Godey's Lady's Book 1848-01: Vol 36 Iss 1

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‘wt > tt» hl aad é ( fa CGQAttrréit+ tt & , COL Lee G-ao Si 94257 GODEY’S LaWY’ Ss BOOK. PHILADELPHIA, JANUARY, 1848. ent & tree HAPPY BY REV. HOURS. HASTINGS WELD (See Engraving.) ildhood is an overture, if we but read it right, griefs that dim our path, to all the joys that For in the little world of fond and trusting infancy, All manhood’s joys and griets and cares are in epitome. Is childish friendship clouded now—late radiant with a sme ‘ So older people change, and hate those whom they loved erewhille But children, wiser, happier than those of riper years, In sleep forget their enmities, in smiles forget their Is childhood baulked and buffeted > and cheated of its me So in the world of larger growth we frequent miss our aim: THE Fowp mother, thou art dreaming That thy child is happy now, For the eye of love is beaming On her fair and youthful brow Yet a weight her spirit beareth, Although she seemeth gay, And the smile her pale lip weareti: Is leading thee astray Thou deem’st it is but leaving Her home, her sire, and thee, That brings this wild upheaving Of the heart’s tumultuous sea VOL. XXXVI.—1 But children, though defeated oft, still draw anew on hope, While man becomes all sour and cold, a gloomy misan- thrope. Then let us watch their little sports and read a lesson there, And learn from infant witclery a spell to cast o’er care What if to-day be dark and drear? The shadows all will fly Before the sun which, bright and fair, will deck to-mor- row’s sky. Toil on, thou little maiden, then, half-vexed, yet cheerfu sull, Against thy pet’s too frolicksome and all capricious will! The pull is now upon thy hands—right eagerly they smart— A future favorite may draw more keenly on thy heart ! BRIDAL. A moment—it is overt And she tears herself away But where is he, the lover. Who should be here to-day’ Who left her love to languish, To fade, to droop and die, Till she forms in bitter anguish A feeble, earthly tie; Yet one that naught shal! sever Till the passing of a breath, Shall yield the link forever To the mighty hand of death.~Sara

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r"A S$ me 1 é- ‘ " A WEDDING IN THE WOODS. M. KIRKLAND BY MRS. C Ir has been said that one who would retire from the world, should betake himself to a large city. Certain it is that in the country, where everybody seems to feel a personal responsibility for the doings of the neighborhood, nothing is more difficult than to maintain an independent What is known to be the expressed sentiment of all about you, do what you course as to one’s own affairs. exercises more or less influence, will; and you are as apt to show your respect for the town-talk by an angry persistence, as by a timid relinquishment of your plans. It certainly more country people possess, to live as if the neighbors were requires philosophy than most cabbages—no difficult attainment in the city. Births, weddings, and funerals are considered particularly matters for general remark and in- terference ; and bitter are the censures that await the hardy innovator who dares to strike out a new path on any of these occasions. Few think of it; but the few who do, are generally found among either the town-bred emigrants not yet assimilated, or those settlers whose extreme po- verty forbids their following the fashions. Even the reckless and quarrelsome are generally so softened by these domestic occurrences that they forget their feuds for the time, and go through all the expected ceremonies in the approved form. Phrenologists have said that the national head is largely marked in the region of Approbativeness and Imitation; and this tenderness to public opinion among those who are often rough enough otherwise, would seem to favor the judgment. There was one family near the little village of B classes specified above as sometimes venturing , who, without belonging to either of the to act independently, were regarded at once with suspicion and with a somewhat unwilling respect, from the quiet and original course which they adopted ; resolutely following out their own plans, and rarely expressing an opinion as to the doings of their neighbors. Mr. Arnold came to the West with some property, although he was a hard- working farmer; and when he was about to put up his log-house, instead of calling the neighbors together, and having a grand frolic, with plenty of whisky, at the raising, he quietly hired the requisite number of laborers, and had his house ready for roofing before anybody knew the tim- bers were hewed. This caused many a frown, and not a little shaking of the head among the sages of the vicinity, who saw nothing but “*pride’’—that unpardonable sin of the woods— in this way of doing things. 2 Then Mrs. Arnold was ill; and far from having her room thronged with the wise women of the neighborhood, trying as many fumigations, draughts, and “ yarb-drinks,’’ as would have sut- ficed to kill nine well women, Mr. Arnold stayed at home from the field, day after day, apparently for no other purpose than to stand guard at her door, letting nobody in besides the doctor and nurse ; of the assurances that Mrs. Arnold was doing very weil ‘This was a deep offence; and though Mrs. Ar- nold had recovered, so as to ride out before any- and comforting the anxiety neighbors by body forgot the slight sufficiently to call to se¢ her, yet she expressed no surprise or sorrow, but treated her visitors with her usual quiet kindness After a while the baby died; and then certain persons, who were invariably in requisition on si- milar occasions, planned among themselves some display of spirit towards people who had shown so little regard to the customs of the country. What was their surprise to hear that the family had chosen to perform the last office for the littl hat the one with their own hands; and t grave had been made on their own ground, and the in- terment completed in the presence only of the clergyman and a few relatives. This seemed the climax, and it was long re- membered. But the Arnolds went on prosper- ously ; showing a kind interest at all proper op- portunities, and making the worthier neighbors like them, whether they would or no. The reserve, Which had been set down to pride and y oddity; and ill-will, came to be considered on at the period when the wedding took place, of which we began to tell, nobody in the whole town Per- haps the growing up of a sweet, comely daughter was more popular than the Arnold family. in the family was an unrecognized element of harmony between the Arnolds and those about them. A young woman who is lovely both in person and character is irresistible eve ryw here She is the light of her father’s house, the orna- ‘iety, and the point at which the admiration, interest and affection of those about her naturally concentrate. ment of so She is in the social circle what the moss-rose is in the garden—of the same general nature with the rest, but half veiled, fresh and delicate; in her very modesty and retiringness outshining all others—the em- blem of sweet reserve and innocent pleasure. Our friends, the Arnolds, possessed such a treasure, and they prized her as she deserved. They re- quired of her all womanly duty ; but they had been carefully instructed, and watched over her with an

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A WEDDING IN ntelligent care, which, while it did not interfere with the exercise of her own judgment, guarded her against all the coarseness but too rife in that region. The fair Lois had long been considered ‘on the fence’’ Letween two lovers; and, as usual, the affair, though it might be supposed a matter to interest only those immediately concerned, became the especial business of everybody in the neighborhood. Whenever poor Lois walked yut she would encounter prying eyes at every window and door, on the watch fo discover whom she might meet, and what direction might be riven to her steps. If she turned down the lane hat led to old Mr. Gillett’s, the world became sure that Frank Gillett was the happy man; if, kept straight onward to the ke € pe r, on the contrary, she village, it was to see the handsome store Sam Brayton, who had long visited at Mr. Arnold’s on Sunday evenings, and was disposed to extend his sittings further into the night than n the custom of that sober mansion. It had bee was recorded of Sam that he always sat, in pre- tended unconsciousness of the lateness of the hour, until Mrs. Arnold had put up her knitting with a very audible yawn, and Mr. Arnold had brought in a huge shovel, and a pail of water, in Miss Lois, becoming very taciturn, and preparation for covering up the fire. at the same time, returning only monosyllabic replies to the sallies of her admirer, he was obliged to beat a retreat— a monument of the power of passive resistance. Frank Gillett, on the contrary, had not patience for this sort of blockade. He waylaid Lois sometimes as she was returning from her Uncle Dyers on horseback; or dashed in, on some pretended errand, in the middle of the forenoon, when Mrs. Arnold was deep in her churning, and Lois plying the graceful great wheel in the f bare boards above ‘*chamber’’—a wide space « the spacious lower story of Mr. Arnold's log- house. Frank also felt it his duty to keep Lois luly apprized of all the cases of sickness, or shocking accidents in the neighborhood; as she was a nice little nurse, and a famous “ watcher’’ —this last no sinecure in a country village, where the well are often worn out in nightly attendance in cases of so little importance that city people would not think of requiring such service. When Lois’s ministrations in this way were in demand, Frank always came for her, and so saved her father the necessity of going out in the evening— a thing hated by all hard-working farmers, who usually love to sit dozing in the chimney corner, when they do not go to bed at nightfall. Lois was a good girl, and a pretty girl, and an only daughter; so it is not wonderful that her hand was considered quite a speculation, and many a wild fellow from some miles’ distance had tried to interest her; but her innocence and delicacy were proof against such equivocal court- ship. She treated the two “neebor lads’’ we have mentioned, with a modest confidence, and THE WOODS. 3 avoided, with native tact, giving preference to either—perhaps, because she really felt none. They had grown up together on friendly terms, and as there seemed no particular period at which the young men became lovers, so the fair Lois chose to ignore the fact—though we shrewdly suspect she was not blind to what everybody in the village saw and talked of—the keen though subdued rivalry of Sam Brayton and Frank Gillett. If the two suitors had been Italians, instead of ofisets from the quiet and law-abiding stock of Puritanism, there were not wanting occasions in the course of their pursuit of the prize, when stilettos might have been drawn and blood spilt. But a peaceful education led them rather to seek o gain the point by stratagem; and many a strawberry party, many a sleighing, many a pic- nic (or barbecue, as such things are called at the West ), did the young pe ople of the neighborhood enjoy, for which they might have thanked Lois Arnold, whoever may have claimed the honor: for our two enamored swains were at their wits’ end for some means of interesting this object of their emulation, and overcoming her formidable impartiality. It was chance, after all, that brought matters to a focus; for Lois was riding out with a party of young people, when her horse took it into his head to run away, and Frank Gillett, in rescuing her from imminent danger, brought his own life into peril, and was carried home much injured. We will not assert that this brought Lois to de- cide in his favor; for we have a notion that no love worth having is based on merely accidental causes. But it certainly made evident a prefer- ence, which, no doubt, existed previously; and before Frank was quite enough recovered to take his place on the farm again, the story was afloat that Sam Brayton had decidedly “ got the mitten,”’ He did not take this very amiably; that would have been quite out of character for a country beau. Writing poetry, or contemplating the stars, is not among the resources of the rejected in a primitive state of society; and the duel— that unanswerable mode of proving one’s worth —is hardly known even by name. To talk of thrashing—not the lady, but the accepted swain —is much more characteristic; but Frank Gillett was such a good fellow, and bore his honors with so little of a swell, that even this was hardly feasible ; so Brayton bided his time. When harvest was over, and all the grain safely housed, spring wheat in, and corn ready for husk- to be married; and it was a real ing, Frank had time decided that Lois Arnold ought to have wedding.’” This implied a regular frolic; a turning the house out of window, and converting incredible quantities of flour and sugar, milk and eggs, into delicacies for the delectation of a wide os sweep of country—not to mention dancing ad libitum. What toils were undergone! what anx-

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4 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. ieties experienced! what fingers burnt—in this grand preparation, the muse must not attempt to feasts for the admiration of after ages. Some village Homer has yet to sing such We must content ourselves with saying that Sardanapalus certainly never banqueted with half the zest that animated the goodly company gathered together on this occasion; and as for the dresses and de- corations, they were such as Louis XIV. in all his splendor never saw. Nota silk gown in the county but shone, or did its best to shine; not a Sunday coat but had new buttons, at the very least. Every damsel wore the greatest number of curls and braids, of which her chevelure was capable; and every matron’s head carried all the bows and border that her The tea came first, with its usual serious merri- cap would support. ment—subdued and expectant with the thought of a marriage yet to come; but the dancing was to wait until after the ce remony, that there might be no further interruption, after once the tables were cleared away. A very usual mode—we may venture to say the usual mode—of binding one’s self for better or for worse, in the western country, is to have the knot tied by the nearest justice—a form so succinct that one could scarcely wonder, if every- body should forget the whole affair the next hour. The man in authority stands up, with a grave countenance, takes hold of a chain, by which to steady himself, while he speaks and looks straight at the young couple—which last is not to be won- dered at, for they are generally quite a spectacle, with their white lips and cheeks of rainbow hue —then follows the ceremony. “Do you take this woman to be your wedded wife ?’’ ot “Do you take this man to be husband ?”’ ““T do’’—(or a faint murmur, or tible nod.) “T pronounce you man and wife. your wedded a half-percep- ” Imagine all this said, or mumbled over, in the shortest possible time, and we have a legal mar- riage, according to our obliging laws. So stood Lois Arnold and Frank Gillett before Squire Millard; Lois in a dress of soft silvery looking silk, with a white rose in her hair and another in her hand; athletic the occasion, and his face looking anything but pale. and Frank, with his fine person, set out In a white waistcoat for Even Lois seemed more inclined to laugh than cry, and some young ladies whispered— “*She don’t mind it a bit What was the surprise of the company, when eo? the Squire, after a vain effort to command his countenance, said— “I certify that Francis Gillett and Lois Arnold were lawfully married a week ago.’’ After this announcement Squire Millard made good his retreat, not being a dancer, and having, moreover, a vague fear that he might be torn to AARALS pieces in the frantic demonstrations of surprise which succeeded the first pause—such a pause as ensues upon an unusually heavy clap of thunder. Everybody stood aghast, at first, as if some great wrong had been committed; and after the grand surprise was over, and the amiables of the neighborhood had joined in the dance with new zest in consequence of the stir occasioned by the dénouement, a few disaffected young men— Sam Brayton and his friends—still stood aloof, and whispered in corners, casting now and then a look at the newly-married couple that was any- thing but friendly. They knew very well that the thing was a trick to avoid certain annoyances, which are not uncommon on wedding-occasions in the country, when anybody feels aggrieved by the circumstances of the marriage. If the right people are not invited; or if the match is so dis- proportioned in age as to excite the indignation of the sovereign people; or if some old bluebeard takes a third help-mate—any of these causes, or even less, is sufficient to excuse a sort of row, which is kept up for hours under the windows, until the “* treat.”’ or those concerned open doors and It was plain enough that the party, who espous- ed the cause of the mitten-holder, did not mean to be cheated of their charivari; but the dancing went on, and the hilarity of the occasion con- tinued unbroken, until eleven o’clock, when the company dropped off a wagon full at a time, till at length all was quiet, and no sign of life was left about the premises, except a light or two, burning dimly in the house. Then began the din. Bells, guns, drums, tin horns, whistles, frying pans, and shovels, aided the unearthly howlings of the performers, until the neighbors a mile off heard the disturbance, and the owls in the woods hooted in concert. This went on for an hour or two, but there were no signs of capitulation on the part of the fortress. The lights burned on as quietly as ever, and not a sound could be heard, though Sam Brayton laid all his Further demonstrations were now judged his ear to the window, and listened with might. advisable, and a bunch of thick rods was procured with which the assailants beat against the house itself, which being partly boarded, made a prodi- gious reverberation. Still no door opened. Guns were fired as near the windows as possible, peb- bles were thrown down the chimney, and a pig hung by the leg to the latch of the door; but no the night had so far waned that some symptoms of dawn remonstrance was heard. By this time, began to be observable in the east, and the con- spirators, weary and disappointed, began to talk of going home to bed. “I’ve worked harder than I ever did in har- vest,”’ said one. *“ Harvest!’’ exclaimed another. ‘ Thrashin’ time’s nothing to it! Let’s go home !”’ “Stop a minute,”’ said Sam Brayton, stung at the ill success of his plans; “I'll make ’em come

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ise as ne VOICES OF NATURE.—THE LONE STAR. 5 put, yet!’’ and with the word he threw a large stone at the upper window, with force enough to } { yreak it, sash and all, but not to endanger those within. I I Upon the accomplishment of this feat, the whole yarty fled, for the “ law’’ has great terrors for the yack woodsman, though he inflicts it upon others with small provocation. Every one ran home, and crept into bed as quietly as possible, lest the offence should be fastened on him, which would have brought the double punishment of expense and mortification—so complete was the failure. In spite of all these precautions, however, the matter was brought home to Sam Brayton so un- deniably that he was glad to repair the damage to Th avoid worse consequences; and it was not till afterwards he discovered that, anticipating an- noyance, the whole Arnold family, including the bride and bridegroom, had slipped off that night quietly with the guests, and gone up to lodge at Uncle Dyers. The result proved too much for poor Brayton. To have the laugh turned against him so com- pletely, quite overset the village gallant. He sold off his goods, took down his dashing sign, and removed to another part of the state, where, we may hope, the fates treated him more kindly. The Arnolds are considered_as having established their independence. tt ww OI VOTCES OF NATURE. BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. Tue song of nature is perpetual praise ; “he insect murmurs in the twilight air, The cricket carols through the harvest days, And sings of summer from its winter lair; And countless flowers their artless love declare; The violet’s head bows reverently awed; The sainted lily lays her bosom bare; The rose with ardor glows, and all abroad e voiceless gems ol earth bre auie pe riulte d I raise to God All changeful voices, manifold and strange, Throughout the world, pour praises to the sky With flashing steps the fittul breezes range by, Through waving meadows, chasing shadows Or skim the lakes, or through the mountains fly, Making sweet hymns the burden of their glee; Or. through the forest's cloistered aisles and hich, Like secret druids it were death to se¢ With solemn voice perform their sacred psalmody. R The runnel dances from its native cave, Breaking to song among the rocks and flowers ; The silver river heaves its murmuring wave In sweetest music through the summer hours; The cataract its sanctioned torrent showers Where the bright bannered bow of peace is spread; Oid Ocean in a glorious trenzy lowers, When thunder beckons with his arm of red, ejoicing to the heavens with wild and hoary head. Wherefore have winds and woods and waters mirth? Are they endowed with love’s delightful thrill? Have they the promise of immortal birth, To live with man on heaven’s ambrosial hill ? Wherefore descends the mountain’s swollen rill, Like the brave Swiss, to cleave a glorious way ? W hy doth the eve her gentle dews distill ? Or winds take up on wide-spread wings the spray, To shower it again down through the summer day ? Why sings the delicate wren beside her nest? Or why Or soars the eagle to the sun? Bares the sweet blossom its delicious breast To rock the bee with gentlest lullaby? Or towers the aged forests to the sky? Or roll the monsters of the hidden deep And flounder to the surface? These might lie Stagnant and dull as is an idiot’s sleep, But that the Eternal’s love hath taken them in keep. And man, the happy world’s last, noblest birth, Walking in strength of intellect supreme Along the high and utmost stage of earth, One step below the things he dare not dream, And that ascended ere he well may deem His foot upon the threshold! How should he, Far more than these, give in perpetual stream His molten heart, until his soul shall be Poured from its dusty urn back to its parent sea! nn & BR THE LONE STAR. BY S. CAMERON. A SISTERLY love this marble record rears To one who died amid the strangers’ tears— A Brother, young, affectionate and kind, Of generous feelings and exalted mind Amid these scenes of beauty and repose, 1* The faithful Ivy and the glowing Rose A brother’s Truth, a brother’s Love shall tell, While the lone Star shall point us where they dwell With God, who gave them for a transient hour To show at once his Mercy and his Power

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CHRISTMAS AND NEW YEAR IN FRANCE AND GERMANY. BY FRANCIS J Ture is nothing so beautiful in this world of bright hopes and sad realities, as superstition. It is the vein of poetry, which runs unheeded and often unperceived through our lives, and tinges our earthly existence with hues of the un- known future. It is the dream of the heart in the midst of our presumptuous pursuits of knowledge —the magnetism of the mind, which deflects it continually from science to faith, from arrogant self-sufficiency toward the dusky regions of the unseen powers. Nothing is more absurd than the pride of those who pretend to be above superstition. They are, for the most part, believers in fate, in accidents, in destiny, and in a thousand things which science would equally condemn, though it cannot account for their cause, however it may attempt to dis- prove them. We may make light of the belief in supernatural things; yet how much of nature do we see, and what little of it do we know? Can we account for a single phenomenon in nature, except by an hypothesis? Do we comprehend a single property of matter, except by inference from its laws, as far as these fall within the short com- pass of our experience? And what do we know Are not our births and deaths the eternal secrets of nature, and is not our whole about ourselves? life an enigma, solved only beyond the grave ? Let us analyze our pains and pleasures, our hopes and fears, and they exist for the greater part only in the imagination—the most god-like quality of man—unbounded by the mathematical rules of time and space; confounding the present by the memory of the past, and configurating the future beyond the spheres. And what is superstition but the instantaneous action of the mind, or the imagination, without going through the tedium of logical deduction, and the slow and uncertain action of judgment? It is the harmonious sound of the Aolian harp touched by a simple whisper of the breeze, and yet far more accurate and true than when tortured by the artistical performer. The whole mythology of the Greeks was a beautiful superstition, and yet the source of all their poetry, from which even the Christian culls the flowers of his sympathy. Superstition is often the last stage of irreligion, and the point at which religious sentiments again assert their rights. It clings to us as the premonitor of another world, whose flitting shadows pass over our minds, without being perceived by the senses. People in mountainous countries are more superstitious than those living in plains, because they generally 6 GRUND. have more imagination. It requires a romantic country to produce a romantic people ;—so says Torquato Tasso, somewhere in his “ Jerusalem Delivered,’’—though the neighborhood of the ocean, or some mighty rivers may produce the same effect as high mountains. Every one knows that sailors and mountaineers are superstitious all the world over. ‘There is not a valley or a rock in Switzerland, that has not its romantic story attached to it; the same holds of the hills of Scot- and who, that has read Goethe’s Faust, recollect the German land ; or heard of it, does not Hartz mountains ? But there is a superstition in early life—in childhood, when the whole world is teeming with life*—which, if there be happiness on earth, is the true means of tasting it. It is the superstition of love, of faith, of lasting friendship, of unchange- able hearts. Wo to him who rudely bids those superstitions to vanish—who enlightens the faith- ful believer with his miscalled truths and realities, and destroys the golden age of youth and imagin- ation with the shreds and patches of the world’s wisdom. ‘There are men foolish enough to wish for the abolition of fairy tales, giants and dwarfs ; to teach children the distance of the earth from the sun, and that the latter is not rising every day and careering through the skies, as we are told in the beautiful Greek fable, but soberly turning round its axis; that the stars are not bright dia- monds or lit-tapers, but large worlds; and the moon no sweet face which smiles on the children of this earth, but a burnt-out world which may be examined through a glass! And if the moon were ten times over a lifeless chaos, it has a happy office in blessing lovers, and magnetizing glades We gain nothing by the philosophy of dissection, which destroys life by exhibiting and forests. the artery through which it once flowed. Thought, imagination, life, happiness are no subjects for the anatomist. One of the prettiest superstitions I know, is that of children in Germany, and the whole north of Europe, on Christmas-day. They are then taught to believe that our Saviour, on the anniver- sary of his birth, travels all over the world to visit children that love him and their parents, to bestow upon them some token of hisaffection. ‘* Blessed are the little ones,’’ he said ; and there is nota little * No child makes a distinction between animate and inanimate objects. Every plaything, every doll has life to it. Is that not in itself the most beautiful superstition in nature ?

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CHRISTMAS AND NEW YEAR ~ heart in Germany which does not, on that day, feel the truth of it in its own childish manners. From Whitsunday to Christmas the days are counted with great care, and as the nights grow longer, the approach of the holidays becomes the subject of children’s conversation. At last snow begins to cover the ground, and it is now certain that the great day is near at hand. The eve pre- ceding the festival every child is on its best beha- vior, in breathless expectation of the great event, and the favors that are to be shown it by Him Towards dark the family are all united at the thanksgiving dinner— the tapers burn with more than usual lustre, and the father looks anxiously for the figures on the who loved * the little ones.’’ wall; for it is an ill omen to see one’s shadow obscured by the intrusion of a strange object, and portends either sickness or death during the fol- lowing year. Neither will he allow them to sit down in odd numbers, for that is very unlucky ; rather would he invite a stranger or a distant re- lative to make the number even. After dinner the children, young and old—though the latter may be let into the secret, after having pledged themselves to keep it religiously—are conducted into a darkened room, where they are left long enough to think and guess at the gifts which awaitthem. At last the door opens, and father and mother announce “that the little infant Jesus has paid them a visit, and left them tokens of His love.’ They are then conducted into another room, where the Christmas tree is dressed for their reception. It is a large evergreen with many branches, fantastically lit up with tapers and lamps, with its branches gilt or silvered over, as in the fairy tales, and suspended from them are the beautiful presents, all inscribed with the names of the donees. For a moment all gaze in breathless silence on the brilliant spectacle; then comes the rush into the parents’ arms; the mutual embraces of father, mother and children, and, at last, a single bound to the tree itself. The boys have seen, from a distance, that the wooden horses and huzzars, the tin soldiers, the drums and trumpets, and the swords and muskets, are intended for them ; while the girls look tenderly on their sweetly dressed dolls, the little tea and coffee sets, and the imita- tion articles of furniture, which are to constitute their little household for the ensuing year. Fruits and cakes, neatly dressed with gold leaves, are divided equally among them; but it is a rare thing for the boys—who always cherish some gallantry for their sisters—not to give up their share to the girls; and new embraces and tokens of tenderness among the little ones, follow the new division. Where the families are large, it often happens that each boy has his pet sister who receives his share of the sweet things, which she requites by some needlework especially adapted to his use. Foran hour or more all are lost in joyful contemplation of their riches, and their happiness knows no limits. But the clock IN FRANCE AND GERMANY. 7 has struck ten, and it is time for the little ones to retire. They quit with reluctance their boundless wealth, and are long kept awake by speculating on its application. At last, nature asserts her rights—and they fall asleep still dreaming of their riches. The evening prayers at Christmas are deeply impressive, and every child repeats them with a grateful heart and in joyful accents. The elder members of the family remain together till a very late hour, and when all have retired to their chambers, father and mother indulge for a long time yet in prophecies as to the fate of the pledges of their love and fidelity. Christmas dinner is a real love feast, at which the absent, and those who are departed forever, are kindly remembered, and at which every heart expands through the love of Him whose incarna- tion has made all mankind brothers and sisters, and the children of the great Parent whose throne is the Heavens. Early on the following morn- ing the children creep out of their beds to survey their vast possessions, unmindful of the tree which the frost has painted on the windows ; for their hearts are so warm, and their fancy so bright, they scarcely know it is winter. Oh, for the re- collection of that merry Christmas, and all the associations that have hallowed it in our memory ! Where is the man, who, on that day, does not wish to be a child again, to nestle confidingly in some heart that loves him? Who, that does not wish back his childish superstitions and the faith that constituted his happiness? Is there a joy which knowledge has given him that equals the blissful ignorance of his early days, when his childish enthusiasm grasped the stars, and his fancy was equal to the world it conceived? There is no moment in after life at all approaching to it, if it be not that when ourselves are witness of the happiness of children, and the blessed means of bestowing it. Quite differently from Christmas is New Year’s day ushered in in “sunny France.’’ It is the great conventional gala of the nation, and long and brilliant are the preparations for the festi- val. A hundred million francs are supposed to change hands on that day, and the shops and bazaars of the great capital—the capital of the world, as the French proudly call it—are for weeks previously dressed in their gayest attire. The gifts bestowed on that day embrace young and old, and are selected from every department of human art and industry. The French are re- markable for the taste and skillful construction of their toys, though the machinery of their steam- boats is often imported from England. No people in the world dress dolls more prettily, or are more fanciful and expert in childish contrivances. Their dolls all but move—their wooden horses are almost alive, and fit for the exercise of a young voltigeur. There are field marshals, uniforms for children, tin sabres and carabines, drums and fifes, cannon and battlements, and whole fortresses con structed out of wood. Dogs, horses and elephants,

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| . ; 8 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. lions and tigers almost as large as life, though made of pasteboard, form a very good stock of a menagerie; while fanciful pigmy carriages, with Lilliputian coachmen and outriders, and chasseurs behind, impress the mind at an early period with the state and magnificence of this world. But here the French do not stop. On New Year’s day not only children, but ladies, young and old, receive presents, not only from their rela- tives and friends, but from all their acquaintances. And these presents are not merely fanciful trifles, but articles proportioned to the wealth, refinement and taste of the persons who receive them. They vary from Brussels’ lace and Cashmere shawls toa simple but elegant bonbonniére—a beautiful paper box, filled with sugar plums. ‘* That isa matter of a few cents,’’ think some of my readers ; but they are mistaken. They cannot buy a decent thing of the kind under a Napoleon—and some cost as high as a hundred francs. Every variety of fancy may be suited, and every purse accom- modated, from the prince and the banker down to the cook and the chambermaid. The Boulevards are thronged with purchasers and loungers, while strangers in the metropolis are struck with the ingenuity, taste, refinement and fancy which are there displayed. It is impossible to describe the hundred thousand things which are there exposed for sale ;—they are known in commerce only as “Paris articles,’’ which are exported to all the world, though they are very expensive, and com- posed of materials that cost nearly nothing. A thing worth six sous is made into an article worth five francs—a piece of paper, straw or cot- ton is turned into an ornament that may be placed by the side of porcelain or silver; shells and peb- bles are made into ladies’ work-boxes; and a thousand things which would be thrown away in other countries, turned into pleasing shapes and agreeable trifles. But there are works of art, too—statuary, paintings, engravings, books, which are distributed on New Year's day among the conoscenti, as tokens of love, friendship, respect retnem- and admiration, with ardent prayers to ber the donors ;’’ and I should judge that there was really no better method of making an indeli- ble impression. As New Year’s day approaches, every article, including bonbons, increases in price, if not in value ; but would you suppose it, gentle reader, nearly all of them may, after that day, be had at half price—and some of those that were actually sold for a third of their cost—at some second hand shop, where they have been disposed of for cash. To think that you have made a present to a lady which she has changed for something more agree- able to her taste, or for ready money to be after- wards expended at the ball or the opera! The thought is absolutely shocking, entirely destitute of romance—and yet how perfectly simple and na- tural, after a man is accustomed to the uses of this world! Mark, I do not say that there is a single lady in Paris that would dispose of all her New Year’s presents. I have no doubt, but that she will keep some of them; but what is she to do with the rubbish—the tokens of fealty and not of affection? I have always disliked this ridiculous custom of making indiscriminate presents to ladies. It’s like paying attention to the whole sex, which is not flattering to any woman, who prides herself (and what woman does not ?) on her particular attractions. Besides, it is a hard thing for a man who has many female acquaintances, to provide presents for them all, and, at the same time, to suit their different tastes, not to speak of the expense which this attempt to make one’s self agreeable, entails on every male inhabitant of France, who is not absolutely a bore. And what does he get for it?) A few hundred kisses—not by one and the same lady, (that would indeed be quite a different thing,) but by as many ladies as he has made presents to, and kisses too, that are not voluntarily bestowed, but merely snatched from them, tor the most part in presence of witnesses! Was there ever anything so shallow and insipid? The ladies do not return the caress, they merely suffer it, and delicacy forbids that they should offer their lips ! They merely present their cheeks ! No doubt, lips, too, are kissed on New Year's day; but that is against the rule, as those will recollect who have ever spent a New Year's day in the French capital. The day is nevertheless a great gala, and serves to rekindle many a feeling that lay dormant dur- ing the year, and would have died entirely, but tor their resurrection le jour de l’an. Friends and acquaintances remember each other, and shake hands; women are pleased to look with com- plaisance on those who make them presents, and men are made aware, (if they forgot it during the year,) that women are dear creatures, who expect to be made happy at our hands. Children, too, are not forgotten, and though girls, in general, fare better than boys, yet all of them receive tokens of kindness and affection. No superna- tural power, it is true, is made the mediator be- tween the donor and the receiver of the gift; but even from human hands, when dear, it is accept- able, and the feelings of gratitude it awakens are more direct and pointed. The French, like all southern people, are eminently a people of the senses; their impressions are vivid, and received directly from nature or the things that immedi- ately surround them, without passing through the magnifying lens of the imagination. The northern people of Europe may keep Christmas eve, and feast the living and the dead; the French have “‘a happy New Year.’’ ‘They express their wishes to each other in direct language, shake hands, kiss, embrace, and make merry for the rest of the evening. There is one advantage, however, which that day has over Christmas in Germany, viz., the presents that masters are obliged to make to servants. But then the good Germans have the same custom on New Year's day, with this ex-

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CHRISTMAS AND NEW YEAR IN FRANCE AND GERMANY. 9 ception only, that no presents are made to any other class of society ; and that the presents made consist generally in serviceable things or money. This is, in a great measure, true also in France, yet it 1s not uncommon for nurses to receive tokens of affection from the children on whom they attend, and the nurses, in return, make pre- This manner of remem- is very laudable; it them sents to the children. attaches look upon themselves as members of the same family. bering servants them to their masters, and makes Servants, who have been for several years in the same house, always attach themselves to the children, and are respected and liked by the latter as those from whom they are accustomed to re- ceive kindness. The respect for age, generally, that children have a real regard for the There many in- who have lived in the IS SO great domestics of the family. are stances in which servants, house of the father, are supported as pensioners in that of the son; and I have known servants who were actually serving the third generation of ] their masters. And I will add, that these I very servants spent their last sous in buying sugar- plums for their masters’ children. New Year is of course the time for remembering and re- newing these acts of kindness, and this is, per- haps, one of the finest features of the day. Every- softens the relations of masters and thing that servants is Christian; but that which renders the dependent servant happy, and content with his fate is actually cultivating good feelings, morals and virtue, and ought to be cherished. But between the se praiseworthy private servants and those who wait upon you at the cafés, the the l hotels, there is, indeed, a 'y"! a } , ] nose fe llow s, W hich are re ady and wide difierence. restaurants, to do anything for anybody, provided they are nto that category; and hene¢ New Year’s eat paid, do not come i the abomination of being unable on day to take a cup of coffee or a glass of wine, a steak, go to the theatre, or do anything else in public, without receiving an almanae worth from three to twe nty -five sous as a gilt from the waiter, box-keeper, or showman, for which he expects regularly from one to five franes by way of a dou- ceur. This is really a nuisance, especially toa stranger who has been but a few weeks, or per haps days in the place, and is thus ealled upon to liquidate the debt of a whole year. But you can scarcely refuse them, when you reflect that these presents enter into the estimate of their wages, and that this is the only day in which they can bring up arrears. One species of servants, which is peculiar to France, and especially to Paris, strangers will do well not to forget—I mean the portiers, who have so large an influence on your happiness, and may serve you, if they feel disposed, a great many good turns. Every house in Paris has a porter’s lodge, with one or two servants in it; the portier and his wife—whose business it is to watch all the persons going into the house, to ask them whom they want to see,—inform them whether the lady or gentleman is at home, whether she or he re- ceives that day, and at what time, &c. All the letters, which come to the house, are left at the porter’s lodge, who pays for them, and afterwards re-imburses himself from the different locataires on delivery, or once a week as they may agree. Newspapers and small notes are left in the same manner. At night the doors of the vast houses in Paris are closed; but you no sooner ring the bell, than the door opens, for a rope from the lock goes into the porter’s lodge, and need only be pulled to admit the person without. The porter also keeps your candle, and lights it for you when you come in at night, handing you, at the same time, the letters and notes, which may have come during your absence, describes the persons who called or inquired after you, &c. The portiers, as my readers will readily per- ceive, have an almost unlimited control over those trifles of which social and conventional life is made up, and a very large discretionary power. Sup- posing you call on a lady and learn from the por- tiers that she is not at home—if you possess the art of introducing a five franc piece into the palm of his hand, you may yet learn why she does not wish to see you; and even that, in some cases, 1s a consolation. If, on the other hand, the lady re- quites the portiers better than you do, he will tell you, on his parole d*honneur, that she is not at home, and—take the bribe as a proof of his earnest to serve you another time. There is not an im- portant lawsuit in France in which portiers are not summoned as witnesses; but their testimony, in case they have been weil paid, is always “ non The portiers, if they were men of the best and, civilization improves, they will, no doubt, write mi ricordo.’ letters, could write novels ; as mémoires. As regards the delivery of letters, and the sending of messages, they have you com- pletely in their power. Supposing you are invited to a party, or to a cup of tea, by a lady of your ac- quaintance, and the portier, with whom the note Or somebody comes to see you, and the portier, or Or supposing is left, does not deliver it till next morning? his wife, fancies that you are out? that you do not want to see anybody, and the portier says you are in? All these things are ne- cessarily vexatious, and can only be avoided by remembering the portiers—«¢ specially on New Year’s day. Whatever you may give them on that day is well bestowed, for the carnival is at hand, when you are sure to come home late one or two evenings in the week—and when you have an interest to have all your notes punctually de- livered. For a week or ten days previous to New Year, the portiers of Paris, who are proverbially the rudest people in the capital, begin to change their You never pass them without receiv- ’” your conduct. ing a “‘bon jour, monsieur !”’ or “madame ! letters are punctually delivered; every person that calls on you is properly noticed; and if you

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10 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. want a cab, the portier is ready to fetch it. All these attentions continue till he has received his New Year's present, to slacken again on the evening of the first of January. But the first of January is also a great day at court, on which the king receives the corps diplo- matique, and on which ministers and ambassadors exchange civilities. The officersand staff call on the minister of war, and the inferior officers on the colonels of regiments, and their generals. In fact, the streets are crowded from early in the morning till a very late hour in the night; every carriage, hack, and omnibus are in requisition ; and yet thousands are unable to finish all their calls, and embrace all the friends whom they wish to see on that day. New Year's day revives old friendships, renews acquaintances, and strength- ens many a tie that binds us to our kind. I love those popular gala days, and could only wish they occurred twenty times, instead of once eve ry year. The Germans have a regular bacchanalian way of ushering in the New Year on “Sylvester The whole family, with a select num- ber of old and tried friends, sit down to supper, and continue till after twelve. A minute or two before the clock strikes, th filled with the best hock the means of the company Evening.”’ classes are afford, and precisely at twelve they are emptied ; and the company shake hands, and wish each A great many fan- ip with this custom, of other ‘“‘a happy new year.”’ tastic notions are mixed which it would lead me too far here to give the details. Whatever occurs during that meal por- tends good or evil, as the hour from twelve to one in the morning is the time for ghosts and witches to hold high carnival; and the long winter even- ings in the north of Germany, where candles are regularly lit at four in the afternoon, and break- rht, taken by candle light, are fast at seven or ei particularly favorable to popular superstitions. rt & OO THE STREAMLET’S TEACHINGS. BY MAURICE O'QUILL, ESQ A THOUGHTLEss girl, on roaming bound, One bright and balmy day, Amid the fields a path had found, And traced its winding way. Her roving s‘ep a riv’let met That rolled its pearis along Between those banks, in flowers set, Such as to rills belong Beside its course, in shady spot, She courted cooling rest: And zephyrs, with the sleep she sought, Her heated brow caress'd The maiden’s sleep a dream beguiled— It was a vision bright: Sprung from the stream, came near a child, The riv’let’s guardian sprite “My youthful maid,” the spirit said, “The lily’s breast for me, For purity hath o'er it shed The charms that seem in thee “To counsel list, and thou shalt keep Those charms I fondly love And thou shalt pass in sweeter slee P To grace the realms above. ‘Thy virgin soul is like the spring Whence pour these waters now, And thy young life as bright a thu As their flood’s merry flow “ And were that fount a troubled one, No crystal waters then; These flow’ry banks would wither down, And sere would be the glen. “Thus with thy soul, my pretty maid In sacred regions born; , It yields thee life without a shade, And tends to blessed bourn. “Then keep it pure, that fount of life, And blithe thy course will be; And thou shalt leave all worldly strife To meet Wuo gave it thee!” The dream was o'er; the maid arose, And found that, in her rest, A lily’s cup had nestled close Upon her youthful breast She thought a wand the sprite had laid To guard her virgin heart, And from her breast the lovely maid Would never let it part.

