a Tragedy, (hlensehalager.” “Sapho: a Tragedy,by Grillparzer.’—Translated from the Ger- man. Boston: Philips & Sampson, pp. 303. We have read this volume with great pleasure, and fee] sure the translator will find her work a most accepta- ble one to the American public. The gifted painter, the inspired poetess are here shown to us as they lived and died; and we feel they were both worthy the earthly immortality their genius has won. Of Correggio, the author truly says—*“ His crown of genius shall dazzle worlds, when golden crowns have perished!” Of her— the love-victim, that—* Only with the earth the fame of Sapho dies.” “ Urania: a Rhymed Lesson.” By Oliver Wendell Holmes. Boston: Wm. D. Ticknor & Co. ° This very clever and amusing poem was spoken by the author before the * Mercantile Library Association ;” and the “lessons” given derive much of their point and interest from local circumstances. To enjoy it fully it must have been heard. Still the blaze of wit and play of fancy cannot but enliven and warm the heart of every reader; all who have Yankee blood will feel it stirred with a quicker glow of patriotism as they run over the pages. Dr. Holmes is a real poet—and might soon be- come celebrated, would he devote the time to the Muses that he gives to Esculapius. He probably finds that potions are better paid than poems— but we hope he will soon “ throw physic” over to others, and devote himself to literary pursuits. Let him remember that doctors die and are forgotten like their patients—but the true poet lives, in the heart of his country—forever. “ A Treatise on the Motive Powers which produce the Cir- culation of the Blood.”.—By Emma Willard: 8vo. Lon- don and New York, 1346. Wiley & Putnam. We do not feel sufficiently instructed in the subjects, treated of by Mrs. Willard, to decide on the merits of her work ; but we are glad to see that it is favorably noticed by the London press. The “ Critic” has a long article on the book, highly complimentary to female genius generally, and to this * American lady” in par- ticular. We commend the book to the attention of ladies as well as all who take an interest in physiological science and the preservation of health. “ Mystis, with other Etchings and Sketches..—By Mrs. L. H. Sigourney. Messrs. Harpers, New York. This is a handsome volume, and will make an excellent gift- book for the holidays. The stories, thirteen in number, are of the thoughtful cast, aiming to do good, and invite a love of things truly pure and beautiful. The work may be found at Lindsay & Blakiston’s, Philadelphia. “ The Diadem for 1247.” Carey & Hart. We have received from Messrs. Carey & Hart “The Diadem for 147.” illustrated by ten elegant engravings from original paintings by Sully, Leutze, Rothermeh!, Maclise, &c. To say that this is one of the richest works of the sea- 5* ; BOOK TABLE. son, is only to say what the public will when they have looked at it. The engravings are superb, and they are left to tell their own story. Some of the pictures are from the coilection of the late Mr. Carey. A most beau- tiful Gift Book for the season. The “Poetical Works of Wm. Cullen Bryant,” a superb edition, with twenty elegant engravings from original designs by E. Leutze. Carey & Hart, Philadelphia. There are certainly no publishers in the United States who deserve more credit than these gentlemen for the admirable manner in which they have brought out the works of our great native poets,—illustrated by our own painters. First—Longfellow, illustrated by Huntington, —now Bryant, by Leutze. As well as Bryant can write, so well has Leutze illustrated his writings ;—and we think there never has been a more beautiful book pre- sented to the public. As for acriticism upon the writings of Mr. Bryant, it is, of course, not to be thought of in a mere notice of the publication of a Gift Book. That subject has been handled better in other parts of our own work. “Kings of France,” illustrated, by Thos. Wyatt, A. M. Carey & Hart, Philadelphia. This volume contains seventy-two portraits of the Sovereigns of France, with the principal incidents of their lives, from the foundation of the monarchy to Louis Philippe, with a concise bio- graphy ofeach. We know that Mr. Wyatt has been at great pains to collect the materials for this work, and the medals from which the engravings have been executed ; his success has been wonderful, and his book is an in- stance of great research and learning. Geo. P. Morris and N. P. Willis issued, on the 2ist of November, the first number of the “Home Journal.” This paper was formerly known as the “ National Press,” but for reasons which follow its title has been changed. “The necessity of constantly correcting an impression that the ‘ Nationa! Press’ is a political paper, has in- duced the undersigned editors to express its character more distinctly by putting forward the name which has hitherto been only secondary in its title. The general design of the “ Home JouRNAL” is to furnish entertaining reading, to make a brief and complete chronicle of pass- ing events, to give the cream of new books, to keep a watchful look-out for Genius in Literature, Music and Art; and, in short, to furnish a paper by which families may keep up with the times. This plan will be added to and varied whenever ingenuity and resources can find new and valuable attractions; but our main purpose will be constantly kept in view, viz.: to issue a periodi- eal which, by its scope and comprehensive contents, shall suffice for families that wish to take but one paper.e At the small price of two dollars per annum, so important and improving a luxury is within the means of ail.”

