Godey's Lady's Book 1849-07: Vol 39 Iss 1

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST. AAD DEVOTED TO MORALITY, PURE LITERATURE, FOREIGN AND DOMESTIC NEWS, AGRICULTURE, SCIENCE, ART, AND AMUSEMENT. PLOP®OL LP PPP LILLE. A MAMMOTH PAPER. PRAPRAARAARAAnnennennnnns CONTAINING MORE LITERARY AND NEWS MATTER THAN ANY OTHER TWO DOLLAR PAPER IN PHILADELPHIA~—-AND FROM ONE-FOURTH TO ONE-HALF MORE THAN THE GENERALITY OF CITY WEEKLIES. S$ .—The terms to single subscribers are $2 per annum, in advance—$3, if not paid in advance. For$5 in advance, one copy will be sent three years. _ TERMS TO CLUBS.—In order to accommodate the large number who wish to take a first class paper, but mistak- ingly think they cannot afford it, we continue the following low terms for clubs—to be sent in the city to one address, and in the country to one post-office. $5 00 per annum. 10 00 sa 15 00 ye 20 00 S Four copies, - - - - - . - - - Eight “ (and one to agent or the getter-up of the club,)_ - - Thirteen“ (and one to agent or the getter-up of the club,) - - Twenty “ (and one to agent or the getter-up of the club.) - - THREE COPIES of the Saturday Evening Post and ONE of either Godey’s Lady’s Book, Graham’s Magazine, or Sartain’s Union Magazine, for SIX DOLLARS. THREE COPIES of the Saturday Evening Post, and TWO of the Lady’s Garland, for FIVE DOLLARS. ALWAYS IN ADVANCE. The =P for clubs must always be sent in advance. Subscriptions may be sent at ourrisk. When the sum is large, a draft s ould be procured, if possible—the cost of which may be deducted from the amount. Address DEACON & PETERSON, 66 South Third street, Philadelphia. I? Editors copying the above, or who will give a fair notice of the paper, and insert our list of terms, in their editorial pny mon og be entitled to an exchange. Suchasare already entitled to anexchange for the current year, shall receive our thanks. N. B.—Any person desirous of receiving a copy of the POST as a sample, can be accommodated by notifying the publishers by letter, post-paid. LOLOL LOL OL OL OL OL OL OLD OLD OL AL OL A ie ee SCOTT’S WEEKLY PAPER THE MAMMOTH DOLLAR PAPER. A new feature has just been commenced in this elegant and excellent family Paper, in the republica- tion of the whole of MACAULAYW’S HISTORY OF ENGLAND, which will be continued regularly until the great work of the age shall be completed. The space occu- pied by the History is about equal to that used by the other weeklies for advertisements—so that sub- scribers to Scott’s Weekly Paper wil!l receive the work free of cost. TERMS FOR CLUBS. One copy, one year, . - : $1 Twenty-six copies, - : - $20 Seven copies, ‘‘ - - - : 6 Thirty-three copies, - - - - 25 Twelve copies, ‘‘ - . . . 10 Forty copies, : : . : 30 Twenty copies, ‘* - - - - 16 Fifty copies, * - - - - 35 The Lady’s Book and Scott’s Weekly Paper 1 year for $3—with the Pictorial. All persons subscribing to ‘‘ Scott’s Philadelphia Dollar Weekly Paper,’ and all those at present sub- scribers, who may renew their subscriptions, will be presented with a large and BEAUTIFUL PICTORIAL SHEET! Double the size of the Mammoth Newspapers, and containing the Largest and Handsomest Engrav- ings ever printed in the United States, with 200 gold and silver coins. Address A. SCOTT, Publisher, 115 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. x All letters must be post-paid, otherwise they are not taken from the Post-Office. — re ee ARE AGENTS AWARE That a more favorable opportunity is offered in the Lady’s Book to realize a handsome yearly income than by any other magazine in the country? It is acknowledged to be the most popular work of the day, and our terms are now even more liberal than they have been, since we have found out that our cotemporaries have altered theirs—they supposing that we, with our immense edition, could not afford as favorable terms as they could. We believe that more subscribers could be obtained for our magazine even at a less commission than any other, but we will not be undersold. We require the best of references—and, to save trouble, they should be indorsed by the postmaster of the town where the applicant resides. Address L A. GODEY, Philade Iphia. LPR FRPP LESLIE

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E. END. FROM THE §8., MOUNT VERNON, GREAT HALL AT (BUILT BY WASHINGTON.)

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OIN OId GAHL "ALUVd MY \Y QY AY ni) i) at i Y aN ine pe ari wl

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FRONT ELEVATION OF THE COTTAGE OF W. H. GATZMER, ESQ

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GROUND PLAN M. Linen closet. we N. Wash-room. Bale O. Back porch. i y ID). Por P. Oven. KE. Dining room QJ. Stew holes F. Front hall R. Boiler for clothes S. Bath tub. T. Sink. W. Force pump. X. Stairs. . - Fire- pla e. Under-draft grate. ti. Front praz H. Kitchen : ; I Hack passage. J. Sitting roon K. Bed-room L. Bath-re n. Le.

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GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK. PHILADELPHIA, JULY, 1849. —— + , THE TRAVELED MONKEYS (mona the denizens of Sharptown is a gentle- man of the bar, whom I will call Heston. He is not a Webster nor a Marshall, by a great deal; still he has proved an adept in the business of getting the people of Sharptown into difficulties with each other—or rather, of keeping them in a muss,’’ after they have been foolish enouch to disagree on questions of justice between man and man Of course, Lawyer Ileston has had his hand in the pockets of a good many of our unquiet villagers; and as that hand never with- drew itself unless the fingers were closed tightly upon something in the palm, it followed, as a natural result, that in matters worldly Lawyer Heston prospere d As is generally the case with men, the more money our lawver obtained, the more highly did : : he think of himself, and the more importance did r t he assume. It is a little curious that most peop estimate their own personal worth va money standard. Visibly apparent, year after year, was the change in our lawyer. His shoulders were drawn back farther and farther; his head became more and more erect, and his step more stately He was not h y nor supercilious to any, for that would have been against his interest; but his air of self-importance was ineffable. As might be supposed, the character of the head was impressed upon the members of Mr. Heston's tamily. He had a son named Edward, grew up and began to comprehend who, as he how greatly superior his father was to all around him, assumed to the life the air and manner of his progenitor. ‘This was so apparent to all, that Ned became familiarly known, when he was six- teen or seventeen, as the ‘* Chip’’—in other words, a “ chip of the old block.”’ Ned, as a matter of course, was sent to col- lege. At nineteen he came home from Ya changed remarkably for the worse in the eyes o the impartial denizens of Sharptown, but won derfully improved in the estimation of the elder Mr Heston Having completed his education, nothing would now do tor ung man but a European tour and as the father agreed perfectly in this matter with the son, off to Europe he started, at the age of twenty, in company with a small party fron New York ‘wo months ago, a year from the time our voung villager departed on his travels, I was sit- ting in the porch of the ** Golden Swan,’’ whe: The mail stage came dashing ul in itS usua blustering, clear-the-track style Among the passengers who forthwith alighted, was one whu instantly attracted attention 4s a rara avis in out parts. He was a tall, fair-skinned young man dressed in the extreme of fashion, and orna mented—no, disfigured—with a delicately-curlec mustache, an imperial, and an abundance oi whiskers. How one like him could grow suc! a luxuriant crop, though the soil that bore it wa abundantly stimulated with bear’s grease, Ma cassar oil and ox marrow, was the instant wor de rot every one He ste pped upon the pave nent with a dainty air, and after giving a few affected directions to a servant of the hotel walked off with a peculiar dignity of carriagé unseen before in primitive Sharptown. I exclaimed as Mine host o id the Golden Swan had taken the way bill fro: ‘* Bless us! who have we here as soon I could get my breath the driver, and was spelling out the names of tli passengers. ‘* Ned Heston, as I live !’’ fell from his lips Sure enough!" I responded, for at that mo

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ment the stranger reached the house of Mr. He ston, which from sight. stood near by, and disappeared “Ned Heston!’’ was the surprised ejaculation of one and another, who remembered the young man very well. ‘Then, as the first blush of as- tonishment wore off, there came remarks like these— ‘* Did you ever see such Ss ¢ 9°? ‘I wonder if he’s goin » shine out here in that rig ? * Oh, no; > he hasn’t had time to get it off.’ I never saw a first water dandy betore. It was soon over the village that youne Heston had come home, and there were all sorts of ex- ig rerated descriptions of his appearance. On the next morning, I was in the barber-shop, get- ting the stubble removed trom my chin, when in marches Ned, with all his foreign honors thick upon him. ‘* Bless us!’’ ejaculated a country farmer, who was submitting to the violent extirpation of a week’s growth, pushing aside the barber's armed hand, and leaning torward in his chair to make sure that his eyes did not deceive him ** Gra- cious!’’ and he sank ik again and remained motionless, while the kn # the brush finish- ed the work he had begu If Ned, in his perf self-complacency, no- ticed at a e surpris 3 1) il ce create 1, was with a fee ig of | I He swiiched iround for two or three times his rattan, drew oft surely his kid gloves, and then seating himself in an empty chair, mitted his tace to one of the junior operators of the establishment, } 1 young darkey who was not yet very familiar with the world’s great 1 **Do you want this off?"’ said Bill, the ’pren- with | brush in one hand ready to be- n, he laid his fingers upon the hairy ornament so unexpected, j thal — shat . : ' ind withal, so astound ; our young tra- veler was thrown off of his vard, and starting ul | exe Limed wit! r iasis that sent Bill half across the room—‘“‘If you touch tha you scoundrel, I'll shoot you !’’ This sudden explosion produced some little stir in the shop, as might be supposed; but Ned seemed unconscious of the excitement he had occasioned, for he ined himself composedly back, and with the most approved Parisian ‘Hist !"’ called the attention of Bill, who was in some doubt whether to fro e shop or not. > | Jandy sul Bill returned slowly, and the young dandy sub- mitted himself with as good a grace as possible to his unpracticed hands, every now and then . , encouraging the operator with a sentence like this—*‘ Are you shaving me with a handsaw ?’’ or, “* You'd be a treasure in Paris! Betore the work was done, however, the young traveler's itching desire to display him- AND LADY’S BOOK, } self overrun his discretion, and the ears of Bill, in particular, and the whole shop in general, were edified with a story of one of his adven- tures on the Continent, upon which Bill kept up a running commentary, something as tollows— ** Massy me Ki! Massy !’’ The eflect produced upon his dusky auditor Sure! Gosh! was so gratifying to Ned, that he commenced another story, in a rather louder voice, and finished it to a group of three or four who ga- thered around him as soon as he was released from the hands of Bill. , } the barber-shop became the From that time I y for our young dandy. His beard grew so rapidly that, after a week’s culti- vation, had it been permitted so long a maturity, you ¢ ould h ive begun to percelve its existence; nevertheless, it was nece ssary to have it mowed daily, and the occasion of this nece ssity furnish- ed the opportunity for Ned to astonish the green ones of Sharptown with episodes of travel that were wonderful to hear. ng of Ned at the barber-shop became a serious annoyance to many At last the daily flourishi ot the more sedate and sensible frequenters ol the establishment. His excessive vanity, and his constant magnifying of everything foreign over what was peculiar to our ewn country added to his silly appearance and disgusting aflectation, made him intolerable to not a few. Some, with less delicacy of feeling than the rest, did not hesitate to quiz him pretty broad| ut either Ned could not or would not under } The thing had gone on for some weeks, when one day, an itinerant book peddler and print seller came into my office and exposed his wares tor sale. I turned over his pictures carefully, and came upon a copy of Landseer’s admirable pic- ture of the “‘ Monkey returned from his travels. I was instantly struck with the resemblance be tween the principal character in the our Ned *“*T must ] aside picture and have that,’’ **How much is it? The price was stated, and the money paid Immediately the picture was tacked upon the wall of my office. ‘The first man who entered looked at it curiously for a few moments, and then striking his hands together, said—‘* Ned Heston, The second visitor bore the same spontaneous testimony, and so did the third and the fourth as I live! “I wish you'd give that to me,’’ said a wag rish friend. “What do you want with it ?”’ ‘I'll have it framed for Jake, the barber, t hang up in his shop.’’ “Will you ?’’ ‘Certainly I will.’ “It’s yours,’’ said I. ‘Won't somebody take ?’’ with a comical leer asked my friend