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AMERICAN BY MRS “Their commendation is a banquet to me. Tue expression “ American heroines,’’ will not be deemed inappropriate by those who have read with interest the record of our country’s struggle for freedom, and dwelt upon the instances of dis- interestedness, courage and constancy, exhibited by American women. It was not their part to ‘‘march to glory by the same paths as men;’’ hey could not emulate the French maid, who drove from the kingdom of France the ancestors of our British foes; they were not called to the deeds of a Judith, or an Esther, but patriotic sacrifices were continually required of them. These were made with a zeal and enthusiasm that showed a firm and generous spirit, capabl noble nor were the acts themselves acts; of wanting, whenever occasions were presente d. Anecdotes of female courage and patriotism are dispersed throughout all the American Revolution; and they but serve to dis- the histories of play the general spirit, which animated our coun- trywomen, even from the beginning of the war, when they renounced the use of teas, and con- sented to regard as superfluities what had been thought of life. Their towards the brave defenders of their native land, necessaries sentiments appear in the address of one of them, published in the papers of Philadelphia—in June, 1780— from which the following paragraph is extracted : ‘*“We know, that at a distance from the theatre of war, if we enjoy any tranquillity, it is the fruit of your watchings, your labors, your dangers. If I live happy in the midst of my family; if my husband cultivates his field, and reaps his harvest in peace; if, surrounded with my children, I my- self nourish the youngest, and press it to my bosom, without being afraid of seeing myself separated from it by a ferocious enemy; if the house in which we dwell, if our barns, our orch- ards, are safe at the present time from the hands of these incendiaries—it is to you that we owe it. And gratitude ? more simple, and dress less elegant, while at th shall deserve shall we hesitate to evidence to our Shall we hesitate to wear clothing you price of this small privation, we your benedictions? Who, among us, will not renounce, with the highest pleasure, those vain ornaments, when she shall consider that the val- iant defenders of America will be able to draw some advantages from the money she may have laid out for these? that they may be better de- fended from the rigor of the seasons? that, after their painful toils, they will receive some extra- > HEROINES. E. F. ELLET ” ordinary and unexpected relief ?—that these pre- sents will be valued by them at a greater price, when they will have it in their power to say— this is the offering of the ladies.”’ In the same year, 1780, when the army suffered most from the want of decent clothing, and too frequently of food, also; when the resources of the country scarcely allowed the scantiest supply of provisions ; and the British cruisers, on the coast, by their vigilance and activity, destroyed every hope of receiving supplies from merchant vessels ; when to the distressed troops their cup of mis- fortune seemed filled to overflowing—and there appeared no prospect of relief, except from the benevolence of their fellow-citizens; when even the ability of these to afford aid, was almost ex- hausted by repeated applications—then it was that the women of Pennsylvania and New Jersey —iniluenced by the appeal of Mrs. Read, of Phi- ladelphia—accomplished, by their zealous exer- tions and willing sacrifices, what so many had thought impossible, and raised the spirits of the suffering soldiery by seasonable relief, when all seemed dark Not only was the pressure of want removed, but the interest shown in the cause, and the regard for the comfort of those who labored, produced so happy an effect that, in the words of a writer in the papers of the before them. day—*‘‘ more beneficial consequences resulted to the cause of liberty.’”. The sympathy and favor of ‘‘the fair daughters of America operated like a charm on the soldier's heart, gave vigor to exertion, confidence to his hopes of success, and the ultimate certainty of victory, and peace.’’— General Washington, in his letter of acknowledg- ment to the committee of ladies, says—‘* The army ought not to regret its sacrifices, or its sufferings, when they meet with so flattering a reward, as in the sympathy of your sex; nor can it fear that its interests will be neglected, when espoused by advocates as powerful as they are amiable.’ One of the historians of the events of the Re- volution, speaking of the gloom which at times rested on the prospect, remarks: ‘‘ Under such accumulated evils, that manly spirit, which alone could secure success, might have sunk, but for the cheering smiles and intrepid firmness of the fair sex, who, by sharing the calamities of their suffer- ing countrymen, taught how to oppose and subdue them. Intent, by precept and example, to frus- trate the machinations of the enemy, whatever jl

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12 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. the shape which they assumed, defiance was bid to their threats, and the invitations to engage in scenes of gayety and dissipation indignantly re- jected. The dungeons of the provost, the crowded holds of the prison ships, were anxiously sought, and every delicate attention bestowed on the victims who inhabited them, that sympathy could suggest; every consolation that could mitigate suffering, and encourage hope ; every persuasion that could animate to virtuous perseverance, and secure unyielding fidelity to the glorious cause of liberty.”’ In this view of the vast influence of female heroism upon the fortunes of our republic, of the share women had in maintaining the memora- ble struggle which had so glorious a result, in laying the foundations on which so mighty and majestic a structure has arisen—it cannot but be interesting to dwell briefly on some instances of individual magnanimity, courage, and devotion, which may serve as noble examples. These are innumerable in the memory of those who witness- ed the scenes occurring in those eventful times, or heard their parents describe them; but few have been given to history. Those recorded may have no greater claims to admiration than many others. They will be regarded not so much as demonstrative of peculfar personal fortitude or bravery, as of the spirit which animated all, and to which, in its various and multiform exhibitions, we are scarcely less indebted for our national freedom—bold as the assertion may be—than to the swords of those devoted soldiers who fought and bled for American independence. LYDIA DARRAH. It was on the second day of December, 1777, late in the afternoon, that an officer in the British uniform might have been seen ascending the steps of a house in Second street, a few doors below Spruce street, Philadelphia, immediately oppo- site the quarters occupied by General Howe, the commander-in-chief of the British forces, who, at that time, had possession of the city. The house was plain and neat in its exterior, and well known to be tenanted by William and Lydia Darrah, members of the Society of Friends. It was the place chosen by the superior officers of the army for private conference, whenever it was necessary to hold consultations on subjects of importance ; and selected, perhaps, on account of the peaceable character of its inmates, whose religion inculcated meekness and forbearance, and forbade them to practise the arts of war. The officer, who seemed quite familiar with the mansion, knocked at the door ; it was opened, and in the neatly furnished parlor he met the mistress, who spoke to him, calling him by name. It was the Adjutant-General ; and he appeared in haste to give an order. This was to desire that the back room above stairs might be prepared for the reception that evening, of himself and his friends, who had appointed to meet there and might remain late. ‘And be sure, Lydia,’’ he concluded, ‘‘ that your family are all in bed at an early hour; I shall expect you to attend to this request. When our guests are ready to leave the house, I will myself give you notice, that you may let us out, and extinguish the fire and candles.’’ Having delivered this order with an emphatic manner which showed that he relied much on the prudence and discretion of the person he ad- dressed, the Adjutant-General departed. Lydia betook herself to getting all things in readiness. But the words she had heard, especially the in- junction to retire early, rang in her ears; and she could not divest herself of the indefinable feeling that something of great importance was While her hands were busy in the duties that devolved upon her, her mind was no in agitation. less actively at work. The evening closed in, and the officers came to the place of meeting. Lydia had ordered all her family to bed, and her- self admitted the guests, after which she retired to her own apartment, and threw herself, without undressing, upon the bed. But sleep refused to visit her eyelids. Her vague apprehensions gradually assumed more definite shape. The more she thought of the matter, the deeper was her conviction that she ought to make some effort to penetrate the mys- tery, which might involve the interests, perhaps the lives, of many dear to her. She became more and more uneasy, till her nervous restlessness amounted to absolute terror. Unable longer to resist the impulse—not of curiosity—but, surely, a far higher feeling—she slid from the bed, and taking off her shoes, passed noiselessly from her chamber and along the entry. Approaching cautiously the apartment, in which the officers were assembled, she applied her ear to the key- hole. Fora few moments she could distinguish but a word or two amid the murmur of voices; yet what she did hear but stimulated her eager desire to learn the important secret of the con- clave. At length there was profound silence, and a voice was heard reading a paper aloud. It was an order for the troops to quit the city on the night of the fourth, and march out to an attack upon the American army, then encamped at White Marsh. Lydia had heard enough. She retreated softly to her own room, and laid herself quietly on the bed. In the deep stillness that reigned through the house, she could hear the beating of her own heart; the heart now throbbing with emotions to which no speech could give utterance. It seemed to her that but a few moments had elapsed, when there was a knocking at her door. She knew well what the signal meant, but took no heed. * Tt was repeated, and more loudly; still she gave

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AMERICAN no answer. Again, and yet more loudly, the knocks were repeated; and then she rose quick- ly, and opened the door. It was the Adjutant General, who came to in- form her they were ready to depart. Lydia let them out; then fastened the house, and extin- guished the lights and fire. Again she returned to her chamber, and to bed; but repose was a stranger for the rest of the night. Her mind was more disquieted than ever. She thought of the dangers that threatened the lives of thousands of her countrymen, and of the ruin that impended over the whole land. Something might—must be done, and that immediately—to avert this widespread destruction. What was her duty? Should she awaken her husband, and inform him? That would | jeopardy, by rendering him e to place him in special a partaker of her fearful secret; and he might. too, be less wary and prudent than herself. No—come what may Her hus- band should be spared, to be a protector to the —she would encounter the risk alone. children, should aught of evil befal her. Her children—the thought of them was uppermost in her soul; and first of all, before adopting any resolution to meet the extremity, she prayed fervently in their behalf to the Father of all. Then she offered up the earnest petition that the path of duty might be made plain to her, and that she might be enabled to discern the means by which she could prevent the intended devastation. When was it that the prayer of a devoted spirit failed to obtain the answer suited to the wants of the supplicant? The breast of Lydia Darrah was calm again, fo: her resolution was formed; and } she waited with composure and resignation— though sleep was impossible—till the dawn of day. Then she waked her husband, and inform- ed him that flour was wanted for the use of the household, and that it was necessary she should go to Frankford to procure it. This was no un- common occurrence, and her declining the attend- ance of the maid-servant, excited little surprise. Taking the bag with her, she walked through the snow—having stopped first at the head-quarters, obtained access to General Howe, and secured his written permission to pass the British lines. The feelings of a wife and mother—one whose religion was that of love, and whose life was but a quiet round of domestic duties—bound on an enterprise so hazardous, and uncertain whether her life might not be the forfeit of what she was about to do, may be better imagined than de- scribed. We shall confine mere narration of facts. Lydia reached Frankford, then distant four or five miles, and deposited her bag at the mill. Now commenced the dangers of her undertaking, for she pressed forward with all haste towards the outposts of the American army. Her determina- tion was to apprise General Washington of the danger, regardless of risk to herself, should the VOL. XXXVI.—2 ourselves to the HEROINES. 13 Rr WAAAAAARAAN fact of her communicating the information be discovered. She was met on her way by an American officer, distinguished for his superior intelligence and activity, who had been selected by General Washington to gain information respecting the movements of the enemy. According to ma- ny authorities, this was Captain Allen McLean, though some aver that it was Lieutenant-Colonel Craig, of the light horse. He immediately re- cognized her, and inquired whither she was going. In reply, she prayed the officer to alight and walk with her; which he did, ordering his men to keep To him she disclosed the momentous lemn in sight. secret, after having obtained from him a so promise not to betray her individually, since the British might take vengeance on her and her family. The officer thanked her for her timely warning, and directed her to go to a house near at hand, where she might get something to eat. But Lydia preferred returning at once, and did so, while the officer made all haste to the commander-in-chief. Preparations were immediately made to give the enemy a fitting reception. With a heart lightened and filled with thank- fulness, the intrepid woman pursued her way homeward, carrying the bag of flour, which had served as the ostensible object of her journey. None suspected the grave, demure Quakeress of having acted so daring a part; of having snatched 3ritish their anticipated victory. Her demeanor was, as usual, quiet, orderly, and sub- dued, and she attended to the duties of her family But her heart beat, from the with her wonted composure. as, late on the appointed night, she watched, from her windows, the departure of the army—on what secret expedition bound, she knew too well! She listened breathlessly to the sound of their footsteps and the trampling of horses, till it died away in the distance, and a silence profound as that of death itself, reigned through the city. Time never appeared to pass so slowly as during the interval between the marching out and the return of the British troops. To paint the anxieties and apprehensions that filled the bosom of our heroine, would be a task beyond the power of a simple chronicler. When at last the distant roll of the drum proclaimed their ap- proach; when the sounds came nearer and nearer, and Lydia saw the troops pass in martial order, the agony of anxiety she felt was too much for her strength, and she retreated from her post at the window, not daring to ask a question, or ma- nifest the least anxiety as to the event. A sudden and loud knocking at her door was not calculated to lessen her apprehensions.” A thrill of terror shot through her heart; but it was no time now to falter, and the safety of her family depended on her self-possession in this critical moment. The visitor was the Adjutant-General, who summoned her to his apartment. With a pale cheek, but composed, for she placed her

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14 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. POI III II III een trust in a higher power, Lydia obeyed the sum- mons. The officer’s face was clouded, and his expres- sion stern. mystery, when Lydia entered, and motioned her toaseat. After a moment of silence, he said— ““Were any of your family up, Lydia, on the night when I received company in this house ?’’ ‘“* No,’’ was the unhesitating reply. ‘‘ They all retired at eight o’clock.”’ “It is very strange,’’ said the officer, and mused a few minutes. “ You, I kpow, Lydia, were asleep; for I knocked at your door three times before you heard me—yet it is certain that we were betrayed. I am altogether at a loss to conceive who could have given the information He locked the door with an air of ae AAAS of our intended attack to General Washington ! On arriving near his encampment we found his cannon mounted, his troops under arms, and so prepared at every point to receive us, that we were compelled to march back, without injuring our enemy, like a parcel of fools.’’ Whether the officer ever discovered to whom he was indebted for the disappointment, we can- not tell. But the pious Quakeress blessed God for her preservation, and rejoiced that it was not necessary for her to utter an untruth, or to pre- And all who ad- mire examples of courage and patriotism, espe- cially those who enjoy the fruits of them, must honor the name of Lydia Darrah varicate in her own defence. A PORTRAIT. BY MARY E. LEE Tuer told me she was lovely, that her first sweet glance would fling Around my every feeling, affection’s magic string; That her grace and winning gentleness, and freedom from all art, Like needle to the magnet, would soon attract my heart. We met! and as one gazes on a portrait sunny bright, So did she waken in me emotions of delight; And yielding to pleased fancy, at length it seemed to me Her face was but a picture, and not reality. Each feature was a study: the soft and lustrous eye; The cheek, whose pale rose-tinting oft varied in its dye; The forehead white, and chiseled as out of blue-veined pearl, And the threads of gold that mingled within each fiexile curl. ] marked them all, and lingered long upon her every look, As one who reads the pages of some attractive book, Till, won by outward beauty, I quite forgot to find If in that lovely casket there dwelt the gem of mind. Again I met the maiden, and in her home's sweet bower Her many virtues opened upon me, as a flower Whose rich, refreshing fragrance so wins upon the sense That with its vivid colors the eye might well dispense Then I felt that she was gentle and playful as a bird, When I saw her younger brothers obey her every word, While her pale and feeble mother could scarce her love repress, And her father’s eye beamed on her with melting tender- hess Her voice seemed music’s echo as she sang my favorite lays, Nor waited at each closing a well-earned meed of praise ; And when in pleasant converse we tuged to books and flowers, Her bright and pure imaginings gushed out like April showers. God bless that lovely maiden! I will not speak her name, Nor waken in her bosom one throb of modest shame; Yet should her dove-like glanees upon this page e’er bend, She'll recognize this portrait, sketched lightly by a friend ht SDI LIFE’S PHILOSOPHY. BY JOHN WILFORD OVERALL ° Wherefore art thou ever sad? Heaven smileth o’er thee ! Tread the earth a man, be glad, Years are yet before thee. Can repinings bring again Wealth, or love, or beauty’? No!—the heart caressed by Pain Will falter in its duty. Thou wert born for bliss, not wo Strive no more for trouble, Light thine eyes, the past will go As a wave-born bubble! Bear thy lot with noblest soul, Be of men the strongest, Steer Life’s bark from Sorrow’'s shoal, And thou’lt sail the longest!

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BOTH SIDES OF THE PICTURE. BY T. S. ARTHUR. ‘*Harp at work, friend Gresler,’’ said a neigh- bor, as he stepped into the shop of an industrious but not very contented tailor. ‘* No rest in this world.”’ ‘* Not for some of us, certainly. It’s work, work, work, day in and day out, from one year’s end to another, and, after all, we hardly receive enough to keep soul and body together. I get out of all heart sometimes.”’ ‘* There goes one who has an easy time of it,”’ said the neighbor, glancing out of the window at a middle-aged man who was riding past on a large and beautiful horse. ‘*Who? Oh, yes, Melville. Humph! Yes, he has an easy time of it, you may well say. Nothing under the sun to do but ride about and take his pleasure, and more money than he knows how to spend. People talk about a wise and just Providence, but as to the wisdom and justice of giving all the comfort and happiness to one class of people, and all the trouble, poverty and wretch- edness to another class, is what I for one cannot understand.”’ “It does seem a little unaccountable, friend Gresler,’’ replied the neighbor; ‘‘ but still it is not wise to arraign Providence. All is no doubt right, if we could only see it so.” ‘* A thing it would be very hard to make me see. Oh, no; you needn’t tell me it’s all right for one set of people, no better than the rest, to have all, and the others to have none, so to speak. Why should Melville there, for instance, have a fine horse, plenty of money and nothing to do, while I can scarcely afford to live in this poor barracks of a place, although I nearly work my finger ends off? He is no better than I am. There is something wrong in all this, depend upon it. If you were to talk till doomsday, you couldn’t convince me to the contrary.”’ ‘*Depend upon it, neighbor Gresler, it is all right, notwithstanding. We may not be able to see how it is, but still I am satisfied that we have no real cause of complaint against Providence for partiality.”’ ** Not for making one-half of the world happy and the other half miserable ?”’ “*T doubt if that is the case. I doubt very much whether Mr. Melville is a happier man than you are—nay, if he be even as happy.” ‘* Preposterous !”’ ejaculated the tailor. ‘‘ His very countenance gives the lie to that assump- tion !’’ ‘*T can’t say how that is; I don’t see him very often.”’ “*T do, then, frequently; he is often in the shop. I work for him. He was here not an hour ago, looking as sleek and contented as one of his own carriage horses. And why shouldn't he look so? What has he to trouble him ?”’ ‘** More than you think for, I have not the least doubt. My doctrine is, that happiness and misery are about equally distributed between what are designated the higher and lower classes, or the rich and the poor. A man in either class may be happy or miserable, but this will depend very much upon himself. I, for instance, am no better off than you are, externally, but Iam a happier man, because, though I am compelled to work hard, I try to be contented with my lot, and I envy no man, rich or poor. I would not ex- change conditions with any man living.”’ ‘*T would, then. I would exchange with Mel- ville to-morrow.”’ As Gresler had said, the rich man whose con- dition he envied had been in his shop that morn- ing to order some clothes. The tailor ‘was all smiles and bows to his customer, and showed no evidence of the envy and discentent.that were rendering his life miserable. ‘* Happy dog!’’ muttered Melville to himself, as he left the tailor’s shop and mounted his horse to ride away. ‘‘I'd give half my fortune to be as free from trouble as he is. There he sits, from morning till night, with little or no care beyond his shop door. His children look fat and saucy, while mine are always under the doctor’s hands, or giving me more heart-trouble than I have ever had in my life. His wife is the picture of health and contentment, while my poor Rosa- lind, alas! is never free froma pain or gloomy de- spondency. I have heard him singing gayly at his work as I opened the door of his shop, but I haven't hummed a tune these three years; I always feel as if a ten pound weight were press- ing upon my bosom. They call the rich happy and the poor miserable. The reverse is nearer the truth.’’ Such were the thoughts of Mr. Melville as he rode slowly away from the humble shop of the poor tailor. He was a retired merchant, who had, during a long period of commercial pros- perity, amassed a very handsome property. But in doing this he had neglected the cultivation of social habits and feelings, and thought and cared too little about the best interests of his family. This neglect did not arise from any want of home affections, for he was tenderly attached to his wife and children ; its cause lay in the absorbing nature of his business pursuits, to which he gave up his thoughts too entirely. The period during 15

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GODEY’s which he was thus actively engaged in gathering in a harvest of wealth, was the very period when his elder children’s characters and habits were forming, and when they most required a parent’s earnest and affectionate care. But this care they did not receive from Mr. Melville, with whom business was the thing of primary importance ; and not until he retired into private life and be- gan to turn his thoughts more earnestly upon his family, was he aware of the fatal error he had committed. The oldest son of Mr. Melville was at this time just twenty years of age; he had been to college up to within a year, and was now reading law in the office of a distinguished attorney. Wil- liam Melville was a young man of very fair abili- ties, and it required only a little more than ordi- nary application on his part to insure him emi- nence in the profession he had chosen. But though he possessed naturally a good disposition and had respectable talents, he had not received from his father, as he grew up, any precepts for right government, nor any warnings of the dan- gers that beset the path of a young man just en- tering upon life. He had the advantages of as good an education as could be procured, a liberal allowance of money, and was subjected to but few parental restrictions. Notwithstanding all this, it was some time after Mr. Melville saw with pain that his son was fall- ing into bad habits and keeping bad company, before he could comprehend the cause and feel sensible of the error he had committed, when it was too late to remedy the evils arising from it. Nor did Ardelle, his oldest daughter, give him cause for any more pleasing reflections. Her mo- ther was not a woman of an active, energetic mind, naturally. Ill health and the want of an adequately-felt purpose had taken from her even the modicum of activity, decision and promptness which she possessed at the time of her marriage. As Ardelle grew up, she soon showed herself to possess a strong will, which her mother, after making a few feeble efforts to subdue, left en- tirely unbroken. Mr. Melville saw at times the exhibition of this, but he had always left the ma- nagement of Ardelle to her mother, and satisfied his mind on the subject by assuming that she would govern her rightly. At the boarding- school to which Ardelle went, she learned, be- sides the various branches of education taught there, sundry romantic notions in regard to love and marriage. When she came home, at the age of eighteen or nineteen, she had not only the ap- pearance of a woman of twenty-one or two, but considered herself as much an object of attention from the beaux as any other marriageable young lady in the whole circle of her acquaintance. Long before she had entered her twentieth year, she had, without a word of consultation with either of her parents, engaged herself in a mar- riage contract with an adventurer, whose whis- MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. AAAAALAALA kers, mustachios and impudence were his only passport into good society. When this fact became known to Mr. Melville, his mortification and anger may well be supposed. In a moment of passion, he threatened, in the presence of Ardelle, to shoot the young man if he ever dared to pass his foot across his thresh- old. This intemperate declaration had been made on the morning of the very day we have introduced him to the reader. When Mr. Melville returned home, he found his wife in a very unhappy state of mind. Ar- delle had left the house shortly after her father had gone out, taking with her some of her clothes and her mother's purse, containing about a hundred dollars. She left a note upon her dressing-table, stating what she had done, and declaring her intention to fulfill her engagement with the young man in opposition to the wishes and commands of her parents. This note was brought to Mrs. Melville by a servant, about two hours after Ardelle had taken this rash and im- prudent step. When her husband came home, he found her alone in her chamber, weeping most bitterly. To his eager inquiries, Mrs. Melville placed the daughter’s note in his hands. He read it, turned pale, and sunk with a groan upon a chair. from the shock occasioned by this distressing in- When he arose from his seat, which It was some time before he recovered telligence. was not for nearly five minutes, during which time he suffered more than he had under any cir- cumstances in his whole life, he said, with bitter emphasis and a dark frown upon his face—‘‘ He shall not have her, the false-hearted, accursed villain !"’ He was turning away to leave the room, when his wife sprung forward, and seizing him by the arm, said, earnestly—‘‘ Do nothing rash, Wil- liam. Find them out, and bring Ardelle home ; but, oh! do nothing that will make us a worse trouble than we now have.” Mr. Melville broke away from the grasp of his wife, without making any reply, and hurried from the house. The young man who had made so strong an impression on the heart of Ardelle was named Bertrand; he was from the south, and was living at one of the principal hotels. What his business was, if, indeed, he had any, was not known. As he might be seen almost any day and any hour in the day on the fashionable street of the city, the presumption was that he had no regular calling. He represented himself as being the son of a rich southern planter, but this was doubted. society at first no one could tell, but having once been introduced, his mustachios, whiskers and impudence, (his stock in trade,) were sufficient to make him welcome in many families from How he got introduced into fashionable which common prudence ought to have excluded him. He never had ventured to call at Mr. Mel- ville’s to see Ardelle but once or twice. His re-

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BOTH SIDES OF — ception by all but the daughter was so cold, that he deemed it prudent to keep away. Mr. Melville, after some inquiry, ascertained at which hotel the young man boarded, and went there immediately. ‘‘Is Bertrand in?’’ he asked, eagerly, of the bar- keeper. ‘*T will see,’’ replied the man, ringing a bell. A servant was dispatched to the young man’s room, and soon returned with the information that he was not there. ‘* Are you sure?’’ asked Mr. Melville, in a tone of incredulity. ‘* His door is locked, sir.”’ ** Did you knock ?”’ ** Oh, yes, two or three times.”’ ‘* Is the proprietor of the hotel in?’’ “* iis ie. **T wish to see him immediately.”’ The proprietor was called, to whom Mr. Mel- ville explained his errand, and expressed his be- lief that the young man was really in his room. “If so, we will soon bring him out,’’ replied the hotel-keeper, with indignation. In company with Mr. Melville, he went up to Bertrand’s room. He knocked, but no answer was returned. On examining the key-hole, no key was seen inside of the lock. ‘* He is not here,’’ said the hotel-keeper. ‘* Tt is easy to take the key out from the inside. He must be here. Is there no other key that will fit the door ?’’ said Mr. Melville, now much excited. The chambermaid was called and directed to unlock the door with her key, which was so con- structed as to spring the bolt of every lock in that particular part of the house. As the door swang open. Mr. Melville stepped in quickly; but the chamber was empty. A trunk stood in the mid- dle of the floor, open, but its contents had beer removed. ‘* The bird has flown,’’ said the hotel-keeper, as he saw this. ‘‘ You will have to seek him elsewhere, Mr. Melville.’’ Strict inquiries were made of the bar-keeper and servants, but no one had seen Bertrand since ten o’clock in the morning. Mr. Melville’s next step was to look up his son William and inform him of what had oc- curred. The young man, who was of a fiery tem- perament, had been drinking rather freely. The intelligence made him almost wild with anger. Thrusting a pistol into his pocket, he was strid- ing towards the door with a threat of murder on his tongue, when his father laid his hand upon his arm, and said, somewhat sternly—‘‘ William, give me your pistol.”’ ‘* No, father; I will blow out the scoundrel’s brains,’’ returned the young man, passionately, ‘*the moment I get my eyes upon him.”’ ‘If you cannot go in a better spirit than that, William, I do not wish you to go at all. Let me have the pistol.”’ THE PICTURE. 17 With a good deal of reluctance, William yield- ed up the pistol, and at his father’s request, sat down and entered into conference with him as to the steps which ought to be taken in order to dis- cover Ardelle. The father and son then sepa- rated, with the understanding that they were to meet in an hour if not successful in their search for the young lady, in order to determine upon some more prompt and efficient mode of action. When William parted with his father, his first step was to go to the store of a gunsmith in order to procure another pistol. While examining one previous to purchasing it, the thought of a cow- hide as a substitute crossed his mind. This led him to change his purpose. A stout cowhide was procured and carefully concealed about his per- son, and then he commenced an eager search for Bertrand and his sister. He first went to all the principal hotels in the city, but gained no infor- mation of the objects of his search. This occu- pied the entire hour, at the close of which he was to meet with his father. In returning to the place at which they had agreed to meet, William Mel- ville passed a fashionable boarding-house, before the door of which stood a carriage. It was with- in half an hour of the starting of one of the steam- boat lines for the south, and as there were two trunks on behind, the carriage was evidently waiting to convey some passengers to the boat. Just as the young man was passing, Bertrand came out with a lady closely veiled upon his arm. William instantly recognized her as his sister. Without a word, or a moment's pause for reflec- tion, he struck Bertrand a heavy blow, which stunned him so much that he reeled and fell for- ward upon the pavement. Before he could re- cover himself, Melville had drawn forth his cow- hide, and was laying it over his face and shoul- ders with almost the fury of a madman. Ardelle screamed wildly, and sunk fainting to the ground. The quick, smarting strokes of the cowhide soon restored Bertrand’s lost senses and presence of mind. He sprang eagerly to his feet, and be- fore either Melville or the crowd of bystanders that had already gathered round, could prevent the movement, drew a pistol and shot his assail- ant. Melville staggered backwards, with an ex- clamation, and fell. During the confusion and excitement of the moment, Bertrand escaped, and succeeded in getting away from the city, and ultimately of eluding all pursuit. The ball passed between a pair of the ribs on the right side, shattering one of them and bury- ing itself deep in the left lung, from which it was found impossible to extricate it. Violent inflammation followed, which caused the young man’s death in forty-eight hours.- As if to make more bitter the cup which the father had to drink, if that could add to the bitter- ness of such a cup, when Ardelle was brought home, she had in her possession a regularly- signed and witnessed certificate of marriage. She was the wife of Bertrand!

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18 With a weakened frame, shattered nerves and strength of character all gone, Mrs. Melville sunk down under this terrible visitation, and for a time exhibited the most fearful indications of approach- ing imbecility, thus making the burdens of her husband still more heavy to bear. Two or three days after the occurrence of the sad event just detailed, Gresler, the tailor, sat humming a tune at his work, much happier than he was willing to acknowledge himself to be. His oldest son, who had been apprenticed to a jeweler, had become free about two months pre- vious to this time. He had proved a steady, in- dustrious boy, was now a good workman, and had received immediate employment at good wages. This son had just left his shop. He had called in to inform him that his old master, whose health was bad, and who had more business than he could possibly attend to under the circum- stances, had offered him a good interest in his shop if he would accept of a partnership, and take the management of the most laborious and active branch of the business off of his hands. Before closing with the offer, he had come to consult with his father on the subject, to whose judgment he still felt willing to defer ina matter of so much interest. The father advised an immediate ac- ceptance of the proposition, and the son had just left for the purpose of doing so. While Gresler’s mind was still elated by the circumstance just mentioned, he received a mes- sage from Mr. Melville, by a servant, requesting his attendance. Gresler was fully aware of the distressing events that had thrown a pall of gloom over the family of his wealthy customer, and of the precarious state in which William Melville was lying. lIlis death had not yet been an- nounced. ‘*How is young Mr. Melville?’’ he asked of the servant who brought the message. ** Dead,’’ was the brief reply. ‘*Dead? Poor young man! blow it must be to his father !’’ ** Ves, it almost kills him. But he would have broken his heart anyhow, I am afraid.’’ ** Was he very wild ?”’ ‘* Yes; he was hardly ever in until after mid- night, and then he usually came home in a bad way. It hurt the old gentleman dreadfully, for he always set a good deal of store by William, and calculated on his making a man one of these days. But it is no wonder; he always had his own way and as much money as he wanted, and that, you know, is not very good for a young man. But everybody liked him, for he was kind to all.’’ A thought of his own boy, just about the age of William Melville, passed through the mind of Gresler, and, for the first time in his life, he felt thankful that he was as he was. The tailor repaired immediately to the house of Mr. Melville, and was shown by a servant into one of the parlors. He had never before What a terrible GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. been in a room so splendidly furnished. Large mirrors reached from the ceiling to the floor. The window curtains were of heavy silk damask ; the furniture rich with elaborate carving. Pic- tures from the most celebrated artists, ancient and modern, covered almost the entire surface of the walls, except those portions occupied by mirrors; while a dozen exquisite pieces of statuary gave to the room more the appearance of a museum to the half-bewildered tailor than the parlor of a pri- vate gentleman. Gresler had full time to ex- amine, with a curious eye, the various items of use and luxury around him. He felt the heavy drapery of the windows; pressed his foot over and over again upon the yielding Turkey carpet ; viewed the pictures and statuary, and examined the richly-carved furniture with its many curious patterns. From surprise and wonder, his feelings gradually changed. He forgot the object for which he had been summoned. Envy of the rich man filled his whole mind, and he was angry against the Providence that had made him a poor tailor and Melville a ‘‘rich nabob.’’ This feel- ing had nearly reached its height, when a ser- vant came in and asked him to step up stairs. The silent tread of the servant as he stepped with him into the hall, the death-like stillness that reigned around, coming as it did upon his imme- diate recollection that this was the house of mourning, dispelled his envious and murmuring thoughts, and prepared him to come with better feelings into the presence of the stricken-hearted father. The room into which he was shown was so darkened, that at first he could see objects but indistinctly. Mr. Melville came forward with a slow step, and spoke to the tailor in a voice so changed and mournful, that it caused the tears to spring to his eyes. A low moan, followed by a few quick sobs, gradually sinking away until lost in silence, directed Gresler’s eyes to a large cushioned chair that the darkness of the room had at first prevented his seeing. It needed no one to tell him that these sounds of grief came from the mother of William Melville. ‘* We have had a terrible affliction, Mr. Gres- ler,”’ said Mr. Melville, after a pause. ‘‘ And sometimes it seems as if we could not bear up. But we must look for strength to Him who has sent the trial, and will enable us to endure it.”’ The quivering voice and lip, the bowed head and air of deep humiliation and distress, touched the feelings of Gresler. He did not venture to make any reply. Ina little while, Mr. Melville, recovering himself so as to be able to speak with- out visible emotion, gave the tailor a few direc- tions about mourning garments for himself and younger sons, and then Gresler withdrew. ‘*T would not exchange places with that man,”’ said the tailor, as he gained the street and was able to breathe more freely, ‘‘ for all the wealth he possesses, were it doubled a hundred times !”’ But of this mind the envious and discontented

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THE POWER OF MUSIC.—THAT NAME. 19 man did not long remain. To be rich and have nothing, comparatively, to do, seemed to him to confer all the means of happiness. He could not comprehend how enlarged possessions brought corresponding wants, and as a natural conse- quence, disappointment in a like ratio; nor how attendant upon wealth were dangers and tempta- tions from which the poor man was freed. He felt the want of money as an evil, and therefore considered the possession of it as the greatest good. But, even with all his discontent and envy, Gresler was and always had been a happier man than Mr. Melville. And so may every poor man be happier than his rich neighbor if he will be industrious and frugal in his expenditures, and more especially if he will cultivate a spirit of contentment with his lot. Riches themselves never bring happiness. The rich have cares and troubles as well as the poor, and they are usually of a more harassing and heart-aching kind. They stand higher, and when stricken down by afflic- tion, fall to the earth with a heavier concussion. Let every man strive to better his condition; let every man get rich if he can, but let none be guilty of the folly of imagining that because another is wealthier than he, that he is a happier man, for, in nine cases in ten, if he could see into his heart, the sight would awaken in his own bosom the liveliest feelings of commiseration. THE BY MRS Wuew Orpheus struck his burning lyre, Mute Nature caught creative fire; Rough stones obeyed the swelling sound, In mystic measure moved around, Till, polished by the harmony, The finished city, grand and free, Rose To show man’s mind its work and way like the star that heralds day, The sword may sever slavery’s chain, The strong arm crush the tyrant’s reign, As lightning from the lurid sky Shatters and scathes the temple high; But ‘tis the sweet-voiced Spring that calls The ivy o’er the broken walls, , And gently swaying in the blasts, The fragile plant the pile outlasts. And thus the power of Music’s breath Reclothes the wastes of Time and Death he * blind old man” begins his strain, And Greece is “ living Greece” again! The songs that flowed on Zion’s hill Are chanted in God's temples still, And to the eye of faith unfold The glories of His house of old! POWER OF MUSIC. HALE. Each prophet-bard of ancient days Still breathes for us his lofty lays: The words that bear a mission high, If music-hallowed, never die ; And thus Religion, Law and Art, Sow their choice seeds in every heart From age to age the song flows on, And blends fresh life with glories gone A mystery this—but who can see The soft south wind that sways the tree, And warms its vital flood to flow, And bid its folded blossoms blow ? Even thus, the power of Music felt, The soul is swayed, the heart will melt, Till Love and Hope so bless the hours, Life’s dial-plate is marked by flowers And every temple Art has reared Some truth has taught, some error cleared ; But only Music’s voice leads on When Time is o’er and Heaven is won: The angel-art to mortals taught, The golden chord of human thought, When pure and tuned by Faith and Love, Linked with the golden harps above ! THAT NAME. So is it, at this distant day, So, when all other dreams are o'er, though like a sound astray, Finds in my heart its home of yore. That name, Ah, welcome name, long so unknown, As in the world myself was lost; And yet all timid comes that tone Oh, what may not the time have cost! The time hath cost no change, no change My beating heart may doubting shame} And now, Naught leads my spirit like that name o'er ment ry’s wildering range, ‘Tis owned; and be it all too late, And all now lost I e’er would claim. And yet not all~whate’er the fate, Mine is the memory of that name.—B

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ATALANTA UPON SKATES. BY GRACE GREENWOOD. SomEewnaT more than twenty years ago, in a fine old mansion on the St. Lawrence, near Mon- treal, lived General Paul Leroux, formerly of the French army, and a devoted Bonapartist. On the final fall of Napoleon, he had emigrated to Canada with his family and a portion of his once princely fortune. General Leroux was a widower, with two twin children, Henri and Eugenie, at your servive, my reader. These two, having lost their mother in early childhood, had spent some years with rela- tives in Switzerland. In that wildest country, in the midst of a large household, herself the especial pet of her grand-uncle, a veteran soldier, Eugenie Leroux was allowed all the wild and healthful freedom of a peasant girl. At the age of sixteen, when she accompanied her father and brother to the New World, she could boast but few lady-like accomplishments and aristocratic airs; but she was lovely with the promise of ex- traordinary beauty, bewitchingly naive in man- ner, and as brave and vigorous as a young Zin- gara. She was passionate in spirit, impetuous and wayward; fiery and fearless in her resent- ments, but quick and generous to forgive ; ardent and devoted to the death in her loves and friend- ships. Henri Leroux was possessed of a fine intellect, but was of a delicate physical organiza- tion; gentle in spirit, sensitive, studious and re- ligious, the fair beauty of his face, the subdued tone of his voice and his quiet manner, all went to render him a most remarkable contrast to his sister. But I will not dwell further upon his character, as his future life is to form the subject of a subsequent sketch. On reaching his Canadian home, General Le- roux procured a governess and masters for his daughter. Mademoiselle Eugenie soon acquired a good knowledge of English, and made rapid progress in music, for which she possessed re- markable talent; but she indignantly overturned her embroidery frame, tossed her-paint-brushes into the river, and sent her Latin grammar after them. Her poor governess soon resigned in de- spair all hope of making a fine lady out of the wild girl of the Alps, whom an indulgent father, good easy man, permitted to follow in all things, her own untrammeled impulses. Our heroine’s early residence in Switzerland had colored her entire after-life and character ; and the daughter of a soldier, she was perhaps not unnaturally soldier-like and somewhat mas- culine in her tastes. She neither trembled, faint- ed, nor shrieked with exquisite sensibility and 20 delicate nervousness at the roar of ordnance, the peal of musketry, or the sharp crack of the rifle. She loved them rather, and at the gleam of arms and the exulting swell of martial music, there ever flashed from her kindling eyes the bold spirit of a Joan d’Arc. As a horsewoman, she was absolutely unrivaled in all the Canadas—at least so said her riding-master. She could row like Grace Darling, swim like a mermaid, and then her skating—‘‘ Her skating? Good gra- cious !’’ cries my fair reader, in feminine conster- nation. Wait a bit, honey, and consider. Skat- ing is an amusement which has been too long monopolized by ‘“‘our natural enemy,’’ as some lady writer—Miss Martineau, Miss Hannah More, or Miss Robinson Crusoe—calls the sterner sex. It is a graceful, a delightful, and a most invigorat- ing exercise. I speak not unadvisedly, for in my early girlhood I too acquired this singular accom- plishment, and I now only blush for the false de- licacy which has since prevented me from keep- ing myself in practice. But Eugenie, fearless of the censures of the over-refined, and scorning the impertinent obser- vations of the canaille, pursued with enthusiasm the favorite pastime of her Swiss winter-life, and no sooner did the ice of the St. Lawrence become of a reliable thickness, than, accompanied by her twin brother, she might be seen performing her graceful evolutions thereon for hours together. Her skill and swiftness became proverbial, and many were the delighted witnesses of her varied and extraordinary feats. But it is time she was introduced personally to my readers. On the afternoon of a keen but sunny day in January, Eugenie and Henri Leroux laughingly descended the bank of the St. Lawrence, and mingled with a small company of skaters. Made- moiselle Eugenie, then a strikingly-beautiful bru- nette of eighteen, was suitably, though somewhat coquettishly attired in a short skirt and tightly- fitting jacket of dark blue cloth, nicely trimmed with black fur. Upon her head she wore a small fur cap; her raven hair was put plainly back ; the rich brown of her complexion was brilliant with a glow of pleasure, and her large dark eyes were flashing back the sunshine. After amusing herself as usual for awhile, Eu- genie observed a burly English corporal, with whom she had a slight skating acquaintance, progressing leisurely toward her, drawing a miniature sleigh. This, she presently saw, con- tained the first born of the corporal’s house, a stout boy of about half a year old, well wrapped