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MODEL COTTAGES. Tue fashion for building elegant cottages has spread itself over all the most highly cultivated portions of our country. Not only comfort and convenience, but beauty of plan and situation are becoming every day more regarded by our citi- zens in town and country. It is with a view to give the influence of our widely-circulated Maga- zine towards the diffusion of so laudable and use- ful a taste, that we bave determined to present our readers with a complete series of engravings of model cottages, embracing plans, elevations and figures of different parts of the structures, executed with such care as to render them useful to the practical architect. We shall do this at the same time that we shall not diminish, but considerably augment, the number of our pictorial embellish- ments on other subjects. In short, we purpose to lend our assistance towards diffusing a taste for beautiful architecture : By submitting a series of designs for cottages, farm houses and villas, embracing every appropri- ate comfort and the greatest variety of beauty, and by accompanying these designs with analytical and critical remarks, pointing out in what this comfort and beauty consist, and .on what principles both are founded : By submitting a series of designs for the finish- ing, fitting up, fixtures and furniture suitable to the different descriptions of cottage, farm and villa NO. PERSPECTIVE VIEW, buildings; and, by accompanying these with re- marks on their fitness for the end in view, such as lighting, heating. ventilating, &c., as well as with analytical and critical remarks on their style or beauty—thus showing the necessity of architects including the study of furniture in that of their profession, so as to be able to give designs for furnishing a house as well as for building one: By accompanying many of the designs with gar- dens for the cottager, as well as pleasure ground and park scenery for the occupant of the villa; and by explaining the connection of villa architecture with landscape gardening, and pointing out the necessity which exists for villa architects possess- ing a considerable knowledge of the art of laying out grounds: By avoiding, when it is not absolutely necessary, the use of terms peculiar to architecture; by ex- plaining all such as are used, where they first occur; and by adopting such a style as will render the work easily understood by the uninitiated read- er, as well as subservient to the purpose of edu- cating young persons in architecture as an art of taste, especially to the female sex. We commence the series with the following view, plan and description of a cottage suitable for a very small family. In our future numbers we shall give similar plans for larger cottages, for farm houses, villas and other dwellings.

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Accommodation.—T his cottage, though very small, contains a good many comforts and conveniences The entrance a, (see the ground plan below, ) is by a lean-to at one end, which serves as a porch, and at b may also be used as a place for fuel. There are a good kitchen, c; a pantry, d; back kitchen, GROUND Construction.—The walls are here represented of rough stone plastered, and the roof as covered with tiles. The terrace is of masonry, and the chimney tops (see Fig. 1, on a scale of three-eighths of an inch to a foot) are of brick and cement. The projection of the roof is considerable, and it is finished with a gutter supported by small pieces Fig. 1. MODEL COTTAGES. e, with an oven and a flue to heat the floor of the principal kitchen; a staircase, f, with a closet un- der; water closet, g; and a place for poultry, h. The upper story contains only one bed-room, . There is a small yard behind, &, which may con- tain a cow house and an office. PLAN. let into the wall 7, (see Fig. 2,) and by cantalivers m. The blocks supporting the sill of the kitchen window are of stone, and so is the sill. The mullions which divide the window are ot wood, and the casements which fit into them are hinged so as to open inwards. ‘The windows of the pan- try and back kitchen are sash windows. CHIMNEY TOP. Situation.—This building, having no windows behind, is calculated for being placed upon the side of a hill, where it will present a picturesque appearance, particularly when viewed from below. If surrounded by a good garden, and with no trees { either decidedly larger or decidedly smaller than within a hundred yards of it higher than fruit ttees, it can hardly fail to have a beautiful effect In general, trees which stand close to any building, more especially to one of small size, should be

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56 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. ~ PLAID the building itself. The chief reason for this is, | prominent part, and of two or more subordinate that objects of the same size or apparently so, do } ones. Below is a section of the cottage exhibiting not co-operate well in forming a whole view; , the interior. which always should consist of one principal or ’ INTERIOR. PERSPECTIVE VIEW, We continue our series of cottages with a dwelling for a farmer with a number of children.

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MODEL COTTAGES. - Accommodation.—The ground plan exhibits a porch, a; staircase and passage, b; kitchen, ¢; closet under the stairs, d ; back kitchen, e ; sitting IS room, with small closet, f; privy, g; and wood house, A. = a ‘ Pt LE Son cee GROUND The chamber floor contains a bed-room, 7; clo- set, k; another closet, 2; a bedroom, m; ‘two closets, n and o ; and the staircase and landing, p. The defect in the accommodation here is the want of a proper pantry; but this might be easily ob- PLAN. tained by enlarging h, turning its present door into a window, and opening a door to it from the kitchen. A substitute for A may be provided ad- joining g. i} | } | | { WY x. \\/Z n KK \ —— ¥ ; i = 8 na i ix i! I > ‘ l a _ —=—F- CHAMBER FLOOR. Construction.—‘‘ This cottage,” its designer ob- § Fig. 1. serves, ‘‘ may be built of brick studwork, plastered : : ? “1 outside, the roof to be thatched with reeds or straw. ; q The entrance is to have a ledged door, and the } windows are to be filled in with lattice-work, hav- } ing oak mullions, or mullions of other timber, painted in imitation of stone. The rabbet heads ocr of the windows (Fig. 1, q) to be back filled, (to } traves, but without mouldings, as at r.)” The $ chimney stacks to be formed of or ornamented project beyond the wall in the manner of archi-