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‘No,’’ I replied. ‘He don’t take.’’ “ Others will, if he don’t; and, my word for , they'll soon enlighten him.”’ The picture was frame d and prese nted on the very next morning to Jake, who hung it up, well pleased with such an addition to his estab- lishment Curious to see the effect, I went over about the time Ned usually showed himself. He had not yet arrived, but that he was anticipated with more than ordinary interest, could be seen trom the amused faces of ail present. “What's this?’’ said I to Jake, o have seen the picture betore, and walking up to affecting not where the barber had conspicuously displayed it. Jake showed his ivory, but did not venture ipon a reply, for by this time, although innocent first, he perfectly understood the meaning of the joke being played off. “'That’s a traveled monkey,’’ remarked a cus- ymer of Jake’s. ‘“ Did you ever see one ?”’ ‘I rather think so,’’ I replied, laughing, in spite of my effort to assume a grave exterior. In this laugh, all the individuals present, including Jake and his dingy assistants, joined by a sort of contagion, “ Hush !’ All became door, and there was our young exquisite. He * some one said, in a subdued voice silent. I glanced towards the entered, bowing to such as he happened to know with a most graceful inclination, and flinging a word, affecte dly, from one to another witha cool- ness that made the familiarity half insulting long in discovering the addition Ned was not which had been made to the pictorial part of the arber’s establishment. Ah, Jake, what have we here ?”’ and he took the position of a connoisseur, and began to make in examination of the new embellishment the shop had received. Jake made no answer. In a moment, the most perfect stillness reigned in the room. “ That's a traveled monkey,’’ said a wag pre- sent, speaking with the coolness and self-com- ‘Don’t Was there mand some ot his class generally possess. you think it an admirable picture ? ever a more pertect take off?’’ Ne d, who did not see i istantly the app ition, turned to answer, when his eye detected some- hing in the faces of those present that he did not exactly understand. At this juncture, one of the barber boys, who had been screwing his face into all sorts of forms s o in order to keep the command of his risibles, “a snickered”’ right out, to use a rather inelegant but very expressive word. This was answered instantaneously by another and louder sign of inward agitation from a’pren- tice companion, and this by light gushes of smo thered laughter from one and another of the customers. As for myself, I was able to keep on a perlectly grave face. Ned looked around with an air of surprise and slight mystification, and then affecting indifle- rence, turned and recommenced his examination think light must of the print. I have suddenly him at this juncture, for he looked or two, when he faced around dawned upon only for a moment and walked away from the picture. I caught a limpse of his countenance, and saw that it was changed and fallen from its expression of self- importance. One ot the boys now snorted out with an explosion that startled all in the shop, and called forth a sharp reproof from Jake; but the boy couldn’t have helped it if he had been at the whipping-post. th That Ned now understood all perfectly, was plain from the fact that he hastily retired. He could not have been ten steps away betore a ’ shout of laughter broke forth that might have been heard for a quarter of a mile I saw nothing of our young traveler for a week and then he had so changed that I did not at first sight recognize him. Alas! poor young man! he was shorn of the hairy honors of which he had seemed so proud. The mustache, the im- perial and a part of the ample whiskers were gone; and he had rather a sheepish look, | thought, as if the consciousness of having made himself ridiculous to all in the village was ever present to his mind. Jake the having done its work so I never after saw him at barber’s. The monkey picture effectually, I felt that it would be cruel to let it remain on the barber’s wall, and so bought it send it to you, Mr. back from Jake, and now Godey. Permit an old friend and correspondent to suggest the subject as a capital one for the there may do Lady’s Book. Its appearance much good in the general, as its appearance in our quiet village has done particularly. ‘Traveled monkeys, now-a-days, are “as thick as leaves in Vallambrosa.”’ Our correspondent will perceive that we have acted upon his suggestion.—P us. Lapy’s Boox.} rs RUIN Ruins ye ca No— they ‘re monuments Of an them ient greatness Yet dwells beauty here Where Art decays, undying Nature blooms As young and fresh as ever, from among The marble columns and the porphyry tombs TM Behold! ‘tis here Ambition, Wealth and Pride Lie mouldering in the dust; the crumbled hea} A mighty nation’s record, from those times Or darkness, far beyond tradition’s reach wM. W {EYER

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OLIVIA. ¥ R. ORTON Tre noble Hudson hath e ba Then broke, as farther tre 80 r teat Where a smal! stream comes in. I'wo wands ot crimson willow— Vinding through eastern vales its troubled way And sped her bounding bark, in her retreat With melancholy din Once more upon the bill d in the bosom of the river lies, Meanwhile, the master of the reve! stoc Some twenty rods from shore With light and careless ey 4 iry island eeping. w e the skies And happy friends around merry moot Dance o'er it evermore On his high balcony Uack from the bay. and shaded with old trees, When out upon the river he espiec An antique mansion stands With tiny bark and oar Vhose creviced walls are shak in the breeze A tairy boatman, rocking on the tide And desolate iis lands. nd putting in tor shore Flere, on a time, was h 1 reve vay At the same moment, nearing his abode Full twenty years ago He saw a horseman dashing And the old mansion teemed throughout th ay With clattering speed upon the flinty roa With decent pomp and show rhe iron shoe-plates tlashing rhe sun was setting in a sea of red, e horseman paused not ti 1e reached the doc And all around w shee Then scanned, with rapid eye, When the master of the mansion t y Lid The crowd of beauty tripping on the floor l'o a girl of sweet seventeen— And said, most anxious! Olivia, dear, a boat you cannol row Where is my sister « Your best, to-day, you tried Tell me, oh, t me where I can, I ecan! asl wi make you Know Her mother, « ming. saw herin tie sea She laughingly replied A white corse tloating there Now, sir, what would you think ym the shore The revel paused—in vain each straining eye | pon the silver ba The lost one sought to find lin your tiny skill, with handy oar And then it was the truth, unwelcome Should boldly push away Broke on the master’s mind fo yonder isle of beauty, and retrea Phe music ceased—the ball broke up—pell-mell Before the stars are up?” The dancers sought the beach; Ah, I would give said he or such a feat And, as they went, their faces pictured we Chis heavy silver cup rhe fearful thoughts of each The dance went on, and light the music floated The boat was floating off upon the tide rhe g ssembly over Unoecupied and lone When sh fairest of the throng, unnoted lts oars hung useless upon either side Stole out upon the shore rhe gentle boatman gone The laughing waters ‘neath the mellow sky Mien there was wai ia! shore Shone like a bed of sari, And terchlights on the wave— Bewildering, with a sort of witchery, And the bold diver nerved him o’er and o'er Che fascinated gir rhe unfathomed deep to brave “he sought the boat, elate with joyous breath And all ht leng, upon the waters tost And pushed upon the billow His eye with terror wild, Ah! lithe thinking that the wing of death The brother led the search, and sought the lost In the foam had shaped her pillow As a mother seeks her child She gained the i and en its yellow sand And there was wailing of an aged pair Like sea ymph from the main, And sorrow that was dumb, Shook loose, and bound with »wers from the ra VW the poor brother, with a ster r t Her «ilke } ra }

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HUMOR. [ue affinity between humor and sentiment ias rarely been so exquisitely indicated as in the writings of Hood. We know of instances, in- ieed, of their coincident manifestation with equal or greater richness, but none in which they seem so closely allied and mutually active. One -eason undoubtedly is, that Hood’s literary de- velopment was an incessant series of ebullitions, istead of distinct and el borate efforts. The smile and the tear alternate at his invocation with a transition so rapid, that our sympathies, f once vielded to his page are either oppressed with the solemn associations of fe or buoyant ‘* Hero and tender passion with its absurd phases Leandet is can readily be found, and ‘* Eugene Aram’s Dream’’ touches the remorseful chord in every »wledged that the hu- nanity of the age has been more effectively stir- than the most eloquent charity sermon; yet the puns, whim- sicalities and ludicrous sketches of character irom the same pen, have identified the author's ame with the risible faculty to a greater extent, perhaps, than that of any modern writer. Every ealthy mind is bound to recognize and indulge the comic insome way or other. Popular amuse- ments, literature and social life obey this law; and where it is evaded through asceticism o1 wiliulness the inroads of care become corrod- ng and the elasticity of the spirits is destroyed. he morality of the principle is evident. Un Italians, signifies not only a } ter ¢ 1 the ; ty f 1l€@ apililty to among the a dange rous cnara er, and fristo, gad bu relish a joke is essential not only t to cood coni- panionship but to candor. It has to do with the natural sentiments as well as the Even Michael of the most dignified order, used to pe ree ptive or- gans Angelo, whose genius was ‘enjoy the harmless comedy of life. An eye for the ri- diculous, a sense of the grotesque in combination ind the quaint in character usually accompany a love of the beautiful and an admiration of the grand. Burke romped with children; the let- ters of Keats abound in vivacious allusions, and those of Cowper and Burns are often playful in their tone Humor is doubtless intended as the safety- valve of concentrative minds, and its prevalence nthe English race is owing to their reserve of character, which finds no vent through a mercu- rial temperament like the French and Italians. It has been often remarked that earnest men ex- el in humor, and we perceive how benign is the UCKERMAN law which thus tempers elements of fearful in- tensity. In social life, there are no aracters which are thoroughly satisfactory exce pt those which unite these fundamental traits, tor they only can meet the wants of both mind and heart. We need earnestness in a companion to respond ons, to recognize our serious ide as, to reassure our distrustful moods and to reason with us of “ foreknowledge, will and fate ;’’ we need a sense of the ridiculous, a playtul fancy, a capacity of abandon, to help us lighten the bur- den of care, to recreate the weary mind, to make holiday and “flit the time light as they did in the golden age.’’ Not to speak irreverently, the holiest of beings has indicated how nearly allied these primal qualities are with moral excellence and true religion. In the two monitions, when expanded by reflection to their complete signifi- cance, ‘‘ become as little children’? and “ enter 1 ¢ into thy closet,’’ we have the extremes of the unconscious and the voluntary, passivity and ac- he play and the work of the mind—the humor and the earnestness of whose joint alter- A col- d a soliloquy ot with nation are the instinct of superior natures. forest of Arden ar Hamlet represent the same thir loquyv i the dramatic Dickens is the To those whose per- truth. Of late English writers, most effective in humor. ception in this regard is keen, the most attractive passages in his writings are those frequent epi- sodes where his revels with inanimate fancy things or seizes a peculiarity of ispect or man- ner in its humorous relations. It is observable that he lingers over and returns with evident pleasure to such ideas, and dallies with them with singular vivacity. It is essential to the charm which I have at- ] lescribe lu tempted to ¢ , that a vol } , } ] ntary, complacent and easy spirit should prevail, ‘The least ap- nearance of restraint or eflort mars the design, for the very term humor signifies indulgence, the vielding to a mood and luxurious dalliance with fancy. The locomotive facilities of our times have i ted even literature with dispatch. ished a century first characteristic that strikes us When we take up a volume pul or two ago, the is a certain repose and air of leisure in the very I'he authors seem not in the least haste. much styie. mW" ] | ney write very as a country rentleman talks with his friend from town—as if desirous to prolong the rare de ts of companionship. A modern author, on the contrary, shows in his very language that he is infected with the busy and progressive spirit of the age. He dares not