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ATALANTA UPON SKATES. 21 ———e—e—eo—r—rr in furs and flannel, and rosy-cheeked with the healthful wintry air. Eugenie glided along by the little vehicle, chatting pleasantly, and delight- ing the proud father by her praises of his pretty child, till suddenly a wild thought darting through her brain, she caught the infant from the cushions, laid it on her head, after the Swiss manner, put- ting up one hand to steady it, and was off like a tlash ! more easily imagined than described,’’ to use a novel expression. He stood stupefied and trans- fixed for a moment, then gave a cry, between a groan and a yell, and started in pursuit. He was a tolerable skater, but he knew not with whom As for the corporal, “his sensations were he had to compete. Eugenie was now rods ahead of him, looking back, and laughing provokingly ; now passing so near that he almost grasped her dress; now circling about him with fearful ra- pidity. At last the poor man became furious, swore roundly at the mischievous girl, and called Three or four, Henri among the number, laughing heartily, sat for aid in rescuing his child. out in eager pursuit; but Eugenie, after eluding them at every point, flew back to the little sleigh, lowered the child from her head, kissed him hastily, laid him smiling and unharmed upon his pillow, and was off again. Among the interested though inactive specta- tors of this strange scene, were two British of- ficers, then stationed at Montreal—Captain Ha- The former was highly connected and the heir to considerable milton and Lieutenant Thurston. wealth, had a soldierly appearance, a symmetri- cal form, and a fine manly face, happy, and withal, innocent in its expression. Thurston was a man of the world, with a pe- culiarly English physiognomy; was considered handsomer than his companion, to whom he was an attached and devoted friend. On leaving the river, after Eugenie and her brother had disappeared, Hamilton maintained a thoughtful silence until he reached his quarters, when he exclaimed—*‘ Thurston, we must make the acquaintance of General Leroux, for, by the powers, I would give my commission to know that girl! She is a glorious creature—a glo-ri-ous creature !”’ ‘““Fudge, Hamilton; she is a merciless little sivage—a very ogress, running away with babies, and frightening worthy fathers out of their wits.’’ Our officers found little difficulty in gaining an entrée into the hospitable mansion of the courte- ous General Leroux, and ere many months were past, they were on a footing of familiar inter- course with his family. Captain Hamilton’s ad- miration for Eugenie finally deepened into love, and many things seemed to augur favorably for The father and brother of the lady were both won over by the many ex- the success of his suit. cellencies of the young soldier’s character, his intellectual qualifications and the charm of his manner; but the heart of Eugenie herself was PPP LPP LPP PLL LPP PPP PPP PRPRPRPR LPP ALLL not so easily conquered. Her lover soon ascer- tained that many of her feelings, tastes and early prejudices were opposed to the interest which he sought to create. First of all, her amor patrie was far stronger than that of most women; she passionately loved la belle France, and as pas- sionately hated her enemies. Then she cherished in the depths of her soul, that wild, enthusiastic, adoring love for the memory of Napoleon which none but a true Bonapartist can fully understand. When a mere child, she had seen the great hero—she had a distinct recollection of his face, of his winning smile, as he addressed a few play- ful words to her. Henri Leroux even declared to Hamilton that her right cheek, which had re- ceived the imperial salute, had been tabooed from that time, no less august lips having pressed the sacred spot. To her father and brother Eugenie never spoke of the glorious days of the empire but with mournful enthusiasm —of the em- peror but with tears; yet to Captain Hamilton she talked proudly of the deeds and reign of the great king-maker, and entered into many an animated diseussion of his merits as a ruler and a general. Hamilton, like every English soldier, was a worshiper of Wellington, and could never be brought to admit that the generalship of the con- quered surpassed that of the conqueror. Such discussions sometimes add a piquancy to friendship, but no degree of discord is healthful for love—and our lovers had some serious disa- But reconciliations always followed, Eugenie usually concluding, in her calmer mo- ments, that a live friend was better than a dead emperor, and frankiv sending to the aggrieved greements. gentleman some pacific message. During the summer and fall, General Leroux was absent on a tour through the States; and, as Henri was much engrossed by studies, Captain Hamilton was left a fair field for his wooing ope- rations. He rode and walked, sung and read English with mademoiselle, and all would have gone on smoothly had he not also talked. But the ghost of Bonaparte was never laid; and that unfortunate last battle, when the “little corporal’’ was defeated by fate, not by Wellington, was fought over again, almost daily. On the return of the general, Captain Hamilton thought best to consult with him, before making a formal proposal to Eugenie. To his great joy, the kind father made no opposition to his suit— leaving the matter wholly in his daughter’s hands. But Eugenie was too arch a coquette to decide at once—again and again requested time for con- sideration, until weeks slipped by, and the merry skating days had come round again. It was a clear, luminous moonlight night, late in December, when Captain Hamilton and Lieu- tenant Thurston met at the house of General Leroux. Thurston had but that day returned from Quebec, where he had been spending some months; and was, therefore, not altogether au

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22 fait of the state of affairs between his brother soldier and Mademoiselle Eugenie. The friends, though they did not come together, found they were bound on the self-same errand—to solicit the honor of attending upon mademoiselle to a military ball which was to be givenon New Year’s eve. As neither gentleman would resign his claims in favor of the other, a playful altercation ensued—Eugenie declaring herself unable to de- cide. At this point, Henri laughingly proposed that, as the night was magnificent, the important question should be decided by a skating match ; or that Eugenie should play “ Atalanta upon Skates.”’ The gentlemen joyfully assented; clapped her hands with childish glee, and retired to don her skating costume. This was some- what different from the one which she had worn a year before; the trimming being of white fur, and for the sake of greater conspicuousness on this occasion, she had placed in her cap a long white ostrich plume. The effect of this dress was to render her more bewitchingly beautiful than ever, as she came bounding into the drawing room, for her companions. General Leroux, after gazing on her proudly for a moment, embraced her tenderly, and declared his intention of joining the little party, to see that no harm befell her, and that all went fair in the race. In their way to the river, Captain Hamilton, whose arm Eugenie had taken, looked with sud- den seriousness into the roguish eyes of his companion, and whispered— “May not a question of more moment than that of escorting you to this ball, be also decided to-night ?’’ , “In the same manner, monsieur ?”’ “Yes, and may the swiftness of my heels avail, where the eloquence of an adoring heart has failed.’’ ** As you will,’’ she replied, laughing merrily. “* Overtake me, and I surrender prisoner for life ; but fail, and it is the lost Waterloo of your woo- ing. Remember !"’ The moon was at its full, and the ice-bound St. Lawrence lay like a broad sheet of glittering silver. The race was soon fairly begun. Thurston at first seemed likeliest to win, but laying out all his strength in desperate efforts to head Eugenie in her marvelous evolutions, at length sank down, utterly exhausted : and the provoking girl turned and flew past him, like a wild bird on the wing. The field was now left to Hamilton, who had infinitely more at stake, and he swore a mighty oath (to himself) never to yield until the victory was his. It was a scene of singular excitement. Hamil- ton, though an admirable skater, never seemed to gain upon Eugenie, except by her own permis- sion; for she would now and then flag, as though about to pause, place her hand on her side, and droop her head, as from weariness. Hamilton Eugenie GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. aed would redouble his efforts, and the next moment she would be flying about him in bewildering circles, nearer and nearer, till the ring of her skates, and her merry laugh were in his ear ; and then, away shot her little form with incredible swiftness, till far a-down the river her long white plume was floating in the moonlight. At length, Eugenie called back— “T am getting tired of this, Captain Hamilton. You can never overtake me; but stop where you are, and I will come to you!’ Hamilton paused, and soon beheld his inamor- ata swiftly approaching. As she drew nearer, however, she glided along more leisurely and coquettishly. Ah, moment of thrilling rapture to the lover, when he watched that magnificent creature coming slowly, but steadily toward him, with her head archly inclined to one side ; her luxuriant hair loosed from her cap, and falling over her shoulders; her arms crossed upon her bosom ; her lips apart, and her eyes flashing glo- riously and not unlovingly upon him! Nearer, nearer; he reached forth his arms with a cry of joyful welcome! Nearer, nearer; he her breath, silvered into small clouds, by the frost of the still night'!—when she bowed her head, and shot beneath his extended arm, like a winged arrow! The baffled officer turned quickly, too quickly, alas, for his feet slid from under him, and he measured his length on the ice! He suddenly recovered himself, to behold Eugenie pausing at a little distance, and resigning herself to extrava- could see gant merriment; her wild laugh ringing out like a peal of bells on the clear frosty air. Vexation and mortification gave our hero new strength, and he again set out with all the energy of des- peration. This time he gained upon his treache- rous lady-love. Eugenie became really alarmed when, looking backward, she saw him dashing on like an eagle in pursuit of a devoted wood- pigeon. She strove eagerly to reach the bank, but in vain. Hamilton saw with exultation that the prize would soon be his; he already stretched out his arms, when—she was gone, gone! and at his feet yawned a chasm in the ice! Fearless of death and the rheumatism, the gallant captain leaped to the rescue ; and, as Heaven would have it, Eugenie rose in the same place where she sank, and was safely lifted from the water, and borne to the bank by her alarmed lover. She had chanced upon a spot but thinly frozen over; the thick ice having been cut and removed on that very day. The poor girl was chilled into partial uncon- sciousness, and Hamilton knelt by her side and tenderly strove to revive her. Her father, Henri and the Lieutenant had reached the spot, but no one interfered with the office of her rescuer. He seemed not to notice the presence of others, as he bent over the fainting girl and chafed her hands and temples. At last, he pressed his lips > to hers, and called upon her name in an agony of

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ATALANTA UPON love and fear. As though she had received a powerful galvanic shock, Eugenie instantly sprang to her feet, rejecting with indignation and haatteur the further assistance of her presuming lover. Supported by her father and brother, she proudly and silently walked homeward, hurt and morti- fied by the tragi-comic termination of the even- ing’s amusement. The adventurers reached the house with ici- cles depending from every point and edge of their attire, and found themselves pretty chilled ; eau de vie, soon set all right again. Eugenie maintained her proud and silent re- serve until, as Captain Hamilton was about leav- ing, General Leroux, grasping his hand, said in a tremulous voice— ““My dear young friend, life of my child; Eugenie’s heart was touched; she sprang for- ward impetuously, seized Hamilton’s other hand, and looking up with tearful eyes, said in a tone to be heard by all present— “ee thoroughly you have saved the ” receive a father’s blessing ! Let me also thank you, my preserver; I have been ungrateful, unwomanly ; forgive me !”’ A short time subsequent to the little adventure which we have narrated, Captain Hamilton was ordered to another station, where he remained during the winter; his affaire de ceur continuing in the mean time pretty much in statu quo. In the spring time he returned, but only to bid his friends adieu, as his company had been recalled to England. On his announcing this to Eugenie, she threw aside her reserve at once, exclaiming— “Holy mother, going! and I—how am I to endure the parting ?”’ “Great Heaven, Eugenie! you love me at last ?”’ “T do, truly, tenderly; I can never love an- other—will never wed another! I tell you this, ” is it possible that my friend, because I cannot wed with you. be my wife! go with me I will make any sacrifice for your Say the word, and I will leave the army, that I may never be the active enemy of your native country. Tell me, my love, will you not be persuaded ?”’ “Oh! I entreat you! I can- not listen to you—I must not leave my father ! A stranger, in a strange land, his country, his emperor, his daughter—all lost to him: would he not die of a broken heart ?—No, no; I will never forsake him !’’ and the poor child burst into tears. Captain Hamilton strode up and down the apartment, pale and heart-wrung with contending emotions; but he was too honorable, too truly noble long to hesitate, and respectfully taking Eugenie’s hand in his, he said— ““T honor you for your decision; I love you the more tenderly for this beautiful exhibition of filial piety. May God give us strength to endure our “Say not so, dearest ; to England! love. do not urge me, but a change of clothing, and a trifle of SKATES. 23 common trial, and permit me to return at no dis- tant day to claim this hand.’’ Then, after folding her for the first time to his breast, and kissing away the tears which hung on her long, dark eye-lashes, he turned hastily, and was gone. But he returned in a moment—he had left a glove, and returned to find Made- moiselle Eugenie pressing that same glove to her lips and heart, She was overcome with confusion, and could scarcely raise her eyes to her lover’s, as he hurriedly re- quested her to inform her father that he would wait upon him in the morning to make his adieux. in her passionate sorrow. Early the next morning, Eugenie sought her father in the library, and with as much calmness as she could command, related the occurrence of the preceding evening. The general, surprised and agitated, exclaim ed— “Ts it possible that you love this man whom you rejected ?”’ ‘As sincerely as my departed mother must have loved you in your youth; but I could not make lonely the hearth of our home; I could not forsake you, my father.’’ “* Youare an angel, Eugenie! that ever blessed a father’s The best daughter s heart. Yet I cannot accept this sacrifice; I cannot separate you from the man you love, and who is worthy of you— it would be selfish, sinful to do this. Go with Hamilton to England, his happy wife! Go, and God forbid I should cloud your young life with sorrow !’’ ‘Father, dear father, do not call this a sacrifice ! The spirit of my mother will aid me in my duti- ful devotion to you. and I shall be happy. General Leroux sat in thoughtful silence for a moment; then, blushing like a very boy, he said— ‘‘Look here, my daughter!’’ as he took from his bosom a miniature, set in brilliants—the por- trait of a young and handsome woman—not the long dead mother of Henri and Eugenie. ‘“* What does this mean, father ?’’ said our hero- ine, turning deathly pale. “Tt means,”’ he replied, ‘that foreseeing that I could not always retain you to preside over my household, I have provided a substitute.’’ “Who and what is she ?”’ ‘“‘ Have patience, my love, and I will tell you all. While on my tour through the States last autumn, I met with an old friend and fellow soldier, an emigrant like myself, and his only child, a good and beautiful girl is she, who has promised to fill that void in my heart left by your mother, the place by my hearth soon to be left by you. I thought to have told you this long ago; but it was an awk- ward subject to broach: and the marriage has been once postponed on account of the death of a relative of Marie’s.’’ ‘“‘And so, my grand sacrifice was uncalled for ?”’ said Eugenie, making an effort to smile. take with you a father’s blessing! Heaven will smile upon me, ”

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24 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. “Yes, my love—I shall grieve deeply to part with you: but I shall not be comfortless. Now, I am going out; when Captain Hamilton calls, you must receive him here, and may explain to him the change in your circumstances as regards me. Don’t weep, my child—don’t, I pray! I will visit you in England with Henri and—and my wife, in the course of the summer; and you will return to Canada, some God bless and the, exemplary father time. you, my darling!’ took himself off. Eugenie had compose her face and smooth her ringlets, before Captain Hamilton walked into the library. He was somewhat surprised at meeting Eugenie hardly time to dry her tears, again, and expressed much regret at not being able to see her father. The poor girl was sadly embarrassed, and could utter little more than After a few moments of painfully constrained conver- brief replies to the questions of her lover. sation, the Captain rose, kissed hastily the hand of his lady-love, and not trusting himself to look upon her face, left her once again to her tears. She stood like a statue of grief, and listened to his every step as he descended to the hall below. Then, scarce conscious of the act, she flew rather than ran down the stairs. Her lover heard her light step, and turned toward her. his arm, leaned her head on his shoulder, and She grasped murmured— “Tf you must go, George, I am not needed here; I shall die if you leave me !’’ This was the first time Eugenie had ever called her lover “‘ George.”’ My gentleman-reader will please recall the feeling with which he first heard his own name, from the lips of the woman he loved. take me with you! Under such extraordinary circumstances, Cap- tain Hamilton soon obtained leave to delay fora short time his departure for England; and in the course of a week, his marriage to Eugen’‘e took place with all the rites of the English and Roman churches. Of course, the bridegroom was pronounced elegant in white gloves and waistcoat; and the bride adorable in satin and orange blossoms. The usual number of jokes and champagne-bot- eer ~ ee tles were cracked at the expense of the former; of gloves and sashes soiled at the expense of the latter. Then followed forced smiles, blessings, tears, the parting. That night, hour after hour, in the lonely room which had once been Eugenie’s, over a harp, whose strings the delicate fingers of the most loved might wake no more, leaned a pale and fair-haired youth, weeping wildly and bitterly, with the feeling that his twinned heart had been torn asunder. That night in his own room sat a tall and hand- some man, yet in the golden meridian of life, gazing mournfully on the portrait of a beautiful girl in a skating costume, which hung against the opposite wall. There was a strange quiver- ing in the lip of the soldier, a stranger glistening in his eye. Then he drew from his breast an- other picture, and gazed on that till the smile of the lover shone through the tears of the father It is evening—the first evening at sea, and Captain Hamilton and his bride are on deck, watching the last point of American land, as it fades into the blue of the horizon. “The wind blows fair—the vessel feels The pressure of the rising breeze; And, swiftest of a thousand keels, She leaps to the careering seas!” Eugenie’s sweet eyes are filled with tears, as, stretching her arms towards the dim shore, sh« murmurs— ‘“‘ Adieu, dear adopted land! adieu, adieu !”’ Her husband folds her to his whispers—‘‘ You have indeed resigned much father, brother, bosom, and to follow me.’’ “Yes, all, home, friends, and, it may be, my religion. And now, dear George,’’ she adds, smiling through her tears, “ will you not admit that Napoleon was the greatest hero the world has ever known ?”’ “Yes, yes, I yield at last; but in return for this concession, I take the liberty, my little Bonapartist wife, of kissing you on the Emperor's cheek !"’ MEMORY AND HOPE. O Mew’ry! cherished attribute of mind! When not to serve a guilty conscience made, Leading us oft with absent friends to find Communion sweet, to wander where we strayed With those we love, in days long passed away, And live again the happy period o’er Of thoughtless childhood, innocently gay, As free from care, as joyous as before Though Mem'ry’s pleasures round the heart entwine And like sweet incense from its altar rise, Still joys the purest, dearest, Hops, are thine! Thou on “triumphant wing” dost mount the skies, And hail the day when, disenthralled from earth, The waiting soul, to its Redeemer given, Shall mount exulting in the second birth, And tune its praises with the choirs of Heaven! G. W. 8

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AMELIA; OR, A YOUNG ‘ x LADY'S VICISSITUDES. A NOVEL. BY MISS LESLIE. {Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1847, by L. A. Gopery, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.] CHAPTER FIRST. THE DAY AFTER THE PARTY. Mrs. ion, residing in one of the handsome new streets DerrincTon, a lady of fortune and fash- near the upper end of the commercial metropolis of America, invited her niece, Sophia Fayland, to pass a few months with her, and the invitation accepted. The an officer who had for many years the northern frontier, though was gladly lady was daughter to been stationed young not always at the same post. On this occasion her father escorted her to the city, where he re- lieved Mrs. Derrington from the trouble of show- ing the lions by taking her himself to see what- ever he thought would most interest or amuse her; it being a sufficient fatigue for Miss Fay- land’s aunt to superintend her speedy equipment in new and fashionable habiliments. Sophia Fayland was very young, very pretty, and very new to what is called the world. She had never been at school; but her parents were well qualified to instruct her at home, and under their roof (aided by an excellent capacity of her own) she had acquired a really good education. Mrs. Derrington thought her niece entirely too he encouraged the hope that, as natural. But s Sophia was blest with a considerable share of pe beauty, added to a native gracefulness in all her motions, (besides sitting well, and standing well, and always knowing what to do with her hands,) there was great hope that she might become one of the leading attractions of. her aunt's evening reunions, and morning receptions. Major Fayland had departed on his return home, and Sophia’s tears had flowed fast and long on taking leave of her father. Mrs. Der- rington reminded her, by way of consolation, that to-morrow was reception day, and that she would then most probably see many of the ladies, who, having heard of Miss Fayland’s arrival, had already left cards for her. ‘*And what, dear aunt, is exactly meant by a reception day ?’’—inquired Sophia. ‘*Tt is a convenient way of getting through our morning visitors’’—replied Mrs. Derring- ton. ‘‘ We send round cards at the beginning of the season to notify our friends that we are at home on a certain morning, oncea week. My VOL, XXXVI.—3 day is Thursday. I sit in the drawing-room dur- ing several hours in a handsome demi-toilette. Full dress is not admissible, of course, at morn- ing receptions. Any of my friends that wish to see me, take this opportunity ; understanding that I receive calls at no other time. They are served with chocolate and other refreshments, brought in and handed to them soon after their arrival. They talk awhile, and then depart. There are some coming in, and some going out all the time, and no one staying long. ‘The guests are chiefly ladies; few gentlemen of this city having leisure for morning visits. Still every gentleman ma- nages to honor a lady’s reception day with at least one call during the season. I suppose you had no such things as morning receptions at the fort ?’’ ‘* No, indeed’’—replied Sophia—‘‘ our morn- ings were always fully occupied in attending to household affairs, and doing the sewing of the family. Afternoon was the time for walking or reading. But in the evening we all visited our neighbors, very much according to the fashion of Spanish tertullias.”’ Next morning, when dressed for the reception, and seated in the drawing-room to wait for the first arrivals, Mrs. Derrington said to Sophia— ‘* We shall now hear all about Mrs. Cotterell’s great party which came off last night. I have some curiosity to know what it was like, being her first since she came to live in this part of the town.”’ **Do you visit her ?’”’—asked Sophia. ‘*Oh, no—not yet—and probably I never may. I am waiting to see if the Cotterells succeed in getting into society.” ‘* What society, dear aunt ?’’—inquired Sophia. **T see, Sophy, that I shall be much amused with your simplicity’’—replied Mrs. Derrington your extreme newness. In using the word society, we allude only to one class, and that of course is the very best.”’ ‘* Py that I understand a select circle of intel- lectual, refined, agreeable, and every way excel- lent people’’—said Sophia—‘‘ men on whose in- tegrity, and women on whose propriety there is not the slightest blemish, and who are admired for their talents, loved for their goodness, and esteemed for the truth and honor of their whole conduct.”’ , 25 —‘‘or rather with

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26 GODEY’sS ‘* Stop—stop’’—interrupted Mrs. Derrington— ** you are going quite too far. Can you suppose all this is required to get people isito society, or to keep them there? The upper circles would be very small if nothing short of perfection could be admitted.”’ ‘* What then, dear aunt, are the requisites ?’’— asked Sophia. ‘‘ Is genius one ?”’ ‘*Genius? Oh, no indeed. It is not that sort of thing that brings people into society. It is mostly considered rather a drawback. Mrs. Goldsworth actually shuns people of Indeed, most of my friends rather avoid them. genius. I have no acquaintance whatever with any man or woman of genius.”’ **T am sorry to hear it’’--said Sophia—-‘‘ I had hoped while in New York to meet many of those gifted persons whose fame has spread throughout our country, whom I[ already know by reputation, and whom I have long been desirous of seeing or hearing.”’ ‘Oh, I suppose you mean lions’’—said Mrs Derrington. ‘‘ I can assure you that J patronize none of them ; neither do any of my friends.”’ **T thought the lions were the patronizers’’— said Sophia—‘‘ and that their position gave them the exclusive power of selecting their associates, and deciding on whom to confer the honor of their acquaintance.”’ Sophy—Sophy, you really make me laugh!”’ —exclaimed her aunt. ‘* What strange notions you have picked up, with your garrison educa- tion. Do not you know that people of genius seldom live in any sort of style, or keep carriages, or give balls? And they never make fortunes; unless they are foreign musicians or dancers, and ] am not sure that the singing and dancing people are classed as geniuses. ‘They are regarded as something much better.”’ ‘*Ts society composed entirely of people of for- tune ?”’ ‘Oh, no; there are persons in the first circle who are not half so rich as many in the second, or even in the third, or fourth.”’ Then, if society is not distinguished for pre- eminence in talent or wealth, the distinction must depend upon the transcendent goodness, and per- fect respectability of those that belong to it.’’ ‘* Why, not exactly. the persons in society have done very bad things; which after the first few days it.is best to hush up, for the honor of ourclass. But then in certain respects society is most exemplary. We always subscribe to public charities. Charity is very fashionable, and so is church.”’ ‘“*And now’’—continued Sophia—‘‘to return to the lady who gave the party last night. Is not she a good and respectable woman ?”’ **T never heard anything against her goodness, or her respectability.’’ ‘*She must surely be a woman of education.’ ‘*Oh, yes; I went to school with her myself. But at all schools there is somewhat of a mix- ’ MAGAZINE I confess that some of AND LADY’S BOOK ture. To give you Mrs. Cotterell’s history—her father kept a large store in Broadway, and after- wards he got into the wholesale line, and went into Pearl street. Now, my father was a ship- my de ar Mr. Cot- terell made his money in some sort of manuiac- ping merchant, and owned vessels, and late husband was his junior partner turing business, across the river. He died two years ago, and is said to have left his family very rich. Her daughter being now grown, Mrs. Cotterell has bought a house up here, in the best part of the town, and has come out quite in style, and been tolerably calied on. Some went to see her out of curiosity; and some because they have an insatiable desire for enlarging their circle; some because they have a passion for new people; and some because they like to go to houses where everything is profuse and costly, as is generally the case with parvenues.”’ ‘* And some, I hope’’—said Sophia—‘*‘ because they really like Mrs. Cotterell for herself.”’ ‘*She certainly is visited by a few very genteel people’’—continued Mrs. Derrington—** and that has encouraged her to attempt a party last night. But the Goldsworths, the Highburys, the Fea- therstones and myself, are waiting to hear if she is well taken up; and, above all, if the Pelham Prideauxs have called on her. And besides, it } } } may be well for us not to begin till she has gra- dually gotten rid of the people with whom she associated in her husband's time.”’ ss . 1 ‘9 ? . ss | . ha Surely’’—said Sophia—‘‘ she cannot be ex- pected to throw off her old friends ?’ ‘*'Then she need not expect to gain new ones We cannot mix with people from the Mrs. Cotterell may do up here. unfashionable districts. as she pleases—but she must be select in her circle, if she wants the countenance of the Pel- ham Prideauxs.”’ ‘* And who, dear aunt, are the Pelham Pri- deauxs ?’’—inguired Sophia. ‘*Is it possible you never heard of them ?’’— ejaculated Mrs. Derrington. ‘*'To know Mrs. Pelham Prideaux, to be seen at her house, or to have her seen at yours, is sufficient. 1 gives the stamp of high fashion at once ‘** And for what reason ?’’—persisted Sophia. ‘** Because she is Mrs. Pelham Prideaux’’—was the reply. ‘* What is her husband ?’’—said Sophia. ‘*TTe is a gentleman who has always lived upon the fortune left him by his father, who inherited None of the Prideauxs have done anything for a hundred property from us father, and he from his. years. The great-grandfather was from England, and came over a gentleman.”’ ‘* Surprising !’’"—said Sophia, mischievously. ‘* And who have they to inherit all this glory ?”’ ‘*An only daughter’’—replied Mrs. Derring- ton—‘‘ Maria Matilda Pelham Prideaux.”’ At this moment a carriage stopped at the door, and presently Mrs. Middleby was announced ; and immediately after, two young ladies came in

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AMELIA; OR, A YOUNG ? ? who were presented to Sophia as Miss Telford and Miss Ellen Telford. The conversation soon turned on Mrs. Cotterell’s party. Mrs. Middle- by had been there—the Miss Telfords had not, and were therefore anxious to ‘‘hear all about if ile ‘** Really’’—said Mrs. Middleby—*‘ it was just like all other parties; and like all others, it went off tolerably well. ‘The company was such as 1 ry" one meets everywhere. ‘The rooms were deco- rated in the usual style. Some of the people I 1 better than others, and some worse than others. The dressing was just as it always is at The hostess and her daughter behaved > doin parties. le gener their own houses; the is eap ompany as guests usually behave in other peo- ple’s houses. ‘There was some conversation and "1 h ] k 1 +} . some music. ihe supper was like ali other sup- pers 1 everybody went away about the usual Mrs. Derrington was dubious about taking up he ( ells **T knew we should not get much information out of Mrs Middle by’’—said Miss Te lford to Sophia, er the lady had de parted. - She al- > } ] ; r le hate. iay be he Ways Geals In generals, whatever may be the tonie ¢ conver 1 m ‘*Because her capacity of observation is so shallow that it cannot take in particulars’’—said ‘But here comes Mrs. Honey- x>d—we will stav to hear what she savs.’’ Mrs. Honeywood was introduced, and on being lied to for her account of Mrs. Cotterell’s party, sie pronounced it every way charming ; ind told of some delightful people that were there. Among them’’—said Mrs. Honey wood —‘‘was the dashing widow, Mrs. Crandon, as ‘ s much admired as ever. She was certainly the belle of the room, and looked even more « vating than usual, with her blooming cheeks, and her magnificent dark eyes, and her rich and graceful ringlets, and her fine ta'l figure set off by her superb dress, giving her the air of a duchess, or a countess at least.’’ ow was her dress ?’?’—inquired Sophia. ‘Oh, veautiful glossy cherry-colored velvet, trimmed with a profusion of rich black lace. On her | id was an ex julsite dress- hat of white satin and blond, with a splendid ostrich plume. She was surrounded by beaux all the evening. The r¢ le men ilmost ne ole cted the young ladic Ss to crowd round the enchanting widow, particu- larly whe harp and n she played on the sung. They would scarcely allow her to quit the instru- ment; There have ul and, indeed, her music was truly divine. was q a scramble, as to who should unite 1e honor of leading Mrs. Crandon to the supper-table.’ After some farther encomiums on the widow Crandon, and on everything connected with the party, Mrs. Honeywood took her leave, first of- fering s J elfords a which on ts in her carriage to the Mig er they accepted. Fe6h Bs 27 LADY’S VICISSITUDES. Mrs. Derrington rather thought she would take up the Cotterells. The next of the guests who had been at Mrs. Cotterell’s party was Miss Rodwell; and she also gave an account of it. ‘*Mrs. Cotterell and her daughter are rather presentable, and they are visited to a certain de- gree’’—said Miss Rodwell—‘‘ and I understand that Mrs. Pelham Prideaux does think of calling on them. I knew that I should meet many of my friends, or of course, I could not have risked being there myself. But, under any circum- stances, the company was too large to be select. } A party cannot be perfectly comme il faut, if it numbers more Mrs. De Manchester says, that to have the very cream and flower of New York society, you must beyond And, though an Englishwoman, I think, in this respect, she is right. than fifty. not go ” ‘*The Vanbombels, to be completely select, invite none but Mrs. their own relations’’—observed Derrington. ‘‘ And for the same reason’’—rejoined Miss Rodwell—‘‘ the Jenkses invite none of their re- But who do you think I saw last I wonder She must have lations at all. evening ? Mrs. Cotterell found her? Poor Crandon, absolutely. where Ny eae a Sots aed tainly could been invited out of compassion; it certainly could not have been for the purpose of ornamenting the rooms. Most likely Mrs. Cotterell did not poor is so entirely passé, know that } nobody minds Ct Crandon itting her in the least. ‘There she was rigged out in that old dingy red velvet that everybody was long ago tired of seeing. It is now quite too narrow for the fashion, and looks fade d white threadbare. She raced it in its high and and had taken off the satin trimming tl i decorated it scantily with some brownish, blackish lace. And her 1 with palmy days, and cvarse then head, with the curl all out, and a q hat, forlorn ringlets, streaming down its eer yellowish- white and a meager old feather to match! Such an object! I wish you could have seen her! But, poor thing, I could not help pitying her, for she looked forlorn, and sat neglected, and was left to herself nearly all the time; except when the Cotterells talked to her from a sense of duty. he harp, but nobody iat J was talking and She played something t seemed to listen. | laughing all the time, and so was every one else. People that are ill-dressed should never play on harps. It shows them too plainly.” ‘*And they should never go to parties either’’ ‘* Poor Mrs. Crandon, no friend to tell But I never heard before that she had fallen off in her costume. —said Mrs. Derrington. has she her so? The report may be true that her husband's exe- cutors have defrauded her of a considerable por- tion of her property. However, I have lost sight of her for some years.’ ‘And then’ Miss to be expected that Crandon could sustain ’—said Rodwell—‘‘ it was at or =

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28 herself permanently in society, considering how she first got into it.”’ **T own’’—resumed Mrs. Derrington—‘‘I was rather surprised when I first saw Mrs. Crandon among us. It was, I believe, at Mrs. Hauton- berg’s famous thousand dollar party, the winter that it was fashionable to report the cost of those things; so that before the end of the season, par- ties had mounted up to twice that sum. How did she happen to get there, for it was certainly the cause of her having a run all that season? I never exactly understood the circumstances.”’ ** Oh, I can tell you all about it’’—replied Miss Rodwell—‘‘ for I was in the secret. Mr. Cran- don was a jobber, and had realized a great deal of money, and they lived in a fine house, and made a show, but nobody in society ever thought of noticing them. After awhile he took her to Europe, and they spent several months in Paris, and Mrs. Crandon (who, to do her justice, was then a very handsome woman) fitted herself out with a variety of elegant French dresses, made by an exquisite artiste, and with millinery equally recherché. Whenshe came home, the fame of all these beautiful things spread beyond the limits of her own circle, and we were all dying to see them, (particularly the evening costumes,) and to borrow them as patterns for our own mantua- makers and milliners. But while she continued meandering about among her own set, we had no chance of seeing much more than the divine bon- net and pelisse she wore in Broadway, and they only whetted our appetite for the rest. So at one of Mrs. Hautonberg’s soirées, a coterie of us got together and settled the plan. Mrs. Hautonberg at first made some difficulty, but finally came into it, and agreed to commence operations by calling on Mrs. Crandon next day, and afterwards send- ing her a note for her great thousand-dollar party, which was then in agitation. So she called, and Mr. Hautonberg was prevailed on to leave his card for Mr. Crandon. They came to the party, thinking themselves highly honored, and we all made a point of being introduced to the lady, and of showing her all possible civility, and of being delighted with her harp-playing. You may be sure we took especial note of all the minutie of her dress, which I must say far excelled in taste and elegance every other in the room. And no wonder, when it was fresh from France. Well, to be brief, she was visited and invited, and well treated, and her beautiful things were borrowed for patterns; and by the time she had shown them all round at different parties, imitations of them were to be seen everywhere throughout our cir- cle. The cherry-colored velvet and the white hat and feathers were among them. She gave a grand party herself, and as it was at the close of the season, we all honored her with our presence. Poor woman, she really thought all this was to last. Next winter we let her gently down; some dropping her entirely, and a few Toone » +e GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. dragging on with her a while longer. Indeed, I still meet her at two or three houses.”’ ‘*T am very sure she was never seen at Mrs. Pelham Prideaux’s’’—observed Mrs. Derrington —‘‘even in the winter of her glory. Her French costumes would have been no inducement to Mrs. Prideaux, whose station has placed her far above dress.”’ ‘* Mrs. Prideaux is rather too exclusive’’—said Miss Rodwell—somewhat piqued. ‘* What an enviable station !’’—remarked So- phia—‘‘ to be above dress.”’ ‘* Well’’—continued Mrs. Derrington—to Miss Rodwell—‘‘what did you think of Mrs. Cotterell’s party arrangements? How were the decorations, the supper, and all things thereunto belonging ?”’ ‘*Oh! just such as we always see in the best houses. All in scrupulous accordance with the usual routine. Yet somehow it seemed to me there was a sort of parvenu air throughout.”’ ‘* What were the deficiencies ?’”’—asked Mrs. Derrington. ‘“*Oh! no particular deficiencies — except a want of that indescribable something which can only be found in the mansions of people of birth.’’ Sophia could not forbear asking what in repub- lican America could be meant by people of birth. Tothis Miss Rodwell vouchsafed no reply, but looking at her watch, said it was time to call for Mrs. De Manchester, whom she had promised to accompany to Stewart’s. She then departed, leaving Mrs. Derrington impressed with a deter- mination not to take up the Cotterells. ‘*T do not like Miss Rodwell’’—said Sophia— frankly. ‘*My dear Sophy’’—said her aunt—‘‘I must caution you against the habit of expressing your opinions so freely.”’ ‘*And yet’’—persisted Sophia—‘‘how very freely Miss Rodwell has been talking of poor Mrs. Crandon. And what a very different ac- count of that lady was given us by Mrs. Honey- wood. Which is to be believed ?”’ ‘*Oh! there are two sides to everything’’—re- plied Mrs. Derrington. ‘‘ People so very dif- ferent as Mrs. Honeywood and Miss Rodwell -annot be expected to see any object in the same light.”’ The next visitors were three young ladies who had not been at Mrs. Cotterell’s, and after them, came a young gentleman who had. This was a youth with a baby-face, terminating in a long beard. He was dressed in the extreme of the mode, and recognized as Mr. Slingsby I’ysque. ‘* Well, Mr. F'ysque’’—said one of the ladies— ‘‘what did you think of Mrs. Cotterell’s first show. off ?"’ ‘**Pon my word, I hardly know’’—replied Mr. Fysque. ‘‘ AsI vote everything connected with parties a decided bore, except the supper, all I care about is to get there just in time for that. b So lastuni t Highpole, Shortman, and I slipped

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AMELIA; OR, A into Mrs. setting the table in the back drawing-room, and Cotterell’s just as the waiters were we took our stations at the far end of it, that we might sec ure good places, and commence at the beginning before the ladies were led in. You know that neither Highpole, Shortman, nor myself professes to be alady’s-man. We tried it awhile, but found it too great a bore, and gave up.’’ ‘* You impertinent monster’’—said Miss Bil- lings, tapping him with her sun-shade. ‘*‘ How expect the ladies to tolerate you ?”’ But they do, notwithstanding’’—replied Mr. Fysque. ** Highpole, vw e in can you “ Shortman and myself never greater vogue among the fairest of the fair, than since we have adopted this new fashion And I Tripsey think of ceasing to be their humble servants. assure you it takes. Smallage a yf falling into it sé And this’’—resumed Miss Billings i ee ‘ier , and so do Riggons and Bass. have you the assurance to avow all ‘*and not expect to be whipped to death ?’’—giving him, this time, a series of taps with her sun-shade. ‘‘ Do you suppose I will ever speak to you again ?”’ ** And I hope soon to have the pleasure of meeting you vt Cotte- nas l’s, for I can assure you it was first-rate. I ‘** Yes you will’’—answered Fysque. : somewhere at just su per as Mrs ever stood up at a better, and I am allowed to be something of a judge.’’ Mrs. Derrington began to think she would take up Mrs. Cotterell. Atier Slings! y Fysque had finished two cups of chocolate. with cake, &c,. in proportion, he took his departure, accompanied by Miss Billings, and followed by her two companions. ‘* What a ridiculous and contemptible young man !’’—exclaimed Sophia. ** Now, Sophy’’—said her aunt—‘‘ you are again indulging in this improper freedom of re- mark.”’ ‘*But he is ridiculous—and rude and ill-man- nered besides’’—persisted Sophia. ‘* He bel withstanding’’—said ngs to a very aristocratic family, not- Mrs. Derrington. ‘* And young ladies are delighted to be seen with him in public. Louisa Billings will be enraptured if he walks with her to Broadway; but it is just as likely as not, that he may make his bow to her in a few minutes, and cross the street, and walk all the while on the other side of the way. He does such things.”’ ‘* And what will she do ?’’—asked Sophia. ‘* She will shake her sun-shade at him, and call him an impudent fellow, and laugh.”’ ** I despise him’’—cried Sophia. ‘He will never care, my dear, whether you despise him or not. impressions so deeply, if you expect to get along But you must not take your in society.’ The stopping of a carriage was followed by the entrance of Mrs. and Miss Brockendale. The mother was a lady with an ever-varying counte- She was expensively nance, and a restless eye. >* YOUNG LADY’S VICISSITUDES. 29 drest, but with her hair disordered, her bonnet crushed, her collar crooked, her gown rumpled, one end of her shawl trailing on the ground, and the other end scarcely reaching to her elbow. Her daughter’s very handsome habiliments were arranged with the most scrupulous nicety; and the young lady had a steadfast eye, and a resolute All her fea- tures were regular, but the tout ensemble was not and determined expression of face. agreeable. After some very desultory conversation, Mrs. Derrington recurred to the subject that was up- permost in her mind, Mrs. Cotterell’s party ; and on finding that the Brockendale ladies had been there, she again inquired about it; observing that much as she had heard of it in the course of the morning, she had still obtained no satisfactory account. ‘* How did it really go off ?’’—said she, addressing Miss Brockendale;: but the mother ng her- nd drew eagerly answered, and the dau back her head. ‘*Oh! delightfully’ —exclaimed Mrs. 1.] te ] endale. Everything was so elegant, and in suc h good taste, and on such a liberal scale.’’ ‘*How were the rooms decorated ?’’—asked Mrs. Derrington. ‘* Oh! superbly, with flowers wreathed around the columns.”’ Mrs. Cotterell’s rooms have no pillars’’—said Miss Brockendale, speaking very audibly and distinctly, and addressing herself to Sophia, near whom she was seated. ‘* Well, then’’—continued Mrs. Brockendale— ‘there were wreaths festooned along the walls. You cannot say there were no walls.”’ ‘There were no wreaths except those that ornamented the lamps and chandeliers’? — said Miss Brockendale, always addressing Sophia. ‘‘Oh! yes, the flowers were all about the l lights. That was what made them look so pretty. ri One thing I am certain of, light as day. the rooms were as There must have been five hun- dred candles ”’ ‘‘ There was not one’’—said Miss Brockendale ] ~t } sank { 4 entirely to Sophia. ‘‘ The rooms were with gas.”’ ‘* Well, it might have been a sort of gas. I declare my head is always so filled with things of importance, that I have no memory for trifles. This I know, that the furniture was a!l crimson velvet trimmed with gold-color.’’ ‘Tt was blue satin damask trimmed with a rich dark brown’’—said her daughter to Miss Fayland. ‘¢ Well, the crimson might have had a bluish I have certainly seen crimson velvet some- where. The truth is, almost as soon as we en- tered, I saw my friend Mr. Weston, the member of congress (either from Greenbay or George- town, I forget which), and so we got to t lking about Texas and things; and that may be the reason I did not particularly notice the cast. roonis.