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58 GODEY’S MAGAZINE ADN LADY’S BOOK. with Roman cement. The barge boards and the pendants to be finished as in the working drawing, Fig. 2. Fig. 2, made to a scale of half an inch to the foot, in which s, s are the barge boards, and ¢ the pendant. Fig. 3 shows a section of a suitable cornice for the dining-rooms ; and Fig. 4 one in the same style Fig. 3. for the bed-rooms. Both these sections are on a scale of two inches and a half to a foot. The expression is evidently that of an old English cottage. We should have preferred the chamber windows in the ends, which would have been less picturesque in effect, but cheaper to execute, and much easier to keep in repair. We should also prefer the ground. floor windows to have six large Fig. 4. panes in each frame rather than to have them filled in with lattice work. This done, and a parapet on the platform and pinnacles over the pendants are all that are wanting to render this design very much to our taste. Estimated cost, $1700.

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MODEL COTTAGES. ij Cotiage-Dwelling, in the German Swiss style, for a mar and his family, with accommodation for two horses and a cow. Accommodation.—This description of dwelling. is common in the northern parts of the continent of Europe, and also in Switzerland. To economize heat, no less than to save expense in the first erec- tion, the apartments for the domestic animals, and the places for carts, ploughs and other country machines and implements, are al! contained under the same roof. The occupier of such a dwelling is commonly a very small farmer, who joins to this occupation some description of trade or commerce, such as a carrier, coach-driver, jobber in cattle, fisherman, hunter, &c. There is a great objection to having cattle and horses under the same roof with living rooms for human beings, on account of the smells and insects generated by the former; but it must be recollected that in the warm season the cattle are seldom in the house, and that during winter in the north of Europe the great difficulty in human dwellings is to maintain heat. We have lodged in various dwellings of this description, from Stockholm to Naples, both in summer and winter, and cannot recollect that we ever felt much incon- venience from smells, but certainly some from in- sects. We do not, however, recommendthis de- sign, where the expense of erecting the offices apart from the dwellings is not an object. In the ground plan of this building, we have a place for a cart, wagon, or other carriage, and for ploughs and other implements of agriculture or trade, a; a three-stalled stable for two horses and a cow, b; 59 perrte hones GROUND PLAN. a back kitchen, ¢; a privy, d; anda pig-sty, e. O the principal floor we have an entrance under a porch, ascended to by an exterior stair, f; a sitting room, g; pantry, A; light closet, 7; kitchen, 4, closet under the stairs, 7; bed-room stairs, m; and three balconies, x, x, n. The chamber-floor con- sists of two béd-rooms and two bed-closets. Construction.—T he foundations and the first story as high as the floor of the living-rooms, are sup- posed to be built of stone, or brick with rusticated stone corners; the upper part of the building is en- tirely of timber. The roof is shown as covered wit! thatch and without gutters. In Switzerland, where timber is abundant and labor not high, the railing for the stairs and balconies of such a building is commonly massive and very curiously carved. We

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GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’sS BOOK. ee Om Rem Hae eames ee cee enema heed Lt Tee Oe ee | = ull PRINCIPAL here give a specimen on a scale of half an inch to a fuct of a suitable railing to such a balcony. —a es Stiuation.—Were such a building to be erected in this country, it cou!d only be for the sake of its character, and therefore the proper situation for it would be in a romantic, gle, like those of the south of Germany, and espe- cially the valley of Kinzigthal, from a cottage in which, engraved and published, the idea of the present design is taken. ‘There are many situa- tions in New England, and some in the western the appearance of ,such a cottage country, where woody vale, glen or din-- FLOOR. would raise up interesting associations in the mind of a European traveler, and would fill the station- ary inhabitan's with surprise, and by exciting in- quiry, might lead to the improvement of their taste. We are naturally indifferent about what we do not understand; but the moment we begin to have a knowledge of any subject, we take an inte- rest in it, which incites us to further inquiry, and ultimately brings us to an acquaintance with what is right or wrong, beautiful or deformed. To teach men to think is the grand object of every effort for promoting human improvement. Criticism.—The effect of the walls of the ground story, being of stone, is good, by giving the idea of great solidity in itself, and of stability and se- The three balconies curity in the superstructure. The outside stair, are calculated to be very useful. by artificially increasing the distance between the living-rooms and the stable, must in some measure diminish the quantity of effluvia from the cattle, conveyed thither by the clothes of those who at- tend onthem. ‘The eaves ought to have the addi- tion of un ample gutter; and for our own taste we should have preferred having two windows in each gable end and none in the roof, dividing the garrets lengthways. We should not have truncated the gable, and we should have made a better pre- paration for the chimney stack, raising it higher and in a bolder style. Estimated expense, $1750.

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