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Dut presses on to the con- Pro- linger by the wayside, lusion of his task by the most direct way. lixity, digression and elaborate interludes are not tolerated unless redeemed by extraordinary ta- ent. Authors and readers, in times when lite- uture was less cultivated, had made and perused omparatively few books; they, however, made the most of them. ‘Their idiosyncrasies were ess overlaid, and the hurry of life did not pre- vent the exercise and observation of individuali- ties. This free and enjoyable way of writing doubtless leads to tedium, but it is none the less characteristic of humorists, who by nature are upt to harp too constantly on one string. ‘The est of their works does not depend on the inci- lents narrated, but on the flavor of the whole omposition, on the sp it exhales, the inge- nuity of the expressions, the knowledge of man ind nature quaintly revealed, the vein of senti- ment, the play of mirth—in a word, the humor Such is the indefinable t embodies. charm of Mackenzie ife, of Sydney Smith in wit, and of Sterne in latter in pathos, of Steele in glimpses of the combination of these elements. The has a characteristic defence of this cheerful juality—‘* Yorick had an invincible dislike and opposition in his nature to gravity—not to gra- vity as such, for when gravity was wanted, he would be the most grave or serious of mortal men for days and weeks together; but he was in enemy to the affectation of it, and declared open war against it, only as it appeared a cloak tor ignorance or for folly; and then, whenever it fell in his way, however sheltered and protected, “In the a merry heart discovered, he seldom gave it much quarter.”’ naked temper which he would say there was no danger but to itself, whereas the very essence of gravity was design, and consequently deceit; twas a taught trick to ain credit of the world for more sense and knowledge than a man was worth.”’ Two traits of Hood's humor are thoroughly English, and in a great degree original —the maginary experiences of creatures ol habit sud- denly placed in entirely novel circumstances, and the ludicrous yet natural imitation of fa- miliar letters between individuals of particular vocations. Life in England is so mechanical i¢€ society and the customs incident to a mercant so prevalent, that the very idea of a clerk trans- formed into a rural economist, or a haberdasher turned sportsman, is diverting. Hood’s pictures drawn from such inventions are singularly inge- nious. Indeed, by reason of his quick sympa- hies and alert perceptions, he vbtained humor- ous suggestions from his daily walks through the metropolis as well as from the musings of his sicK room. Such caricature sketches as the Tale of a Trumpet’’ and ‘“ Miss Killmensing and her precious bag,’ imply great observation as well as vivacious fancy; while ** ‘The School- mistress Abroad,”’ “‘ The Pugsley Papers’’ and ‘**Mr. Chubb, a Piscatory touch off the harmless extravagances of actual life with Romance,’ nimitable zest. A volume of the most exqui- e specimens both of humor and pathos, might be compiled from this writer, who left material for at least twe nty. ticles are mere jeux d’esprit, which he appropri- Many, however, of his ar- ately called Whimsicalities—an order of comic writing that may be justly said to have been in- vented by him. It is a sad necessity which compels a man of brilliant mind to coin his jokes | for bread. T'rue humor is not to be thus forced: Hood had recourse to whims—a kind of artillery. and, therefore, lighter and more available While the abundance of these prove his marvel- ous industry and the ceaseless activity of his in- finished, at genial moments, ventive faculty, he more complete and artistic emanations of his genius, which now survive, and will have a standard and endearing place in modern litera- ture. The wide than that which equally well conceived the range of no poetical mind is more Dream of the Midsummer Fairies and the lonely grief of the weary Seamstress, and could revive, with equal verisimilitude, classic associations of the fables of mythology and depict the incon- gruous passion of a poor irish amazon in search of her lost child! ———— SS 99 O—OS THE BATH OF BEAUTY. (See Plate.) We give in this number a magnificent engrav- ing—one of the best ever presented in any magazine—illustrative of Eastern life and cus- oms. The tavored child, or still more beautiful bather is doubtless some favorite sultana, for everything about her person, and the decorations f the bath, are in a style of grandeur and ele- gance—tor instance, the marble bath, the rich shawl, the fan, the chibouque, and even the or- naments that decorate her dusky maid in wait- ing. Many interesting accounts relative to the habit of bathing are to be found in the works of eastern travelers. Necessary as such a custom is in warm countries, the time is coming when the daily or semi-daily bath will be considered, even in this country, a necessary part of a lady’s duty, conducing, as it does, not only to personal ne ss, but te absolute health.

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LETTERS FROM TIMBERVILLE. I am getting tired of boarding—there are so many annoyances connected with it generally. And even in the best-regulated boarding-houses there is a lack of that pleasant home-feeling which one has in housekeeping, even though it hired house. be in a If we were determined to ‘ locate’’ as the permanently in this Until that point is decided, we shall remain with Mrs. Timbervillians say place, we should have a home of our own. Pratt, for | would rather endure a great many in- conveniences than to be changing about. I have often been amused at the frivolous causes which ) drive some persons from one boarding-house t another. I know one gentleman who never stays above a month, and seldom as long as that, at the same house. At one place he had to drink milk in his tea; he hadn't been used to it, and wouldn't At another, his nose was often of- didn’t put up with it. fended at the odor of builed cabbage; he like cabbage, Mrs most economical scale. and he wouldn't stand it. Pratt’s establishment is conducted on the She understands to per- fection the art of making much of a little. She and make a very She is a knows how to ‘‘siretch out,”’ small quantity “‘go a great ways.”’ widow of some years standing, but has not yet ceased to grieve tor her worthy husband. She is To hear her talk of him, you would suppose that all the forever expatiating on his perfections. virtues as well as talents that were ever created, were united in the person of ‘poor Mr. Pratt.’’ The grand object of her life seems to be to marry Ann brace of young ladies who expend upon their fair off her two daughters Maria and Philura, a persons the products of their mother’s thrift, and who appear to serve no other purpose in the es- tablishment than that of entertaining the young gentlemen boarders. ‘They never make their ap- pearance at breakfast, but at dinner they burst upon us in all their glory, looking as if they had spent the whole morning at the toilet. They are rather pretty girls, and with the exercise of a to- lerable taste in dress, would look very well; but they are always arrayed in showy frocks, gaudy and, to crown all, sashes, flaring neck-ribbons, some sort of trumpery head-dresses, and all of different colors, so that it really makes my eyes them. The head-dresses, above my especial abomination. ache to look at all, are I can scarcely keep my fingers off them, they make me so nerv- ous. But they are young ladies to whom it would not be safe for a plain person like me to offer a suggestion on the subject of dress. They take but little render my abode with then notice of me, and make no efforts to 1 pleasant, but reserve TIMBERVILLE. all their attentions for the young men, who always find them ‘very easy to get acquainted with.”’ That part of their time which is not devoted to dressing, calling and shopping, is spent in drum- ming the piano, on which they do great execution and in embroidering slippers or netting purses for the gentlemen single gentlemen Wilkins, a rich old widower, very cross and very asthmatic There are, at present, six boarding in Mrs. P.’s family—Mr. —an object of tender solicitude to Ann Maria, who takes a vast deal of pains to make him com- fortable, though he does not appear to appreciate it; Mr. Stivers and Mr. Green, a couple of mer- chants’ clerks, with nothing remarkable about them excepting standing collars so stiff that they cannot turn their heads without Mr. own turning their bodies also; Hocum, a lumberman who minds his business and Mr. a dealer in everything, an inventor of a never savs Bunker, a sort of ‘* Jack at al! anything; trades,”’ great variety of useless articles, for which he gets patents—he also fills the office of reporte? to the neighborhood, and brings home every day all the scandal and gossip afloat in the village ;— and Monsieur Laborde, a French teacher, full of whims and oddities, such as rolling his hair in papers over night to ake them curl; exercising his lungs out of his window, to the great alarm of passers-by; cooking all sorts of ridiculous messes on the top of the parlor stove; wearing a great many brown paper soles in his slippers and spreading them out on the rug every even- ing to dry—and a hundred other peculiarities Besides the two daughters, Mrs. Pratt has also a son, a boy of some twelve years old, who, tor want of proper training, had grown to be, when we first came here, a complete little nuisance His sisters considered him a plague and a tor and his mother declared, with a ruefu head, that she didn’t she should do with Joe, he had got to be so un ment; shake of the know what manageable—no comfort to her at all, so diflerent from what his poor father was. These lament u- ‘ ions, Which were usually delivered in the boy’s presence, did not contribute materially to his In fact, he The boarders were improvement. was universally dis liked. unanimous in the opinion that he was destitute of one single reé He played all sorts of tricks upon them, and they never passed him without deeming quality. a kick or an oath. Particularly obnoxious was he to Monsieur Laborde, who pronounced him ‘one leetle diable.’’ When we came much to Mrs. Pratt's, we heard so a} > : k nes thar avout Joes precot ious wickedness tirat