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30 GODEY’s I almost got into a quarrel with this same con- gress-man about the president, who, in spite of all I could say, Mr. Weston persisted in declaring has never threatened to go to war with Ger- many.”’ ‘* Neither he has’’—said Miss Brockendale, this time directing her looks to her mother. ‘* Then he has set himself against railroads, or injured the crops, or invited over five hundred thousand millions of Irish.”’ ‘* He has done none of these things.”’ ** He has done something, I amvery sure. Or if he has not, some other president has. I never can remember how the presidents go, and per- haps I am apt to mix them up, my head being always full of more important objects.”’ ‘*T hear there was a very elegant supper’’—said Mrs. Derrington. ‘*T believe there was. was talking about the tariff, and the theatre, and But all supper-time I the army and navy, and I did not notice the things on the table. I rather think there was ice-cream, and I am almost positive there was jelly ‘* Had you fine music ?’’—inquired Mrs. Der- rington. ‘It seems to me that I heard music. But I was talking then to Mr. Van Valkenburgh, who has traveled over half the world; mostly pedes- trian, poor fellow !’’ ‘*He is not a poor fellow’’—explained her daughter to Sophia. a great botanist, and entomologist; and when he ** He is arich bachelor, and rambles on foot, it is always from his own choice.”’ ** Augustina’’—said her mother—‘‘ do not you recollect we met Mr. Van Valkenburgh some- where in Europe, when we were traveling with the Tirealls ?”’ ‘*T never was in Europe’’—said Augustina to Sophia. ‘‘ When mamma went over, she took my sister Isabella, but left me a little girl at boarding-school.”’ ‘*So you were alittle girl at boarding-school ; I remember all about it’’—continued Mrs. Brock- endale—‘‘ and I did take Isabella, because she was grown up. She is married now, poor thing, to a man that never crossed the Atlantic, and never will, and so her going to Europe was of no manner of use. What a strange girl she was. When we were at Venice she wow/d make me go everywhere in a boat—even to church.”’ **You could not well go in anything else’— remarked Augustina. ** And then at Venice, she highly offended the show man by ringing the great bell of St- Mark’s.”’ ** She could not get at it.”’ ‘Then it must have been at St. Peter's, or St. Paul’s, or else Notre Dame. Any how, she rung a bell.’’ **My sister has told me’’—said Augustina, turning to Sophia—‘‘ that coming out of a village church in England, she took a fancy to pull the MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. bell-rope, as it hung invitingly down just within the entrance; and she greatly scandalized the beadle by doing so, still she pacified him with a shilling.’”’ ‘* But now about Mr. Van Valkenburgh’’—pro- ceeded Mrs. Brockendale—‘“‘ this I am certain of, that we met him on the Alps, and we were joined up there by old General Offenham and his son, who was much taken with Isabella. It might have been a match, for the young man will be a half- millionaire one of these days ; but he has fits, and rolls down mountains. So that rather dis- couraged us, and we thought that nobody would ever marry him. Yet afterwards at Paris, or Portsmouth, or some of those places, the widow Sweeting snapped up young Offenham, for her third husband. So Isabella might as well have taken him.”’ ‘** My sister’’—said* Augustina, turning to So- phia—‘‘ is happily married to a man of sense, as well as of large fortune, and high respectability.” ‘*Mr. Van Valkenburgh’’—pursued Mrs. Brockendale—‘‘ was telling how delightful he found the literary society of England. I wish I had been in it, when I was there. He became acquainted with them all. He even knew Shak- speare.”’ ‘* His plays of course’’—said Sophia. **Oh! no, the man himself. Shakspeare called on him at the hotel, and left his card for Mr. Van Valkenburgh.”’ ‘* Excuse me’’—said Sophia—‘‘ Shakspeare has been dead considerably more than two hundred years.” ‘* Ah! my dear young lady’’—observed Mrs. Brockendale—‘‘ you know we must not believe all we hear.”’ ‘* Mamma, we had best go home’’—said her daughter, who had sat for some moments looking as if too angry to speak, leaving to Sophia the explanation concerning Shakspeare. Mrs. Brockendale rose to depart. not Shakspeare that called on him, it must have ‘*Any how it ‘‘Tf it was been Dr. Johnson’’—said she. was some great author.”’ They then took their leave, Miss Brockendale expressing a desire to be intimately acquainted with Miss Fayland. ‘* Poor Mrs. Brockendale’*—said Sophia—‘‘ her head reminds me of a Jumber room, where all sorts of things are stowed away in confusion. My father thinks that a defective memory is generally the result of careless or inattentive observation. But perhaps this lady was never gifted with the capacity of seeing or hearing things understand- ingly.’? ‘*T do not wonder that the daughter has no patience with the mother’’—said Mrs. Derring- ton. ‘‘ However, they are persons of birth, and live handsomely, and are visited. We cannot expect everybody in society to be alike. Unfor- tunately Mr. Brockendale, who was a most ex- cellent man, and doated on his queer wife, and

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AMELIA; OR, A YOUNG tried hard to improve her, died ten years ago, and since losing his guidance, she talked And worse than all, has more like a fool than ever. every article of her dress seems to be continually getting into disorder. As soon as her things are put right they somehow get wrong again.” The next visitors were two rather insipid la- dies, and soon after came in a remarkably hand- some young man, drest in the most perfect taste, but without the slightest approach to what is called dandyism. He had the air distingué which foreigners say is so rarely to be found among the citizens of America. He was introduced to So- phia as Mr. Percival Grafton, and she thought he looked exactly like a young nobleman, or rather as a young nobleman ought to look; and she was still more delighted with his conversa- tion. After some very pleasant interchange of ideas with Miss Fayland, he inquired of Mrs. Derrington if she had yet become acquainted with Mrs Cotterell and her charming daughter. ‘* Not yet’’—was the reply. ‘* Then let me advise you by all means not to delay what I am sure will afford much pleasure to yourself and Miss Fayland. The Cotterells are delightful people; polished, intelligent, natural, and having l’air comme il faut it had been born t! Miss of the ] hem. loveliest girls I have ever seen; and does infinite as u with Cotterell is one honor to the system on which her mother has educated her.’’ ‘* Does she dress well ?’’—inquired Mrs. Der- rington. ‘* Charmingly’’—replied Grafton —‘‘and she could not do otherwise, her good taste is so ap- She dresses well, talks parent in everything. well, moves well, and plays and sings delight- I heard her speaking French to Madame St. Ange, fully. with the utmost fluency and elegance. She is really a most enchanting girl.” ‘You seem to be quite smitten !”—remarked Miss Waterly, one of the insipid young ladies. Amelia Cot- most pitiable insensibility ‘* Not to admire such a woman as terell would evince the to the united attractions of beauty, grace, and talent. But in the usual acceptation of the phrase, I am yet heart-whole. How long I may remain so is another question.” Mr. Grafton another subject, and he soon after took his leave. then turned the conversation to ‘*Do you know, Mrs. Derrington’’—said Miss Milkby, the other insipid young lady—‘‘ it’s all over town already, that Percival Grafton is dying in love with Amelia Cotterell. So you must not believe exactly all he says about her and her mother.’’ ‘** He really seems delirious’’—said Miss Wa- te rly. Mrs. Derrington became again dubious about taking up the Cotterells. But her doubts grew fainter as she reflected that Percival Grafton was a young gentleman of acknowledged taste in all that was refined and elegant; 5 being himself a LADY’S VICISSITUDES. 31 sé to the manner born’’ of Even his grandfather was an eminent lawyer, and Percival himself had been inducted into that hig While Mrs. Derrington sat, ‘‘ pondering in her mind,’’ Sophia was endeavoring to entertain the Misses Waterly and Milkby, when her aunt sud- denly started from her reverie, and her face beaming with extatic joy, advanced in eager em- person of birth, and the best society. h profe ssion. pressement to receive a lady, whom the servant, throwing wide the door, announced as Mrs. Pel- ham Prideaux. When Mrs. Derrington had a little recovered the first excitement of this su- preme felicity, and placed her high and mighty guest in the easiest fauteuil, and seen her well- served with refreshments, she recollected to in- troduce her niece, Miss Sophia Fayland. The two other misses had long been within the pale of Mrs. Prideaux’s notice, and they timidly hoped she was well. This arbitress of fashion, this dictatress to so- ciety, was a woman of no particular face, no par- ticular figure, no particular dress, and no particular conversation. But she was well aware of her position, and made use of it accordingly. Mrs. Derrington, whose whole morning had been one long thought of the Cotterells, (when- ever she had a new thought she always pursued it @ l’outrance,) said something about the party of last night. ‘* Were you there ?”’—asked Mrs. Prideaux. “Oh! no. Mrs. Cotterell has come among us so lately, I know not exactly in what circle she will be. ‘* You might have gune’’—said Mrs. Prideaux ’ ” —‘*]T intend calling on her.’ ‘*Do you indeed ?’’—exclaimed Mrs. Derring- ton, with glad surprise. And Sophia’s face bright- ened also; for she longed to know the Cotterells, and she saw that all doubt was now over. Miss Waterly and Miss Milkby now acknow- ledged that they had both been at the party, and that they had liked it. ‘* When do you make this call, my dear Mrs. Prideaux ?’’—asked Mrs. Derrington. ‘*T have not exactly determined on the day’’— was the reply. ‘*T hope Sophia and I may have the pleasure of meeting you there’’—said Mrs. Derrington. ‘* When you have fixed on the exact time, will you let us know?”’ ‘* Certainly, I can have no objection’’--answer- ed Mrs. Prideaux graciously—‘*‘ provided I know it myself.’ ‘* How kind you always are! It will be so de- lightful for us to be at Mrs Cotterell’s together. Will it not, Sophy ?”’ ; ‘‘On consideration, I cannot make this call before next week’’—said Mrs. Prideaux. ‘*Oh! never mind. Consult your own con- venience. We will wait for you.” ‘*Where does Mrs. Cotterell live ? the*great lady. ” —inquired

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32 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. Miss Waterly and Miss Milkby now both spoke together, and designated the place. Mrs. Pri- deaux condescendingly thanked them for the in- formation. ‘* Then’’—said she to Mrs. Derrington—“ as I must pass your door in going there, I may as well call for you in my carriage, whenever I do go.”’ , Mrs. Derrington was too happy at this unex- pected glory; and Miss Waterly and Miss Milk- by too envious. All these young ladies could do was to accompany Mrs. Prideaux when she de- parted, and be seen leaving the door at the same time with her. She honored them with a bow as they lingered on the door-step, when her no-par- lrove away. ticular-sort-of-carriage « Unluckily, there chanced to be no spectators but a small party of German emigrants, and two schoolboys. } Perhaps some of the neighbors might have been at their windows. The following Monday and Tuesday, Mrs. Derrington and Miss Fayland stayed at home all the morning ready-dressed, waiting in vain for Mrs. Prideaux to call for them in her carriage. ** Surely’’—said Sophia—‘‘ she will apprise us in time ?”’ **She may probably not think of doing so’’— replied Mrs. Derrington. At last on Wednesday the joyful moment ar- rived when the vehicle of Mrs. Pelham Prideaux, with that lady in it, drew up to the door of Mrs. Derrington, who ran down stairs, followed by her niece ; and in a very short time they arrived at the mansion of the Cotterells. CHAPTER SECOND A SECRET DISCLOSED. Tue Cotterells lived in a handsome house, ele- gantly and tastefully furnished; and the door was opened by a very polite, smart-looking, first-class mulatto man. Their new visitors found Mrs. Cot- terell and her daughter in the drawing-room, en- tertaining Misses Milkby and Waterly, who had contrived to ascertain the exact time when Mrs. Pelham Prideaux was to make her intended visit, and they had therefore chosen this morning for their own call. These young ladies were chape- roned by their respective mothers, who were sis- ters, and of the species nearest approaching to dumb; being a shade below the unfortunate class of biped mutes, for they had no comprehension in their faces, and you could not even talk to them with your fingers. The Cotterells were women of the most pre- possessing appearance and manners, and dressed with such taste as to improve the large share of personal beauty possessed by both. Amelia Cot- terell placed herself beside Sophia Fayland, and commenced with her a pleasant and animated con- versation, occasionally addre sing Misse s Wate rly vat their whole atten- and Milkby, till she found tion was riveted on Mrs. Prideaux, who, as usual, 1 lar. Mrs. Cotterell said or did nothing particu talked to the matrons, and at times vainly endea- vored to dig a few words out of the two that sat together on fauteuils, looking stupidity with all their might. ° Amelia and Sophia at once understood each other. Friendship at first sight (unlike love at first sight) is rarely felt except where there is congeni- ality of mind, if not of heart. In a quarter of an hour our two young ladies seemed to have been acquainted for years. Several other visitors came in. Mrs. Prideaux rose to depart; Mrs. Derrington did the same; and Sophia took a reluctant leave of her new friend, with whom she would gladly have stayed all day. The Misses Milkby and Waterly had to remain even after the exit of Mrs. Prideaux; for their mammas (like most people that are dull and tire- some @ outrance) always made immensely long visitations, having a rooted habit of eccupying places that (to quote from Dr. Johnson) would be better filled by empty chairs. While returning home in the carriage, Sophia became voluble in the praise of Miss Cottere whose mother also was spoken of approvingly by Mrs. Derrington. ** Really’? —said she—‘‘I should never have = suspected these ladies of parven n. Every- ; and they thing about them appears perfectly we seein as if they had all their lives been accustomed to acertain style, which is seldom thoroughly un- derstood by persons who are not ‘to the manner born.’ I can truly say that I perceive neither in their establishment, nor in themselves, the least want of that indescribable air of something that Miss Rodwell talks about, and that she asserts is only to be found among people of birth.”’ ‘*T hate that expression’’—said Sophia, warmly. ‘* Miss Rodwell is enough to sicken one of people of birth. It was her prevailing topic last evening at Mrs. Hautonberg’s.’’ **Sophia! Sophia!’’—said Mrs. Derrington, treading significantly on the young lady's foot— ‘*yvou know not what you are talking about.”’ } ia ‘* Miss Rodwell does not’’—persisted Sop *‘ with her incessant nonsense about an indescriba- ble air of nothing, for such it must be, if imper- ceptible to eye, ear or understanding.’ ‘*My dear Mrs. Prideaux’’—said Mrs. Der- rington—‘‘I hope you will excuse poor dear So- phy. She is a mere child of nature, quite new to any world except a very small one enclosed within the walls of a fortress. When she has seen a little more of society, she will change most of her ideas, and learn also to express them less freely. What is your opinion of the Cotterells ?’’ **T have called on them’’—replied the great lady. ‘* Of course I believed them to be visitable.”’ ‘* And are they not ?’’—inquired Mrs. Derring- ton, anxiously. ra

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AMELIA; OR, A YOUNG ’ ‘*T see no objection to them’’—was the re- joinder. Mrs. Derrington resolved on being very inti- mate with the Cotterells. Mrs. Prideaux, having set down her companions at their residence, took leave, and drove to her own. ‘* What sort of a young lady is Miss Prideaux ?”’ —inquired Sophia. ‘* A pattern for you’’—was the reply of her aunt. Sophia was answered. Miss Prideaux being ab- sent on a visit to Philadelphia, she had not yet seen her. Mrs. Derrington sent the Cotterells an invitation to her morning-receptions, and they came to the next. Mrs. Prideaux, by the earnest solicitation of Mrs. Derrington, had been prevailed on to grace this one with her presence ; and the intended honor and glory having been privately spread round among the persons whose presence was particu- larly desirable, the reception was unusually full. On the following morning Sophia went, by in- vitation, to spend the day with Amelia Cotterell, : and found it a day of delight. In the afternoon came Percival Grafton, who was evidently a daily visitor; and in whom even the unpractised eyes of Sophia Fayland discovered a lover of her new friend, and a confirmation of the reports to that effect. Yet what young lady of sixteen, living at a military post, can be unpractised in the usual . signs of admiration. We retract the word. But she saw a great difference in the manner of receiv- ing the admirer. Sophia expected to see Amelia blush, and sparkle, and look fluttered, and speak not quite naturally; according to the custom of her young friends at the fort when they saw the lieu- tenants. But Miss Cotterell continued just as usual; received Mr. Grafton without the least em- barrassment or agitation; talked to him with per- fect ease, and not to him alone. Sophia resolved to profit by the lesson. ‘‘In future’’—thought she to herself—‘* when Captain Camplin comes to see me, I will not behave like Charlotte Otley and Lucy Lester, whenever they are visited by Mr. Marden or Mr. Milford. I will be quite as calm and easy to him, as Miss Cotterell is to her lover —if I can.” The Cotterells were soon afloat on the full tide of fashion. They were invited to ‘‘all the par- ties’’*—including a large one at Mrs. Derrington’s. Mrs. Prideaux (who was too great for parties) had them at her very select reunions, which they found extremely dull. Percival Grafton was almost everywhere seen with them; and report said that he was engaged to Amelia Cotterell. To her this report was only hinted; when the hints were slight she did not take them; when palpable, she always made some reply that prevented their repetition. Percival, on his part, answered these allusions by an infer- ence that he was not yet so happy. **Sophy’’—said Mrs. Derrington to her niece— ‘you are so much with Amelia Cotterell that every one supposes you must be in her confidence. LADY’S VICI€SITUDES. 33 Therefore I am continually asked if Percival Graf- ton is not her accepted lover. For several months past he has talked of visiting Europe. But we hear nothing of that now.’’ ‘* That he admires her beyond all other women is plain enough’*—replied Sophia—‘‘ but I have no reason to think he is her accepted lover. They never sit on sofas together, and talk in low voices to each other. Whenever I have entered the par- lor and found them alone, they were seated on chairs, and conversing in their usual tone, and by no means on love topics. Neither does she show off her accomplishments, or talk ultra sense when- ever he is present.’ ‘* That shows her policy’’—said Mrs. Derring- ton. ‘‘ No man was ever won by a girl’s talking sense to him. The contrary is far better.”’ ‘‘Well, then’??—pursved Sophia—‘‘I have never heard Amelia talk foolishly to Mr. Grafton, or to any one else. She is always perfectly natu- ral. She neither looks in his face all the time, as Charlotte Otley does in Mr. Marden’s, nor fixes her eyes on the ground, like Lucy Lester if Mr. Milford only speaks a word to her. When she sings a duet with Percival Grafton, her voice does not tremble. When he reads poetry to her, she seems to hear only the poet. She does not praise everything that he praises; and condemn all that he condemns; and assent to all that he suggests. For instance, she never agrees with him on the subject of music; and he tries in vain to make her like Italian. Also with regard to painting, he pre- fers the old masters, and she the artists of our own time. He doats on Carlyle; and she says Carlyle requires a translator to put him into good English. He cannot imbue her with his enthusiasm for Ger- man literature; and he never can persuade her to waliz. He cannot convince her that Europe is far superior to America. She is, indeed, the most truly American gfrl that I have ever known. How my father would delight in hearing her talk. And Captain Camplin, too—at least, the captain would be pleased with her patriotism. Then, above all, she never seems the least annoyed at my presence when Mr. Grafton is with her. She never seems to regard me as Madame de Trop. Neither has her mother a way of quitting the room, as a hint that they ought to be left alone.’’ ‘* Very unlike Mrs. Milkby and Mrs. Waterly’’ —remarked Mrs. Derrington. ‘‘ They always leave their daughters a clear field, and make their exit as soon as a gentleman makes his entrance.”’ ‘If they sat there all the while it would cause no difference and be no restraint’’—remarked So- phia. ‘‘Any man might propose before their faces, and they would give no sign of either seeing or hearing. However, I think it will be a very long time before either of their daughters is likely to receive an offer.”’ ‘* You are mistaken, Sophy. No girls marry off better than such as Miss Milkby and Miss Waterly. You know Miss Whelmerdown, with her overpowering vivacity, and her torrent of talk ¢”’

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34 GODE@#’s *“*T always see her surrounded by beaux.”’ lovers, or even ** So she is—but beaux are not admirers. Depend on it, the two insipid cousins will go off much better than Kate Whelmerdown. I doubt, indeed, if any man will ever think of her as a wife.”’ It was true that Percival Grafton seemed to find lia Cotterell. no happiness but inthe society of Ame Yet nothing could be more delicate than his atten- tions, and nothing more delicate than her manner of receiving them. His parents were not living. His sisters were married and setiled in distant parts of the Union. His share of his father’s property would have enabled him to live respectably, even without a profession, for he had no vices. few young Americans are satisfied to live even if re- spectably; and Percival Grafion was a good speaker, and knew that he had talent enough to make a figure at the bar. When his friend Rossmore rallied him on his devotion to Miss Cotterell, ar de that he waited till he 1 inquired why he 1 ayed addressing her explicitly, Grafion replied was certain of having awaken- \ ed an interest in her heart which would at once in- roposal. sure the acceptance of his | ** All I have seen and known of Amelia Cot- és terell’’—said Rossmore—‘‘ leads me to infer that she is a girl of too much delicacy, refinement and dignity, to bestow her heart before it is asked, or to allow herself to believe in the depth or reality of a passion that so long holds back from declaring itself.’’ ** Can she not perceive it ?”°—said Grafton. **She is not a woman to act upon hints’’—re- plied his friend. ‘‘ Be explicit, and if she does not accept you at once, (as very probably she may not, wait awhile till she knows your heart and her own still better, and then try your fate again. De- pend upon it, Amelia Cotterell will not meet you half way. Why should she—young, beautiful, talented, admired, and the only child of a rich and generous mother ?”’ ** And have / nothing to set off against all these qualifications of the lad ton, proudly. y ?°—said Percival Graf- ** Certainly, you have much’’—replied his friend. ** And people who believe that you are addressing Amelia Cotterell, exclaim—‘ What a match!’ Even Mrs. Pelham Prideaux has pro- nounced her fiat in its favor’’—he added, smil- suitable ingly. Percival Grafton thought of nothing else during a restless night; and before morning he resolved on taking Rossmore’s advice. Soon after break- fast, he repaired to the mansion of the Cotterells, and inquired, as usual, for the ladies. Mrs. Cot- terell had gone to spend the day with an old friend in the city; but Amelia came down to him imme- diately. She wore a most becoming morning- dress, and he thought she had never looked so lovely. And she felt a presentiment that the day and the hour had come, when Percival Grafton MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. would disclose to her the secret of his heart; if se- cret it could be called. And so he did—and in tones the most earnest and impassioned. Amelia withdrew her hand, and changed her place to one directly opposite her lover; the color suffusing her cheeks, and mounting even to her } temples. She made an attempt to speak; but hesitated, and seemed unable to articulate a word. ‘*Tlow am I to interpret this silence ??°—said t Grafton. ‘‘ May I indeed hope that a day will come when I can call you my Amelia? } She rallied. Her face resumed its natural tint. She raised her eyes till they met those of Perci- val, and said—**‘ Before I can reply—before I ought to reply, you must hear the disclosure of a secret. rhter of \irs Cotterel! 9 I am not the dau ] 1 He looked much astonish claimed—‘‘ And who, then, Ame! aes rents 1 4 e in humble ‘* My parents are peop! Start +? VW untry innkeeper. His He and my mother no y father is a ec name is Hans Helfenstein. are both of German birth.’’ She fixed her eyes upon Grafton’s ; His cheek turned pale, and his lips trembled, as he said—‘‘ Are your pa- h, Amelia!’’—he exclaimed, covering his face with his hands, which he withdrew after a moment's reflection. She continued, in a voice that tried in vain to be firm—-‘‘ This secret was only confided to me last week, on the day I attained my eighteenth year. n carefully brought up belief that I was the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Cottere My more than mother then a nted me with the truth; giving me permiss to relate it, when addressed by a man that—that I 1 ded lavora l he eves of Percival sparkled with delight at this implied avowal of her feelings towards him- self. He caught her hand, and pressed it to his “* And now’’—said Amelia—*‘ endeavor to listen to my litt S¢ ly as | can. , calmly narration, which I will relate as cor : We will not re for she spok e! ; ‘r"} a mere outline of the facts, ihe Pay as follows :— Mrs. 1 fortunate in the a julsition and enjoy- Cottere ll were Mr. and other, ar JO} ment of considerable wealth; but children were They had but wanting to complete their felicity. few relations, and those were distant, and settled in distant places. Mr. Cotterell was originally from ta west, and being ab to pass some years in New Orleans, they were on a visit to his old neighborhood on the Ohio, and staying at the } ' house of one of his old friends. In a corner of the

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AMELIA; OR, A YOUNG fine farm of Mr. Milwood, and directly on the road, stood a small log hut, that was allowed to remain there as being the first habitation of the first settler of the place. At this time it was in- habited (rent free) by a German family, who, hav- ing been seven years in our country, had learnt Hans Helfenstein and his wife had come over as redemptioners. They had served out their time, and had now set up on their own The man had been hired by Mr. Mil- wood as a farm-laborer the language. account, His wife performed days’ works for Mrs. Milwood, when additional assist- ance was wanted in the house; and of evenings knit yarn stockings for sale. They had five chil- dren, the youngest of whom was a litile girl named Amelia. ter who came on an She one day accompanied an elder sis- errand to Mr. Milwood’s Mrs. Cotterell took a fancy to the child, So also did lf, was exceedingly house. who was then only two years old. her husband, who, like herse fond of children. Next day they stopped in at the log hut to shelter themselves from a sudden show- | er, and heard the father, who had just come in mouths to feed,’’ and that his children were all too young ’ from work, lament that he had so many to be *‘ worth their victuals.’’ His wife also com- plained ; and said that so much of her time was occupied in taking care of the family, that she had now no leisure to earn a penny for herself. On their way home, Mr. Cotterell said to his Wwite—‘* Suppose we relieve this man of one of his mouths, and feed it ourselves ?”’ ‘** You mean to propose our taking charge of that pretty little girl, his youngest child ??’—was her prompt reply. ‘Exactly so’’—answered her husband. ‘‘I am certain that, under your care, this cottager’s daugh- ter may be converted into a young lady. And we really do want something more to love.’’ ‘‘We do, indeed’’—said Mrs. Cotterell. “i am absolutely pining for a pet.”’ following day the desire of adopting little Amelia was mentioned to her parents, who at first received the intimation with surprise and p-easure., But, on further consideration, they were not satisfied that their child should be placed in so desirable a situation, and brought up in the enjoy- ment of all that kindness and wealth could bestow, without themselves deriving some benefit from it. le to him, he could not And Hans Helfenstein informed Mr. Cotterell, that as he looked forward to the time when this child, like his others, might become useful or pro- ' i fitab consent to give her And the mother declared that she must be paid for the feelings with which she would part from little Amelia. were to be away for nothing. As the feelings that paid for could not be very deep, and as it was evident that the father thought only of making money out of his child, Mr. Cotterell wisely stipulated that if he allowed them a compen- sation for her, or, in plain terms, bought her of her parents, the Helfenstein family were to give her LADY’s VICISSITUDES. 3 Li | up entirely ; and no interference on their part was hereafier to be offered or permitted. They were to resign all interest in the little Amelia to her new parents, for such Mr. and Mrs. Cotterell promised None of her family were to see her again, but they were to hear of her at every payment of the annuity which Mr. Cotterell consented to allow them as the price of her daugh- ter, and oftener if necessary. These conditions may seem hard; but it is borne out by all expe- rience, that the happiness of an adopted daughter and that of her benefactors is always compromised by communication with her real parents, as their jealousy of her aflection usually far surpasses their gratitude for the improvement in her lot, and the kindness bestowed on her. If her parents are low to prove themselves. and sordid people, (as was the case in this instance, ) there is no fear of their grieving much at the sepa- ration. To make all safe, writings were drawn up, and duly witnessed and signed; one copy being left with Hans Helfenstein, the other retained by Mr. Cotterell, who pledged himself to bring up Amelia in every respect as his daughter, and as such to leave her a large share of his property. The an- nuity settled on her parents was to cease if they attempted to held any communication with her. She was to take the name of Cotterell; and the history of her origin to be allowed to die away, without any revival of it by her own family. All being arranged, the little girl was taken at once from her home; Mrs. Cotterell fearing that the parents might regret their bargain, and finally refuse, on any terms, to give up theirchild. This They bore the separation with great sang froid ; the father remarking that it was fvolish to fret about one child when they had so many lefi; and that it was easier to part with Amelia than with any of the others ; she being so little that as yet they had ‘‘ got no good out of her.”’ Mrs. Cotterell would give the child a white frock, fear was groundless. The mother’s last words were a desire that and a gold neck-chain, as speedily as possible. The oldest of her sisters cried at the parting; and was reminded by the second that she would now get rid of the trouble of washing Amelia, and putting her to bed. The boys stared in silence. The young Amelia soon took her place in the and dressing hearts of her new parents, fur she was a beautiful and engaging child; and all traces of her origin were soon obliterated, by her being taken at once down to a very lucrative business detained Mr. Cotterell for several years. When they finally settled in New York, it was supposed, of course, that the little girl, who called them father and mother, was their own child; and she had no recollection of any other parents. The annuity was punctually paid, and was of great assistance to the industrious and thrifty Helfen- steins, who were soon enabled to rent some land for themselves; and afterwards they bought a small farm with a large old house on it, which they New Orleans, where

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86 SODEY’S MAGAZINE converted into what some persons call an inn, and others a tavern. In the mean-time Amelia was flourishing and expanding into beauty and intelligence of no com- mon sort. There was nothing German, either in her face or figure. Her mother, a peasant-girl from the Tyrol, had in early youth been singu- larly handsome ; and boasted of her grandparents having come from the Italian side of the frontier. Amelia, with downcast eyes, gave Percival Grafton a synopsis of the foregoing narration. When she had finished, his silence induced her to glance at his countenance, and she saw that it was much disturbed, and fancied she beheld a struggle between love and pride. She generously de- termined to break off the conference, and let him have time to deliberate. ‘‘ And now,”—said she —‘‘that I have put you confidentially in posses- sion of my true history, I will say no more. It were best you should take your leave for the pre- sent. We will see each other again.”’ **Oh! Amelia!’’—he exclaimed—‘‘ why have you told me all this ?”’ ** Could [ in honor conceal it from you ?’’—was her reply. ** You say it is still a secret ?’’ ‘*It is—but like most secrets, some unforeseen circumstances may bring it out.” ‘‘And it may be publicly known that you are the daughter of—of ——’’ ‘*A tavern keeper’’—was her courageous reply —‘‘for that my father certainly is—a truth which I shall never deny. A country tavern-keeper.”’ He struck his forehead, and traversed the room in agony. Amelia made an attempt to leave him. He caught her dress—‘‘ Stay—stay’’—he ex- claimed—‘‘ stay but one moment. Amelia, I love you more than ever—I do by all that is sacred.”’ ‘*T have not the vanity to suppose you love me for myself alone’’—replied Amelia—‘‘I see that you cannot.”’ The clock now struck. ‘‘ Amelia’’—said he, mournfully—‘‘how short a time has sufficed to destroy my happiness. When that clock struck last, all was bright before me.’’ ‘*All is dark then, now’’—was her answer—‘“‘ I understand you. The daughter of Hans Helfen- stein, landlord of the Buck, can never be the wife of Percival Grafton.”’ He made no reply—Amelia released her dress from his grasp, and left the room. Hastening to her chamber, she threw herself on an ottoman, and when she heard him depart, and the door closed after him, she gave vent to her feelings in a flood of tears. She remained all day in her room; restless, unhappy, and trying in vain to occupy herself with her needle, or a book. Her sewing went wrong, and she comprehended nothing of what she read. She gave herself up to the indulgence of her suf- ferings from wounded pride, and disappointed affec- tion; and she wept herself into a headache. Still AND LADY’S BOOK. _~ she cherished a latent hope that Grafton’s best feelings would eventually triumph. She knew that he loved her; and she felt how easily he could make his peace with her, if atonement was speed- ily offered. On returning home towards evening, Mrs. Cot- terell found her with pale cheeks and heavy eyes, and prescribed for her headache various remedies, which Amelia gratified her mother by trying ; but at last was obliged to say that she feared she could obtain no relief except from repose. Mrs. Cotterell then left her to herself, and she went to bed for the night. Having scarcely slept at all, Amelia looked very pale next morning, and her headache continued ; and no visitors were admitted that day. But on every ring at the door, she could not refrain from starting, and raising her head, expecting either Grafton himself, or a billet from him. Neither came. After dinner Mrs. Cotterell took up the evening paper, and with an exclamation of surprise read the name of Percival Grafton in the list of pas- sengers that had sailed that morning for France in the Havre packet. Amelia did not faint, but she was $o near it, that Mrs. Cotterell threw down the paper, and ran to her assistance. As soon as she was able to speak, she threw herself into her mo- ther’s arms, and told her all, in a few broken words. ‘There wasa pause; Mrs. Cotterell being too indignant to speak. ‘* And now’’—continued Amelia—‘‘I have no- thing more to do than to endeavor, with all the resolution I possess, to expel him from my heart, and my memory as soon as possible. I am sadly, deeply disappointed in him. But I think I can nerve myself to bear it. Certainly I will try.” ‘*Ts he worth a single tear ?’’—said Mrs. Cotte- rell.—‘‘ Dearest Amelia, be true to yourself.’’ ‘** At least, he is not mercenary’’—said Amelia. Her mother kissed her affectionately, and replied —‘ Strong, indeed, must be the pride, the absurd, the senseless, the un-American pride, that could overrule the manifold temptations of beauty, re- fiaement, mind, heart, and wealth, all united in my darling Amelia. But grieve not, my beloved girl. It is well he showed himself in time. You never could have been happy with Percival Graf- ton.”’ ‘* My dearest mother, we will speak of him no more’’—said Amelia. On the following day our heroine sent for Sophia Fayland, to spend the day with her. But not even to her loved young friend did she give the slightest hint of anything that had passed between Grafton and herself at their last interview. Sophia had learnt his departure from the papers; but though she wondered much, she had too much delicacy to make uny remark upon it to Amelia, (who, she saw, was not in her usual spirits), far less, to inquire the cause. On leaving the house of Mrs. Cotterell, Percival Grafton strolled mechanically into his office ; and

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AMELIA; OR, A there found a note from Rossmore, apprising him that he had unexpectedly been obliged to depart for the south on particular business, and should be absent two or three months. Grafton felt his friend’s absence a relief; for he knew that when- ever they met, Rossmore would inquire how his suit prospered with Miss Cotterell ; and that, if he disclosed to him the truth, he would, in all proba- bility, warmly condemn his conduct, and reproach him with having thrown away a pearl of priceless value. After tumbling over some law papers without knowing a word of their contents, Percival Graf- ton, restless and unhappy, went out, and uncon- sciously wandered down to the Battery. There he saw a ship departing for Europe. ‘This brought ! knew Amelia Cotterell, he had planned a visit to France and To fly seemed to his remembrance that, before he other parts of the Transatlaniic world. from the probability of meeting her again, now the most desirable course he could think of; for his pride revolted from all id ea ol returning to conciliate Amelia, and to offer his hand to the daughter of an tavern-keeper—he emigrant | whose family had for three generations belonged to the aristocracy of New York, and had kept that glory untarnished by marrying only among their s of the first circle. , ? ? ? it t] ’ | , ' , i1is reso.iution was taken alter but tittle delibe- ration; and Percival Grafton hastened immediate y to engage his passage in a packet-ship t! was to sail next morning for Havre, and to make all ne- cessary arrangements for his abrupt departure. He commenced his voyage in the hope that as time and distance increased, and as new scenes and new people came before him, he should cease to think deeply and remorsefully of Amelia Cotte- rell. And he trusted that as the days wore on, he should lose the ‘‘compunctious visitings,’’ and misgivings as to the rationality of his conduct, which haunted him incessantly, long after the shores of his country and hers had faded from the ocean horizon Let it not be supposed that the sudden departure of the elegant and admired Percival Grafton, the undoubted lover of the also elegant and admired Amelia Cotterell, could take place without excit- ing much surprise and many conjectures, and, of course, numerous false and idle reports. Some persons went so far as to question Sophia Fayland ; but that young lady, like Harry Percy's wife, And for a similar reason her aunt Mrs. Derrington was ‘*could not utter what she did not know.”’ applied to in vain. During the. nine days that are usually allowed for working off the wonder consequent to any re- markable event in what is called the world, all manner of absurd and groundless stories were circulated on this occasion. whether well or crowded ; parties select or mixed; and even dress- makers’ Morning: receptions, ill, attended; soirées thin or fitting-rooms all teemed with discus- sions concerning the probable or possible state of VoL. XXXvI.-—~“ YOUNG LADY’S VICISSITUDES. 37 affairs between Mr. Grafton and Miss Cotterell. And yet nothing was certain, except that he had actually gone somewhere. Many had seen him embark in the Havre packet, though some had witnessed his departure in a ship that sailed the same day for England; a proof that newspapers are not to be believed, and that their lists of pas- sengers are full of mistakes. Nay, some contend- ed that he had only gone to having been told so by a gentleman that saw Per- cival Grafton at the Tremont Hotel. A few be- lieved him to be still in the city of New York, Joston, a gentleman and wondered that so much nonsense should be talked about him. For instance—at Mrs. Hautonberg’s soirée, the amiable Mrs. Honeywood was perfectly sure Mr. town. i r though he really hanged his mind Grafion was still in did sail in ihe sl p for Havre, he c before they were outside Sandy Hook, and he had landed in the pilot- This a gentleman had told her. And a lady had informed her that he lf to Miss Cotterell, who And t! ir recent engagement as to er himse iat now they were with the world ¢ the whole world to eact ton to mix around them, they other: and this charming seclusion was the reason they were no longe r seen in society. This information was set aside by Miss News- ley deciaring that Amelia Cotterell had never been out so much as during the last and present week, ry } hat she was to be seen everywhere; and ap- peared uncommonly gay, though Mr. Grafton hed positively gone to Europe; that she had visited the theatre with a large party on the evening after he sailed, and that she had greatly enjoyed the play. Miss Frotham asserted that she knew, from good authority, Mr. Grafton had only gone to Baltimore; and that he and Miss Cotterell were to be married as soon as he returned. ‘This was , for a friend of Miss Frotham’s em- ployed the sister of the mantua maker that was making Amelia Cotterell’s wedding dress. ‘* What is what is it ?’’—inquired several young ladies, coming closer and listening it—Oh! eageriy. **Oh! of course, white satin and blond’?—an- swered Miss Frotham. ‘* No, of course, in the case’’—interposed Mrs. Le Quick. ‘A friend of mine saw it herself at the dress-maker’s; and it is entire thread lace over real cambric.”’ ‘What are you all talking about ?”’—joined Miss Rodwell—‘‘ I know, from the best authority, that he has gone to Europe, and that the match is entire She fell in love with Slingsby F ysqne, or, at least, flirted with him outrageously. So Grafton was justifiably jealous, and properly affronted, and gave her up. That is the real cause ; Slingsby Fysque has hinted as much himself.’’ y broken off. ‘“The more reason for not believing it’”—ob- served Augustina Brockendale. ‘‘Such an absurd story is beneath the dignity of contradiction.’’