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10 GODEY’S MAGAZIN we almost feared to be with him. One morning, a few days after our arrival, as we were going through the hall to breakfast, Monsieur rushed from his room just ahead of us, and with a ferocious aspect, hurried e encountered down the stairs. On his way, | Nancy, the chambermaid, going up to “ regu- late. ** Nancie,”’ the palm of his hand, “Te: wag in her—‘‘oh, that’s a pickaze.’ = Peek-axe,"’ down; and, as he proce € de d, he ke pt re peating— ” said he, showing her something in “‘what you call dis ?”’ said Nancy, who has a spice of the ’ said the Frenchman, throwing it ‘peek-axe, peek-axe,’’ so as to impress it firmly When he reached the break- fasi-room, where the rest of the boarders were Pratt, at the head of the upon his memory. assembled, and Mrs. table, was just beginning to make the coffee, he bounced in, and without any of his usual French fuss, shouted—‘‘ Madame Pratt, I have sufler Pee k-axe! Pee K-axe ’ one grand insult! Sho have insult me in ma chambre. ! It is one mise- rable shild, dat Sho.’ “The dear me exclaimed Mrs. Pratt, ‘“‘what shall I do with that boy? He'll be the What has he been doing death of me yet. now ?”’ ; continued mon- If I could keel ** He have insult me ver bad,’ sieur. ‘It is one leetle diable. him, I would be satisfait.’’ ‘* That I should live to see the day!’’ groaned Mrs. Pratt. ‘‘ Pray, what has he done, Mr. La- borde? I'll punish——’’ *“* What have he done ?”’ ‘‘He have done plentie, te miserable—he have said the Frenchman. trow more as five hondred peek-axe in te win- dow of ma chambre. While I shave ma barbe, I understand a noise by the window; one mo- ment apres, I am couvert de peek-axe.”’ exclaimed the distressed mother. What would poor Mr. ** Pickaxes!’’ ‘Forever and ever! Pratt say ?”’ * Pickaxes !’ It can’t be so cried the gentlemen. ‘“ Impos- sible! ae ‘Do you not believe that I say ?’’ demanded “Well, den, come to ma chambre, and you shall see.’’ monsieur, gesticulating violently. So we all, excepting Mrs. Pratt, whose feel- ings would not allow her to move, followed monsieur to his room, where we found Nancy, with a dust-pan and wing, busily engaged in brushing up a quantity of small shot, with which Joe had besieged the French fortress. “There,” said parlez-vouz, “you can see for yourselve; peek-axe, plentie peek-axe.”’ The boarders raised a tremendous roar at monsieur’s expense, in the midst of which Nan- cy made a rapid exit. ‘The Frenchman was fu- riously angry at being laughed at, and fearing that something serious might come of it, I retreated to my own quarters. I believe that only two or three of the boarders re'urned to the table, so that Mrs. AND under the same roof BOOK. LADY’S Pratt saved a good part of the breakfast to warm up the next morning. After this performance, my husband proposed seeking another boarding-house, as there was no telling how soon Master Joe might begin to play off his pranks upon us. But I objected to remov- ing, and begged him to leave me to manage Joe. To tell the truth, I had a sort of sympathy for the child, to which, perhaps, certain recollections of my own juvenile experience contributed in some degree. Be that as it may, I felt adesire to know more of the unpopular boy, and to discover, if possible, whether there was any good in him. A day or two after this affair, at the tea-table, Mr. Bunker pulled out of his pocket a dirty piece of paper, on which was scratched, in charcoal, a profile considerably resembling his own, which is distinguished by a very lung nose and huge whis- kers; and holding it up befure Mrs. Pratt, ex- claimed— ‘Look o’ there, ma’am !—that’s Joe’s work! I found it stuck up on my store, right in plain sight. If that boy ain't a fit subject for the House of Refuge, I don’t know who is !”’ ** Forever and ever !’’ cried Mrs. Pratt. ‘‘ That I should live to hear of his doing such a thing! What is that child a coming to, after all my faith- fulness too! Why, I’ve wrestled in prayer for him hours together, and a’most whipped the skin off his back, and all for nothing! What would his poor father say ?’’ &c. While Mrs. Pratt was groaning and lamenting, the work of art was handed round, and elicited various comments from the beholders. The young ladies declared that, if they were Mr. Bunker, they wouldn’t care a cent about it, for it didn’t look a bit hke him. ‘*T don’t care a cent about it,’’ **only I'd like to have the handling of that boy.’’ said Bunker; Monsieur, who was still smarting under the pickares, pronounced it a ‘‘ grand insult.’’ But the other young men, always delighted at achance to teaze one another, thought it ‘‘a_ pretty fair likeness.’’ ‘It’s Bunker,’’ said Mr. Siivers; ‘fonly more so.’’ ‘* Précisément,’”’ said mon- sieur, beginning to relish the joke, and glad of an opportunity to laugh at Bunker. ‘* Precisement —it is the nose of Mr. Bunker a leetle more long, and the whiskers of Mr. Bunker a leetle more big.’’ Bunker looked as if he wished he had not ex- hibited the likeness, since it had been the means of ‘‘ getting the rig on him,”’ as they call it here. But he was somewhat mollified by Mrs. Pratt’s assurance that she should punish Joe severely. In the evening, my room being very warm, I had thrown open the door, and sat meditating upon when | heard Mrs. Pratt in the dining-room dealing with that young Joe and his performances, gentleman in a most summary manner; scolding him at a terrible rate, and interspersing her lec- ture with frequent cuffs on the ears. ‘You miserable young one!"’ said she

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ErTERS FROM “You'll be the death of me yet, I know you will —(cuff )—you’re all the time a doing something so awful wicked—(cuff What did and make Mr. Bunker’s likeness for, say ??’—(cuff.) oo said Joe. ‘* He and nobody you go Cause he misused me,’’ don’t treat me like a human being; else don’t, neither.”’ ‘* Well, you don’t act like a human being,’’ cuff; ‘‘and you What did you want to draw that shameful profile for—say ?”’ and said his mother, with another ought not to be treated like one. she administered three successive cuffs. ‘*T tell you I did it because he misused me,”’ said Joe. ‘‘He knocked me off his store steps on to the ground, when I wasn’t a doing any- thing ’’ ‘* Yes—I’ll warrant you wasn’t a doing any- thing,’’ said his mother; ‘* you ain’t never a do- ing anything, you good-for-nothing, lazy, idle, lit- tle wretch! You'll never be nobody — you'll grow up a miserable vagabone! And what would your poor father say if he knew how you wasa breaking my heart every day ?—(several cuffs. So now, just take off your boots, and go ‘long to- bed ; and if ever I hear of your drawing any more profiles, I'll give it to you about east !”’ the cuffs alike upon The scolding and seemed to make no impression Joe. His ears were, doubtless, inured to both. As he was passing my door on the way to his own dormitory, I him. He half paused, and was going on, called turtively over his shoulder, and said— called when I him again. He stopped, looked ‘“*T hain’t done anything to you, have I ?”’ Without ‘*Come here, Joe, He hesitated a moment, and then, reas- sured by my countenance, with a look of bewil- noticing his question, I repeated, I want to show you some- thing.’’ dered astonishment, advanced into the room. A new magazine, containing several fine engravings, lying | the table. I ope ned it. said & ‘*T believe you are fond of pic- was yy me on "7,"" tures; here are some good ones that I think you would like to look at.’’ He came forward and looked at the plates; but it was some time before I succeeded, by talking about the engravings and pointing out their merits, in making him feel at ease. After he had recovered from his surprise, he became quite interested in the pictures, rubbed off his dirty fingers on his still dirtier trowsers, and began to turn over the leaves himself. ‘** This book,’’ said he, ‘‘looks just like one that Mr. Green gave Philura; but the are different. She wouldn’t let me look at it, but I got hold of it once when they'd gone away, and pictures looked at it ever so long, and she don’t know it yet.”’ ‘* Joe,’ said I, ‘* you remind me of my nephew Johnny. You are just about his age and size. Johnny is very fond of pictures, and he draws them too. Do you ever draw pictures, Joe ?”’ ‘“*Me!"' said Joe. ‘‘ No, not good ones; I don’t know how.’”’ TIMBERVILLE. 11 ** Would you like to learn to draw?” said I. ’ “Gracious! I couldn’t learn,’’ said he. ‘Why could you not learn ?’’ I asked. ‘*O because I can’t learn anything,’’ the child, with a very decided look. replied ‘* Do you go to school ?’”’ I inquired. ** Not now,’’ said Joe. ‘‘ I’ve been to school ; but the master turned me out because, he said, I couldn’t learn anything if he should try to flog it into me till dooms-day.’’ ‘*But would you like to learn to draw if you could ?’’ asked I. “Yes, I would most plaguily,’ **T always thought I should like to.’’ ’ replied Joe. I knew the boy's capacity, from the ‘‘ charcoal sketch"’ of Bunker’s head, which really pessessed a good deal of character; quite as much as the original—so I said— ‘I think you could learn, Joe. If you havea mind to try, I will teach you.’’ The child looked up suddenly, and after re- garding me a moment with an expression ol won- der, said— ‘* Are you in earnest, Mrs. Waters ?”’ ‘*Certainly,’’ said I. ‘‘I used to like very much to teach Johnny, and I will be glad to teach you.”’ I then took from a portfolio one of my drawings, and asked him if he would like todraw like andadog. Joe wa he would give anything to know how to make l told every morning, and I would give that. It wasarough sketch of some children s delighted with it; and said sucha picture. him to come to my room him lessons. ‘*O how I wish sa d he. ‘You will though ?’’ I could come—but I darsent—mother ‘Il whale me ifI do. She says I sha’n't go into the board- ers’ rooms at all.”’ ‘But if I she ?”’ ‘I don't sorrowfully. invite you she’ll not object, will know,’’ said Joe, shaking his head, ‘*T guess she’d whale me anyhow ; but no matter if she does—I’m used to whalin’. “O no, really unwilling, [ wou But I think that if I ask her per- mission to teach you, she will grant it. I shall go down presently and speak to her about it ; and Joe,’’ said I ‘if your mother were : I 1 not have you come on any account. if she consents, you may come in to-morrow morn- ing at o’clock. And remember, Joe, you must have very clean hands, so as not to soil the ten paper—Johnny was always particular to wash his hands very clean when he was going to draw. And now you may go to bed. Good night, Joe.’’ Mrs. Waters,”’ Joe. “I hope mother ’ll say I may come.’’ After Joe had retired, I went down stairs and I told her that I thought Joe ‘Good night, said spoke to Mrs. Pratt. had quite aturn for drawing, and with her permis- I would like to give him lessons. She was sion rather alarmed at first, and said that she wasn’t in the habit of taking anything but money for board. But when I assured her that it was for pleasure, not for pay, that I wished to teach Joe, the matter

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12 ;ODEY’S MAGAZINE assumed quite a different aspect in her eye, hough her astonishment was evidently increased. She freely consented, though she could not im- would afford Joe. She never could do She was completely discou- igine what pleasure it me to try to teach such a child as anything with him. raged him. the world, too, that he wasn’t a better boy, con- Nobody Very about It was the strangest thing in sidering how faithful she’d been to him. could say he’d been ruined by indulgence. true, nobody could. As [ was returning to my room, I perceived the form of Joe emerging from a small passage at the end of the hall. ig the novels say,) and holding up his trowsers He was partially disrobed, with both har ds ‘* What did she say ?’’ inquired he, eagerly. ‘She says that you may come,’’ I replied. ‘*Good !’’ shouted Joe, juite forgetful of the office they were performing. clapping his hands, ‘Good ![—then she can’t whale me; and when I an get along without being whaled, I'd rather.’’ The next came Joe, with a pair of hands that fairly shone had morning, at ten o’clock precisely, rom the effects of the scouring which he riven them. said I; ‘‘ I’m glad to , you punctual: a great deal ‘Good morning, Joe,’’ see depends upon punctuality.” It was a rare thing for poor Joe to be praised, ind his eyes sparkled with pleasure. ‘To shorten my narrative, Joe’s progress in drawing was ra- pid beyond my anticipations—never was pupil more docile. Gradually, I added a few more ranches, and he has entered with alacrity into every study that I proposed, though he seems to prefer drawing to anything else. Unbounded was the astonishment of his worthy mother at my wished that poor Mr. Pratt was live to The boarders, too, when they discovered that I had taken Joe under my patron- re, ceased to abuse him, and he has consequent- ly left off his annoying tricks. Monsieur success. She see it. Even illows that there is a ‘‘ grand changement in Sho.”’ And I find the hour which I daily devote to him more than repaid by the affection of the 1itherto neglected child for me—his first friend— the first one who taught him that he was neither 1 fool nor a wretch. In short, Mrs. Pratt begins to think that her faithfulness will be rewarded, her prayers will be answered, and that Joe will be something after all. Evening—Mary Willis has sent me this after- noon a little piece for our next literary circle. I am one of the appointed readers for the occasion, and Mary is too diffident to read her own produc- Here is an extract from it: to be alone—alone in the morning tions. ‘*T love with the trees, and the flowers, and the birds. I am not alone then—they are all so friendly to me, and talk more kindly with me than any human The waving trees whisper to me. The their bright faces pleasantly to friend. flowers turn up AND LADY S BOOE. greet me. And the sweet birds seem to be sing- ing solely for my pleasure. ‘*I love to be alone in the night—alone with the clouds, and the stars, and the beautiful moon. The wondrous stars! how gently they look down on me. The clouds, too—they are for me so many good and wonderful sermons, full of ever new and ever varying thoughts. Often I watch them gradually folding, leaf after leaf, over the But darker and heavier they grow, till her light is and I watch and wait in the face of the moon in soft and dreamy beauty. completely hidden ; darkness and long to see again the face of the fair planet. ‘Thus, often the joys and the loves of earth us and the haven on our eyes should ever be fixed. Very beautiful they come between which are at first, like the light clouds before the moon, and the face of our Father is not wholly hidden from us. But gradually they fill our vision. They shut out the light of the better world, and we are left in darkness, to grieve and think how much dearer than all earthly delights is one ray from the Sun of Righteousness.’’ Mrs the circle, accompanied by a note, saying, that ‘“my distinct enunciation would enable me to do Bolton. also, has sent me an article for better justice to her production than she could woe herseil I will give it to you entire, as I know she would not object to being ‘‘ extensively pe- rused.’’ ‘* How delightful to the satiated mind in an un- genial soil is converse with a kindred literary spirit! This remark is promulgated by the re- collection of a circumstance which transpired to me once while I was sojourning at Saratoga Springs for the establishment of my health, which had become undermined by excessive reading. ‘It was on a resplendent day in August, that I was meandering in a delicious grove of pines in the vicinity of Congress Spring, when I perceived converging towards me a tall and elegant young man, with a rifle under his arm. When he per- ceived the fair occupant of the forest, he bowed gracefully and was diverging onwards. But be- ing excessively struck with his highly intellectual countenance, [ was desirous of entering into con- versation with him, and remarked— ‘** *Seeing you, sir, with your rifle in hand amid this wilderness of trees, reminds me forcibly of that celebrated line of Shakspeare— gcer’s bent the tree’s inclined.’ ” ‘* He paused, and regarded me with evident It was obvious that I was the first astonishment. After a mo- literati he had met at the Springs. f g ment he smiled, and remarked— ““* And I am here, as the same poet farther observes— ‘To teach the young idea how to shoot.’ ‘*From this commencement, our conversation

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MY ANGEL very naturally fell into a highly intellectual strain. I never was more delighted, and the bewitching stranger appeared equally so. He drew out my conversational powers on a great variety of sub- jects. I think I was never more animated. I talked enthusiastically of my favorite authors, and he asked me a multitude of questions—I re- gret that I disremember the most of them at this remote period. His conversation clearly evinced that he was deeply imbrued with a poetic tem- perament. He was evidently quite carried away with me, and actually laughed outright several times in his delight at encountering an individual of a kindred spirit. He repeated several stanzas of exquisite poetry, highly complimentary to me, which were evidently suggested impromptu on the spur of the moment. Our interview was pro- longed until the concentrating shades of evening warned us to return to our respective abodes. When we reached the ‘ United States Hotel,’ he bowed with superhuman grace, and was turning to ascend the piazza, when I remarked that it would be a source of intense satisfaction to me to WIFE AND 13 CHERUB BOY. possess his card. He turned his refulgent eyes upon me, and laying the forefinger of his right hand gracefully beside his nasal organ, said, with an expression which I shall never forget, ‘ Ma- dam, I am incog.’ And bowing again with re- doubled elegance, he receded up the long vista of the piazza. I have never beheld the unknown literati since; but I have always labored under a firm persuasion that he was none other than a well known celebrated poet.’’ I fear greatly that I cannot “ do justice’’ to Mrs. Bolton’s article. I have half a mind to get upa cold and sore throat for the occasion, which will enable me to decline the honor. But in that case I must decline Masy’s too. What shall I do? I'm ina quandary. Joe and I are going to hive a fine ramble over the hills this evening. He is waiting for me on the piazza below, and I know, by a sort of shuf- fling stamp which he is performing, that he begins to grow impatient. So I'll e’en close my long- enough letter and relieve him. FP. wm. W. MY ANGEL > WIFE AND CHERUB BOY. BY LEWIS J CIST. THOUGH poor in meaner wealth, kind Heaven Two priceless gems to me hath given: Chiefest of all that’s worth in life Is Heaven’s own gift—an angel wife; Next cherished, the loved pledge she brings, Waking new chords of the heart strings, When from her life another springs! My muse, who hath been idle long, Essays to-night to weave a song; Be these the themes her powers employ— My angel wife and cherub boy. My angel wife! Oh! by that word What founts of feeling deep are stirred! My angel wife! sure better, dearer, Was never loved by man sincerer; Mote worthy of his love, by Heaven Was never wife to mortal given, Since man was forth from Eden driven; And when shall fail my love for her, This throbbing pulse must cease to stir; The deep devotion of a life Is tribute faint to such a wife! My cherub boy! the phrase, "tis true, Is to my ear still strangely new; Bat few short weeks above his head Of young existence here have sped, Yet, of my very self a part, Hath he not right to share my heart? VOL, XXXIX.—2 enn ns My beautiful! my cherished son, My first born, and my only one, How can I gaze thy face upon, Nor fee! a father’s pride and joy To call thee mine—thou cherub boy! My wife and boy! mysterious tie Of nature’s framing, infancy ! Which binds in union yet more near Two that already were so dear: For, as we gaze upon our son, And see us twain there blent in one, Ere his own welcome he can make The stranger to our hearts we take, And love him for each other's sake! Dearer by far to me than life That cherub boy and angel wife! My wife and boy !— though absent, they Are with me yet by night and day ; To guard my very thoughts from ill Their memory is a presence still! My every walk their steps attend ; In all my dreams their loved forms blend; For them my nightly prayers ascend ; And if I bless my God for life, It is that I have such a wife, And that He’s given, to crown the joy, With such ‘a wife, my cherub boy Cineinnan, 13419

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THE MIDNIGHT VIGIL. BY GRACE GREENWOOD. Trey say a tempest is abroad to-night— Through storm, and darkness and cold, heavy clouds, They tell me of its fearful sights and sounds, Batiling its way toward heaven !—its weary way, Of driving rains, the rush and wail of winds, Where, ’mid the conflict soon o’ercome, it falls, The plunge of torrents down the mountain side, Swept down the skies by some relentless power! The far-off boom of thunder, or the crash But peace, my soul!— He liveth yet, who looked And jar of the near burst—the lurid track On woman’s grief, and “ wept,” e’en while his voice Of the quick lightning leaping down the skies! Rebuked the worm, and called the wasting dead, In life and freshness, forth into the day! But deeper midnight and a colder gloom Who took the Jewish maiden by the hand, Enwrap my life ;— within my bosom reigns And, with one word, gave back to mortal life A wilder, sterner strife, while bows my head, A spirit wandering in the deathless land !— Bared to the peltings of a mightier storm! To lose the memory of her hour of heaven The hour is nigh at hand—the hour that oft In the sweet sadness of an earthly lot! Darkened my childhood’s dreams in nights of fear— Whose icy thought has had strange power to stay Once more my soul lifts up its bitter ery, The bounding pulse of joy since first my lips The fast outpouring of its grief and fear! Essayed to lisp the most belovéd name Once more falls at Thy feet, and grasps Thy robe, Vainly my soul hath struggled—life’s best joy And will not let Thee go—Master of Life! From her close, passionate clasp is torn away! Oh! by the memory of her love whose eyes Her deepest, tenderest, thrice blesséd love, Looked tender adoration on Thee first, A holy lamp upon a sacred shrine, Who warmed Thee at her bosom, when the airs Is dying out upon this midnight air! Of life’s first morning breathed upon Thy form, That soul, so strong with hope and high resolve, And Bethlehem’s dews made coolness round Thy rest; Brave and exultant once, grows faint and shrinks, Oh! by that love, still faithful when the child Now while the wine-press of a mortal grief Put on the name and presence of the God, Her steps are treading, painfully and slow! And went forth, bearing on his mighty heart The heart that once unfolded into life The crime and death and sorrow of a world ;— A glowing chalice for its summer sweets, Sull true ‘mid want, and wrong and jeering scorn, A glad, wild flower, that only looked to heaven And hate’s mad tempest beating on Thy life, For dew and sunshine, and smiled back its praise, To that dread hour when heaven was veiled in gloom, That drank in freshness with the morning hours, And nature trembled and cried out in fear! And swayed to pleasant airs the livelong day, And by Thy human love, divinely sweet, Now bruised and broken, bleeds itself away, W hich yearned for her caress to comfort Thee Earth cold beneath and heaven al! dark above In thy long exile from thy heavenly home; This voice hath grown a stranger to mine ear— Which, in the last hour, lived upon thy lips Faltering and low its words, half drowned im tears, ¢ In words of tenderness, and from thine eyes Words that of late such merry changes rung. Struggied through mists of death in mute farewell! A frost-like pallor fallen on cheek and lip Oh! by Thy love, Thy sorrow, and Thy pain— Hath killed their redness—and the eyes that smiled By all the tears Thou ’st shed for human wo, And looked out gladness from their deepest depths, Let the imploring passion of my soul Grow wild and darken with a great despair! Come up before Thee, at this midnight hour! 3reak not “the bruiséd reed,” most merciful! Silent I sit amid the waste of grief, Stay Thou the bleeding of the wounded heart! The desolation, the tempestuous gloom, Give back its dearest treasure even now! The deep convulsion of my inmost life, Draw near, Oh Lord of Life! and gently take Save when a prayer of sternest agony, The hand of our belovéd in Thine own, Like some strong bird, goes forth amid the strife, And say to her “Arise!” a SONNET.—APOLLO. BY WM. ALEXANDER. Resounding, till the Muses, every one, Throng round to worship at his feet divine, Who wears the laurel on his radiant head— His inspiration rules their tuneful nine; Fiora had flung her fairest flowers around The founts and grots of Tempe’s lovely vale; The Loves were sporting on the joyous ground, And echoed merry laugh o'er hill and dale; When, lo! descending from a silvery cloud— Their airy dance is ever by him led; His errand o’er—with ease he floats away, To come when Mora unfolds the golden gates of day. His countenance resplendent as the sun— Apollo comes; his golden harp aloud 14

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THE BY KATE HALL, CHAPTER I Soft as her climate, sunny as her skies, Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes.” Byron. DotoriteE FerNanpeEz DE PeXa Fior was a perfect Juno in her time. There was nothing the Venus de Medici about her; hers was not the mere cold perfection of form and feature; there was the warmth of a living beauty about her vo- luptuously developed figure, and her majestic, noble bearing seemed almost to command admira- tion, and even homage. Her features were Span- ish; but their beauty—the beauty of the noble soul which ever lit them up. Her eyes (I doubt not many re- 1? rie s collect their power) were piercing as the eagle’s, and, at times, to use an expressive French phrase, de feu.’ The shrewd or fierce in their look, but a piercing bril ‘ étincellaient re was nothing liancy which seemed in an instant to search the depths of your soul; and yet those eyes, so quick in their lightning play, could wear a look soft as lewy moonlight, when the subduing emotions of love or pity swept o’er her soul. Dolorite was alone in her father’s house, and In her he saw perfected the charms of a beloved wife, who now, he devoutly the pride of his life. believed, reigned a saint in Heaven; and his man- ners towards his beautiful daughter were tinged with a species of love-like assiduity, refined and dignified by an air of parental authority. His eyes followed her every movement with admiration and pride, and he seemed to drink his only joy from her beaming face and cheerful accents; while she seemed to have a heart for no one but her father, and while she ruled him, yielded always submis- sively to his wishes. Dolorite had a sister; but she, marrying at a very early age, had removed with her husband to France before the death of her mother, and thus Dolorite was left the sole consoler of her father’s grief, and almost the only object of his tender love. It was not strange that so magnificent a beauty as Dolorite should have many lovers, but it was rather strange that with her impulsive, passionate heart, she had not yet succumbed to the power of the arch little god. Perhaps she preferred the homage of the crowd to the silent devotion of one true heart; perhaps she dreaded to give up the excitement of girlish conquests for the less excit- Be nay, Dolorite had a heart, however much her dis- ng but deeper joys of married life. that as it arded suitors might be supposed to doubt it, and of no description could convey an idea of OF WIDOW. NEW ORLEANS one capable of the most ardent attachments. She was no coquette; she never falsely encouraged a suitor that she might parade his devotion before the world, or that she might add one other name to the list of those she had brought to the climax of a declaration; she could not descend to the Those who had hazarded the important question—and be it said to petty meanness of such arts. her credit, they were but few—did so in very des- ) peration, desiring at once to know the worst; or, ‘hoping against hope,’’ that one so uniformly calm and proud in her bearing towards all who approached her, might conceal a little penchant for themselves in particular in the inmost recesses of her heart. ll fol- lowed in her train, however—some, because they Many of her luckless suitors sti could not break the chains that bound them will- ing slaves to her beauty, and others because they hoped to have their persevering eflorts at last crowned with success: perhaps all were encou- raged by the hope that she would at last be in- But Dolorite, like the queen of night, moved on in her placid dig- duced to relent in their favor. nity, undisturbed by the clouds of hopeless passion which might lower over her attendant satellites, and shedding the light of her entrancing smiles on all alike. not always to last—Don Juan was not to remain always the s This, however, was ile occupant of his daughter’s heart. A young Englishman, as proud as she, and as unfathomable, after repeat- advanci and receding, thereby causing ealy Dolorite to suffer the same pangs she had so often unconsciously inflicted on others, was at last sur- his forthwith lifted to Love’s seventh heaven by hear- prised into a confession of passion. He was ing that it was returned. It was soon ascertained that the proud beauty was at last won, and the train of disconsolate lovers dispersed, either to dreary solitudes, or to seek less scornful fair ones. Dolorite’s was a happy wedding day. ‘‘ Well, are not all wedding days happy ?’’ ‘They should be, dear reader ;—but we mean that there were no tears shed on this wedding day. ‘The bride paced the broad aisle of the cathedral with thoughtful, serious mien; but no tear rested with dew-droy brightness on the rose of her cheek, nor dimmed the flashing brilliancy of hereye. What reason was there for weeping? Had she not always been happy? One dark cloud of sorrow, it is true, had lowered upon her tender girlish years, when her gentle, beloved mother was withdrawn to realms of higher bliss, leaving two sorrowing, 15