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38 **Oh! dear!’ —exclaimed Mrs, Brockendale— ** you are all at the old subject that I have been hearing of these three months. Somebody refusing Percival Grafton—who was it? Miss Cotterell or Miss Milkby—Poor fellow !—He drowned himself, —did not he? I am sure I heard something of his going on the water, or into the water—which was it? My head is so confused, ever since the pros- pect of a war with Scotland.’’ ** Percival Grafton has sailed for France in the last Havre packet’’—said Augustina Brockendale, turning to Miss Frotham, and speaking and look- ing very positively.—‘‘ ‘lhe presumption is, that he offered himself to Amelia Cotterell, and she refused him.” ** How very strange !’’—said Miss Waterly.— ‘* She must be delirious.”’ **As to Mr. Fysque’’—said Miss Billings— ‘*she may as well give up the chase at once—I am certain she will never catch him. I have rea- sons for what I say.’ ** If she does not get Fysque’’—said Miss Wa- terly—‘‘ I wonder, who she will take—may be, Highpole or Shortman. She would have hardiy Riggons or Bass.” ‘*Contemptible nonsense !’’—frowned Augus- tina Brockendale, turning away indignantly, ‘I have no patience to hear any more of it.”’ ** Sophia Fayland could tell all about it’’—said Miss Pryer. ‘*Do you suppose Amelia Cotterell really makes a confident of such a chit’’—exclaimed Miss Rodwell—‘‘ even though she has shown so little taste as to select her for a friend ?”’ ‘Well, what does Mrs. Derringion say ?°— persisted Miss Pryer. ** Mrs. Derrington says nothing; for she has as- certained that Mrs. Pelham Prideaux says no- thing’’—was the answer of Miss Rodwell. ‘‘Aiier all, who cares ?”’ **On my word!’’ —exclaimed the vivacious and voluble Kate Whelmerdown—‘‘ this Grafton and Cotterell business is the best joke I ever heard in my life—and J’ve got the true version. It was Amelia that offered her hand, and Percival that declined accepting it. Was not that capital? How I laughed when I heard it! A lady to be refused by a gentleman—funny, is not it? I should have liked to have seen her face when he told her that he was already engaged to a young lady who had gone last month with her family to France, and whom he was to follow as soon as he could pet through an important law-case. I wish I could have seen the fair Amelia. How flat she must have looked. She has been in fainting fits ever since. Can anythiug be more ridiculous? What fools these very wise young ladies make of them- selves.”’ ** Are you certain all this is true ?””—asked Miss Rodwell. ‘** Certain! Mrs. Cotterell herself entrusted the whole story, confidentially, toa friend of hers, who related it to a friend of Mary Ballroller, who told GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. it tome. I thought I should have died of laugh- ing.”’ CHAPTER THIRD THE GILLINGHAMS. In resuming her usual habits and occupations, our heroine soon recovered her tranquillity. She made no attempts at forced gayety, but her natu- ral vivacity, though checked for awhile, returned as her wounded heart began to cicatrize. She went out as usual, but not more than usual, and as no one spoke to her of Percival Grafton, she had no occasion to speak of him. But in little more than two months, she heard incidentally that he was enjoying the delights of Paris, where he had obtained the entrée of fashionable English society, and was talked of as the successful suitor of anobleman’s seventh daughter. Hers was not } he | has the love that can continue when reciprocation ceased, and when esteem for its object is dimi- nished. Percival Grafton had ‘‘ been weighed in the balance and found wanting,”’ and her thoughts dwelt on him no longer. Meanwhile, Mrs. Cotterell was expecting the arrival from Europe of her only sister, Mrs. Gil- lingham, who, after a long residence abroad, was returning home with her husband and children. Mr. Gillingham, on succeeding to some pro- perty left him by his father, was very willing to yield to the persuasions of his wife and retire from all ostensible business; in short, to ‘* give up the shop,’’ and thus administer to her pride, and to his own love of ease. But they soon found that their income would not enable them to live in what is called style. To reduce their establish- ment within their present means, or to add to those means by resuming the desk and the coun- ter, seemed out of the question. Therefore the Gillinghams concluded on expatriating them- selves, and seeking beyond the Atlantic, a home where they might live as idly, and economically, and obscurely, as they pleased. By traveling in cheap conveyances, putting up at inferior houses, seeing no sights, and making but a very short stay in any of the large cities where they were likely to be recognized by their countrymen, the Gillinghams contrived to visit the chief countries of the Old World at a small expense ; and conse- quently with a small portion of even such enjoy- ment as was most congenial to their tastes. Yet it was some consolation to think that, should they ever return to America, they could always say they had actually been in England, France, Ger- many, Switzerland, and Italy; even if, after all, they should chance to know less about the re- markable features of those countries than they might have learnt from staying at home, and read- ing guide-books. Each of their children was born in a different part of Europe. And by the time

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AMELIA; OR, A YOUNG they had five, the Gillinghams were tired of eco- nomical traveling, and they settled down succes- sively in two remote French villages, where they years. Then among people that spoke their own language, vegetated several longing to be they settled for another series of years in two different English villages; equally obscure, and than those of had Europe, tll more dull, but less uncomfortable France. In dragged through twenty years of this delectable manner they they could bear it no longer. So they deter- return America had now in store for them; or rather to try what mined to home, and see what could be made out of their wealthy relative Mrs. Cotterell. The correspondence between the two sisters had languished for many years, as is generally } the case where there is no congeniality of mind or heart. ‘Their letters, never confidential, had become few and concise; for Mrs. Cotterell grew very tired of writing in a manner that was in no instance reciprocated. For certain reasons, she refrained from mentioning Amelia at all; know- ing that the circumstance of her having adopted a child was likely to give great offence to her sis- ter, and produce very unpleasant animadversions n an entire cessation of inter- by any chance, Mrs. Gillingham should hear of the fact, Mrs. Cotterell thought it would then be time enough to explain its details ; that might end course. If, and by concealing it as long as possible, years of enmity might be avoided. Also, she knew that Mrs. American she met with abroad. Gillingham would talk about it Sull her plan to every was not a good one, and its effects were at length most painfully manifested. It is had been disclosed by Amelia to Percival; but true the secret there was no fear of its being circulated by him. On hearing of the intended return of the Gil- linghams, Mrs. Cotterell wrote to invite them to come to her house on their arrival, and make it their home while looking out for a permanent residence. They immediately took her at her word; hur- ried to Liverpool with all possible dispatch; had short passage; and arrived unex- a surprising] pectedly soon at New York. with a strong and favorable wind, the ship came to anchor at the wharf before Mrs. Cotterell knew Half an hour Entering the bay what vessel they were coming in. afterwards, the whole Gillingham family were en- tering her door; and with her inherent goodness of heart, she gave them a most kind reception. Mrs. Gillingham had never been so handsome as her sister; and the lapse of twenty years, passed neither agreeably nor comfortably, had not at all improved her looks. Also, the society she had of necessity been accustomed to in Eu- rope, being very inferior to that which she de- serted on leaving America, had wrought an un- favorable change in her manners and feelings. Mr. Gillingham had sunk into a mere reflection of his wife. LADY’S VICISSITUDES, 39 aa RAPPDPLLPLLO LOD There was nothing prepossessing in the ap- pearance of their children, whose ages ranged from twelve to eighteen, and who were all born in different kingdoms; Maud Mary in England; Ninette Natalie in France; Bianca Beatrice in Italy; Leopold in Belgium; and Wolfgang in Germany. Mrs. Cotterell now found herself in a most em- barrassing situation with regard to Amelia, and would have worlds if from the day of adopting her, she and her husband had frankly acknowledged the whole truth, and represented given their protégée as she really was, the child of other parents. The arrival of the Gillinghams so much sooner than she expected them, had so taken her by surprise, that she had formed no plan either for disclosing or concealing the true Amelia; and for the present she could introduce her as her She named her as such with down- history of think of nothing but to daughter. and burning cheeks. ** Daughter ?’’—exclaimed Mrs. ‘* You me, Caroline! I you had a daughter. cast € yes, Gillingham. never knew Why has she been sup- astonish pressed? Orrather, why has her existence been a secret only to your sister ?”’ She then fixed her piercing gray eyes full Amelia, and observing that young lady’s confusion, increased it by saying—‘‘ I never saw upon a daughter so strangely unlike both father and mother. Children generally resemble either one parent or the other.”’ ‘*To be sure they do!’’—echoed Mr. Gilling- ham. Their own five imps now raised a chorus of— ‘*T’m like pa’! I’m like ma’! I’m like pa’ and ma’ both—everybody says so!”’ In a few moments Mrs. Cotterell rallied, and requested her sister to accompany her into the There she confided to her the history adoption, which Mrs. bo doir. of Amelia's parentage and Gillingham heard with a look of horror. that after folly of taking on you the ‘*Ts it possible’’—she ejaculated—** being guilty of the charge of achild belonging to strangers, you could add to this folly the sin of concealing it so many years; and, in fact, acting a falzehood all the time; hoping to get her along by hiding the low- ness of her origin; and thus shamefully deceiving your friends and the world ?”’ ‘*In what way has any one been injured by this concealment ?’’—inquired Mrs. Cotterell, en- deavoring to suppress her resentment at this un- ceremonious attack, and to speak calmly. ‘*In what way ?’’—exclaimed her sister. ‘‘ The dreadful consequences are yet to come—and be assured they will. Punishment even in this life, however slow, is always sure. To pass over the sinful concealment of the truth, is it nothing to have been for so many years wasting your sub- stance on this girl that was none of yours; and thereby defrauding your blood relations, and di- minishing the amount of what they have natu-

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40 GODEY’Ss rally a right to expect at your death? Gillingham, come here’’—opening the door, ard calling in her husband, who obeyed instantly. ‘‘ There’’—con- tinued his wife—‘‘ we have little pleasure to ex- pect in returning to this wretched country; for Caroline has just informed me that the girl in the next room is not even her own child, but was re- gularly adopted by herself and her husband; and is the daughter of a vulgar Dutchman that keeps a tavern or ale-house somewhere up the country. And of course she has given Miss Amelia a costly education, and accustomed her to every sort of extravagance, and wasted thousands of dollars on her already.’’ ** Shameful !’’"—ejaculated the husband. ‘‘I could not have thought of such conduct in Mrs. Cotterell.”’ ‘* And why not ?’’—replied that lady. ‘‘ Had not my husband and myself a right to indulge ourselves with the society of a lovely and affec- tionate child, and to expend on her improvement and her happiness, a portion of the wealth ac- quired by his own industry, and for which he was indebted to no one ?"’ ‘*And I suppose she is to be your heiress too ?’’—vociferated Mrs. Gillingham, waxing fu- rious. ‘* Say, say, tell me if she is not?’’ **No doubt of it’’—echoed her husband. ‘* Why weed you ask ?"’ **T shall answer no such questions’’—ssid Mrs. Cotterell, indignantly. ‘* Yet of this you may assure yourselves—in treating Amelia as a daugh- ter during my life, 1 most certainly intend she shall be provided for according!y, after my death.”’ ** What right’’—cried her sister, frantically— ‘what right have you (or any one else) to leave your money away from your own blood rela- tions ?’’ ‘“*What right, indeed?’’—repeated her hus- band. ‘** Sister’’—said Mrs. Cotterell—‘‘I insist on doing as I please with what is certainly my own. And I desire that the fact of Amelia’s being an adopted child shall not by you be published to the werld. I confess my regret that it has been hitherto suppressed ; for | now think it would have been far better to have made no secret of the truth, but to have spoken of it frankly from the first. I cannot at once conquer my reluctance to make Sull, as that unhappily was not done, the avowal public just now. ‘Therefore I insist on the secrecy of yourself and your family, till I myself see a fitting time for the disclosure.’’ ** The longer the deception is continued, the greater the sin’’—said Mrs. Gillingham. ‘** Much greater’’—said Mr. Gillingham. ** Understand me once for all’’—resumed Mrs. Cotterell. ‘* You and your family are welcome to remain in my house till you have procured and But it must be prepared a home for yourselves. on the express condition that there shall be no recurrence to this topic, and no hints, even dis- tantly alluding to it. I will not have my peace MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. invaded, and myself insulted under my own roof, even by my sister; much less by her husband.’’ ‘*Is this your idea of family affection ?’’—ex- claimed Mrs. Gillingham—*‘‘ or even of common hospitality ?"’ ‘* Of the commonest hospitality even’’—cried Mr. Gillingham. ’—said Mrs. Cotterell, No more’ laying her hand on her sister's arm. ‘‘ I am sorry, indeed, that alter a separation of twenty years, our meet- ing should prove so stormy. But I hope you will, on reflection, be convinced that no advantage can possibly accrue to you from acting or talking in Therefore let to treat Amelia and myself as this manner. me counsel you to change your tone ladies should be treated by a lady.’’ Mrs. Cottere ll room, where she then returned to the drawing- found Amelia trying to make acquaintance with the young Giilinghams. She silently sat down to recover something of her tranquillity, which had been greatly disturbed by i inding that time and collision with the world had not rubbed off the asperities of her sister’s character, or rendered Agnes Gillingham a wiser or a better woman. After awhile the door of the boudoir opened, and Mrs. Gillingham came out with a forced ess in her smile on her face, and a forced soft: T I voice. Mr. Gillingham ditto. Approaching Amelia she took her hand, called her ‘* dear niece,’’ and made a flattering speech ending ina Mr. Gilling- His wife then went up to her on her air distingue. ham followed suit. compliment sister, whom she kissed, congratulating Mrs Cotterell on having so lovely a daughter. Mr. Gillingham did the same, except the kissing. Mrs. Cotterell now concluding that peace was } restored, (at least outwardly.) waived her resent- ment, and they all went amicably to such a din- ner as her guests had not seen for many long Mrs. Gillingham was very amiable all her sister and years. the afternoon; and entertained niece with the delights of France and England, though the boys undutifully insisted that they had lived chiefly at Chargey and Joigny in the one country, and at Thrapstone and Beccles in the other; seeing but a glimpse of Paris and London. In Italy they had known most of Radicofani; in Belgium of ‘Tongres; and in Germany of Munch- berg. The evening passed away without any fresh outbreak on the part of the Gillinghams, who al! grew sleepy and retired early. Mrs. Cotterell spared the feelings of Amelia by refraining from any detail of the dialogue in the boudoir; and Amelia made no remark on the relatives of her more than mother. Next day, Mrs. Gillingham, knowing that the articles of dress they had brought from Europe were far inferior to those generally worn by the ladies of America, proposed accompanying her sister on a shopping expedition; saying—** ] sup- pose I must get some things conformable to New

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AMELIA; OR, York fashion. I will not say taste, for the only taste here seems to be a parvenue recklessness of . ' expense. In Europe there is a natural gentility among the best classes, which renders costly ap- parel quite supertluous.”’ Truth was, no one had a greater liking for costly apparel than Mrs. Gillingham herself; but necessity had prevented her indulging in it while And in E 1 high prices. America, the best Mrs. Gillingham abroad. irope, as in articles comman was tiresome and difficult in her shopping; was certain that the things were not real French, and complained ot their great inferiority to similar things in Paris, and still more of their “‘ frightful prices.’’ But whenever Mrs. Cotterell made a purchase for herself, her sister condescended to say—‘* Well, I believe I will take the same. Ca- roline, for the present, let it be charged with yours. lhe articles were We will settle it hereafter.’’ charged to Mrs. Cotterell; but the time never came when her sister proposed a settlement. Meanwhile, Mr. Gillingham, accompanied by the boys, was calling on some of his old acquaint- ances; and Amelia was taking his daughters on an exploring ride in the carriage, the eflect of which was that the three young ladies, English, Irench and Italian, all united in despising New York; Maud Mary having been born at Hastings; Ninette Natalie at Dieppe; and Bianca Beatrice Z | if New York ided that America must be a poor ut Saluzzo. They con was a fair specimer place. Ame i, lowed them to go on without attempting the use- ’ | } iess tro e of controverting anything the V said. more amused than offended, al- Sophia Fayvland, who came next day with her aunt to call on the Gillinghams, had less forbear- ance; and soon there was open war between her and Maud Mary. ' , e377 Several weeks passed on, and the Gillingham family could not fix on a house though there were many to let, and the first of May was not far off; neither did they show any disposition to remove into lodgings. Why should they, when they found themselves so well accommodated at Mrs. Cotterell’s—well at least for them, though Amelia. most profound respect, and not for her and Towards our heroine they now affected the the most ceremonious civility. Mrs. Gillingham herself would frequently start up to hand Amelia a chair on her entering the room, while Mr. Gil- lingham bustled wildly about to find her another. The children were checked whenever they said anything rude or impertinent to her, and she was besought to forgive them, and excuse their want At all this the blood of Sophia Fayland was continually boiling, when- of American manners. ever she was present. Mrs. Pelham Prideaux did not call on the Gil- linghams; therefore the most ultra-fashionable friends of Mrs. Cotterell did not take them up; So they Now in any part of Eu- 4* and Mrs. Derrington dropped them. complained greatly of American incivility. they had never been taken up A YOUNG 41 LADY’S VICISSITUDES. rope, having a peculiar talent for being unpopular everywhere; which talent perhaps might not have been so universally and so soon discovered if it had been gilded by wealth, or glossed over by station. Sophia Fayland’s visit to New York was now drawing to a close, and she received a letter from her mother, informing her that Major Fayland would be in the city towards the end of the en- Mrs. F’ayland, in her letter, sent a pressing invitation suing week, and would then take her home. for Miss Cotterell to accompany her friend So- phia, and if she liked it, to pass the summer at the fort. Sophia was wild with delight at the prospect of having Amelia with her at her own heme, and of having her all to herself; away from the perpetual annoyance of the Gillinghams, Amelia’s only objection to accepting the invi- tation, was that of leaving her mother to endure l the their guests unassisted. But Mrs. II Cotterell, least selfish of women, saw that Amelia’s peace was continually disturbed by their ill-concealed spite and jeaionsy oozing out from beneath the thin covering of overstrained courtesy. Also, she chief object of their an- their thought that when the tipathy was no longer before their eyes, } malignant feelings would subside for want of daily exercise. And she every hour dreaded being brought to the painful necessity of informing her sister, that seeing the improbability of their being happy under the same roof with the beloved child of her adoption, or allowing Amelia and herself he must request them to seek another to be so, s residence. Finally, Amelia was prevailed on to comply with Mrs. l’ayland’s invitation, so far as to con- sent to go home with Sophia and pass at least a month at the fort. At the appointed time, Major Fayland arrived, The Gillinghams were so delighted at the prospect of and found Amelia ready for her journey. getting rid of her for awhile, that they became absolutely loving; smothered her with kisses at parting; and even put their handkerchiefs to their eyes, when they saw that she and her mo- ther were really in tears. Mrs. Derrington grieved at losing the society of Sophia, for whom she had agquired as much affection as she could feel for any one; and her invitation for her niece to spend the ensuing winter with her. last words were a pressing Mrs. Fayland was a charming woman, and an excellent housewife, and knew well how to assist in making a garrison life comfortable and plea- At a military post, as the real circum- stances of every inhabitant are and must be well known, pretension would be useless, and display absurd. ‘The rank and pay of each member of the littke community being of course perfectly more than they can sant. understood, none aflect justly claim, and no attempts are made at unne- cessary and unauthorized show. Our heroine

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Tos le ae — ay ~ ed ee ee Cae 42 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. enjoyed the change from the ‘‘ pride, pomp and circumstance”’ of city life, and found enough to amuse and enough to interest her. Also, she liked extremely the society around her. ‘The officers were all men of high education, and po- lished manners, and the ladies were kind and friendly. It is true that all the young people were in love, according to the custom of the army; and the belles being already paired off, there was no particular beau left for Miss Cot- terell. ‘The generous Sophia Fayland, in the en- thusiasm of her friendship for her beloved Ame- lia, would almost have resigned Captain Camplin, had he shown any disposition to be thus trans- ferred. to him all the perfections of her beautiful and ac- Yet though she magnanimously set forth complished friend, he remained honorably true to his first love. A flourishing town was in the immediate neigh- borhood of the fort, and a fertile and well-settled country behind. the neighborhood were on terms of intimacy with the officers; and consequently, much attention was paid to the charming guest of the command- ant’s family. ‘There were sailing parties on the lake ; riding parties through the woods and hills; d other di- pic-nics out of doors; and dancing a versions in doors; also the music of a fine band. Amelia’s letters to her mother were bright and cheerful, and Mrs. Cotterell replied as much in the same manner as possible, considering that the Gillinghams were still with her; though she for- bore to make any complaint about them. Five weeks had passed rapidly away, and our heroine, though delighted with her visit, became uneasy at receiving no reply to her last letter. Fearing that things were not going on well at home, she became anxious to return, and to assist her mother in the hard task of getting along with the Gillinghams. Mr. and Mrs. Mitford (a gen- tleman and lady from the neighboring town), were going to New York; and Amelia gladly availed herself of their offer to escort her thither. She wrote to inform Mrs. Cotterell that she was com- ing, and of the exact time when her arrival might be expected, as the purpose of her companions was to proceed directly on. When the time of departure came, Amelia touk leave of her friends at the fort with deep regret, and many tears; and to Sophia the separation was heart-breaking. In due time they arrived at the city of New York; having descended the Hudson from Al- bany in one of the night boats. On reaching the wharf, Amelia was surprised to find that her mo- ther's carriage was not there, waiting to convey her home; and she looked in vain for one of the servants, with even a message for her. Mr. and Mrs. Mitford were very desirous of seeing her to Mrs. Cotterell’s door, but unwilling to cause them any delay or trouble that could be avoided, she insisted on their proceeding at once to the hotel at which they intended to stay ; after Mr. Mitford All the principal inhabitants of had engaged a hack for her, and seen her into it with her baggage carefully put on. When Amelia arrived at her mother’s house, Jasper, one of the men-servants, came to the door; and as she entered the vestibule, and ac- costed him as usual, she was surprised with the strange expression of his countenance, and at his making no reply to her question ‘‘ if all were well.’”’ Instead of answering, he opened the door of the front parlor, the windows of which were closed, and said—‘* There, Miss Amelia, please to go and rest yourself on a sofa, till 1 have your baggage brought in.”’ Amelia began to tremble, fearing she knew not what; an 1 in attempting to inquire farther, the words died on her quivering lips. In a moment, came in Mrs. Cotterell’s maid, a Connecticut girl named Susan, who on looking at Amelia, wrung her hands, and burst into tears. ‘* What is the matter?’’—exclaimed Amelia. ‘* What has happened? Where is my mother ?”’ ‘‘Oh! Miss Amelia’’—cried Susan—-‘‘ Mrs Cotterell is dead and buried! She died on Tues- day, and was buried yesterday. Oh! have you heard it ? But I see von have not. Nor of her illness neither. ‘To think that the vile creatures never wrote to you about anything. But they'll suffer for it, some way—that they will. Your ' poor, dear, excellent mother was taken suddenly with a fit, and she never spoke, nor moved, nor knew anything after it; and she died the ninth day.”’ The girl stopped on perceiving that Amelia had fallen back in a fainting fit. She called hastily for assistance, the female servants all gathered round her, and the two men carried poor Amelia up stairs, and left her to the care of the women, who resorted to the usual means of restoring con- sciousness. When Amelia revived, Susan dismissed the women, and our poor heroine found herself, not in her own spacious and handsome apartment, but in a small back chamber on the third story, usually appropriated to the seamstress who was occasionally employed by Mrs. Cotterell. She looked round bewildered ; but the next moment all other thoughts subsided, and her only idea was that of her mother, and the dreadful an- nouncement of her mother’s death. **Oh, Miss Amelia’’—cried Susan —‘‘ how ashamed we all are that you should be taken up to this bit of a place. But, indeed, it is the room Mrs. Gillingham has set aside for you—this, and no other. Oh! oh! my heart bleeds to think how she is disgracing you. And disgrace you she will, more and more—that you may depend on. Your own nice, beautiful room she has given to her eldest daughter, that Maud Mary thing with a name as ugly as herself. She has strewed her own brats all about, every one in a separate room, (set them up with it, indeed !) and she’s more hateful than ever, and her husband a greater fool, and the children more impudent.

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AMELIA; OR, A And we are all going away as soon as we get suited with places. ‘There’s no abiding her Eng- lish ways, and her French ways, and her own vile ways, that are worse than any. Oh! whata change from dear, «ood, kind, sensible Mrs. Cot- terell. Poor, dear Miss Amelia, how pale and wild you look! Poor, dear young lady—for you are a lady, and they aint. No, not one of the whole fry. If you could only ery and shed tears, you would feel better. ‘Try to cry, dear Miss \melia.’’ ‘* Oh, my mother, my dearest mother ‘*TIs she, indeed, d ‘ id? She was ill— she died—and I not with her!”’ Amelia. P She would not h ive know n you, even if vou had sat beside her all the time’’—proceeded Susan —‘‘ for after her fit she knew nothing. Oh! Miss Amelia, your dear good mother had a hard time with this sister of hers, and ali the ualy family. if it was not wicked, I could wish they had all been sunk in the bottom of the sea, before they got home to America. Why did they not stay in their beloved foreign places?) Who wanted them back ? —lI've always heard that folks who have lived a while abroad, are never fit for their own country again—I’m sure these aint. Skimpi 4 their help in every mortal thing, and having all sorts of mean wavs with us, and calling us ser- vants besides. However, that last is not to so they'll soon have a clear house W hat a life they ‘They were a great deal worse after you borne any wav: ot us. Poor dear Mrs. Cotterell! led her. went away. If she had not been the best and kindest lady in the world, she woul 1 have order- ed them all out, bag and baggage. She never said i word about them to anv of us—not even to me: but keptit allto herself. May be, if she had broke mit, and talked about them as they deserved, she might have been alive this day. There’s nothirg joes people more good than talking over their troubles, instead of smothering them up to prey upon their minds—even doctors say so. One morning the whole of the Gillinghams were at your mother, all at once, downin the bac And, as most of us were passing the door nearly ull the time, we could not help catching some- thing now and then. you, Miss Amelia, retting in a word now and then. ‘I hey see me d to be abust! 4 and she only had a chance ot At last, talked themselves all out of breath, and Jasper the y leclares he heard Mrs. Cotterell tell them, they Then they all flew out like wolves and tigers, and turkey- So she left them, and must seek a home in another house. buzzards, children and all. went to her own room, and threw herself on the bed, and a violent headache came on her; and at dinner-time she could not come down, and she sent them word to go to table without her. So I went up to see if I should bring her something up-stairs; and I was frightened to see how strange she looked, and I ran and called Sally, and we found the poor dear lady was having a fit, and we alarmed the house, and Jasper ran for the nearest YCUNG LADY’S VICISSITUDES. 43 doctor, and she was bled, but it did her no good. And she knew nothing tionless, and spoke no more—but she lived till and nobody, and lay mo- the ninth day, and then went off as if going i quietly to sleep.”’ Amelia now burst into a torrent of tears, and, burying her face in the pillow, sobbed convul- sively. And Susan wept, also. After a while the girl continued her narrative. ‘* As to the Gillinghams, the wicked unnatural creatures, none of us thought they had much sor- row in their hearts, though they went about with dismal faces, and were continually saying to the friends, who came to inquire after Mrs. Cotterell, that everything was done for her that could be, and that nothing was spared that could possibly ny good; and that they had sent for two New York—and, there- And think of heir pretending to the visitors that they had sent do hera ot the createst do ‘tors fore, the was clear. for you, and written to you as soon as she was ken ill, and they wondered you put off coming on immediately—for they had wrote for you three or four times.”’ —sighed Amelia. ‘* False! false !’’ ‘* 'T’o be sure, it was false’’—proceeded Susan ‘} ] —‘‘but lies cost them nothing, as I shall prove presently. Well, there was, of course, a very large funeral, for Mrs. Cotterell had lots of friends, both up town and down), and because there were so many people to see them, the Gilling- hams pretended to tal as we call ce on violently, and Mrs. G., her, over-acted her part, and showed Well, after r. Gillingham invited as that her grief was altogether a sham. the funeral was over, M many of the company as chose, to return to the house; and some did. ‘Then all the servants (as they call us) were ordered up, and we gathered And then after a great deal of humming and hawing, Mr. Gillingham ke, but she soon took the words out of his And what do you round the parlor doors. mouth, and finished the story. think it was—They actually had the assurance to say that you, Miss Amelia, were not Mrs. Cotte- rell’s daughter, nor any kin to either her or her husband ; but that you were only an adopted child, and that your parents were common Dutch people away off in Ohio. Did you ever hear such vile nonsense? None of us believed a word of er? it: It is too true !’’—cried Amelia—‘‘ Oh! my dear, my beloved mother! Can I ever think of you by any other name ?”’ ‘* Is it indeed true ?’’—ejaculated Susan—‘* How very sorry I am to hear that—dear, dear Miss Everybody will believe you, and nobody will believe the Amelia—hold out, and don’t own it. Gillinghams—”’ ‘*T must own it, for it is absolutely the truth” —sobbed Amelia.—‘‘ My dearest mother disclosed the secret to me, some months ago.” ‘* Dear me '—I don’t know what is to become of you, then’’—said Susan, very sorrowfullp~—

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44 GODEY’S MAGAZINE ** You've fallen into bad hands—the baddest ever was.”’ Susan, good Susan’’ —faltered Amelia — ** leave me for the present—I wish to be alone. Should I want anything, I will ring the bell.’’ ** And then I will come to you directly, poor, dear Miss Amelia’’—said Susan, wiping her eyes as she quitted the room. When Susan had departed, Amelia gave her- self up to a paroxysm of the most frantic grief, till exhausted nature subsided into a melancholy quiet. Happily none of the Gillinghams came near her. She remained in her room; and for two days saw only Susan, whom she entreated to speak of them no more. On the third day Mrs. Gillingham made her appearance, and the sight of her mourning dress gave a fresh pang to the heart of our unfortunate heroine. Mrs. Gillingham came in, holding a handkerchief to her face, which she removed on taking a seat beside Amelia—‘‘ Sull on your bed, Miss Helfenstein !’’—said she. Amelia startled at the name—the color rose to her cheeks, but immediately subsided, leaving them even paler than before. She tried to an- swer, but was unable to speak ; and Mrs. Gilling- ham continued— ‘“* Perhaps, Miss Helfenstein’’—(she evidently took a malicious pleasure in repeating the name) —‘*‘ perhaps, you are not yet aware that your be- nefactress has left you nothing.”’ “*T am not”—faltered Amelia. ‘*Then it is time you should know it. Most probably, my lamented sister thought that she had done quite enough for a strange child in no way connected with any member of her family, (and the child also of poor parents,) when she had educated you expensively, and brought you up, and equipped you in the style of a young lady. No doubt, she felt that having already lavished so much upon a child that did not belong to her, it was but just that the wealth she leaves behind, (for no one, in quitting the world, can carry their property with them,) should all go into its natural channel, and devolve upon her only sister, and her sister's children.’’ **T care not for her wealth’’—said Amelia—‘‘ I think of nothing but herself.’’ ‘* Do not talk so absurdly’’—said Mrs. Gilling- ham—‘‘ you will soon find that you will have to care. Pray, how do you intend to live ?”’ ** My dear, dear mother !’’—sobbed Amelia. ‘* Miss Helfenstein’’—resumed her tormentor —‘‘you have no right to call my sister your mother—that farce is over—and you must go back to the name that belongs to you. Mrs. Cotterell left no will; at least, none that can be found, after a strict search among her papers.”’ ‘*Surely, she must have made one’ — said Amelia. ** Girl !"’—exclaimed Mrs. Gillingham, furi- ously—‘‘ do you mean to insult me—How dare you insinuate such a thing AND LADY’S BOOK. ‘* Insinuate what ?’’—inquired Amelia. ‘* That there was a will, and that we have sup- pressed or destroyed it. Only say that—only hint at it again, and you shall be prosecuted for slander. I defy you to prove it—you or any one else.”’ ‘* Mrs. Gillingham’’—said Amelia—‘‘I have ay that I am not accustomed to this tone and manner. I no spirits to reply to you; I can only s have always been treated as a lady—as the daugh- ter of a lady.”’ ‘*So much the worse for you !’’—exclaimed Mrs. Gillingham.—‘‘ It would have been well, (and you will find it so,) had you been treated like what you really are—the child of a Dutch tavern-keeper.”’ Amelia covered her face with her handkerchief, and fell back on the bed. Mrs. Gillingham con- tinued— ‘* Yes—it is an unwelcome truth, no doubt. But then it és a truth—and one that ought to have been published long ago. However, the whole business town must be ringing with it, now. My ' with you to-day is, to ask what you inte o do. Can you expect to live on here, and be stil ported by those who have no right to doso? Re- member, there is nobody now to pet and pamper you.”” Amelia shook with emotion, but could not speak; and Mrs. Gillingham proceeded—‘* Come, come, no more of this nonsense—’tis quite time there was an end of it—you have been allowed to indulge your grief ever since you came home, or came here rather; for I need not tell you that this house is now mine. See how / am supported to bear the loss of one, who was really a blood-relation to me, though she did unjustly waste her substance on persons who were none. What can be the afiliction of an alien adopted into the family out of mistaken charity, compared with the feelings of a real sister! And yet, you see how | am supported—I ask again what are your plans ?” ‘*T have none’’—said Amelia—‘‘ at least none, as yet.’’ ‘*Then ‘tis time you had. Though you de- serve no kindness from me, I am now going to speak to you asa friend. It will do you good to exert yourself; and you must speedily set about getting yourown living. The best thing you can do is to look out fora place as teacher in a school. You might keep a school yourself, only that you have nocapital to begin with, and it requires money to take a house and furnish it. You will have to be a teacher—it is the best way of turning to account the accomplishments for which you are indebted to my sister’s mistaken generosity, and on which she wasted so much money that ought to have been saved for her heirs. I leave you to reflect onthis; and shall expect an answer this evening.’”’ She then left the room, to the great relief of poor Amelia.