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16 GODEY’S devoted hearts in the dreary home where she had ever been as a cheering light, an inexhaustible fount of happiness. It was long before that dark cloud was pierced by a single ray of cheerfulness ; but gradually it was dispersed, and as Dolorite filled so effectually the place of the cherished one, both father and daughter, as the years moved slowly on, were enabled piously to rejoice that she was already in the enjoyment of a bliss which this world cannot give. Yes, why should she weep ? She saw in imagination a spiritual form, clad in angel garments, bending tenderly over her with blessings on its lips; and feeling this spiritual pre sence, she wept not fora mother’s spoken blessing. She turned her loving eyes on her devoted father, strong in health, and in the hale beauty of his prime, and she thought of the long years of quiet, peaceful content to be shared with him; with fluttering heart she sought the ardent gaze of the newly beloved one, and she felt that the only change was one rich with additional happiness. There was to be no severing of home-knit ties, no tearful separations ; her life was to glide on as be- fore in her father’s house—the dear old house that had witnessed her birth, the innocent delight of her infant years, and her gradual growth into beau- tiful womanhood. Why should she weep? All was bright before her—a never-ending vista of years fraught with happiness. What a blessing that the future was veiled from her sight! “The futare, that sweet world which is hope’s own, Lay fair before.’ lor five years Dolorite lived in the enjoyment of a happiness which is rare in this miserable life ; but the sixth anniversary of her happy wedding- day found her widowed and fatherless! Both husband and father had been consigned, in one short year, tothe cold, dark tomb, and Dolorite sat a sorrowing and changed woman in the dreary house, whose very walls had become almost hate- ful to her. this severe blow—so many years of an almos Dolorite was not very patient under t in- toxicating blisshad net strengthened and prepared her for the harsh winds of adversity. With her husband's miniature pressed to her bosom, she would sit for hours in the silent agony of grief— tears rarely dropped from her burning eyes, but deep groans would burst with a startling sound from her laboring bosom; her breathing would be checked, and the pearly teeth pressed nervous- ly over the nether lip until the blood seemed ready to start from its bruised surface. The flashing light of her eye had given place to a dim look of despair; her round form had shrunk, and her buoyant step become slow and tottering; her gui- tar, that ancient consoler of her girlish griefs, lay What had she to do with music ?’—were not her heart-strings shattered ?— neglected in its case. her own voice, when she was forced to speak, had a discordant sound to her ear; there was no more harmony, no more beauty, no more love in MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. ~ ~~ the world for her. Why should she live ?—she had naught to live for! Naught to live for? A slight boy creeps slowly up to her side, and laying his little hand on hers, looks askance, with a troubled smile, into the sorrow-clouded face that was wont to beam so joyously on him. ° ‘* My boy!’’ she whispers, in sobbing accents, and clasps him to her bosom, weeping copious tears. Dolorite has something to live for. Her boy isa strong tie to keep her still with the living: his love will relieve the aching void in her heart, and his childish prattle call back the old familiar smiles to her face. CHAPTER II. “ We are the unwilling sport Of circumstance and passion.”— Shelley Gentle reader, have you ever visited New Or- leans ?—and have you ever gone into one of those old-fashioned houses which look so strange to then. The sé northern eyes? Come with me, massive door is ajar; we will enter monie.”’ Be not afraid of striking against anything in this long, dark corridor. That sans cere- your toot is acarriage standing there covered up under its linen cover—the corridor answers for carriage- house, as well as being the only entrance for everything under the sun, from a fashionable lady to a load of coal. Now we emerge into the light of a wide, square court; in its centre are romping a trio of negro children. How sleek, fat and hap- py they look! One, a girl, with a large piece of bread and butter in her hand, dances around and around with a boy, who blows with all the strength of his lungs on a tin trumpet, all for the amuse- ment of a half naked little baby, who, grinding its legs in the dust until they are almest white, sits crowing its delight, and divides its attention be- tween iis dancing entertainers and a piece of fat pork, with which one hand is armed. A negro child’s capacity for eating is wonderful; its appe- tite, apparently, can never be satiated, nor its stomach filled—it revels in filth and fat pork. The court is not very clean—how can it be with such occupants ?—a set of indolent, filth-loving negroes, who, in spite of the suggestions, or commands, or even scoldings of an indulgent mistress, are so wedded to their slatternly habits that, at last, she is, in pity to herself and her lungs, compelled to give up to the reign of filth. She cannot change her set of servants for others, for it is hardly pro- bable she would be benefiied by the change ; and they are old family servants, who, perhaps, minis- tered to the wants and pleasures of her infant years, and with a kind indulgence she bears with them as long as possible. Well. since we are invisible, let us ascend to the second story. Quite large and spacious apart- ments, and fitted up in a taste that seems to con- sult comfort more than mere beauty or show.

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THE Tread softly, for we enter madame’s private sit- What a rich, mellow light all around! Books, music, drawings, flowers, and some deli- ting-room or boudoir. the rose-colored curtains shed on cate embroidery, strew madame’s table; her gui- tar, leaning on that ottoman, appears to have been just lifted from her knee, and it seems as if a faint sound of music yet lingered through the hushed apartment; and here comes warbling a little air from the last opera. It is our beautiful Dolorite ! her weeds, and with them the look of settled de- Her eye has regained its wonted brilliancy, her form its vo- } madame herself, She has laid aside spair which so marred her beauty. luptuous roundness, and her step its buoyancy. What can have efiected this change? Reader, it is now four years since those beloved ones were consigned to the grave: it is not unnatural that her grief should have subsided by this time into a contented cheerfulness ; she was, at times, even perfectly happy—for we are, fortunately, so con- stituted that there are moments when a great grief or misfortune can be completely forgotten. We are not thankful enough for the forgetfulness which heals even those wounds inflicted upon our affections—if our sorrow continued in all its first violence, who could bear to live?) The very vio- lence of our grief is the cause of its being soon exhausted ; the mind is weakened, and falls into a state of apathy; otherthoughts force themselves on us, and other hopes steal like sun-rays into the darkened heart, and our grief yields to forgetful- ness rather than to consolation. But still some recollection of the bitter trial remains, and comes frequently over us, in our most cheerful moments, like a dark shadow, bringing with painful distinet- ness the faces, and perhaps even the tones, of the voice of the loved lost ones. Dolorite was even more beautiful at the ripe age of twenty-seven than she had been at seventeen. Widows are said, all the world over, to be irre- sistible—we suppose it is because, to the power of their attractions, they add a deep knowledge of the intricacies of man’s heart, and having cast off some of the shy timidity of girlhood, they scruple, or fear not to put that knowledge in practice It was very evident that there was something irre- sistible about Dolorite, for her train of admirers was as extensive now as it had been before her marriage ; but it was also just as difficult to dis- cover who was the favored one of the eager crowd. There was one persevering gentleman, who had allowed himself to become so enamored, so completely enslaved by the charms of the proud widow, that he knew no peace nor happiness but in her presence ; it may be said that he lived only in her presence; for when he was compelled to depart from it, he carried her image in his heart : it was constantly before his eyes, and he bowed in spirit before it in perpetual worship. He could not flatter himself there was any hope for him; but cold-hearted as she seemed, she was so beau- tiful he could not tear himself free. The daily »* “ WIDOW. 17 contemplation of that regal beauty had become necessary to his existence—it was the aliment of his soul—and he felt that it would be akin to starv- ing himself to death if he were to withdraw him- self from its influence. No! He would force her to love him, or die at her feet! So, one day, he made the tender avowal of his consuming passion, and, with that eloquence which love alone can Dolorite listened with an immovable countenance, though her heart was filled with pity, and told him, in the kindest but the coldest manner, that it was impossible, &c. give, implored a return. &ec. He started from the sofa, on which they had been seated side by side, as if he had been shot, and with his hands pressed over his heart, as though he feared it would burst, paced once or twice across the room, and then, as an idea suddenly occurred to him, he rushed to her feet, and with tears—yea, actual tears !—implored her not to tell him there was no hope. Dolorite, regardless of the torrent of passionate words which fell from his lips, drew her stately form up, and as far from him as possible, and be- sought him to rise; but she would not touch him, and he seemed not to hear. ‘“Oh, Dolorite !’’ he exclaimed, in tones of the most touching sorrow, ‘‘ have you not a woman's heart? tion, my utter prostration before you—my tears— Can you witness my agony, my humilia- yes, even my tears!—and what must a man feel when tears, which he scorns as a womanly weak- ness, fall in such torrents from his eyes! Ask Is it possible You shrink from me—there is then contamination in my touch yourself. Look at me, Dolorite! you can feel no single pang of pity? —it excites such abhorrence in you! But I will not rise. No! If you have a heart, I will find it You shall pity me! No, Dolorite—no; I am not above having a woman’s pity, and I feel that I cannot humble myself too mych before you. Oh! if by that I could win you to bestow upon me but one kind look! Oh, Dolorite !’’ he continued, as she sunk back upon the sofa with averted looks, as if vexed and wearied out by her efforts to in- duce him to rise, ‘‘am I hateful in your sight that you turn so coldly away those dear eyes? Can you feel no pity for one whose very existence is bound up in you? on whom you inflict such ex- eruciating agony when you merely turn from him the light of your eyes ?”’ ‘““Mr. De Vincy!”’ widow, wishing to end at once a scene which was at length exclaimed the beginning to agitate her beyond her powers of self-control, ‘‘ why will you continue to speak in this excited strain after what I have asserted in the most positive manner, that I never would marry again? Do you think this utter prostra- tion, as you call it, will move me from my pur- That, sir, I would fain convince you, is utterly impossible. As well might you attempt to blow down with your puny breath the old cathe- dral opposite.”’ “Oh! say not so! Yes, poses ? Dolorite! you will

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’ GODEY §& 18 not drive me to despair; you cannot witness my misery without pity. Since I cannot have your love, oh! then, grant me your pity!”’ ‘*I do pity you; from my soul I do!”’ and her voice trembled slightly. ‘‘ And now, for pity’s sake, Mr. De Vincy, take my pity and leave me in peace !"’ The disconsolate lover, at these words, which sounded too much like mockery for even his hum- bled pride to brook, rose from his knees, and bowing respectfully before her, said-- ‘*Since my presence, unhappily, disturbs you so much, madame, I will leave you ;—but will you permit me toreturn? Do not refuse me the gratification of feasting my eyes on your charming person again!’’ This modest request was preferred with such an air of deep sorrow and humiliation, and sucha timid fear of a refusal, that Dolorite’s heart could not resist. **T will permit you to return sir, only on con- dition that you speak no more on a subject so unpleasant to me; and that you refrain from your disgusting flattery, which is even more disagree- able. I wish you a very good morning, Mr. De waved her hand with Viney.’’ She a majestic air, bowing in eloquent si- lence, sighed himself out of the dear but forbidding and poor De Viney, presence. As the door closed behind him, Dolorite sank back on the luxurious pillows of the sofa, utterly exhausted, and trembling with agitation. She laughed a little laugh that was full of tears, of sor- row, vexation, and pity. ** Poor man!”’ ‘* What a fool he is! Can it be possible he loves me so much? I Well, I do not suppose he will she sighed. cannot believe it. return any more, and then he will soon forget it all. But, poor fellow, how he wept! Yes, he said truly, a man’s feelings must be poignant in- deed when he weeps. I could scarcely command myself; but I was determined he should not per- that Heigh-ho!”’ half yawned the widow, settling her soft cheek down ceive he distressed me. in the yielding cushions, and abstractedly regard- ing her wedding ring; and then passing the long taper fingers slowly over her forehead, she thus resumed her soliloquy :—‘* Well, he is certainly very handsome. ‘There is nothing I admire more than beauty in a man; a noble, manly beauty, which so easily takes the heart of a weak, senti- I admire beauty, but I Ah, he is hand- His brown hair lies in such soft, glossy mental can no longer love it in a man. woman captive. some ! ringlets on his brow, which is as purely white as a woman’s; his eyes are remarkably beautiful; his mouth curving like a Cupid s bow, and that glorious moustache above, a ‘crowning glory !’ Altogether, his face iz one of the most beautiful I ever saw belonging to a man; and what a noble, ! And all this perfection of man- who am but a woman—a beauti- I acknowledge it without graceful figure hood at my feet, ful woman, it is true. MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK, vanity, for it would be impossible for me to be ignorant of it; but still, but a weak woman! Really, I begin to think I have a hard, unfeeling heart; but | was compelled to appear harsh to nip his presumptuous advances in the bud, for I can never marry again. Oh, no, never!—my heart is buried in the tomb with thee, dearest hus- band !"’ and walking across the room stood for some mo- And so saying, she arose from the sofa, ments silently contemplating a portrait of her hus- band which hung over the mantel; but she turned from it with a sigh, a tear glittering in her eye, and a half smile as she ejaculated, ‘“‘ Poor De Viney !”’ Thus it waa that pity, the only thing for which her lover prayed, made its soft way into her heart, and reigned there with gentle influence. Pity, they say, is akin to love; De Vincy could not have been so great a fool as she esteemed him. It was very thoughtless in Dolorite to give him permission to repeat his visits. How could she expect him not to speak again of the feelings which consumed him. It was utterly impossible ; and if he commanded his tongue and refrained from speaking his ardent thoughts, he could not control his eyes, nor veil them from her sight; they would speak and burn with the love which So that gone, Dolorite frequently caught herself wonder- devoured his heart. when he would be ing at their expression and brightness, and then she would pity him still more. Still, however, she did not distinguish him from any of the other Her manners were to all But sometimes, when warbling in her rich, soft tones aspirants to her hand. alike coldly dignified, and merely polite. a Spanish love song, she seemed to be completely overcome by the tender emotions she was depict- ing; the flashing light of her brilliant eye would be quenched in a scarcely perceptible tear, and veiled by the sweeping lashes; her roseate lips, slightly trembling, and curved into the beauty of intense feeling; the rich color fading from her cheek ; of the powerful emotions which lay dormant in her heart. Atsuch times De Vincy’s heart would bound within him, and he was fain to throw him- self again at her feet and pour forth his passionate and her whole manner giving evidence protestations; but, the song ended, the transient effects would pass away like the gold and purple from sun-tinged clouds, and a scornful flashing of the eye, a raising of the proud head, and a sarcas- tic remark, quickly restored him to a sense of his misery. However, Dolorite’s heart was gradually softening towards him. His silent, suffering de- votion was a delicate flattery insinuating itself into her heart, ministering to her pride and love of power, and filling her with compassion for the misery she inflicted, which, at the same time, aflorded no slight degree of gratification. She could not be blind to his manifold attractions ; handsome, talented, and accomplished, he knew how to adapt himself to all characters; his con- ynal were inexhaustible—ou the versatl powers

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THE —_—~ - weer longest, and warmest, and most dreary days, in the heaviest, dullest company, he could still find something to entertain. His address was most insinuating, and he had that air of respectful de- ference and involuntary admiration, when address- ing one of the weaker sex, which at once wins their favor; consequently he could not fail to be the most admired and courted of men with the He touched the piano with exquisite grace It was ladies. and feeling, and he read as few men can. impossible not to feel flattered by the attentions of such a man, and Dolorite could not but perceize that she was the fount from whence he drew his inspiration ; that a smile from her gave a fresh im- pulse to his gayety; that when she listened, his voice had a more harmonious tone ; and when she stood near the piano approving, his soul seemed wafted on a stream of passionate music for her ears alone. And still, obedient to her wishes, he spoke not of what must have cost him great suf- fering to conceal; he bore “his fetters in his soul’’ silently, uncomplainingly, content that he shed from her presence. A woman’s ‘* triple mail’’ to with- was not bar heart must be encased in stand such adoration, and Dolorite’s heart was not invulnerable. About five months after the day on which De Vine y made his tirst declaration of a hope less pas- sion, Dolorite was sitting in her boudoir hearing her son Juan recite his Spanish lesson. Having been surrounded since his birth by French people alone, he had grown up without a knowledge of the Spanish tongue, and this deficiency Dolorite was endeavoring to supply. The widow looked her loveliest this morning, attired in a loose négligée of white lawn; thus, unconsciously, following the advice of Ovid, who says— “If brown the nymph, let her be clothed in white, Andromeda so charmed the wandering sight Her hair, intensely black, soft and glossy as satin, was drawn in large wavy bands across her brown cheek, (yes, fair reader, brown cheek; but soft, downy, and transparent as yours.) and over her ears, which were too pretty to be concealed. Its redundant length was gathered into ‘‘ a pyramid of beauty’’ at the back of her head, and a lung curl escaping from its confinement, fell over her shoul- der. We must not forget a cluster of the yellow jasmine, placed by her son’s hands amid the raven tresses, which shone out from their dark setting like stars of a moonlight night, and which, contrasting with her brunette complexion, gave it a fairer, more delicate look. She leaned listlessly back in the embracing arms of a crimson fauteuil, and one small foot, encased in the most luxurious of soft velvet slippers, lay, almost lost to view, in the downy depths of a crimson cushion. One hand rested on the shoulder of her restless little pupil, and the other raised in a chiding attitude, the large open sleeve falling back displayed the rounded beauty ofaperfect arm. ‘The child was WIDOW. 19 very like his mother, but still in many respects unlike her. His eyes had that intense, fiery blackness which belongs to the Spaniard, but his sunny hair falling in rich ringlets over his dark blue jacket and about his soft throat, and his fair skin, plainly indicated that English blood flowed in his veins. He had been leaning with both elbows on her knees; but now he half raised him- self, and with his large black eyes, expressive of momentary vexation, fixed on her face, was plead- ing earnestly with her. ‘*No! no! Adelante. No entiende vmd. ?”’ ‘*Mais maman! Chere petite maman!’’ ‘* Todaria, no!’’ she persisted, while a smile flickered about her lips. “* Ah, mamma!’’ exclaimed Juan, quickly per- ceiving it, and throwing his arms about her neck. ‘**T love you so much, my prettymamma! Mam- ma, you have never taught me to say, ‘ I love you very much, my mother,’ in Spanish. Teach me now.”’ ‘* Yo la amo muchisimo, mi madre.”’ Juan repeated after her, making, purposely, a great many mistakes, in order to draw her atten- tion from the neglected lesson. While he slowly repeated afier her, Dolorite twined her fingers in his silky curls, and it was very evident, from her abstracted gaze, that her thoughts were else- where. ‘“*Oh, mamma!”’ cried Juan, suddenly, “ do you know what Jeannette told me last night when you sent me to-bed ?”’ ‘* What, my son ?”’ ‘*Why, she said—‘Ah, Master Juan, and so your mamma is going to give you another papa— ‘ What do you mean, Jeannette ?’ I can have but one papa; and my poor papa is dead.’ ‘ Ah, never mind,’ she says, ‘ your mamma will marry again. Would not you like to have a new papa— a pretty new papa, Master Juan?’ ‘No!’ I said. ‘ He would not be pretty—I should hate him!’ ‘* Did you say that, my boy ?”’ ‘* Yes, mamma; and so! would too !”’ said the child, pouting his coral lips, and looking very de- a pretty papa.’ said I—‘ how can she do that? termined. “Do you not like Mr. De Vincy, Juan ?”’ “Mr. Charles De Vincy, who brings me so many bonbone, and who has promised me a horse ?—oh, yes, indeed I do.’’ ** Well, my son,”’ said Dolorite, lifting him to her knee and kissing his lips, ‘‘ suppose your dear mamma, whom you love so much, my pretty Juan, were to marry Mr. De Vincy, and thus make him your papa, would you not love him very much ?”’ The child raised his expressive eyes full into her face, with an air of wondering surprise, and made no reply. ‘*Say, my darling boy ?”’ ‘*I do not know,’’ replied French shrug of the shoulders. he is, but I do not want a papa.”’ he, with a real **T like him as