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AMELIA; OR; A YOUNG In about a quarter of an hour, Mrs. Gillingham returned, and again taking aseat beside her—said —‘‘Miss Helfenstein, upon consideration, I think I would not have much objection to taking you myself as a governess, and giving you an asylum in my own house. My eldest daughters are so nearly grown up, that they want nothing more than a year’s finishing at a fashionable seminary. But Bianea Beatrice might learn something from you, as she is rather backward in her education. So I'll engage you for a year, at twenty-five dol- lars per quarter, which is high wages for a pri- vate governess, considering that you will be found oard and lodging. You will be expected to put out your washing and ironing. You will not ome to table, of course. Governesses in England never do; atleast ingenteel families. But there ean be easily some arrangement made about your meals—they can be sent to you up stairs. No loubt you would prefer it, for it may be irksome to you to eat with yoursuperiors. I rather think I will give you a larger apartment than this, on leep in the iccount of Bianca Beatrice, who must s room with you, as neither of her sisters is will- ing to be troubled with her, and she is fearful at be coaxed to-bed, and night, and has always to wakens and screams out at the least noise. You shall have a couch beside her bed. And now hero’s another thing—I hope you don’t intend to wear mourning. It will be a useless expense, und you cannot now afford it. Besides, no one will expect it of you, as Mrs. Cotterell was not really your mother.”’ The lacerated feelings of our unfortunate hero- ne could bear no more; her eyes closed, and she sunk for awhile into total unconsciousness. Mrs. Gillingham immediately rang the bell, and on Susan’s appearance, she pointed to Amelia ly- ing senseless on the bed, and said—** Susan, you see she has fainted—I leave you to get her over it at your leisure ;—you need not hurry. It will do her no harm to rest awhile in quiet. You can go and finish your work, and then come back to her. These fainting people are very inconve- nient.”’ Mrs. Gillingham then withdrew ; Susan casting after her a look of indignation—and exclaiming, is soon as she had closed the door—‘* The hateful creature '—I'll get Miss Amelia revived as fast as everle in.” Our heroine passed a sleepless night, in trying to compose her mind so as to arrange some teasi- ble plan for her subsistence, now that she was thrown entirely on her own resources. To con- tinue with the Gillinghams, as the degraded and insulted teacher of a foolish and wayward child, or indeed to remain at all in the house where her position had hitherto-been so very different, seem- ed out of the question; and she could not for a mo- ment regard it as practicable. But it was neces- sary to decide upon something. Stay there sh« could not, and go away she must; for she felt nearly ce rtain lat he r refusal to reniain as gover- yate lod ring as soon as sue could find one that LADY’S VICISSITUDES. 45 ness, would be followed by a coarse and peremp- tory order to depart. On consideration she found that she still had something to live upon till she could make a be- ginning in maintaining herself; an arduous task for a young and inexperienced woman, brought up in the full enjoyment of all that opulence can supply. Among the numerous friends of Mrs. Cotterell there were of course many that would have sympathized with our desolate heroine, and some whose houses and whose purses would have been open to her. But her noble spirit revolted at the idea of incurring obligations which she might never be able to requite, and she hoped that in the estimation of the good and the wise, she would not sink in conceding at once to the urgen- cies of her new condition, and that they would see no humiliation in her honestly and honorably exerting herself to gain a living by the industrious exercise of the talents bestowed on her by nature, and improved by cultivation. Of the money that Mrs. Cotterell had put into the hands of Amelia previous to her departure with the Faylands, she had fifty dollars yet re- maining. And she possessed various costly arti- cles of jewellery and of dress; among the latter was a valuable India shawl. All that she did not take with her to the fort, she had left locked up in the presses and bureaus belonging to her apartment, taking the keys with her; and these keys were still in her possession. As to the wardrobe of Mrs. Cotterell (including her jewel- lery), the whole had been seized on and secured by Mrs. Gillingham on the day after her sister's death. Finally, our heroine determined on removing to private lodgings, and endeavoring to obtain pupils in music. She was conscious of playing and singing in a manner that placed her in the first class of amateur performers; and she had often been told that in this delighful art she had no superior among the ladies of New York. Inclination would have led her to leave the city moved in so different where she had recen a position, and where so many who had known her in her prosperity would witness what they might look upon as her humiliation. But her natural rood sense and sire ngth ot mind conquer- ed this lingering vestige of false pride, and showed her that it would be best to remain in a place where she was known, and where she had friends that could assist her in procuring pupils. She thought too well of the world not to hope that there were many kind hearts who would not cast her off, though no longer the reputed daughter and heiress of Mrs. Cotterell. Her chief desire now was to get away from the Gillinghams, as soon as possible. Fearful of another interview with Mrs. Gilling- ham, Amelia sent her a note, respectfully but firmly declining her offer of the governe ss- ship, and expressing her intention of removing to a pri-

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aver ae oe i x > oo, at a paternity” 46 would be suitable for her purpose, and then en- deavoring to maintain herself by giving instruc- tion in music. She sent this note by Susan, and in about an hour received the following answer :— Miss HELrenstein. When your insolent billet arrived, I was just going up to your room for the purpose of inform- ing you, that on further consideration, you need not calculate on being retained in my house as governess. When I mentioned to my daughters the kind and liberal offer I had made you in your forlorn and destitute condition, they all protested against it. And dear Bianca Beatrice assured me that she had actually taken a dislike to you. You have played your cards very badly to become s0 unpopular in such a family as mine. I am al- ways glad when pride has a downfall: so I wish you all possible happiness in your new situation. The sooner you begin to enjoy it the better. Your most obedient humble servant, AGNes GILLINGHAM. P.S.—What are you going to do for a piano if you give music lessons ? CHAPTER FOURTH. "PREPARATIONS FOR DEPARTURE. Ametia now felt the necessity of immediate action. There was no time for the farther in- dulgence of grief; and she endeavored to nerve herself to meet with fortitude the appalling change in her condition. Having procured one of the chief newspapers, she looked over the nu- merous advertisements for boarders; and without waiting till she could appear in the habiliments of mourning, she resolved on going out immedi- diately, in quest of a place to which she might at once remove from under a roof that now belonged to the Gillinghams. She dressed herself in her plainest attire, put the newspaper into her pocket as an exact refer- ence, and departed with the feeling of a wanderer going out into the world to seek her fortune. With pale cheeks, eyes sunk with weeping, and lips trembling with the effort to be calm, she de- scended from her room, and as she passed down stairs with her bonnet on, she saw glimpses of the Gillinghams peeping at her from behind half-open doors. When she reached the vestibule, she heard from above the sound of something like a titter. Since her return she had seen no visitors; the house being closely shut up, and the Gillinghams having ordered the servants to say that they could receive no one. Amelia believed that among her mother’s friends were many who, had they known of her being in the house, would have offered her a home in theirs till she could make some per- GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. manent arrangement. But her spirit revolted from the thought of seeming to put herself in the way of receiving favors, much less of asking them; or of owing anything to the kindness of persons who, perhaps, might have been more willing to extend it to the real daughter of Mrs. Cotterell, than to the low-born child of a foreign emigrant. To engage a room in a large, showy boarding- house was out of the question. What she want- ed, at least for the present, was a respectable asylum at a smallexpense. She felt an invincible repugnance to meeting any of her fashionable friends; and the several houses at which she in- tended applying, were all in quiet retired streets. The business of seeking a home among strangers, and bargaining about terms, being entirely new to her, she felt would be very embarrassing; and she earnestly hoped that at the first house, she might find at least tolerable accommodations which would preclude the necessity of seeking farther; particularly as the advertisement was from a private family that took but one boarder, and that offered to give ‘‘ good references as to respectability,’ &c. ‘This house was one of a block of small but genteel-looking two-story buildings. The mistress, whose name was Low- ry, came to the door herself, a smiling- faced woman of no particular appearance. But she had a pleasant countenance, and poor Amelia felt as if that was inducement enough to become an inmate of her house, under all inconveniences whatever they might be. On making known her business, Mrs. Lowry surveyed our heroine from head to foot, and then with a look of great satisfaction, invited her up stairs to see the apartment. It was a front room on the second story, very plainly furnished, but it looked clean and neat. It was fitted up with a dark ingrain carpet, cane chairs, a large black hair-cloth sofa, and a centre-table covered with a green and yellow woollen cloth. ‘There was a small coal grate, and on the mantelpiece were two glass flower-jars, and a pair of broad plated candlesticks with snuflers and extinguishers. In one recess stood a piece of furniture that, as Mrs. Lowry explained, was a book-case above and a bureau below. In the other, a curtain of crimson moreen descended from the ceiling to the floor ; and Mrs. Lowry drew it aside to show that it concealed a white- painted washing-stand, over which hung a dressing-glass. Between the win- dows was another glass surprisingly narrow, and below it a very small pier-table surprisingly high, as pier-tables generally are. ‘The windows had Venetian shutters outside, but were fitted on the inside with rolling blinds of stained paper; each blind representing a Gothic casement done in yellow and brown, slightly draped with bunches of ivy done in verdigris green. ‘* Now’’—said Mrs. Lowry—‘‘this being the only room we have to spare, (we use the back chamber ourselves, and above there aint nothing

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AMELIA; OR, A YOUNG but the two attics,) we have fitted it up, so that it is parlor and bed-room both together; beside hav- ing a deep closet belonging, that goes between our room and this.”" ‘* Where is the bed ?’’—inquired Amelia. ‘**T’ll show you’’—answered Mrs. Lowry, ex- ultingly ; and moving out the sofa, she displayed its interior construction, which proved that it could be converted every night into a bed. ‘* There’’—she continued—‘‘ you see how de- lightfully you can be fixed with a parlor and chamber all in one, without going to the cost of two rooms, and the use of our girl Tacey. Hus- band, you see, has been twenty years a clerk in the same bank. And our only daughter being married this spring and gone west, we concluded to fix up her room and take a boarder, such a one as Was anxious to enjoy the comforts of a private family. So after all was ready, we advertised. Dozens of people have applied, but most of them wanted to be taken too cheap, and some seemed disagreeable—and we won't take any that is, as we've something else to depend upon than board- ers, though we’ve no objections to put a little more in our pockets.”’ Amelia asked the terms, and found the price of this room with boarding, was set at eight dol- lars per week; which struck her as being more than she could atlord to give. She frankly in- formed Mrs. Lowry that her intention was to teach music; and that if she could not at once succeed in obtaining pupils, her stay would be but short; yet that if the price of the room was lowered, she would pay a month in advance. Mrs. Lowry now hesitated, seemingly much tempted by the offer of paying in advance, and finally agreed to take her for seven dollars a week — Amelia blushing as she cheapened the bargain. ‘And now, miss’’—said Mrs. Lowry—‘‘] hope you'll excuse me, but you have not men- tioned no name.”’ Amelia colored, hesitated, and then gave that of Cotterell, feeling it almost impossible to call herself by | er real appellation. ‘*Oh! Miss Cotterell’’—exclaimed Mrs. Low- ry—‘‘I’ve heard all about you. Are you the one that was taken, and brought up by a rich lady, and got nothing after all I have a niece that is learning the trade with your dressmaker, Mrs. Sloper; and Mrs. Sloper has a sister that learnt the trade with her, and goes out by the day, and And Miss Cuttings went to the house and made the mourning for she’s named Miss Cuttings. Mrs. Gillingham and her daughters, and she heard them talking about you, and they called you “‘that girl,’’ and said you were not Mrs. Cot- terell’s own daughter, and that she had adopted you from poor parents, and then died without a will And so all goes to them Gillinghams for want of other rela- , and left you a dissolute orphan. tions when there is no will. I see you are not in mourning. If I was you I’d never put on a LADY’S VICISSITUDES. 47 stitch. She deserves no mourning after using you so bad.”’ ‘*Indeed, indeed’’—cried Amelia, bursting into tears—‘‘ I cannot hear my mother spoken of in this manner.”’ ‘** Well, you know she was not really your mo- ther; so why need you mind ?’’—said Mrs. Low- ry. ‘* But it is very good in you to cry, notwith- standing. I begin to like you very much, and I I don’t be- lieve you'll ever be cross, and find fault, or knock Tacey about, and box her ears.”’ ‘*'The latter, I am sure, I never shall’’—re- plied our heroine, with a slight smile. ‘Well, well, I don’t believe you will. Mrs. dare say we shall get along together. Luckless has a boarder that does al! that—a lady that has two rooms, and pays high, so they think it best to bear with her for all her temper. To be sure, when Miss McTartar slaps the chamber- maid’s face, she always gives her a new pair of mits or a neck-ribbon next day; and when she shakes the life out of the black boy, she makes her peace afterwards by loading him with ginger- bread and candy. So they don’t sue her for salt- ing and battering them. And altogether, she’s profitable.”’ **T think I can promise’’—said Amelia—*“‘ that your servants shall have no just cause to com- plain of me.”’ ‘* Why, as to servants, miss’’-—observed Mrs. Lowry—‘‘ we don’t keep any but one—and it won't do to call her a servant. She’s only a young person that lives out. Nobody must say servant now, you know.”’ ‘**T did not know it’’—said Amelia. ‘*Oh, dear miss**—continued Mrs. Lowry— ‘*vou’ll have a great deal to learn, now you're out on your own account. I declare, I am very sorry for you. It must be hard for a young lady at least one that was brought up like a young lady) to have to stir about, and get her own liv- ing. Miss Cuttings said that all the domestics at Mrs. Gillingham’s spoke well of you, so I am very willing you should come; and as you pay beforehand, there can be no risk, at least for a And then, if you find you don’t get no scholars and can’t pay no longer, you can easily go away and no harm done. But we won't talk of that now. Mrs. Gillingham’s people told Miss month. Cuttings, and she told my niece, that you had heaps of fine things, all sorts of elegant clothes I dare say you'll show them to me I expect we shall and jewels. when you come to live here. be very sociable. I feel already as if we suited exactly.’’ Amelia sighed at the thought of living in a manner so different from that to which she had been accustomed; but she consoled herself with the hope that Mrs. Lowry, spite of her unpolished language, might be a kind, good woman, and that in this humble abode she could at least live in peace. Also, if any better arrangement seemed feasible, she could easily relinquish this, after a —

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month's trial. At present, nothing seemed so desirable as to get away from the Gillinghams. Once in a place of her own, she could think in peace of her future plans, and be released from all the inflictions under which she was sure to suffer while in the power of her mean and inso- lent tormentors. And she felt as if the exertion of honorably and honestly supporting herself would bring comfort with it. To be brief, our heroine engaged to remove on the following morning to her room at Mrs. Low- ry’s, who said to her at parting—‘‘ Of course, miss, you will understand that your board and lodging begins trom to-morrow, even if anything should happen te prevent your coming that very day.”’ Amelia set out on her return, and on coming into Broadway, she saw one of the up town om- nibuses, with only one gentleman in it, standing at a corner to rest the horses, and wait a few minutes ior more passengers. Be ing very tire d, she thought of venturing into an omnibus, for the first time in her lite, and riding as far as the street in which had been her home. She paused, and the driver asking her if she wished to get in, she assented, and on putting her foot on the step, the gentleman already seated rose instantly, came to the door, and assisted her. She thanked hira with downcast eyes, as she placed herself on the opposite seat: the omnibus drove on; and the gentleman exclaimed—*‘ Miss Cotterell, I am de- lighted to see you!’’—and she recognized Mr. Armistead, an attorney, a friend of the family, and the agent who had attended to Mrs. Cot- terell’s business aflairs since the death of her husband. On her expressing her pleasure at meeting him, Mr. Armistead continued—‘t My dear Miss Cotterell, I have only this morning heard of your return to town, and am now on my way to your house for the purpose of having some conversation with you. As, just at this time, there are none to hear us, will you excuse my impatience, and allow me to ask at once, if you have any reason to suppose that any will, or even any memorandum containing the outline of a will, was left by my lamented friend Mrs. Cotterell, whom I shall always take pleasure in calling your mother ?”’ **] have no proof of the present or former ex- istence of such a document’’—replied Amelia— **and no reason to think that I am legally en- titled to the smallest portion of her property.”’ ‘* But’—said Mr. Armistead—‘‘ you must feel the improbability of Mrs. Cotterell having left to utter destitution the child whom she had so long cherished as her own, whom she undoubtedly re- garded with the most intense affection, and in whom, I am very sure, she found no cause for displeasure.”’ ** Nevertheless’’—replied Amelia—“‘ she is en- titled to my everlasting love and gratitude, for all she has done for me, no matter what she may have left undone.” 48 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. ‘*As the friend of Mrs. Cotterell and her adopted daughter’?—said Mr. Armistead—‘‘ 1 have not delayed in making strict inquiry, as far as I possibly could, concerning the papers she has left or may have left. Yet I cannot learn that any lawyer or conveyancer has ever been for her. ‘The 1 drawing up a will employed i omission Of SO Important an act Is most strange and unaccountable. It is true that in conversa- tion with me, Mrs. Cotterell never made any allusion to the manner in which she intended to bequeath her property; still I supposed that, as a thing of course, she had not left all to the chance of being at her death disposed according to law, as that would give the whole to her sister and her sister’s family, they being her nearest kin. To you, her adopted child, she might leave as much as she thought proper; but then the be- quest must be legally and formally secured to you by a will signed by herself, and endorsed by com- petent witnesses. Otherwise the law gives you nothing.”? ‘* Of all this I am aware’’—sighed Amelia. ‘* One circumstance remains yet to be told”— continued Mr. Armistead. ‘* On the day befor: Mrs. Cotterell was taken ill, she wrote a not desiring to see me on particular and important business. I was out of town when this note ar- rived. On my return 1 found it on my office table, and I immediately repaired to Mrs. Cot- terell’s house. ‘There, to my great regret, | learned that she was lying insensible from the eflects of a sudden fit. She died. I went to her funeral, and afterwards to the house, expecting to see her will, or to hear it read. No wiil was forthcoming ; and Mr. and Mrs. Gillingham beth asserted that no will could be found, and there- fore all Mrs. Cotterell’s property devolved upon them. Had you, my dear young lady, been in reality her child, the whole, in default of a will would have been yours. As it is, and having no legal right to inherit, except by special bequest, it is sad to know that, brought up as you have been, in the enjoyment of all the advantages that wealth could furnish and affection bestow, a fatal and unaccountable delay on the part of your pro- tectress has destroyed your well-founded pros- pect of retaining the position in which she had placed you. Had Mrs. Cotterell made a will, I am sure she would have done ample justice to the claims of her kindred, but I am also sure that she would have left you a very large share of her noble fortune.’’ ‘*It is true’’—said our heroine—‘‘that when fitting up her new house, she continually referred to my taste ; and once when | begged her to con- sult her own, she replied—‘ I am furnishing this house for you, Amelia. I trust we shall pass many happy days in it together. But it will eventually be yours.’ ”’ ‘* There has been some foul play’*—exclaimed Mr. Armistead. ‘‘I have a most unfavorable opinion of the Gillinghams. As yet we have no

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AMELIA; OR, positive proof, but there is strong room for sus- picions, which at present must not even be hinted at. Depend on it, dear Miss Cotterell, I will watch closely, and something, in time, may be discovered to confound and overwhelm your ene- mies, and place you again where you ought to be. In the meantime, you have many friends who will consider it a favor if you will accept their assistance in any way that you may designate. In the first place, my wife has commissioned me to say that it will add greatly to her happiness if you will gratify herself and her daughters by be- coming a member of our family.” The eyes of Amelia overflowed, and some mi- nutes had elapsed before she could compose her- self to reply. ** Grateful as I feel’’—said our heroine—‘‘ and trusting that many of the friends of my dear mo- ther (for what else can I ever call her?) are well disposed to transfer to her adopted child a portion of their regard, I cannot consent to avail myself of any offer, however generous, that involves my dependence on their support. The accomplish- ments her liberality enabled me to acquire, still remain. of them to a source of profit, and in no other way can I now recover my tranquillity or enjoy the peace of self-approval. The good and ill of life are checkered, and, young as I am, | have had a My intention is to convert at least one It is oniy according to the usual course of human events that I, like others, should be fated to encounter a reverse of fortune, and I will try to bear it as well as I can. I have youth and health, and an earnest desire to avail myself, to the utmost, of whatever talent Heaven has bestowed on me. Many perhaps will look down upon me for exerting myself, as I in- large share of happiness. tend, to get a respectable living without incurring If so, I hope I shall be able to bear with fortitude the slight mortification of being dropped by the heartless and the proud. Others, I trust and believe, will in me to authorize a change in obligations even to my friends. find no chang them.’ ‘*My dear Miss Cotterell’’—said Mr. Armi- stead—*‘ I honor the independence of your spirit, and can easily enter into your feelings. May I ask what plan you have thought of, for the pre- sent ?’’ ‘*T have already”’—replied Amelia—‘‘ engaged an apartment in a small, retired, private house, and with an evidently respectable family. My intention is to teach music; and, in fact, to re- fuse no employment lying within the scope of my capability — such, for instance, as translating, copying, drawing patterns for needlework or other purposes, or even doing needlework myself, if necessary. If attacked by illness, and disabled for awhile from exerting myself as usual, I will then, perhaps, be glad to resort to the kindness of my friends, and shall gratefully receive it. 3ut if [ can succeed in maintaining myself, it is in that way only that I must seek for happiness.” ’ VOL. XXXV_L—5 A YOUNG LADY’S VICISSITUDES. 49 —[{PLD LLP ISIS ‘** You are an excellent and noble-minded girl” —exclaimed Mr. Armistead—‘‘and you shall have your own way, for I have a presentiment that all will come out rightly.’ The dialogue was now interrupted by the en- trance of other persons into the omnibus. It soon stopped at the corner of the street in which Mrs. Cotterell had lived. Mr. Armistead alighted with Amelia, saying he would walk with her to the door. He did so, and they had some further conversation ; during which Amelia, at his re- quest, gave him the direction of the house that was to be her next home. On taking leave, he told her that she would see Mrs. Armistead in a day or two. As soon: as Amelia returned to her room, she dispatched a concise but respectful note to Mrs. Gillingham, saying that she had taken an apart- ment in a private house, and should remove to it on the morrow. To this note no answer was given; but it was now dinner-time, and Jasper came to inform Miss Amelia that Mrs. Gillingham particularly desired She hesitated for a few moments; but reflecting that it was the last dinner she should ever eat in their house, and thinking it best not to irritate the Gillinghams by that she should dine down stairs. refusing an invitation which perhaps was given with a feeling intended for kindness, she returned a message of consent. With an aching heart which seemed rising to her throat, and making an effort (as children say) to swallow her tears, while she trembled all over from nervous agitation, our heroine entered the dining-room, and found all the Gillinghams stand- ing round the table. ‘* We are waiting for you, Miss Helfenstein”— ‘* We would not be so impolite as to sit down without you. Be kind enough to take the seat above Maud Mary.” The girls looked at each othe, but did not laugh; the boys did. Amelia sat down, and the civilities of the table, at which she herself had so often presided, were tendered to her with an overstrained assiduity that became absolutely ridiculous. There was nothing that could be called conversation. It seemed the cue of the whole family to watch and anticipate her wants, and to ply her steadily with everything that was out of Der reach and within her reach. The two mulatto men, Jasper and Basil, colored red with suppressed indignation, for they had no chance whatever of waiting on her; their office, as far as Miss Cotterell was concerned, being monopolized by Mr. and Mrs. Gillingham and their officious children. The boys, it is true, shortly grew tired of obey- ing orders and devoting so much of their atten- tion to Amelia, and soon gave up, and busied themselves about their own dinners; but the girls kept on with looks insultingly steadfast. ‘*Miss Helfenstein’’—said Mrs. Gillingham— ‘‘have you exactly the piece of chicken you said Mrs. Gillingham. now

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50 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. wish? Ihope you have. Mr. Gillingham, give Miss Helfenstein some more of the sauce. Miss Helfenstein, allow me to assist you to the salt. Would not you like the castors? Maud Mary, my love, hand Miss Helfenstein the castors. The cruets, I believe, are all properly filled. Will you not take some catchup? Which catch- up do you prefer, mushroom or tomato? Do you eat mustard? Here is some French mustard: oblige me by trying a little—that is, if you choose, not else. You have no potato on your plate—excuse me for not observing it before. Mary Maud, you have the happiness of sitting next to Miss Helfenstein—why did not you ob- serve that she had no potato? Miss Helfenstein, oblige me by taking that large one—the very largest, if you please. Some butter? I entreat you to help yourself more liberally to butter. Ninette Natalie, what are you thinking of? ‘The beans are before you, and Miss Helfenstein has none. Bianca Beatrice, hand the pickles. How very remiss youare. Perhaps Miss Helfenstein would prefer a piece of mango to the walnuts. Another slice of ham, Miss Helfenstein? You would gratify me much by trying another piece— a very small bit. Cannot I tempt you? Mr. Gillingham will take a glass of sherry with you.” Mr. Gillingham repeated the invitation, which Amelia declined, feeling much repugnance to ex- changing with him the slight acknowledgment that accompanies this ceremony. ** Probably you would prefer Madeira ?”°—per- sisted her hostess. ‘* Mr. Gillingham, have som« Madeira brought."’ Amelia steadily but politely excused herself from taking any wine at all, and desired Jasper to give her some more water. The appearance of the dessert brought on the last act of the farce; and Amelia was impor- tuned to take some of this pudding, and that pie, and this and that fruit, and was plied with sugar and butter, an@ sauce, and watched and teazed ull she knew not whether to cry or laugh; for though her eyes filled with tears at the insolence to which she was subjected, her lips broke into a smile, as the absurdity was carried so far as to become ludicrous. **T am glad to see you in such good spirits, Miss Helfenstein’’—said Mrs. Gillingham, tartly, noticing her inclination to risibility. **Ma’**—said Mav Mary—‘‘I told you Aunt Cotterell’s adopted daughter would soon get over her sorrows.” Amelia could endure no more. She rose from the table, and covered her face with her handker- chief, hastily left the room, and returning to her own, wept long and bitterly; till, recollecting she was to depart in the morning, she found on looking at her watch, that there was little enough time to pursue her preparations. Drying her tears, she went to Mrs. Gillingham, who was just ready to commence her siesta, ‘* Will you permit me, madam’’—said Amelia —‘‘to have for a short time the use of my own apartment ?”’ ** Which is that ?’”-—inguired Mrs. Gillingham. ‘* Of the chamber that was mine, then’’—said Amelia—‘ while I unlock my wardrobe and my bureaus, and pack up their contents previous to removal.”’ ** Certainly’’—was the reply—‘‘ certainly, Miss Helfenstein. Of course no one wishes to keep back any of your clothes, or anything really be- longing to you, though bought with my sister’s money. We are not thieves. You will find everything safe. We have no false keys.’’ On her saying this, Amelia fur a moment im- bibed a suspicion that they Aad been examining her effects during her absence ; as locks can often be opened with keys that do not belong to them. She then asked if Susan might be permitted to assist her. ‘Susan has her own work to do’’—replied Mrs. Gillingham—‘‘ or rather my work. How- ever, as it is for the last time, she may help you.”? Amelia then repaired to her own handsome chamber, and found Maud Mary lounging on the bed, and showing no disposition to leave it. ‘*‘Come in, Miss Helfenstein’’—said she. ‘* You may pack and unpack in safety, even if I am here. 1 shall not meddle with any of your things.’’ Amelia, on opening the places in which they were deposited, found that every article had been taken out and examined while she was away ; none of them being now folded or arranged ex- actly as before. Nothing, however, was missing, the Gillinghams being *‘ not thieves.*? Presently Ninette Natalie came in, and then Bianca Bea- trice; and both of them followed Amelia about, noticing and remarking on everything she took Maud Mary watching her from the bed. Outs; 4 Susan brought a large basket for the purpose of conveying the things to the little room that was now allotted to our heroine; and Jasper had car- ried up thither a large extra trunk, which Amelia had commissioned him to purchase for her. Mrs. Gillingham, having finished her nap sooner than usual, now added herself to the com- pany of inspectors. Her daughters made fre- quent exclamations at the richness of Amelia’s clothes, and their mother calculated their cost, and sighed deeply afier each calculation. Amelia went to a very handsome bookstand with circular shelves that occupied one corner of the room, and began to take down the books. ‘*Excuse me, Miss Helfenstein’’—said Mrs. Gillingham—‘‘I should really suppose you will no longer find it convenient toe idle away any of your time over those books. They can now be of no use to you, and what am I to do with these empty shelves? ‘The books must be left to fill them up. They fit in exactly, and I shall cer- tainly not go to the expense of buying others to replace them.”’

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AMELIA; OR, A YOUNG ‘*These books really belong to me’’—answered Amelia—*‘ my name is in all of them.’’ Your name’’—said Mrs. Gillingham, taking up one of the books and looking at the fly leaf— **Amelia Cotterell. I know of no such name. It is not Therefore you have no lawful claim to anything on which it is inscribed. Prove, if you can, your right to the name of Cot- terell.”’ ** You Mary. ‘* Ma’, how cunning you are’’—said Ninette Natalie. ‘* Mrs. Gillingham’’—said Amelia—‘‘I insist on taking those books. Some of them I pur- chased myself; others were the gifts of one for- yours. have her there, ma’’’— said Maud ever dear to me—and I most assuredly will not relinquish my right to them.”’ The firmness with which she spoke and looked, awed the Gillinghams into silence; and they were all too much astounded to remember to exchange glances with each other, as they had been doing all the time. ** Also’’ —persisted Amelia—‘‘I shall carry away with me a selection of my music books.”’ ‘* What—because the name you call yours is Mrs. Gillingham. ** As if we could not have Maud Mary’s name pasted over it. Pray, what will you do for a How can you teach music without an instrument ?”? ‘*] must hire a piano, till I can afford to buy one’’—replied Amelia. ‘*T doubt your success in your new business’”’ on their covers ?’’ —sneered piano ? ‘* Foreigners are always No people ever have their children taught You will have to look out for customers among shop- —said Mrs. Gillingham. preferred as music teachers, and very justly. genteel music by girls of one’s own country. keepers and mechanics.’’ Amelia sighed, for these remarks struck her as being probably too just. She hastened to have all her things carried out of this room as soon as possible ; and as soon as she had finished and de- parted to her own, the Gillinghams held a long and venomous consultation. When she met them at tea, she found that the over-acted civility of the dinner-table had sub- sided. Not one of the family spoke a word to her, but they all looked unutterable things. She left the table in less than ten minutes, and return- ed to her little apartment up stairs, where she completed her packing ; and then, overcome with fatigue both of mind and body, she went to bed, and cried herself to sleep. Next morning, just as Amelia had finished dressing, Susan knocked at her door, and came in, exclaiming—‘‘ Good news! good news! Miss Amelia—excellent news for you !”’ ‘* What is it ?—oh, Susan, tell me quickly !’’"— said Amelia, turning hastily from the glass. ‘*They’ve all cleared off’’—replied Susan ;— carriage.” LADY’S VICISSITUDES. 51 ‘*there’s not one of them now within these walls, or under this roof.”’ ‘* Amazement !’’"—exclaimed Amelia. ‘‘ Why have they left the house? For what reason ?”’ **Oh! dear Miss Amelia’’—answered Susan— ‘you needn’t hope they’ve given it up to you again, and all cleared off to let us enjoy it quiet. There’s no such luck for us, the creatures! But it’s some pleasure to know that they’ve had an early breakfast, and all gone down to Staten Island to spend the day with some friends of theirs; as if they could have friends, at least any that could be fools enough to give them the least bit of an invitation. Now, I'd lay a dollar that the real truth is, their conscience begins to smite them a little about turning you out of the house that ought to be your own; so they're ashamed to see you depart, and don’t know how to take leave of you, or how to conduct at the last, the noxious animals! So now, dear Miss Amelia, come down and take a good, quiet breakfast by yourself, with none of their hateful faces staring at you.” Our heroine did breakfast in comparative peace and comfort. Then, while waiting for the cart that Jasper had engaged to come for her trunks, she resolved on once more going through the house, and seeing it for the last time, dear and had been to her. She first took leave of the room that had been her mother’s chamber, but was now occupied by Mrs. Gilling- ham. She threw herself on the sofa and wept without restraint on seeing the bed on which Mrs. Cotterell had died—and died when the daughter of her heart was not with her. She af- terwards visited the library and the drawing- room, and could not forbear running her fingers, once more, over the keys of the splendid and finely-toned piano which she had always regarded which now she did not dare to familiar as it as her own, but But the sound of music in a house where death had so recently entered, startled her, and she shut down the lid with a sensation of self-re- proach. While in the library, she took down and replaced book after book that she had read with her mother, and tears dropped upon the leaves. claim. Lastly, she descended to the basement room They gathered round her, and were loud in their grief and sympathy; all protesting that they would ‘*be off next week, places or no places.’’ To each one Amelia gave some token of remem- brance ; and the cart arriving, Jasper and Basil brought her trunks, and saw them carefully de- posited in it. When Amelia came down in her walking equip- ments, she found all the servants assembled about the vestibule, and saw the carriage waiting at the door, with Basil ready to put her into it. ‘*Why is this Basil?’’—said she. ‘‘I would much rather walk. Indeed, I cannet ge in that , occupied by the servants as their parlor.

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52 **Oh, Miss Amelia’’—replied Basil—*‘‘ don’t let me put in the horses for nothing.”’ ** Indeed'’—said our heroine—*‘* I cannot avail myself of this convenience, without the know- ledge or orders of Mrs. Gillingham.”’ ** Now, really, miss, I have both knowledge and orders’’—answered Basil. ‘‘ And I thought it might be a kind of *greeable surprise if I had the coach and horses all ready at the door when you came down. The truth is, when I drove this here family down to the wharf this morning, when they took the boat for Staten Island, after they'd all got out, Mrs. Gillingham told me that when Miss Somebody that she calls you, was ready to go away to her new place, I was to get the car- riage and take her in it. So you see all’s right, and you needn't be a bit scruplesome.”’ GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S. BOOK. ‘*There, Miss Amelia’’—said Susan—‘‘ I told you their conscience was atwitching them. They really could not find it in their hearts, bad as they are, to let you leave your dear mother’s house (that ought to be your own) in such a poor way, walking on foot, and maybe the neighbors seeing you.” Amelia paused. Then concluding to avail her- self of this unexpected piece of courtesy, she again bade adieu to the servants. On entering the coach, she turned her head and bowed, and at- tempted to smile, but she saw them all in tears on the door-step, and heard them sob as they wished her health and good luck. The carriage drove off, and Amelia leaned back and covered her face. (To be continued.) THE MOTHER OF CONRADIN. BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR One of the most tragic passages in German history is the execution of the young Conradin at Naples, by order of Duke Charies of Anjou, who usurped the kingdom of the Sicilies, to which Conradin was heir. His mother, on hearing of his imprisonment, hastened from the extremity of Germany with large sums for his ransom. She arrived too late. Sue came a long and weary way, from royal Danube’s side, To ransom back her Conradin, an empire's hope and pride ; Who, seized by base Astura’s lord, on warm Campa- nia’s shore, Was by the land’s usurper doomed to | bear its crown no more. In vain her hope—in vain her haste—the fatal block was spread, The deep bell tolled that fearful hour when fell his kingly head ; The relic of a glorious line, alone, in darkness slept, And o’er her bright-haired, murdered boy, the childless mother wept. Yet though she came too late to save, before she turned aw ay She begged the duke, the stern Anjou, to give her back his clay : “Thy lust of power has rolled at last above his guiltless head— What wouldst thou further with my boy ’—thou canst not harm the dead! “These eyes have watched his childish sports—have seen the mountain air On Suabia’s hills of vine and oak, toss back his golden hair; They saw how manly and how high his boyish spirit grew, But gazed not on his dying face—give back the dead, Anjou! “Thou canst not know a mother’s heart—how to her child it clings, Though every relic of his doom a deeper anguish brings; How in the breast that gave him life the passion still burns on, And breaks the fond and fervent heart whose stay of love is gone “T grieve not o’er the crown he lost, though other hopes than mine Were gathered proudly round the last of Hohenstaufen’s line ; An empire shudders at his doom—alone, in sorrow wild, I think not on a vacant realm, but on my murdered child “A gloom has covered Suabia’s land, among whose green old hills His father’s castle frowns above the valley of the Fils, Where lar beyond, ‘mid vine-clad he izhts, the Necker rolls away— Oh, in those knightly halls of home let me his ashes lay! “T fain would see and touch again his broad and noble brow— The eyes in fixed and chill repose, the cheek so ashy now; And I would kiss those icy lips, that on the scaffold cried: ‘Oh, mother, what will be your grief that thus your son has dfed “ Alas, my noble, bright-haired boy, he well could guess how deep Would be a mother’s wild lament above his bloody sleep. If e’er within thy haughty breast a human feeling grew, Oh, grant this boon of grief and love—give back the dead, Anjou!”

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THE GOOD-BYE. BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON. Goop-ByYe, proud world! I'm going home— rhou art not my friend, and I'm not thine. Long through thy weary crowds I roam; A river-ark on the ocean brine Long I've But now, proud world! een tossed like the driven foam; I'm going home. Good-bye to Flattery’s fawning face ; To Grandeur with his wise grimace; lo upstart Wealth’s averted eye; To supple Office, low and high; To crowded halls, to court and street; To frozen hearts and hasting feet; To those who go. and those who come— Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home I am going to my own hearth-stone, Bosomed in yon green hills alone— A secret nook in a pleasant land, Whose groves the frolic fairies planned; Where arches green, the livelong day, Echo the blackbird’s roundelay, And vulgar feet have never trod A spot that is sacred to thought and God. Oh, when I am safe in my sylvan home, I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome; And when I am stretched beneath the pines, Where the I laugh at the lore evening star so holy shines, and the pride of man, At the sophist schools and the learned clan; For what are they all in their high conceit, When man in the bush with God may meet? CHOICE EXTRACTS FROM PRESCOTT’S PERU Tur TempLe or THE Sun.—But the most renowned of the Peruvian temples, the pride of the capital, and the wonder of the empire, was at Cuzco, where, under the munificence of successive sovereigns, it had become so enriched that it received the name of Coricancha, or the Place of Gold.” It consisted of a principal build- ng and several chapels and inferior edifices, covering a large extent of ground in the heart of the city, and com- pletely encompassed by a wall, which, with the edifices, s all constructed of stone. The work was of the kind already described in the other public buildings of the country, and was so finely executed, that a Spaniard, who saw it in its glory, assures us he could call to mind n Spain, which, for their workman- Yet this sub- stantial, and, in some respects, magnificent structure, only two edifices ship, were at all to be compared with it. was thatched with straw! The interior of the temple was the most worthy of ad- miration. It was literally a mine of gold. On the west- rn wall was emblazoned a representation of the deity, onsisting of a human countenance, looking forth from amidst innumerable rays of light, which emanated from tin every cirection, li the saine manner as te sun is TREASURY. often personified with us. The figure was engraved on a massive plate of gold of enormous dimensions, thickly powdered with emeralds and precious stones. It was so situated in front of the great eastern portal, that the rays of the morning sun fell directly upon it at its rising, lighting up the whole apartment with an effulgence that seemed more than natural, and which was reflected back from the golden ornamerts with which the walls and ceiling were everywhere incrusted. Gold, in the figurative language of the people, was “the tears wept by the sun,” and every part of the interior of the temple glowed with burnished plates and studs of the precious metal. The cornices which surrounded the walls of the sanctuary were of the same costly material, and a broad belt or frieze of gold, let into the stone-work, encom- passed the whole exterior of the edifice All the plate, the ornaments, the utensils of every de- scription appropriated to the uses of religion, were of gold or silver. Twelve immense vases of the latter metal stood on the floor of the great saloon. filled with grain of the Indian corn; the censers for the perfumes, the ewers which held the water for sacrifice, the pipes which conducted it through subterraneous channels into the buildings, the reservoirs that received it, even the agricultural implements used in the gardens of the tem- ple, were all of the same rich materials. The gardens, like those described belonging to the royal palaces, sparkled with flowers of gold and silver and various Animals, also, were to be found there—among which the lama, with its imitations of the vegetable kingdom. golden fleece, was most conspicuous—executed in the same style, and with a degree of skill which, in this in- stance, probably, did not surpass the excellence of the material. PERUVIAN AGRARIANISM.—The fiscal regulations of the Incas and the laws respecting property are the most The lands assigned to the Sun furnished a revenue to support the remarkable features in the Peruvian polity temples and maintain the costly ceremonial of the Pe- ruvian worship and the multitudinous priesthood. Those reserved for the Inca went to support the royal state, as well as the numerous members of his household and his kindred, and supplied the various exigencies of govern- ment. The remainder of the lands were divided, per capita, in equal shares among the people. It was pro- vided by law, as we shall see hereafter, that every Pe- ruvian should marry at a certain age. When this event took place, the community or district in which he lived furnished him with a dwelling, which, as it was con- structed of humble materials, was done at little cost. A lot of land was then assigned to him sufficient for his own maintenance and that of his wife. An additional portion was granted for every child, the amount allowed fora son being double of that for a daughter. The division of the soil was renewed every year, and the*possessions of the tenant were increased or diminished according to the numbers in his family. The same arrangement was ob- served with reference to the curacas, except only that a domain was assigned to them corresponding with the superior dignity of their stations. A more thorough and effectual agrarian law than this } cannot be imagined. In other countries where such a 53

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54 law has been introduced, its operation, after a time, has given way to the natural order of events, and under the superior intelligence and thrift of some and the prodi- gality of others, the usual vicissitudes of fortune have been allowed to take their course and restore things to their natural inequality. Even the iron law of Lycur- gus ceased to operate after a time, and melted away be- fore the spirit of luxury and avarice. The nearest ap- proach to the Peruvian constitution was probably in Judea, where, on the recurrence of the great national jubilee, at the close of every half-century, estates re- verted to their original proprietors. There was this im- portant difference in Peru, that not only did the lease, if we may so call it, terminate with the year, but during that period the tenant had no power to alienate or to add to his possessions MargtacGes.—The great nobles of Peru were allowed, like their sovereign, a plurality of wives. The people generally, whether by law or by necessity stronger than law, were more happily limited to one. Marriage was conducted in a manner that gave it quite as original a character as belonged to the other institutions of the country. On an appointed day of the year, all those of a marriageable age—which, having reference to their ability to take charge of a family, in the males was fixed at not less than twenty-four years, and in the women at eighteen or twenty—were called together in the great squares of their respective towns and villages through- out the empire. The Inca presided in person over the assembly of his own kindred, and taking the hands of the different couples who were to be united, he placed them within each other, declaring the parties man and wife. The same was done by the curacas towards all persons of their own or inferior degree in their several districts. This was the simple form of marriage in Peru No one was allowed to select a wife beyond the commu- nity to which he belonged, which generally compre- hended all his own kindred; nor was any but the sove- reign authorized to dispense with the law of nature—or at least, the usual law of nations—so far as to marry his own sister. No marriage was esteemed valid without the consent of the parents; and the preference of the parties, it is said, was also to be consulted; though, con- sidering the barriers imposed by the prescribed age of the candidates, this must have been within rather nar- row and whimsical limits. A dwelling was got ready for the new-married pair at the charge of the district, and the prescribed portion of land assigned for their maintenance. The law of Peru provided for the future as well as for the present. It left nothing to chance. The simple ceremony of marriage was followed by general festivities among the friends of the parties, which lasted several! days; and as every wedding took place on the same day, and as there were few families who had not some one of their members or their kindred personally interested, there was one universal bridal jubilee throughout the empire. PUT UP A PICTURE IN YOUR ROOM. BY LEIGH HUNT. May we exhort such of our readers as have no pic- tures hanging in their rooms, to put one up immediately ? We mean in their principal sitting-room—in all their rooms, if possible, but at all events in that one. No matter how costly, or the reverse, provided they see something in it, and it gives them a profitable or pleasant thought. *Some may allege that they have “no taste for pictures ;” but they have a taste for objects to be found GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. in pictures—for trees, for landscapes, for human beauty, for scenes of life; or if not for all these, yet surely for some one of them; and it is highly useful for the human mind to give itself helps towards taking an interest in lesires They things apart from its immediate cares or « serve to refresh us for their better conquest or endur- ance; to render sorrow unselfish; to remind us that we ourselves, or Our Own personal wishes, are not the only objects in the world; to instruct and elevate us, and put us in a fairer way of realizing the good opinions which we would all fain entertain of ourselves, and in some measure do; to make us compare notes with other indi- viduals, and with nature at large, and correct our in- firmities at their mirror by modesty and reflection—in short, even the admiration of a picture is a kind of re- ligion or additional tie on our consciences, and rebinding of us (for sueh is the meaning of the word religion) to the greatness and goodness of nature Mr. Hazlitt has said somewhere, of the portrait of a beautiful female with a noble countenance, that it seems as if an unhandsome action would be impossible in its presence. It is not so much for restraint’s sake as for the sake of diffusiveness of heart, or the going out of ourselves, that we would recommend pictures; but, among other advantages, this also, of reminding us of our duties, would doubtless be one; and if reminded with charity, the effect, though perhaps small in most in- stances, would still be something. We have read of a Catholic money-lender, who, when he was going to cheat a customer, always drew a veil over the portrait of his favorite Saini. Here was a favorite vice, far more influential than the favorite Sait; and yet we are of opinion that the money-lender was better for the Saint than he would have been without him. It left him faith ve was better for it in the intervals; he in something; would have treated his daughter the better for it, or his aven in his servant, or his dog. There was a bit of h room—a sunbeam to shine into a corner of his heart— however he may have shut the window against it, when heaven was not to look on The companionship of anything greater or better than ourselves must do us good, unless we are destitute ot all modesty or patience. And a picture is a companion, and the next thing to the presence of what it represents. We may live in the thick of a city, for instance, and can seldom go out, and * teed” ourselves With pleasure of the breathing fields; but we can put up a picture of the fields before us, and, as we get used to it, we shall find it the next thing to seeing the fields at a distance. For every picture is a kind of window, which supplies us with a fine sight; and many a thick, unpierced wall thus lets us into the studies of the greatest men, and the most beautiful scenes of nature. By living with pictures we learn to “read” them—to see into every nook and corner of a landscape, and every feature of the mind; and it is im- possible to be in the habit of these perusals, or even of being vaguely conscious of the presence of the good and beautiful, and considering them as belonging to us, or forming a part of our commonplaces, without being, at the very least, less subject to the disadvantages arising from having no such thoughts at all. And it is so easy to square the picture to one’s aspira- tions, or professions, or the powers of one’s pocket-—for, as to resolving to have no picture at all in one’s room, unless we could have it costly, and finely painted, and finely framed, that would be a mistake so vulgar, that we trust no reader of any decent publication now-a-days could fall into it. The greatest knave or simpleton in England, provided he is rich, can procure one of the

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THE TREASURY. 55 finest paintings in the world to-morrow, and know no- thing about it when he has got.it; but to feel the beauties of a work of art, or to be capable of being led to feel them, is a gift which often falls to the lot of the poorest; and this is what Raphael or Titian desired in those who All the rest is taking the clothes Now it so happens that the cheapest en- looked at their pictures. for the man. gravings, though they cannot come up to the merits of the originals, often contain no mean portion or shadow of them; and when we speak of putting pictures up in a room, we use the word “ picture” in the child’s sense, meaning any kind of graphic representation, oil, water- color, copper-plate, drawing or wood-cut. And any one of these is worth putting up in your room, provided you Even a Better have mind enough to get a pleasure from it frame is not necessary, if you cannot afford it. put up a rough, varnished engraving, than none at all; or pin or stick up any engraving whatsoever, at the You will keep it and as for hazard of its growing never so dirty as clean as you can, and for as long a time; the rest, itis better to have a good memorandum before you, and get a fresh one when you are able, than to ave none at all, or even to keep it clean in a portfolio How should you like to keep your own heart in a port- folio, or lock your friend up in another room? We are no friends to portfolios except where they contain more ts than can be hung up. The more, in that case, the better ENGLAND AND AMERICA. BY WASHINGTON IRVING. Ir is with feelings of deep regret that I observe the literary animosity daily growing up between England Great curiosity has been awakened of und America late with respect to the United States, and the London press has teemed with volumes of travels through the tepublic; but they seem intended to diffuse error rather than knowledge; and so successful have they been, that, notwithstanding the constant intercourse between the nations, there is no people concerning whom the great mass of the British public have less pure information or entertain more numerous prejudices I am not laying too much stress upon this point, for it Over applies most emphatically to our particular case. no nation does the press hold a more al solute control than over the people of America, for the universal edu- cation of the poorest classes makes every individual a reader and on the There is nothing published in Fh subject of our country that does not circulate through every partof it. There is not a calumny dropped from an English pen, nor an unworthy sarcasm uttered by an English statesman, that does not go to blight good-will and add to the mass of latent resentment. Possessing, then, as and does, the fountain-head from whence the literature of the language flows, how completely is itin her power, and how truly is it her duty, to make it the medium of amiable and magnanimous feeling—a stream where the two nations might meet together, and drink in peace and kindness. Should she, however, per- Sist in turning it to waters of bitterness, the time may The present friendship of America may be of but little moment to come when she may repent her folly. her, but the future destinies of that country do not admit of a doubt; over those of England there lower some shadows of uncertainty. Should, then, a day of gloom arrive—should those reverses overtake her, from which the proudest empires have not been exempt—she may look back with regret at her infatuation, in repulsing from her side a nation she might have grappled to her - . — ’ nae eee ate eee a eae bosom, and thus destroying her only chance for real friendship beyond the boundaries of her own dominions. There is a general impression in England that the people of the United States are inimical to the parent country. It is one of the errors which has been dili- gently propagated by designing writers. There is, doubtless, considerable political hostility, and a general soreness at the illiberality of the English press; but, col- lectively speaking, the prepossessions of the people are Indeed, at one time they strongly in favor of England. amounted, in many parts of the Union, to an absurd de- gree of bigotry. The bare name of Englishman was a passport to the confidence and hospitality of every family, and too often gave a transient currency to the worthless and the ungrateful. Throughout the country, there was something of enthusiasm connected with the idea of Eng- land. We looked to it witl ness and veneration, as the land of our forefathers—the a hallowed feeling of tender- august repository of the monuments and antiquities of our race—the birth-place and mausoleum of the sages and heroes of our paternal history. After our own coun- try, there was none in whose glory we more delighted— none whose good opinion we were more anxious to pos- sess—-none toward which our hearts yearned with such throbbings of warm consanguinity. Even during the late war, whenever there was the least opportunity for it was the delight of the kind feelings to spring for generous spirits of our country to show, that in the midst of hostilities they still kept alive the sparks of future friendship. Is all this to be at an end? Is this golden band of kin- dred sympathies, so rare between nations, to be broken forever? Perhaps it is for the best—it may dispel an illusion which might have kept us in mental vassalage ; which might have interfered occasionally with our true interests, and prevented the growth of proper national pride. But it is hard to give up the kindred tie!—and there are feelings dearer than interest—closer to the heart than pride—that will still make us cast back a look of regret as we wander farther and farther from the pa- nd lament the waywardness of the parent ternal roof, a that would repel the affections of the child. Short-sighted and injudicious, however, as the conduct of England may be in this system of aspersion, recrimi- I speak not of a prompt and spirited vindication of our country, nation on our part would be equally ill-judged. or the keenest castigation of her slanderers—but I allude to g disposition to retaliate in kind, to retort sarcasm and inspire prejudice, which seems to be spreading widely among our writers. Let us guard particularly against such a temper; for it would double the evil, instead of redressing the wrong. Nothing is so easy and inviting as the retort of abuse and sarcasm; but it is a paltry ard unprofitable contest. It is the alternative of a morbid mind, fretted into petulance rather than warmed into in- dignation. If England is willing to permit the mean jealousies of trade, or the rancorous animosities of poli- tics to deprave the integrity of her press and poison the fountain of public opinion, let us beware of her example. She may deem it her interest to diffuse error and engen- der antipathy for the purpose of checking emigration— Neither have we any spirit of national jealousy to gratify, for as yet, we have no purpose of the kind to serve. in all our rivalships with England, we are the rising and the gaining party. therefore, but the gratification of resentment—a mere spirit of retaliation; and even that is impotent. Our re- torts are never republished in England; they fall short, therefore, of their aim; but they foster a querulous and peevish temper among our writers; they sour the sweet flow of our early literature, and sow thorns and bram- What is still worse, they cir- There can be no end to answer, bles among its blossoms

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aes s . _ 56 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. culate through our own country, and, as far as they have effect, excite virulent national prejudices. This last is the evil most especially to be deprecated. Governed as we are, entirely by public opinion, the utmost care should be taken to preserve the purity of the public mind. Know- ledge is power, and truth is knowledge; whoever, there- fore, knowingly propagates a prejudice, wilfully saps the foundation of his country’s strength The members of a republic, above all other men, should be candid and dispassionate. They are, individually, portions of the sovereign mind and sovereign will, and should be enabled to come to all questions of national concern with calm and unbiased judgments. From the peculiar nature of our relations with England, we must have more frequent questions of a difficult and delicate character with her than with any other nation—ques- tions that affect the most acute and excitable feelings; and as, in the adjusting of these, our national measures e determined by popular sentiment, we must ultimately | cannot be too anxiously attentive to purify it from all latent passion or prepossession Opening, too, as we do, an asylum for strangers from every portion of the earth, we should receive all with impartiality. It should be our pride to exhibit an exam- ple of one nation, at least, destitute of national antipa- thies, and exercising, not merely the overt acts of hospi- tality, but those more rare and noble courtesies which spring from liberality of opinion What have we to do with national prejudices? They are the inveterate diseases of old countries, contracted in rude and ignorant ages, when nations knew but little of each other, and looked beyond their own boundaries with distrust and hostility. We, on the contrary, have sprung into national existence in an enlightened and philosophie age, when the different parts of the habitable world, and the various branches of the human family, have been indefatigably studied and made known to each other; and we forego the advantages of our birth if we do not shake off the national prejudices, as we would the local superstitions of the Old World But feelings, so far as to shut our eyes to the perception of ove all, let us not be influenced by any angry what is really excellent and amiable in the English cha- racter. Weare a young people, necessarily an imitative one, and must take our examples and models, in a great degree, from the existing nations of Europe. There is no country more worthy of our study than England The spirit of her constitution is most analogous to ours The manners of her people—their intellectual activity— their freedom of opinion—their habits of thinking on those subjects which concern the dearest interests and most sacred charities of private life, are all congenial to the American character; and, in fact, are all intrinsically excellent—for it is in the moral feeling of the people that the deep foundations of British prosperity are laid; and however the superstructure may be time-worn or over- } run by abuses, there must be something solid in the basis, admirable in the materials, and stable in the structure of an edifice that so long has towered unshaken amidst the tempests of > world Let it be the pride of our writers, therefore, discarding all feelings of irritation, and disdaining to retaliate the ak of the English na- illiberality of British authors, to s] tion without prejudice, and with determined candor While they rebuke the indiscriminating bigotry with which some of our countrymen admire and imitate ng English, merely because it is English, let everythi them frankly point out what is really worthy of anpro- bation. We may thus place England before us as a per- petual volume of reference, wherein are recorded sound deductions from ages of experience ; and while we avoid the errors and absurdities which may have crept into the page, we may draw thence golden maxims of practical wisdom, wherewith to strengthen and to embellish our national character nt & OO THE BY J. P I stanp upon the Mohawk’s bank, Where once the Indian warrior stood; "T'was here the red man knelt and drank, Crimsoned with blood. This rippling stream illustrates well The march of all created things, While setting sun o’er vale and dell Its grandeur flings. These crystal lands have felt the tread Of warriors, and drunk up the tear Of kindred weeping o’er the dead— The dead are here Here gathered round the council fire, Bold chieftains met in wild debate, Disputants brother, son and sire, The subject hate— Hate of the pale-faced pioneer, Whose footsteps printed in the sand, MOHAWK. HARRIS. Were heralds that approached near A mighty band— A band that made the forest nod, And built up cities in its stead, The cherished altar reared to God— To God o’erhead. How vast the change! The giant oak That sent its summit to the skies, A victim to the axman’s stroke, A trophy lies. No more is heard the savage yell— The forest-child here fears to stray— His hunting-grounds he bade farewell, And passed away. But ere he reached the setting sun, He carved his name upon the age In which he lived and died, and won The historic page.

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MOSAIC NOTES. THE ILLINOIS BY J CHAPTER I. THE PORK BUSINESS AND PECULIARITIES OF THE INOIS SWINE—INGENIOUS STUMP MACHINES —QUEER METHOD OF HATCHING EGGS. BELONGING to our mess were two or three ithlemen from Illinois, who gave us much valu- information touching that re some tide that direction, may be interesting wie gion, 1 h, as the l] emigration is still to the public. wc ot setting in One individuals was a man of consider- ot these ’ ble humor. ‘You are aware,’’ said he, “ of the extent of pork business among us; that we annually put to death hogs enough to bacon, flitch and sau- ige the whole universe. But our hogs are a very difierent concern from your chunked Atlantic ones. They are trim, long-legged animals, their bodies thin as shadows, their noses sharp as the coulter of a plough, and their tails like hand- spikes; they run wild in the immense forests and prairies of the west, each branded with his own- er’s mark; and fleet, indeed, is the horse that can outstrip them on a fair course. Thin as they are, you will perceive at once that no spot would be sacred from their intrusion and depredations, no fence would stop them, were it not for the simple contrivance we have of tying knots in their tails. ‘But our hogs are useful animals in more ways than one. They make the very best of stump When we field of ugly customers, which occasion you so machines. have a to clear those much labor and expense to remove at the east, the process among us is very cheap and simple. We depth with a sharpened stake, inclining them drive holes among the roots to a considerable a com under the stump, and then drop mon centre ina few kernels of corn. The result is that the all that ean work to advantage with their sharp noses, like so many strong laborers with bar and mattock, immediately set to in search of the corn, and however large and well-set the stump may be, in a very short time it is loosened from its bed.”’ Speaking of poultry, this same gentleman re- marked as follows :—*‘ Much attention has been paid to the rearing of poultry at the west, and the method now in use of hatching chickens I con- sider far superior to the Egyptian one of hatching them in ovens. It is simply to fill a barrel with eggs, head it up, and set a hen upon the bung.’ of R GENTLEMEN. ORTON. CHAPTER II THE PRAIRIE WOLF. ANoTuHeR of the Illinois gentlemen was a man in the prime of life, of great candor and inteili- gence. He gave us the following account of the prairie wolf. “The prairie wolf,’’ said he, “is much smaller than your eastern wolf; in fact, but little larger and much more the fox, but thicker set They are more than a match for our than powerful. largest dogs, which have a strong disinclination to attack them, or even to follow their scent. They exhibit upon occasion considerable sagacity and cunning. ‘* A brother of mine once caught one in a trap, but the trap, though heavy, proved but a slight impediment to his movements. In the morning he was nowhere to be found, and several of us, There was a slight snow on the ground, and we followed with dogs and horses, started in pursuit. on his trail with good speed for several hours. At length we discovered, a little to our right, a company of four or five wolves, and quitting the track which we had followed so long, gave chase. They did not take to their legs, as we expected t, keeping just out of re ach of our little hillock and look back upon us with the most provoking air they would, bu uns, would on £ pause every of defiance. Neither did they go in a straight course, but the moment they dropped into a hol- low out of our sight, they would take a turn and a different direction from We be- came convinced finally, that they were making of the but undertook to recover the track from which we had been decoyed, we found it no very We had turned and doubled so many times, that we were confused as to our appear next in quite the spot where we had last seen them. gammon us, and gave up pursuit ; when we easy matter to do so. direction, and more than a good hour was lost in retracing our steps. ‘‘When, at length, we succeeded in recovering the trail of the fugitive with the trap, man and horse pressed on, and soon, sure enough, over- Disabled and tired as he was, the en- One of our dogs, more took him. counter was a sharp one. courageous than the rest, was dreadfully man- gled, and was only saved by a quick shot, which took effect in the head of the wolf and killed him instantly. This done, we perceived the company n+ vi

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58 GODEY’S MAGAZINE of wolves that had led us so pretty a chase, stand- ing a little way off on a knoll, and regarding the catastrophe with much interest. Seeing that all was ended, that they could no longer be of any service to their unfortunate fellow, they very de- liberately trotted off, and we saw no more of them.”’ CHAPTER III THE BURNING PRAIRIE. Some of us were curious with the Illinois gen- tlemen about burning prairies. The one who had so obligingly given us the account of the } prairie wolf contained in the preceding chapter, said he had often seen prairies on fire, but never had had any personal adventure in that way which he thought worth relating. Once, how- ever, he came very near it. “The fires,’’ said he, “ always run before the wind, with an advanced tongue or fork and two receding flanks, and in a tight wind, so rapidly do the dancing, curling, careering flames leap from point to point of the dry grass, that it is } sometimes difficult for the swiftest horseman to escape. The sight, especially in the night, is al- ways beautiful, and at times, grand beyond de- scription. But after awhile we become familiar- ized to it, and look upon it without emotion, as all of us learn to do upon the glorious sun, the most splendid object in nature. “At the time I refer to, I had been two or three days’ drives to the town of C——, with my horse and buggy, and was on my return home. All day I had noticed signs indicating a fire on the prairie—masses of smoke in the distance, ly- ing like white clouds upon the horizon, and a hazy oppressive atmosphere—but these gave me no trouble so long as they were far away; and, busy with my own thoughts, for hours I wouid pay no attention to them whatever. At length, after one of these periods of abstraction, I observed with some apprehension that the conflagration was drawing nearer, and had actually worked around in my rear, until it had crossed the path by which I had traveled ; that all behind me was fast be- coming a smoking sea of fire, and for the first time the thought of danger, that I might be over- taken or possibly surrounded, occurred to me. “My horse was a powerful one, but not very fleet, nor yet fresh; but without the loss of a moment I applied the whip, and quitting my di- rect route, bore to the left, because that placed me more squarely before my enemy. Soon the tongue of “re, the advance guard of my terrible foe, became distinctly visible on my right, at about two miles distance, as near as I could judge, AND LADY’S BOOK. stretching on with a speed that was really fright- ful. I knew the struggle was to be with that, and pushing my horse to the utmost, kept my eye fixed upon it, like the wily racer intent on measuring the power of his antagonist before the final effort. For a few minutes the result was in doubt, but not long. Sinews of flesh were no match for the wings of the wind which bore on that fleet and terrific column of fire, and I became satisfied that it was outstripping me, and almost with a feeling of indifference; for I thought for the bracing my heart and nerves for the final event noment that my last hope was gone,and was “Tt was now twilight, and as the day departed and the shadows of night fell around, the cordon of fire seemed to magnify its splendors and its terrors, and like a vast serpent, to extend itself behind and on both sides, and to be closing up its I was no stranger on that part of the prairie; its general localities, though fulds to encircle me. one portion is very much like another, were fa- mil to me; and in recalling them to mind, I mt recollected a little ragged mound or hill, some twenty or thirty feet in height, and was satisfied With my hopes revived a little, I taxed my sight to the that I was at no great distance from it. utmost on every swell of ground that I passed, and at length detected the faint outline of the eminence in advance. But the fire was making for it too, and the subtle lapping tongue on my right, now quite ahead of me, already seemed almost between us, and prepared with a single Stull, with my almost exhausted horse, I pressed on, th an energy and despair so mighty as al- leap to cross my path and secure its victim. on, W most of themselves to wreck the powers of life. Gentlemen, I have not recovered from the effects of that mental struggle to this day—but, as you have already no doubt concluded, the mound In the race for life, I was obliged, as 1 that saved me. it were, to place myself side by side wit giant and awful sword of flame, and for the last half mile, the contest was doubtful, hopeless, dreadful. natural strength, as it seemed to me, But God nerved my horse with an un- and guarded his footsteps so that every effort told ; and at last I dashed up the bare side of the mound, where there was no fit substance for the devouring ele- ment to follow, and was safe. “The flames swept by with a dull, heavy roar, and a hot, sweltering, suffocating breath, burning with an intensity and grandeur which realized to the imagination my ideas of the final catastrophe of nature; encircled and passed the little emi- nence on which I stood, and stretched off in two I fell upon my knees, and since that terrible night, I long lines as far as the eye could reach. trust I have been a more thoughtful and a more thankful man.’

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MODEL COTTAGES. PERSPECTIVE A dwelling of four rooms, with other conve niences. Accommodations.—The door is protected by a far projecting roof, and enters at once into the kitchen and living room, a; in which is a stair- case to the bed-chambers, with a closet under it, 6b; from this we have a room with a bed in the recess, c, and another of the same description, VIEW. d; there are a back kitchen, e, privy, f, root cellar and fuel place, g, and dust-hole, A. There is a good bed-closet in the chamber story, and on the ground floor there is another closet, k, which may serve as a pantry, and a third, i, which may be used as an office or place for books, &c., ac- cording to the occupation of the inhabitant. s 10 ne 0 Fi. Loverlivit! GROUND Construction. —The walls may be of brick hol- lowed, and the roof slated, but the building would have the best effect if the walls were covered with cement of plaster and covered with a mellow tint. We say they would have the best effect, be- FLOOR. cause the beauty of this dwelling depends on the contrast between its perpendicular and horizontal lines, and between its bright lights and dark sha- dows, and both lines and shadows are more con- spicuous in light-colored walls than in any other. 9

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60 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. SECOND FLOOR. General Estimate.—Cubic contents, 11,890 feet ; at ten cents per foot, $1189; at five cents, $594 50. then be the kitchen and public sitting-room for guests, and there might be a good cellar under it; d and e might also be for guests, the bed recesses Remarks.—There is something pleasing in the being concealed by folding-doors; and the room contrast of the lines and of the lights and sha- up stairs might be considered the principal room, dows in this dwelling, but it has not much of the as it would have the best prospect. ‘The expres- expression of a cottage. It seems better calcu- sion of the design is somewhat Italian, but it lated for a small public house or coffee-house, to wants the characteristic tiles. It will never be be placed on an eminence commanding a fine erected where economy in the construction is an prospect, or close by ariver. The room a might object. NDA A SPIRITUAL SYMPATHIES. A GROUP OF SONNETS. BY W. GILMORE SIMMS, AUTHOR OF “ ATALANTIS,” ETC Tae dream is gone from me—the solitude How sweetly, yet how mockingly ye rise— Of self and a most humbling consciousness Once more are mine, and I must haply brood On images that cannot come to bless, As once they blessed me only. Through the night I conjure the dear spectres into sight, Dim, flitting phantoms that, with sudden gleam, Fling their sad glances on me and depart; I call them from the depths of my torn heart, And then their solemn whispers do meseem— Sighs more than speech—to murmur—“ It is vain; Yours can we never, never be again! We leave you night and silence, sleep and dream, That, even in its solace, must awake to pain!” Ah! spirits, dearest memories, wherefore break These bands of sleep asunder, and, while night So softly does her office with delight, From the sick soul its dream of solace take? Twas ye that brought me—leave me to the doom Of this so lone condition; let the shade, Mournful, but not oppressive, of my gloom, Possess the heart that never did forsake, And would not be again by dreams betrayed. What ye have ta’en ye cannot now restore, Nor have ye more to take, unless it be That wizard sense that calls ye up once more, When Will grows absolute and Thought flies free, And all that death might spa: I comes back from Heaven, to me! A little gleam at first, most like the Of a sad glow-worm, rising through th« From the dee P wood, in silence, to the s A dewy brightness, that, with lesseni: Dilating into form, flits, softly white Between my aching vision and the wa That darkens yet more deeply, like the That wrapt ye when I followed, striving va To pierce the dense dominion still, and s I tremble not to greet ye, nor complai That ye have eyes, but not a speech for! Ah! wherefore, when I summon ye aga Thus vanish, till the g dawn darkens Yet is the aspect of one presence still Tearful and bright to consciousness—!I know The gentle spirit is near me, and the thrill Of a strange terror mingles with the clow That once had birth in rapture. Is it so’ And shall we be denied, even when we wi And though that will, if sorrow, be no s Ah! the blind error, not to look within While still these eyes with mortal tears o’erflow How should I dream to have thee or to see Save in this heart, which, in thy hour of death, Straightway, from heavy bonds of earth set free Took in new life, as from thy parting breath, And since, each hour, hath grown more ful! of thee

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NOTICES OF THE FINE ARTS. ENGRAVING. . THERE seems to RWS Z Sree a be a decided pas- sion for mono- chromatic among the good people of these | States! Witness the success of the popular magazines and newspapers, whose chief attrac- tions are the en- gravings that em- bellish (or disfig- ure) their pages, as the case may be! Witness our Art- Unions, the foremost with ils tweuty-thousand dollars of subscriptions patd in for the Bngravings—which, after all. are the main dependence of these favorite distributors of pictures taste! Witness the annual avalanches of gift books— * May * Leaflets,” “ Blossoms,” “Odd Fel- lows,” and the thousand and one odd manifestations of Flowers.” darkness visible which come over the land at this holi- cay season, ciad in the murky mantle of mezzotinted me- diocrity, “darkly, deeply, beautifully black,” and which are received into the domestic circle upon the same principle, we suppose, as the death's head has been ad- i the hilarity of a feast! And so, mitted to heighte though it may be painful to true taste to see the golden creations of genius done into dullness by SaARTAIN SADD “scrapers” of steel and copper, yet we welcome them all, mezzotints, aquatint, lithotint, zincographs, glypo- graphs, Daguerreotypes, not to mention drawings in chalk or charcoal, which have become a “rage” just now, to the wide field where cheapness and quickness are the chief requisites—cheapness, | t tie centre- rhe may be largely covered; and quickness, that the pub- lisher may not be forestalled in his “ borrowings” trom the foreigu artist, whose works cost nothing, and fre- quently turn out worth-less The day of the Souvenir and Forget-me-not is gone rlish taste, which had by. That exquisite creation of I its Origin in the German illustrated calendar, and was imitated in this country with an awkwardness quite original, is no longer numbered among our household With plates that for delicacy of finish and beauty VOL. XXXVI.—6 idols. of execution, will probably never be equaled in this or any age—miracles of art, for which as high as eight or nine hundred dollars were sometimes paid—as for the * Marcus Curtius” by Le Keux—a guinea an impression sometimes refused, as for Hratu’s “ Forsaken”—yet, like other miracles, they could not be done often without ceasing to be wonderful; and so the darling duodecimo, with its gallery of gems, has given place to the larger and more diluted folio, that struis in peacock plumage and “Turkey” trimmings through our fashionable bou- doirs—gaudy, noisy and pedantic, yet hardly fit for even the kitchen table. OUR OWN ANNUALS, which were, for the most part, mere hashes of the English, with plates copied out and out trom them, or from French lithographs, shared much the same fate—petted and patronized for the few years that they remained “a fashion,” and dying off just as they began to show some signs of life. The “Token,” Gift,” though occasionally giving plates of high excellence, were at least fifty years behind their transatiantic orizgi- nals in all that constitutes true artistic exeellence. And it is painful to look over the past volumes of the two first. and note how few really good engravings are to be found in them. Of eourse there are exceptions. The female heads by Joan CuEeNzY are almosi always genu- ine in feeling and charming in exeeution ; the copies by his brother, 8. W. Creney, are of like excellence; while such plates as “The Tough Yarn” and “The Ghost Book,” The landscapes of the » Atlantic Souvenir.” the * Magnolia” and the “ by Peasr, speak for themselves James SMILIE are generally brilliant in effect and me- chanical dexterity, though rather too metallic in charac- ter. The works of Duranp and CasILear are vigorous and correct in drawing, but deficient in tone, while Dan- FORTH’S rise to the very perfection of finish and delicacy, tone and sentiment. For the rest of the graver brother- hood, the Ellises, Kellys, Neagles, Peltons, Balches and other fashionable names of the day, we are-ai a loss to kuow upen what grownd they found admirers,or in what line they could justly be said to stand high? Yet the Souvenir has done the state some service, something to- wards perfecting the engravers’ craftamongus. Although it has kept our engravers copying and counterfeiting, it has helped to bring about the dey when the publisher can feel that he may safely entrust a fine landscape to the artist without the fear of its being returned with a cow engraved where a distant bridge was intended, as happened to one of Turner's glorious poem-pictures. Of the flight of gift books which are showered upon us for notice, we have only time to peep at their plates and wonder where they could have all come from. No other but the omnipresent Samrat, or the all in all (of the magazines) A. L. Diex, corld have supplied the half of them. These of the “Opal” are the best series of mezzotints we have seen this year, awd doeredit to the pencil of Rotherme! and the burin of Sertnin. ‘Those of the “ Mirror of Life” are less satisfactory; and it must be painful to artists who have furnished designs for this volume, to see how rudely they have been rendered into black and white. Our mezzotinters must take more pains and finish better, or their popularity will be more short-lived than its growth has been rapid 61

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THE WORK TABLE. CROCHET INSTRUCTIONS TO BEGINNERS Tue work should be held between the first finger and thumb of the left hand, as in sewing—the thread hanging over the first finger, and falling between the second and third fingers; the needle should be held lightly in the right hand, as a pen TO MAKE A CHAIN, the foundation stitch of all crochet: Make a loop with the thread, holding it at A, and put the needle into i— then take the thread on the needle and draw it through the loop as B; this forms another chain or loop; repeat as C. PLAIN STITCH, CALLED FRENCH OR DOUFLE CROCHET After making a chain, keep the loop A on the needle ; put the needle into the last chain stitch, and draw the thread through; there will now be two loops (A, B) on the needle; take up the thread C and draw it through the two; this forms oue stitch TREBLE STITCH. Keep ihe loop on the needle as A, then take the thread on the needle B, put the needle in a stitch, draw the thread through; this makes three loops as A. B, C; take up the thread D and draw it through the two loops C and B; take it up again and draw it through the two loops formed by D and A; this finishes one stitch TO MISS A STITCH Is to pass over a stitch of the preceding row TO WORK IN THE CHAIN Put the needle tn the space formed by the chain stitches of the row betore: this renders the working easier. and obviates the necessity of counting stitches that are to be missed Usama «tt Saw When this mark * occurs, the stitches before it are not to be repeated; thus, 1 treble, 1 chain, *: 3 treble, 3 chain, 1 plain; in repeating work from 3 treble, 3 chain, 1 plain The stitches in a parenthesis thus (3 treble, 3 chain, miss 1. 3 mes) are to be worked 3 treble. 3 chain, miss 1, 3 treble, 3 chain, miss 1, 3 treble, 3 chain, miss 1; also when chain stitches divide treble stitches without missing any, a3 thus, (5 treble, 3 chain, 5 treble:) these 10 treble are all to be worked in the chain o last row lent toany young From these instructions it mast be evi lady who at the same time reiers to the engravings, that nothing can be easier than the acquisition of the pre- liminary knowledge in this elegant accomplishment Great attention must be paid to the star * when it occurs: as it is very material to the success‘ul prosecution of the work The above instructions oucht to have been given in advance of any of our crochet patterns; but we did not give it, supposing that most young ia *s Were acquaint- ed with the art; but having been freque asked for preliminary instructions, we now give them in full The following is a beautiful speci and is entitled

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THE WORK TABLE. 63 POINT DE MONTPENSIER KNITTED COLLAR. Cotton No. 30. or fine black netting silk. Chain of 29° stitches. KNITTING.—LEAF PATTERN MANCHETTE OR UNDER-SLEEVE. ; bi Y C7 i. FA m i hw Ry he Taylor's crochet or knitting thread, No. 10; two pins 4th row. Pearl 1, knit 1; repeat; end with pearl 1, of No. 21, and two pins No. 17. Cast on 85 stitches, with and repeat these two last rows for 20 rows, which is No. 21 pins from the 4th to the 25th Ist row. Make 2 by turning the thread twice round 25th row. Same as Ist. the pin; knit 3 together; repeat; end with knit 1 26th row. Same as 2d 2d row. Knit 1, *, pearl 2, knit 1: this is the other 27th row. Make 1, knit 2; repeat; at the end make 1, half of the main stitch; repeat from * knit 3: there will now be 127 stitches on the pin 3d row. Knit 1, pearl 1; repeat; end with knit 1. 2th row. Pearl with No. 17 pin, and commence the ousnm leaf-pattern as follows :— * Our readers will please read the Instruction to Be- ist row. Pearl 1. knit 2 tovether, knit 2, make 1, knit ginners, and notice’the particular use ot the * 2 together, make 1, knit 1, make 1, knit 2 together, make

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64 GODEY’S MAGAZINE 1, knit 2, knit 2 together; repeat; at the end of the row pearl 1 Knit. pearl 13; repeat; at the end knit 1 Pearl 1, knit 24emethes, Kut 1, make 1, Kuu kuit 3, make 1, knit 2 together, make 2d row 3d row 2 together, make | 1, knit 1, knit 2 together; repeat; at the end pearl 1. jth row. Same as 9d. Sth row. Pearl 1, knit 2 together, make 1, knit 2 to- gether, make 1, knit 5, make 1, knit 2 together, make 1, knit 2 together; repeat, and end with pear! 1. 6th row. Same as 2d. 7th row. Kit 2 together *, make 1, knit 2 together, make 1, knit 7, make 1, kwit 2 together, make 1, knit 3 together; repeat from *; at the end knit 2 together in- stead of 3 tomether Same as 2d. %h row. Knit 1, make 1, knit 2 together, make 1. knit 2, knit 2 together, pearl 1, knit 2 tegether, knit 2. make 1, knit 2 together, make 1; repeat; at the end of the row knit 1 “th row AND LADY’s BOOK. 10th row. Pearl 7, knit 1, pearl 6; repeat, and end with pearl 1 lith row. Knit2, make 1, knit 2 together, make 1, knit L, knit 2 toweiher, pearl 1, kuit 2 together, Knit 1, kuit 2 together, make 1, knit 1; repeat, and end with knit J Ith row. I3th rew. 2 together, pear! 1, knit 2 together, make 1, ther, make 1, knit 2; repeat; at the end knit | 14th row. Same as 16th. 15th row. Knit 4, make 1, knit 2 together, make 1, knit 3 together, make 1, knit 2 together, make 1, knit 3; re- peat; at the end of the row knit 1. i6th row. Same as 2d. Repeat this pattern once more, and then with No. 21 pins knit 2 together, knit 1 For 1 row there will now be 85 stitches on the pin; the next row pearl; them repeat the first 26 rows, and cast make 1, Same as 10th. Knit 3, make 1, knit2 together, make 1, knit knit 2 toge- off. LEAF EDGING FOR MANCHETTE Taylor's crochet or knitting thread No. 10; pins No 21. Cast on 15 stitches Ist row. Knit 3 (make 1 and knit 2 together twice), make 1, knit 3, make 1, knit 2 together, make 2, knit 3. 2d row. Knit 4, pearl 11, make 1, knit 2 together, knit I 3d row. Knit 3 1, knit 5, make 1, knit 2 together, make 2, knit 2, make 3, knit 2 4th row. Knit 2 (pearl 1, knit 1. pearl 1: these are the three made stitches), knit 3, pear! 13, make 1, knit 2 toge- ther, knit 1. Sth row. Knit 3 (make 1, knit 2 together twice), make 1, knit 7, make 1, knit 2 together, make 2, kuit 2 together, knit 6 6th row knit 2 together, knit 1 Knit 3, make 1, knit 3 together, make 1, knit make 1, knit 2 together twice), make Cast off 5 stitches, knit 2, pearl 15, make 1, 7th row . 2 tocether, make 1, knit 2, knit 3 together, knit 2, make 1, knit 3 together, make 2, knit 3. Sth row. Knit 4, pearl 13, make 1, knit 2 together, knit 1. 9th row. Knit 3, make 1, knit 3 together. make 1, knit 2 together, make 1, knit 1, knit 3 together, knit 1, make 1, knit 3 together, make 2, knit 2, make 3. knit 2 10th row. Knit 2, pearl 1, knit 1, pear! 1, knit 3, pearl 11, make 1. knit 2 together, knit 1. lith row. Knit 3, make 1, knit 3 toa 2 together (make 1, uit 3 together twice), make together, kuit 6. 12th row. Cast off 5 stitches, knit 2, pearl 9, make 1, knit 2 together, knit 1. There will now be 15 stitches on the pin, and commence from Ist row until the desired This edging g ther. make 1. knit 2, knit 2 length is made to go full round the cuff can be used for a variety of other purposes. NETTING.—BEAD PURSE, DIAMOND PATTERN Two skeins of middle-size netting si!k, brown, French blue, or ponceau; five bunches of No. 4 steel or gold beads; mesh No. 17, standard gauge, and a fine long- eyed sewing needle Foundation, 42 stitches. This purse is to be netted round. Net one row of 42 stitches; take out the mesh and net the first loop; this will make it round; then net one plain round, and commence the pattern. Ist round. Net 2 plain stitches, thread 4 beads, net a @itch, thread 4 beads, net a stitch, thread 4 beads, net a stitch, thread 4 beads, net a stitch, thread 4 beads, net a repeat 6 times. 2d round. Net 2 plain, then 1 plain stitch, dividing the 4 beads in the last round; this leaves 2 beads on each stitch side of the Knot; the beads are always so divided when there are 4 on one stitch; thread 4 beads, net 1 stitch, thread 4 Leads, net 1 stitch, thread 4 beads, net 1 stitch, thread 4 beads, net 1 stitch; repeat 6 times. 3d round. Thread 2 beads, net 1 stitch, thread 2 beads, net 1 stitch, net 1 stitch, dividing the 4 beads in the last

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THE row; thread 4 beads, net 1 stitch, thread 4 beads, net 1 stitch, thread 4 beads, net 1 stitch, net 1 plain stitch; repeat 6 umes 4th round. Net 1 plain stitch, thread 2 beads, net 1 stitch, keeping the 2 beads in the last round to the right or outside of the knot; thread 4 beads, net 1 stitch, keeping the other 2 beads to the left or inside of the knot; thread 2 beads, net 1 stitch, net 1 stitch, dividing the 4 beads; thread 4 beads, net 1 stitch, thread 4 beads, net 1 stitch; re- peat 6 times. 5th round. Net 1 plain stitch, thread 2 beads, net 1 stitch, keeping the 2 beads in the last row to the right; thread 4 beads, net 1 stitch, thread 4 beads, net 1 stitch, keeping the 2 beads in the last row to the left; thread 2 beads, net 1 stitch, net 1 plain stitch, thread 4 beads, net 1 stitch; repeat 6 umes. 6th round. Net 1 plain stitch, thread 2 beads, net 1 stitch, keeping the 2 beads in the last round to the right; thread 4 beads, net 1 stitch, thread 4 beads, net 1 stitch, thread 4 beads, net 1 stitch, keeping the 2 beads in the last round to the left; thread 2 beads, net 1 stitch, net 1 stitch; repeat 6 umes. 7th round. Net 1 plain stitch, thread 2 beads, net 1 stitch, keeping the 2 beads in the last round to the right; thread 4 beads, net 1 stitch, thread 4 beads, net 1 stitch, thread 4 beads, net 1 stitch, thread 4 beads, net 1 stitch, keeping the 2 beads in the last round to the leit; thread 2 beads, net 1 stitch; repeat 6 times; then repeat these 7 rounds 4 times; this finishes one end. For the opening work backwards and forwards, thread 4 beads, net 1 stitch 4 times, net 34 plain stitches, thread 4 beads, net 1 stitch 4 times, then commence the centre pattern; thread 4 beads, net 1 stitch 4 times, *, net 3 stitches, thread 2 beads, net 1 stitch, thread 2 beads, net 1 stitch, repeat from * 6 times, net 3 plain stitches, thread 4 beads, and net 1 stitch 5 times 2d row. Thread 4 beads, net 1 stitch 4 times, *, net 2 stitches, thread 2 beads, net 1 stitch, keeping the 2 beads in the last row to the right; thread 4 beads, net 1 stitch, keeping the 2 beads in the last row to the left; thread 2 beads, net 1 stitch; repeat from * 6 times, net 2 plain stitches, thread 4 beads, and net 1 stitch 5 times. 3d row. Thread 4 beads, net 1 stitch 4 times, net 2 stitches, net 1 stitch, keeping the 2 beads in last row to the right; thread 4 beads, net 1 stitch, dividing the 4 beads in last row; thread 4 beads, net 1 stitch, keep- ing the two beads in last row to the left; WORK TABLE. 65 repeat from * 6 times, net 2 stitches; thread 4 beads, and ing the next diamond in the centre of the one before it, net 1 stitch 5 times. then make the purse round again, and knit the large dia- 4th row. Thread 4 beads, net 1 stitch 4 times, *, net 4 mond the same as the other side. Finish with a fringe plain stitches; thread 4 beads, net | stitch; repeat from of gold or steel beads at one end of the purse, and long *6 times, net 4 plain stitches, thread 4 beads, and net 1 bead tassel at the other stitch 5 times; repeat this diamond 6 times, always work- 6*

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HEALTH AND CHAPTER VI1* She was a form of life and light, That seen, became a part of sight; And rose where’er I turned my eye, The morning star of memory.— Byron. Beavry of form might be almost universal. Were pro- per care and pains taken from infancy onward, there would scarcely be found a deformed human being. as the number born in that unfortunate state is very small, and few survive the first year. It is owing to the careless- ness and jgnorance of mothers and nurses, chiefly, that in our country so many stooping figures and round shoulders are seen among the young and, otherwise, lovely. We must add, also, the tyranny of fashion, that, with its compresses and other inventions to make small waists, has tortured and d¢formed a multitude. Happily for the rising generation of young ladies, the custom of tight-lacing is, comparatively, little practiced; and the influence of the Lady's Book has had much effect in pro- moting this reform. For the last ten years we have been earnest in our efforts to enlighten our readers on the per- nicious effects of tight-lacing. Those who have been admitted to the Editors’ Table will bear witness to our zeal. And there is another foolish and pernicious fashion we have also warned mothers to avoid—that of dressing little children in low-necked frocks. Boys are exempted from this display of their fair shoulders at an early age, but little girls are, by the absurd and, we must use plain language, wicked vanity of their mothers, often subject- ed to such an uncomfortable as well as injurious mode of dress, till their forms are permanently injured. And the health always suffers more or less from every distor- tion of the shoulders and bust. We will here give the opinion of a learned and distinguished physician on this subject. The way high shoulders are made.—The most common cause of a high shoulder, says Mr. Chelius, in his “ Sys- tem of Surgery,” is to be found in the practice of undress- ing girls’ necks as low as the hanging of their clothes will permit. Instead of the shoulder-straps of their dress being, as they should be, fairly above the root of the acromial processes, they often—indeed, most commonly —either only skirt the extreme end of those processes, and rest on the rounded upper part of the deltoid mus- cles, or are actually far down on the arms; in conse- quence of which the dress, having little or no suspension on the shoulders, is constanly dropping, and the girl is continually hitching up the shoulder, from which the shoulder-strap most easily slips, and thus the elevating muscles, becoming stronger on that side, pull the shoul- der permanently up, and produce a very ugly appear- ance. But the mischief does not stop here—for though there really be no disease of the spine, yet this constant hitching up of the shoulder causes the head and neck to * Those who commence with this number of the Lady’s Book may wish to see the five preceding chapters of “Health and Beauty.” As we think the subject very important, we may, at the close of the series, give a sy- nopsis of the whole.—Eb. BEAUTY. be thrown to the other side, whilst the chest is thrown out to the same side, and thus a lateral curvature of the spine is produced, and a girl's figure is spoiled for the sunple purpose of uncovering her neck and shoulders as far as possible, which, as well for decency as for the preservation of the child’s health, ought to be covered. Many parents have been thus the real cause of their daughters’ distortion, if not of more serious conse- quences; and, therefore, in growing girls who have the least disposition to slip their shoulder out of their dress, most especial care should be taken to prevent the possi- bility of keeping up this habit by having the dress made so high that it cannot slip down; and then, the sensation of its slipping being lost, the child no longer continues to hitch up her shoulder, and by a little attention to her proper carriage, the mischief, if not of long standing, may be got rid of. Another evil influence is the long confinement in hot school-rooms, and the uncomfortable seats too often found in places of education. The celebrated Dr Forbes says that he examined forty girls at a boarding- school, and found that every one who had been at the school above two years, was crooked! This was in England—but would our American seminaries show less painful results? Let parents examine carefully the seats used in the school-room, and the physical training or habits fo which their young daughters are to be subject- ed, before they place these tender flowers in the keeping of any “celebrated instructor of young ladies.” In the preceding chapters we have dwelt chiefly on the importance of three conditions to the attainment of the highest health and the greatest physical beauty. These conditions are the plentiful use of cold water in ablu- tions, the careful ventilation of sleeping rooms, and daily exercises in the open air. These three conditions are indispensable to health and beauty. Those who have hitherto neglected to observe them systematically, may do much to improve themselves if they will now begin. Among the different modes of exercise, Dr. Robertson recommends the skipping-rope as one of the best; and in cities, where the usual exercise is that of walking solemnly, as in a procession, along the sidewalk, he is probably correct. He says—‘ The skipping-rope, a toy which is discarded by the young girl when entering a looked apon as a necessary article in every boudoir or private premature womanhood, but which ought to be room occupied by a woman of civilized habits, is one of the best, if not the very best kind of gymnastic exercises that I know. body.” We add, that while using should be very loose, so as not to impede the free action It exercises almost every muscle of the the skipping-rope, the dress of a single muscle; and the exercise should be taken in the open air, or with the windows of the apartment thrown open. The Reverend Dr. Durbin, in his European sketches, speaks of the high health and fine forms of the French ladies, and attributes it to the fact that they take so large a share of out-door exercise. Such is the uniform testi- mony of Americans who have visited Europe, and if their accounts are to be relied on, the ordinary every- day walks of the French, German and English ladies,

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EDITORS’ PPPS PLP PLP PPL LLL ILD LDP would actually frighten the pale, in-door beauties of our glorious land. Was there ever a person, male or female, living in the habitual neglect of a vigorous use of the limbs, who enjoyed high, rosy health ? Let those who think a glowing skin, a strong muscle step, signs of vulgarity, enjoy their fashion- but let the lady and elastic able dyspepsia and dignified hysterics; 67 TABLE. PPP PAR who expects to be or to make others happy, cultivate high health by out-door exercise. Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase, And marvel men should quit their easy chair The toilsome way and long, long league to trace, Oh, there is sweetness in the morning air, And life that bloated ease may never hope to share, ern nt & tO EDITORS’ “ Affections, Friendships, Confidence— There's not a year hath died, But ail these treasures of the heart Lie with it side by side.” Svcu are the feelings of many hearts on thisday. The as we look backward, is strewn with the But Faith still points path of life dead flowers of hope and love. mward and upward, and the roots of Hope and Love May the and the sweet influences of home, religion, and literature never die year, now opening, be propitious, be the means of expanding the blossoms of happiness that may be cultivated in every soul. We we Editor’s Table with the warm confidence that they come to be pleased; and The and apparently, loudest laugh, is often heard the come our friends to the more, that they feel happiness in a serious thing. gay, most frequently from the vain and discontented. Cheer- fulness is the bestindex of a cultivated and self-governed mind ; and real happiness, the feeling that seems to buoy the soul above all the cares and toils and disappoint- ments of this changing world, is only enjoyed by the generous, disinterested and noble-hearted. “T have such eagerness of hope To benefit my kind; And feel as if immortal power Were given to my mind !"— is the secret aspiration of the really happy. ° But where can such a feeling find scope? How cana ? By doing thus aim at, or attain this power? ic’) living present’—and this in the family or the social woman that “w her hand finds to do”—working “in the circle. There is scope and “verge enough” for genius and talents and learning, though these were of the high order that might sway senates and command kingdoms. In delineating the character of Madame Guyon, the accomplished Biographer* thus observes of Woman’s INFLUENCE—*“ I think it may be proper to say here that this is another among the many facts, which go to show the vast extent, as well as the great diversity, of woman’s influence. She not only forms man in child- hood and youth by that maternal influence which ex- ceeds al other influences in wisdom as well as efficiency ; but in maturer years her power, though less obvious perhaps, does not cease to exist. Many are the minds whose controlling energy is felt in the movements and the destiny of nations, and whose names are imperishable * Thomas C. Upham, Professor of Mental and Moral Philosophy in Bowdoin college. TABLE. in the monuments of history that have been sustained and guided in the seasons of action and endurance in the origination of plans of benevolence and patriotism, and in the fortitude which carried them into effect, by the inspiration of woman's genius. “And I think it may, properly, be added, that none need this influence more than truly great men.” The life of Madame Guyon is full of the best instruc- tions for her sex—the instruction of example. Though possessed of extraordinary beauty and genius—those coveted but dangerous gifts—she is a pattern of every lovable, womanly grace and duty. Though was the sacred truths of the that, at the time, gave her name a commanding power over the minds of the greatest men of the time of Louis the Great; yet she was, in all her family and social relations, as self-deny- ing, attentive, gentle and cheerful as though she had she the instructor of Fenelon in Bible, and her writings had an effect only devoted herself to domestic duties. This is the character we love—the one we would have our young American ladies strive to attain. The heroic are all who do good with an earnest purpose; no matter how small the field is—if cultivated with all the heart, soul and mind, it will soon be filled with choice flowers. And if each one of our sex would thus culti- vate her allotted portion, the world would soon become again an Eden. GIFTS FOR THE SEASON.—This number will reach many of our friends before Christmas comes. Would that we could send each one a gift—but as this is not in our power, will they not be pleased to hear that we have prepared something expressly for them? A volume of Poems* is now ready, that we have been encouraged to send forth by the hope that our friends of the Lady’s Book, in particular, would welcome the book. “The Opal, a Pure Gift for the Holidays,” also bears our name as editor; and the attractions that the genius of many of our best writers have given the work, and the beautiful illustrations, will secure it a wide circules tion. We here give one incomparable gem from its rich stores. BY THE SEA-SIDE. BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. The twilight is sad and cloudy, The wind blows wild and free, * “Three Hours; or, The Vigil of Love—and other By Mrs. Sarah Josepha Hale. Published by pp. 200. Poems.” Carey & Hart, Philadelphia.

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GODEY’S MAGAZINE And like the wings of sea-birds Flash the white caps of the sea. But in the fisherman's cottage There shines a ruddier light, And a little face at the window Peers out into the night Close, close it is pressed to the window, As if those childish eyes Were looking into the darkness To see some shape arise And a woman's waving shadow Is passing to and fro, Now rising to the ceiling, Now bowing and bending low What tale does the roaring ocean, And the night wind, bleak and wild, As it beats at the crazy casement, Tell to the little child? And why do the roaring ocean, And the night wind, wild and bleak, As they beat at the heart of the mother, Drive the color from her cheek ? THE ILLUSTRATIONS OF OUR “ Book” in this number are surely entitled to a high rank in The publisher spares no care or expense in preparing his pictures for this, the favorite work of the public—and periodical literature he will not, surely, lose his reward. It is necessary that, to sustain him in the course of excellence which he is determined to attain for the Lady's Book, that those who read should pay. It would make small difference to the subscribers if they sent the three dollars on the re- ceipt of this first number, but the neglect to send for many months, perhaps years, is a great inconvenience as well as injury to the publisher. We trust the beauty © the number will win all hearts and open all purses. AND LADY’S BOOK. RAARLA AAD LAL To coRRESPOXDENTS.—We have not been able to look over, as we intended, all the MSS. sent us. In the next number we shall try to do this. In the meantime, we find these to accept:—* Polar Scene.” “A Thought in Absence,” “They are Passing Away,” “The Valentine.” We have received a remittance from Geo. Buckman, as we do not know his Esq., but are unable to credit it Will he ples ‘A subscriber” is 1 1 that The Lady's Dollar Ne wspaper will appe December vember “Bachelor” is informed that any article that he may send will find a place in the “ Book,” if The Alexander Dimitry mentioned in our September “The Prima Donna,” of the visitors to West Point this summer, appointed by New Orleans will } } > inf ws? piace ot resiene se Intorm us iforme the first number of ar on the first of This notice was written on the 17th of No- worthy of it number as the author of was one the President A letter addressed to reach him “A Father's Lament on Parting with his Daughter” is lamentable “An Admirer.” The series will be continued * Anonymous” is informed that we will keep our pro- mise. We always do. The extracts with engravings will be given from the two works mentioned “Miss H.” We will attend to your request. Though no great judge of the article, we have one nearly con- nected with us that is “aw hand that we cannot publish his MS. before March. It * must be patient. We have so many articles on will appear in that number. ‘A Subscriber.” The Ashland letter published last month was genuine We acknowledge the receipt of the club of twenty subscribers, and return thanks for the compliments con- veyed in the letter—also for the promised additional club. We will send the work requested to our agent in Pitts- burgh to forward What has become of our friend, the “ Widow Bedott?” vr 203 DD EDITORS’ THE ANNUALS. Their season has come, and the large editions of some of these are already sold out by their publishers. “Tue Opa” has had a great sale Get a copy if you can—there will soon be none to be had. THE ARABIAN NIGHTS, published by Zieber & Co., is a capital work to amuse the long winter evenings. THREE HOURS; OR, THE VIGIL OF LOVE— AND OTHER POEMS. By Mrs. Sarah J.Hale. Pub- lished by Carey & Hart, Philadelphia—pp. 200. We trust this little work will win favor with the public. THE BOUQUET OF MELODY, A MUSICAL AN- NUAL FOR 1848. Firth & Hall, N. York. We have been presented by these gentlemen with the most perfect gift book we ever saw. It contains a number of beauti- ful engravings, and the music is all original and com- posed expressly for the book. This is a work that will survive its immediate presentation—not like other gift books, merely looked at and laid upon the centre-table, but one that can be referred to at all times on account of Both externally and in- See their advertise- the musical gems it contains. ternally it is exquisitely beautiful ment on cover. BOOK TABLE. THE MIRROR OF LIFE. Eight mezzot nt engray- This beauti- ings. Lindsay & Blakiston, Philadelphia ful work still commands the public preference. It is a beautiful heliday gift THE NEW MISCELLANY FOR GIRLS AND BOYS. Edited by Miss C. L. Tuthill. Same publishers A most entertaining little work for young folks—prettily embellished, and containing much useful matter, poetry, prose, riddles, ete. Get it as a Christmas gift for the children THE BEAUTIFUL FRENCH GIRL—r. the Daugh- ter of Monsieur Fontanbleu. 'T. B. Peterson, 98 Chestnut This work is one of thrilling in- some beautifully- street, Philadelphia. terest, founded on facts. There are drawn characters in it, and the whole story is well and beautifully told. The author’s name is not given. SYBIL LENNARD—A RECORD OF WOMAN'S LIFE. By Mrs. Grey. Same publisher. We are al- most sure, iu taking up one of Mrs. Grey’s novels, that we shall not be disappointed in an evening’s amusement. Sybil Lennard is not an exception to the general popu- larity of this lady’s productions. The interest com-

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EDITORS’ wenn ene WAAR eee ee mences with the first page, and is continued throughout the book. Felicie and Miss Howard are beautiful cha- racters. THE MAN(CEUVERING MOTHER. “The Usefulness of Wo- Same publisher. This novel is by the author of It is an ably-con- The maneuvering well It ramks far man” and “The History of a Flirt.” structed and really interesting novel. mother’s character is well drawn, and her managed, but her defeat naturally follows. above the usual run of novels, and may be placed in the same class as Lady Charlotte Bury’s or Miss Picker- ing’s. WASHINGTON AND HIS GENERALS. Hart, Philadelphia. The real Simon Pure. been a controversy lately between the Rev. Mr. Headly Carey & “here has and some literary gentlemen of New York upon this work, in which Mr. H. The idea of “ Washington and his Generals” was certainly C. & H., and not thought of by any has been sadly worsted. started by Messrs other person until they communicated their intention to Mr. H. the subject, and will no doubt have the most ready sale. It should be in every library, or rather in every person’s However, they have produced the best book on hands. The publishers say—*'To produce this work, the accessible published and unpublished memoirs, corre- spondence and other materials relating to the persons, have been caretuliy examined and faithfully reflected.” The illustrations are beautiful and expensive, being por- traits of sixteen of the generals, from undoubted like- nesses, engraved on steel. ARNOLD; OR, THE TREASON OF WEST POINT —a Tragedy in Five Acts. By Horatio Hubbell. Same publishers. Philadelphia lawyers are fond of wooing the muses. Some dozen of tragedies have been written by members of our bar, and some two or three have been performed. Whether this will reach the stage or not we tell, but we think be to the interest of Mr. H. has followed cannot it would one of our managers to produce it. history closely . OUR ARMY AT MONTEREY. By T. B. Thorpe, Esq. Same publishers. Who does not know “Tom Owen, the Bee Hunter” (T. B. Thorpe)? Who has not been delighted with his humorous and truthful stories Here we have him in a new vein. He is now delineat- ing “grim-visaged war,” and seems to be as much at bject as if he had never written upon be author, from his intimate home upon the su Mr. Thorpe’s book may The with many officers of the army, has been enabled, where any other relied upon as authentic acquaintance not have been sufficient, to his own Information may avail himself of their most minute details and for many items of interest. The book embraces the period from the time of leaving Matamoras to the surrender of Mon- terey. It is illustrated by a view of the city and a map. CALAVAR; OR, THE KNIGHT OF THE CON- QUEST. By R. M. Bird, Esq. Lea & Blanchard, Phi- ladelphia. We well remember the satisfaction we ex- perienced upon our first perusal of this work, which has not been diminished upon asecond reading. It is a book that all should read, and every one will be benefited by it. To the romance reader it will prove entertaining from its varied and thrilling incidents, to the historian for its graphic account of Mexico as it was, and to the student it will be useful as a model of beautiful writing. It is produced at a proper time, now that we are at war Dr. Bird has produced some of the best novels and dramas in the lan- guage—* Nick of the Woods” and “Calavar,” “The Gla- with the nation where the scene is laid. diator” and “ Broker of Bogota.” THE ANCIENT WORLD; OR, PICTURESQUE SKETCHES OF CREATION. By Professor Austed, BOOK TABLE. of King’s College, London. Same publishers. The au- thor of this work has avoided, as far as possible, the mere technicalities of the science, and has communi- cated in a simple form, intended for the benefit of the general reader, the chief results of geological investiga- tion. The language is so plain, and the illustrations so frequent, that there appears to be no difficulty in follow- ing the author through his delightful book. The frontis- piece of the work is one that will interest the people of our own state; itis “The Vegetation of England during the Coal period.” The publishers must have been at great expense in producing this work, as there are one hundred and forty-seven illustrations. RORY O’MORE. By Samuel Lover. Same pub- lishers. We don't know what edition this is, but we know we have noticed it some dozen times, and any work running through so many editions, needs no fur- ther recommendation from us. LANDRETH’S RURAL REGISTER AND ALMA- NAC FOR 1848. Same publishers. A most useful work, good almanac, all the information that can and flowers, numerous containing a be communicated about fruits drawings of the same, plans of hot-houses, fruit pre- servers, &c.; in fact, everything that can interest, from the farmer who tills his hundreds of acres, down to the humble individual with one flower-pot at the window. THE HALL AND THE HAMLET; OR, SCENES AND CHARACTERS OF COUNTRY LIFE. By William Hewitt. Same publishers. There is no author superior to Mr. Howitt in the downright domestic man- His style and this book particularly, Each chapter is ner of story-telling. remind us very much of Miss Mitford a separate scene, and would do to publish separately ; but the whole is rficely blended together. There is more character in it than in some dozen other works, and each so distinct—Charles Welstead, the young attorney; his humble friend, Tommy Scantlebury; the base Mellor; the high-bred Sir Thomas Borringdon; Old Joe Ling, and a host of others. Each of the cheracters stands in bold relief. This is a book that all may read, old and young. Nothing offensive will ever be tound in the writings of Wan. and Mary Howitt. We have received from the indefatigable Berford & Co., of New York, through T. B. Peterson, 958 Chestnut street, “The Road to Ruin,” a comedy, by Holcroft; “Temper,” a comedy, by Rebert Bell, of the “ Modern “St. Patrick's Eve,” (poor Power,) the “Minor Drama;” “The Night an opera, of the This last is a very good idea, for Standard Drama;” “The Jacobite,” of Dancers,” an opera; “The Favorite,” * Operatic Library.” itis seldom you can understand the words of a song as given by our operatic singers; therefore the greater the necessity of reading an opera before you witness its performance. This edition of plays, which we have heretofore noticed, is well got up, and we presume the publisher finds an extensive sale for them. We have also received a copy of “St. Patrick’s Eve” from 8. G. Sherman, Hart’s Buildings, Sixth street; and from Zieber, “ Norma” and “ The Road to Ruin.” THE CRATER; OR, VULCAN’S PEAK. By J. Fenimore Cooper. Burgess, Stringer & Co., N. York. T. B. Peterson, Philadelphia. A tale of the Pacific in Mr. Cooper's usual graphic style. This gentleman's works, (always, we had nearly said.) in general give satisfaction. “'The Crater” we thifk one of his best. When we first saw the title, we thought it had something to do with “the drop of drink” which the lower order of Irish sometimes call “the crater.” CHAMBERS’ MISCELLANY; OR, LIBRARY OF USEFUL AND ENTERTAINING KNOWLEDGE By Robert Chambers. Gould, Kendall & Lincoln, Bos-

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70 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. AAAAARAA Ae ton. Zieber & Co., Philadelphia. We have received several numbers of this work lately, and find it still re- tains the some character for usefulness and amusement which we have so frequently commended THE SICK CHAMBER. James Munroe & Co., Bos- ton. J. W. Moore, 193 Chestnut street, Philadelphia A most useful work tor the sick chamber. and one from which, no matter what has been the experience of the reader, new hints may be got We have seldom seen more real and valuable information compressed in so small a compass LIFE OF GENERAL TAYLOR Grigg, Elliot & Co., Philadelphia What a charm there is about this } name! kvery new work bearing it is eagerly read and re-read We are with the d gener he French with Napoleon. Place his name at the head of a pa graph in the newspaper, and it is sure to be read present work appe *us WwW tan array of nemes tha@® we are sure must command attention—Robert T Conrad and J. Reese Fry, with illustrations by Darley [his edition supplies a deficiency which was unavoilable on account of t haste in which other books upon the same subject were broucht out. It gives full information of his family, a full account of his ser- Vices in the Black Hawk and Flori vars, and his im- portant dispaiches and corres dl th the war department. To c¢ “ct mate ing the early years of General Tay . Mr. Conrad visited Kentucky ' Gal q - ’ ne ? ! The work may ipon \ y particular; and M if not as most o former wor) 1 the same sub- ject, a mere reprint from the n Pry The ilustra- tions are numerous, and in Darley CAMPAIGN SKETCHES OF WAR WITH MEXICO. By Captain W. 8S. Hi S. A. (G. de L of the N. Y. Spirit of the Tin h engravings Harper & Brothers New York & Biakiston, Philadelphia. We reed these sketches as they were from time to time published in the N. Y. Times They were then considered the best letters from the seat of war. The Messrs. Harpers deserve great praise for col- lecting and giving them to the public im the handsome manner which these volumes present. The illustrations are spirited and well executed LIFE OF THE REV. J. BEL AP, publishers Dr. Bel DD cnap wer istorian of Same New Ham; shire, and an eminent ¢ ‘his work has been collected and arranged by his It also contains selections from his ce ence and other writings The per od of time i r 1744 to 1798 It will be seen that this embraces the period before and after the Revolution Dr. Bel) with the worthies of the time will be corr spondence found particularly interesting. The author has ably acquitted herself of her labor of love PICTORIAL publishers HISTORY OF ENGLAND. Nos. 31 and 32 of this exce Same llent work has just been issued. It is an admirable edition. The illus- trations are, as usual, numerous and good. LIFE OF HENRY THE FOURTH. P. R. James. Mr. James seems perfectly at home in his history of this chivalrous king. Henry that the subject is well suit Part3. By G. Same publishers. An excellent number. There was so much romance about 1 to the pen of this steam-manufacturer of novels. One micht almost fancy himself perusing one of the author's fictions. It is to be completed in four parts. The title-pave reminds us of an English work—indeed, the typograp!y of the whole book is faulliess THE YOUNG LADIES’ HARP. By Geo. Kingsley. New York: A. 8S. Barnes & Co. Philadelphia: Grieg & Elliot, and Lindsay & Blakiston. ‘The author has shown his taste in collec tung a number of songs, duetts, trios, quartettes, choruses, &c., among which there 1s no one that is not pleasing. The selections have been made from Movart, Rossini, Bellini, Donizetti and Boiidieu, The work is intended for the use of female academies and the parlor. The music is both seeular and sacred, and is arranged in two and three parts, with piano ac- companiments It is a perfect musical gem, and we the author will soon give number AND ITS RELATIONS TO PO- W. Moore, 193 Chest- L hope CHRISTIANITY ETRY AND PHILOSOPHY. nut street, Phiiadeiphia. The a rol this lithe work breathes the rue spirtti ott e he i his book into several t ‘ Ww elie tems, Atone Poetry, Philosophy and Literature THE BOOK OF VISIONS +} . work purports to be a record of the secret thoughts of a ious Sys- ication, GoD, Same publisher Muis variety of in luals while attending church, embracing ail classes of the community and in all parts of the ution of the soul world Also, instances of the se] li is a singularly interesting volume. A PRACTICAL COURSE OF FRENCH GRAM- MAR. By G. J. Hubert Sanders. Grilith & Simon, 114 North Third street, Philadelphia. We k: Mr. San- ers Ww i ! is capa ‘ hie ’ ihe bas from the body. &« MORAL PHILOSOPHY James Mu mw & interes iren and farmaite : t I 1 y com- mon schools It is admirably adapt r ese pur- poses, and has received the approl 1 uch men as Durbin and Bishop Potter, Professor Silliman P hers ESSAYS. By Ww Twelve eminent writer ot essays on as many ipon History. 4-R nNensa- tion, Spiritual Laws, Love, Frier DP. ibe hhoro- ism. The Over Soul, Circle , . , * fully and be , alone should command the price oft \Ir. Foner- autitu y written lance son writes in an easy style, which ce: t aduy onder- stood. It is a sterling work, and wel y a careful perusal OREGON MISSIONS AND TRAVELS OVER THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS EN 1545-46 By Father P. J. de Smet ew York: E Philadel- phia: W. J. Cunningham. 104 South Third street. This tward Dunnican work gives a good description of the manners and toms of the North American Indians, th &e. The reverend father says that they He traveled not but with a poet's eye; hence in admitting the maxims ot the Gospel merely as a missionary, the exquisite descriptions of scenery, of incidents and events—deseriptions which breathe the spirit of a mind imbued with the loftiest conceptions of nature and ehast- ened with the secred influences of faith. CLINTON BRADSHAW B. Peterson, Philade!phia Robinson & Jones, Cin- cinnati. T This is a second edition of this remarkable novel. It was first published " some fifteen years since, and caused considerable sen- sation at the time. The author was then unknown, but since that time he has risen to fame. and also, we be- lieve, to wealth. He has lately been admitted to fhem- bership in the Methodist church CAPTAIN DONOVAN’S ADVENTURES IN MEXI-

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EDITORS’ RAR nA nn —— ©O. Same publishers. We prophesied in a previous number that this house, Robinson & Jones, would assume a good position as publishers in the Queen city of the West. They have done so, and are now publishing a great number of works. Our Chestnut street, has also become a publisher on a pretiy friend Peterson, of 98 extensive scale. Both these houses have been fortunate in their selection of books. The one now under notice is a work abounding with romantic hair- breadth escapes, descriptions of several Mexican gene- incidents, rals, of the country, its soil, government and Looks that the war with Mexico has called forth, and from the climate, the the people, manners, customs, &c.; one of those nature of the incidents, must be interesting LIFE, TRAVELS AND ADVENTURES IN CALI- FORNIA, AND SCENES IN THE PACIFIC OCEAN By Thomas J. Farnham W. H New York This work, like the preceding. is a descriptive one of our rained territory The author—Mr. F Mountains’ Graham, newly arnham, anu- hor of * Travels in the Rocky —has given us a good book, interspersed, among more serious mat- ters, With droll adventures and humorous stories. It is an instructive as well as entertaining and amusing work It has two embellishments, one of them very strongly re- sembling Forrest as Metamora THE DEVIL’S POOL. By G Duck vant) Sand (Madame lisher. This work has been trans- orge Same pt lated, and very well. too, by Francis George Shaw, of New York It is a romantic story, with—what is rare with most French works—* no odence in it.” The loves of Germain and Marie are prettily told 4 TREATISE ON INSANITY By G. Grimes Same publish The author says in his title-page, that i ‘ y work of the kind tn the I ed States, or perhaps tu the kKnowa world.” This we believe to be tru he author a}so says that he had but two motives or writtig Us book—one to enlighten the public on this all-important subject, and the other to enable him to C e and educate his children—both good motives. It is a very singular work, and well worthy a perusal We ought to have premised that the author is himse!f an inmate of the Lunatic Asylum at Nashville, Tenn.. Ww re he has been since 1542 That he wrote the book is certified by the officers of the institution THE UNFORTUNATE MAID; OR, THE MISER’S FATE “Lire and Aveutures of This work also embraces the Re- Same publisher Bob Norberry, an Irish Ac lis by Cuptain P. O'Shaughnessy Irish story, wherein the Irish character is not libeled, as 1s too Ollen the case with modern writers. It has been too much the practice of those who write what are call- D Yetel show to hold up tl sharnetera ¢ —— € irish stories, to hoid up their charac rs as Objects of pity or derision. It has been the object of the writer of is readers right upon this subject, and and he has shown us this book to set give the Irish character as itis; that a good Irish story may be made abounding in fun iture, and sull adhering to the truth vdve and the ob- which he was writing It contains numerous lilustrations THE JOURNEYMAN PANION OF JOINER; OR, THE TOUR OF FRANCE THE COM- By George Sand (Madame Dudevant). Translated by Francis Geo Shaw. Same publisher. We have seldom risen from the perusal of a work with more satisfaction than from this. Ih differs entirely from any work that Madan Dudevant has previously written. It has a higher aim It embraces a history of many of the secret associations of France. The author acknowledges having derived the idea from a work entitled “The Book of the Com- panionship,” by Joiner. a pilgrimage of five Avignonnais-la- Vertu, Journeyman who, after having published his book, started on hundred leagues, during which he BOOK TABLE. spread his idea and his feeling among all the workmen he could touch His motto was, “ Let us Mr. Shaw deserves great credit for giving a translation of and convince. love one another.” His mission was unsuccessful all the French words and passages which he found it necessary to retain. Here is another young publisher, (Graham,) who has In a few years sprung into notice. With the exception of the Harpers, we suppose he publishes as many works as almost any other house in either of our large cities. T. B. Peterson, 93 Chestnut street, has all of Mr. Gra- ham’s publications for sale; and, indeed, every work published may be found at his establishment. LEAFLETS OF MEMORY. Messrs. E. H. Butler & Co. have transcended all their former attempts in the Annual line by the beautiful style in which they have “The Leaflets of It is put forth their highly popular work. Memory for 1343." Ediied | y Dr. Reynell Coates really a gem of art. The illuminated pages, glowing vith gold and rich colors, the fine mezzotints of Sartain, and above all, the really valuable literary contributions from first-rate authors, make it the choicest book of its class The same publishers issue an annual for children, en- titled CHRISTMAS BLOSSOMS, which is also first on i books ol tuat class. being embellished with art, in the list « Sartain’s mezzotits trom first-rate works of which children grouped in the most beautiful and grace- ful attitudes form the figures, as they always should ina juvenile annual. The stories are fresh. original and full of instruction and entertainment THE LIFE OF GENERAL TAYLOR. By John Frost, LL.D. Messrs. D. Appleton & Co. and George 5. Appleton. Thisisa very complete and well embellished life of old “ Rough and Ready It has upwards of one hundred engravings. of which eight are steel plate por- our favorite portrait } distinguished oificers, by This book will be eagerly sought traits ot engraver, Armstrong and read THE ROUGH AND READY ANNUAL, from the same publishing house, is a very neat and cheap annual, with twenty engravings, portraits, battle-pieces, and a rich collection of sketches, memoirs, anecdotes and po- etical effusions. all relating to General Taylor and the existing war with Mexico. It is for sale, in rich binding, by George 8. Appleton, 145 Chestnut street THE CHRISTIAN KEEPSAKE AND MISSIONARY ANNUAL FOR 1848, is published by Brown, Hayes & Co., Philadelphia. It is the work of some of the most eminent religious writers of the day, and is richly em- bellished with mezzotints by Sartain. FRIENDSHIP’S OFFERING FOR 1848 is published by Philips & Sampson, Boston, and evinces a most deli- cate and hizhly cultivated taste in the selection of em- This is the ninth volume of the “ Friend- best. Sartain has done bellishments. ship’s Oifering,” and by tar the wonders in mezzotinting the beautiful designs of Canova, Lawrence, Court, Wright, Parris and Corbould. THE PARABLES OF OUR LORD, printed on vel- lum in gold and colors, with illuminations after the man- ner of the missals of the Middle Ages, is one of the won- The cover is carved in imitation of How such a gem can be afforded for ders of the season bronze sculpture $3.50 is one of the mysteries of book-making The publishers issue the POEMS OF HAL- LECK, with splendid steel plate embellishments and same gorgeous binding, in royal octavo, for the same low price Books of this class generally retail for double the sum. THE ILLUSTRATED WORKS OF BYRON, com- plete, is another of the splendid publications of the Ap- pletons, which astonishes every one by its splendor and its cheapness.

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72 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. The most beautiful book of the season is unquestion- ably the illustrated edition of “ Wu.i1s’s Poems,” just is- sued by Carey & Hart, in the same style as the “ Bryant” of last year. The matchless pencil of Leutze was never more felicitously employed than in these seventeen ex- quisite designs illustrative of the beautiful verse of N. Parxer WiLLis—as he now writes himself. In the whole range of art it would be difficult to find a more charming set of plates—though the engraving is not very elabo- rate, their style being sketchy and far from ambitious or finished. Ten of the engravings are by Humpureys, of London, and we consider those of “ Hagar,” “ Absalom,” “Tdleness,” as among the most perfect things of the kind ever done. The “Mother and Child” (title page) and the “Lady Jane,” by Pxass, do good justice to Leutze’s designs; and the “ Melanie” of Tucker is in the usual pretty manner of that pretty line cutter. The por- trait of the author, by Joun Curney, after Lawrence, in imitation of a tinted-paper drawing, is one of the best things we ever saw—with a flattery in the forms truly audacious—yet the sou/ of the poet shines out from this shadowy maze of lines and dots, clear and bright. Poet as he is, we are sure Mr. N. P. W. never appeared to better advantage in any lines of his own than in these charming lines of the graver poet Cheney. We perceive that the press in general are praising Mr. Tuckerman’s book upon the artists of America. It does not seem to be generally known that most of the articles in it, if not all, were originally published in the Lady's Book. Care May—We were much amused at an incident that took place on a late visit to the Cape. A lady and gentleman were walking on the beach, the former carry- ing a lap-dog. A boy ran up to them, saying—*T'll drown it for you, ma’am!”"—presuming, of course, that no lady would carry a beast for the mere love of it, and that her purpose, being so near the water, was to drown it. It is amusing at this celebrated watering-place, and we presume it is so at others, to see what attention is paid by little minds to “the lady who has her own carriage.” “ How is Fanny to-day?” says one. “She is better, and has gone to the blacksmith’s to be shod!” We found out that one of the horses, instead of a child, was the object so anxiously inquired after. “Has Flora got over her fall?” “Quite. The application of Kellinger’s Liniment, which we always carry with us, has healed the bruise.” The place where she sits on the sofa is constantly sur- rounded, and a dozen are eager to run for a glass of water if she do but whisper that she is athirst. And why all this attention? To get a ride in this same pri- vate carriage. On another sofa sits a lady neglected, an intelligent and witty female, deserted by the small fry of the parlor: but she enjoys her solitude by observing the folly of others. Cauisruenics.—Mrs. Barrett has opened the splendid rooms at the southwest corner of Twelfth and Chestnut streets, for instruction in this most useful accomplish- ment. Her classes are well filled, and her mode of in- struction gives great satisfaction. She also has an archery-room, which is well patronized. The ladies of our city will not need the aid of Master Cupid any more; they will soon be able to shoot their own arrows. Mrs. Barrett finds the beaus (bows). The Camden and Amboy Railroad Company have much improved their wharf at the foot of Walnut street. It is now the prettiest landing we have. The wharf itself is a great piece of work. It is wonderful that so few losses occur where such a quantity of baggage is ee) daily exchanged between the two cities; but the officers of this company, and all concerned, are very careful, and at the same time exceedingly polite. Our friend of the Saturday Courier calls our work “the Princess of Magazines.” Another paper, the Shield, of Snow Hill, Md., calls us “the Napoleon of publishers.” Thank you, gentlemen; royalty enough for one day. We issue our January number with the bold challenge to any of our cotemporaries to produce its equal—or we will go still further—we challenge them for the whole We are serious in this matter; we mean to pub- It will cer- year. lish such a work as cannot be approached. tainly cost us an immense sum, but we rely on our sub- scribers remitting us our dues. How can they so pro- vokingly withhold them? Surely “the laborer is worthy of his hire.” We ask attention to the embellishments of this number, also to the literary matter, our music, (origi- nal and printed separately,) our model cottages, our fashions, crochet work, &c. If the unanimous opinion of the press is any evidence of our publishing the best work for ladies in this country, we have it in the shape of some thousands of friendly notices, for which we thank them. One of them we annex. “Gopry’s Lapy’s Boox.—For the past year we have noticed this incomparable magazine every month, and have endeavored to recommend it to the people. Our small ability will not allow us to speak of it in sufficient praise. We must be allowed to say that we believe 1 to be, by far, the BEST MAGAZINE published in this or any other country. This is said from an honest conviction of the truth of our declaration, and we can cordially and cheerfully recommend it to all as worthy of unlimited confidence and patronage. It is designed for ladies of every station in life, and will equally amuse and instruct the spinster and the princess. It is calculated to interest and benefit womankind in the broadest sense of the term, and to soften down and ameliorate the asperities grow- ing out of difference in station—in a word, to blend the interests and feelings of the virtuous in one common What a delightful and holy task has Godey But we will close this piece by sisterhood. imposed upon himself! speaking of the last visitor, which has just been laid upon our table; it is not our expectation to do it justice. It contains twenty-four engravings in all, together with articles of the highest merit, and has added to its usual ample size twelve extra pages! It contains the first number of a new novel, of great promise, from the pen of Miss Leslie, denominated ‘Amelia; or, a Young La- dy’s Vicissitudes.’ Altogether, this number of ‘The Book’ cannot be excelled. By enclosing $3 to L. A. Godey, Philadelphia, the ‘Book’ will be sent for one year, together with the ‘Lady’s Dollar Newspaper, to any address. We do not ask pardon of our readers for the space we have devoted to the ‘ Book.’ "—Easton De- mocrat. Cozzen’s Hore, at West Potnt.—Next summer we shall again have the pleasure of shaking the hand of our old friend at his head-quarters at West Point. He is now erecting a spacious hotel, nearly if not quite as large as the Asior House, where all who visit him can be accom- We need not say a word ot how they will be The unanimous opinion of the traveling world modated. treated. can answer that. Mrs. Ellet is engaged in preparing for the “Book” a series of biographical notices of the distinguished wo- men of the Revolution, and she earnestly requests those who can give details of the personal history of those ladies, to send them to the publisher of the Lady’s Book.

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a! wren AA —_ o, Wome Me Me Me Meken-; biptd AGA Ogg, i Prrer’ .

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IT WAS A DREAM. tb .- ——y === fone ° 2 -6— —? Re aN ¢" 2 ———— round me hover - - - - ing an--+--+-+-- gels nan enn ee) i guard me while I slept, And through that long | —> (9-b=— b =a ——— =: Seas! ee SSS ceeatiaaal = | OS v igils kept. - f 5 - | = — -—3— t fl SY eam cea re br ose Ta eres — = r a alate uo ear = Se Cs 3—¢ iF \ : 2 e -_—S | _—_ — G ne ee =%3 1 = I=3= fee ee oS 1 —— oat Ta 5 oT 1 y ‘ SECOND VERSE. THIRD VERSE. And thou, my love, wert by my side— How blest my fate! Thou wert, my love, Thy heart was pressed to mine, Where thou shouldst ever be! Whose wildest throbs of love and joy No carking cares disturbed my soul— Were answered each by thine. I thought alone of thee. Thy cheek was nestled on my breast— *T was scarce a dream! to Heav'’n I vowed Thy arm was round me thrown. As here again I vow, W hile softly on thy loving face That never, to my dying hour, The holy moonlight shone. Pll love thee less than now.