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20 GODEY’S MAGAZINE ‘* Ah, méchant, va!’’ exclaimed his mother, laughing, and tapping him on the back. At this moment a carriage stopped at the door below stairs, and Juan, leaping from his mother’s lap, cried, clapping his hands with joy—‘‘ There Aunt Charles is there ;’’ is my Desirée, I am sure. I wonder if so saying, he escaped from the apartment. In a few moments he returned, holding his aunt by one hand, and in the other bearing a small filled ‘**Aunt De- was Madame Dolorite’s only willow basket with grapes. siree Borilliers, sister, who, having returned from Paris the year before her father’s death, had been residing ever since ona large sugar plantation, a few miles be- low the city Madame Borilliers being divested of her bonnet and from the fatigue of a long ride through the hot dust. Palmetto large veil, reclined on a couch to recover sun and Fanning with a large fan, and sipping occasionally from a glass of iced eau sucrée, she looked the picture of cool comfort and enjoyment. Dolorite still occupied her fau- teuil, and Juan, having placed his basket on her knees, fed grapes. her mouth with his kisses and his It is impossible for French people to be silent, and Madame Borilliers’s tongue rested only when Not time, madame had a million of subjects for con- she slept. having seen her sister for some versation, which occupied her until the eau-sucrée was finished. ‘‘ Eh bien, ma belle '’’ said she, depositing the se emptied glass on the table, ‘‘ why have you not been down to Borilliers for the last three weeks ? ck; and I, coming to the conclusion that some love Monsieur Borilliers concluded you must be affair was on the tapis, was forthwith seized with the most ungovernable fit of curiosity, and, ac- and as ma- dame spoke, she displayed a set of the whitest lit- cordingly, have come up to satisfy it ;’’ tle pearls conceivable, and her eyebrows elevated themselves mischievously above a pair of the most cunning eyes in the world. ** Positively, if I did not know you to be every inch of you a true woman, and did not fear having to nurse you for six weeks afterwards, I would send you home unsatisfied,’’ said the widow, re- ceiving a grape from Juan’s little fingers. ‘*Ah!—but you know that would be impossi- ble; for I have the happy knack of discovering your little affaires de ceur, tout de suite ;—but I must tell you the last conte I heard about you, my widow. That arrant gossip, Madame Barardine, was at my house the other evening with little Félicie, who looks as if she had as much as she Well, she had scarcely rested when she commenced— ‘ Well, so the beautiful widow is settled at last, eh?’ ‘What mean you?’ said I. ‘Is it possible you can ask me what I mean!—I thought you were the very one to give me information, and so I came to ascertain from you if all that I hear is could do to listen to her mamma’s tales. AND LADY’S BOOK. true.” ‘Why, what have you heard ?—I/'ve heard nothing.’ ‘ Ciel!—then I give you the first in- ‘I believe you do,’ replied I, with ‘Why,’ drawing her chair nearer, and making those pre- formation ?’ the greatest nonchalance. said she, parations which she always does before commenc- ing the relation of a piece of news, while les ands yeux de Félicie stretched themselves to their widest extent—(how Juan laughs)—and she hitched herself forward on her chair; ‘I assure you the city is full of it—that Dolorite—has at last put poor de Vincy out of his misery—and—and they are to be married in a few weeks!’ Here the large blue orbs of Félicie flashed triumphant- ly towards me, as much as to say, ‘ There, what have youto say to that!’ I laughed, and said I presumed it was as true as a great many other tales I had years. I could not Félicie, and the heard within the last two forbear glancing at child looked absolutely frightened as she turned Ma- dame Barardine looked quite disconcerted ; doubt- her eyes rapidly from me to her mother. less she expected further particulars from me, but I was as innocent as a dove. Come now, tell me, ma belle seur, all your little secrets.”’ ‘* Well, really I cannot imagine where Madame Barardine obtained her knowledge of events pass- ing in my house ; for it was only last night that I told De Vincy he might hope’’— “Only last yourself to him ?”’ ** Yes, my dear. be the matter! night! And you have engaged You look alarmed—what can You do not object to him, cer- tainly ?’’ Madame shrugged her shoulders, elevated her eyebrows, and looked as if she thought a great deal she did not care to say. Ihave heard you repeat a thousand times that you thought De ‘* Desirée, I am surprised at you. Vincy the most agreeable man you ever saw.”’ But—my dear sister—when is the marriage to take place ?”’ ‘So I did, ma chere—so I did. ** Juan,’’ said Dolorite, taking his round, dim- pled chin in her hand, and turning his little, eager “ face towards her, be married ?”’ when may mamma Dolorite The child stared in astonishment for a moment, and then throwing his arms about her neck, cried out, sobbing— Stay with Never—never leave me, dear as if ** Never !—never !—my mamma! your little Juan. mamma—pretty mamma!”’ and he sobbed his heart would break. ‘* Why, what has come over the child! Juan! —my own boy—do not ery so! Listen to me. If | marry, my son, I will not leave you.”’ ‘* Yes; but you will love me no longer. You will send me away—you will not put me to sleep on your bosom any more—Jeannette says so.”’ ‘** Jeannette has been telling you some great You must not mind her, my son. Do you think your mamma could ever part with you ? Never—never, my darling boy !—and every night stories.

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THE WIDOW. wanes you should rest on my bosom as you have always done. What did you tell mamma, before Aunt Desirée came in? that you liked Mr. De Vincy-- good Mr. De Vincy, who brings you bonbons?”’ ‘* Yes, I like him,”’ said the child, swallowing his tears; ‘‘ but he must not be my papa for all that.”’ ‘*Must not! You know not what you say. There, be quiet!’’ and pressing her hand on his cheek, as he lay sobbing on her bosom, she turned to her sister. ‘‘ It will not be very soon, you may rest assured.”’ ‘‘T am rejoiced to hear it, Dolorite; for what- ever I may have foolishly said of De Vincy when I could have no idea that you would ever think of marrying him, I do not altogether fancy him for your husband. Dolorite, he has a most tyranni- cal disposi ion, a bad temper; he is a man of un- governable passions, and he can no more control himself than that giddy vane on the top of that steeple can avoid moving with the wind.’’ ‘*Oh!’’ said the widow, smiling incredulously, I think he most amiable temper in the world.”’ ! Of course, he will conceal, as ‘you are mistaken, surely. has the ** Sans doute far as he can, all his faults from you until he is sure of vou. ButI hope you may find him out before it is too late.”’ “If there is anything to be discovered, I think I shall have time to discover it in; unless I disobey the orders of my little ‘lord and master’ here. ‘*] think Juan is a very sensible boy, for my part. How is Pedro, the parrot; and Bobo, the squirrel ; and Come, my boy, talk to aunt a little. Bijou—eh ?”’ ‘**Oh!"’ exclaimed Juan, raising his flushed face, over which joy beamed like the sun break- ing through April clouds, ‘‘ Pedro is brave !—he talks a great deal. But Bobo—ah, aunt,”’ shak- ing his head solemnly, ‘‘ he is very nanghty— very naughty. The other day, when I offered him a large nut, he bit my finger; and he got up on top of mamma's bed, and he would not come down for three days. But Bijou!—oh, she is so pretty! Iwill bring her to see you.’’ So saying he left his mother’s encircling arms, and ran off for the pocdle. ‘*Poor child!’ sighed madame, ‘he is very much like you in disposition, Dolorite; so vehe- ment. You should not give him a cross step- father.’ ** Nor will I.” About three months after the above conversa- tion, De Vincy proceeded one morning to the house Any of his charming widow earlier than usual. one accustomed to the usually serene and amiable expression of De Vincy’s face, would quickly have perceived on this morning a shade of ill-humor darkening and hovering over it. His usually large, open eyes were swollen and drawn together as if he had not slept well; and he was obviously ex mauvaise humeur. 21 Entering the corridor, he perceived Juan in the court trundling his hoop. ** Juan, come here,”’ said he. The boy, catching his hoop, advanced slowly and reluctantly, evidently disliking the inter- ruption. ‘* Mamma is not at home,”’’ said he, pouting. **Not at home! Where can she have gone so early ?”’ “She has gone with Jeannette to carry some tisane to Jérome, who is sick.”’ ‘* And who is Jérome, pray ?”’ ‘*Jérome! Don’t you know who Jérome is? Why the old cobbler opposite.”’ ‘“‘Bah! The old hypocrite! much better remain at home than be gadding about Madame had after rheumatic old hyprocrites of cobblers. Go and tell her, Juan, to come home, that I am here.’’ ‘*T will not go!’’ said the boy, positively. ‘* Why not, pray, sir?” ‘* Because, I presume, mamma will return when it suits her; and because I wish to trundle my hoop; and the best reason of all is, that mamma told me to remain here until she returned—there !”’ said Juan, moving off with a triumphant air. ‘* Vraiment !’’ contemptuously responded De Viney. ‘* Never mind, mon brave, just wait until I am your father ; I will teach you to reply to me in that style.’’ ‘* Yes, if you ever do become my father.’ “Do you suppose it is at all doubtful ?”’ ‘* Yes. My mamma says if I do not love you, you shall not be my papa; and I do not love you, ’ because you are cross.”’ ‘*Ha! ha!’’ laughed De Vincy, nervously and bitterly. He stood for a few moments in silence, as if brooding over something that was extremely unpleasant to him. ‘‘ Juan,’’ at length exclaimed he, ‘‘what was that your mother said to you in Spanish the other day ?”’ ‘* Why do you wish to know? I do not think it is very polite to be asking such questions.”’ ‘* Nor is it polite to be holding a conversation in Spanish in my presence, when I do not under- stand a word of that language,’’ replied De Vincy, warming as he spoke. ‘* Well, I presume, mamma can do as slie likes in her own house,”’ retorted Juan. ‘Perhaps she can,’’ said De Vincy, recollect- ing himself. ‘‘ But,’’ he continued, as he turned to mount the stairs, ‘‘ I mean to put a stop to it;”’ and he walked quickly up stairs. Entering the parlor, he walked directly up to the mantel, where he stood for some moments, with clenched hands and flashing eyes, regarding the benign countenance of little Juan’s father, which seemed, in his jealous eyes, to wear a mocking smile. ‘Good morning, Mr. De Vincy!’’ interrupted Dolorite, who had advanced to the middle of the apartment without his perceiving her.

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22 GODEY’S MAGAZINE He wheeled quickly around, and coldly re- turned her salutation, while she, without bestow- ing a second glance on him, walked through to her own apartments. In a few moments she returned, remarking, as she made her smiling entrée— ** You are earlier than usual, De Vincy.”’ ““ Not too early I hope, madame,’’ replied he, in a manner somewhat colder than ordinary. You know I am always ‘* Oh, by no means. happy to see you at any time,”’ said the widow, in her most gracious manner, and seating herself on the sofa. De Viney, somewhat mollified, drew a large fauteuil up in her neighborhood, and was in the act of seating himself when his adored inter- rupted— ** Mon ami, just hand me my knitting—there, in that small basket stand. Oh, you may as well That will do. displaying a silk net glittering with beads on her bring the stand. See !’’ said she, lovely hand, ‘‘ your purse grows in size, does it not ?”’ “*T do not perceive that it does,’’ pettishly an- swered the lover, throwing himself back in the fauteuil. ‘‘I believe, like Penelope, you rip out at night all that you have knit in the day, since on its completion depends the accomplishment of my wishes.”’ “* How so ?—what mean you ?”’ asked she, with the prettiest little air of ignorance imaginable. **Pshaw! Why feign ignorance when you re- collect as well as I do, that when you commenced that purse, you said when it was finished you would name the day, Dolorite. And it is my firm belief that you are endeavoring to postpone it indefi- nitely.”’ **T rece llect! N msense—I did but jest when I said that ;—but how what is the matter? ill you look this morning; Positively,’’ continued she, look as if all the ts in creation had assailed laughing mischievously and you last night, and buffeted you witches evil spiri you about the eyes.”’ ** You are disposed to be tI fair Id night, and you were the cause very pleasant is morning, lady. d not sleep a wink last 9? ** Ah, pas possible !’’ exclaimed she, in a pity- ing tone, while her eyes danced with mischief. ‘* How so, mon ami?”’ ‘* Why did you leave me, madame, last night after the opera? When I went in search of your carriage, and was unable to find it, I returned, ex- pecting to find you awaiting me as you had pro- mised, but you had already gone with that scoun- drel, Romilly! will not stand, Dolorite ‘*Ha! ha! ha! the most provoking indifference, and unable to Such coquetry I cannot, and I ee? ha!’’ laughed the widow, with restrain her mirth. ‘“‘ Indeed, my good friend, you amuse me very much; you play the jealous lover to perfection.”’ ** Jealous! I am not jealous, madame, and of such an insignificant puppy as Romilly; and I AND LADY’S BOOK, would have you know that I am far from feeling disposed to jest this morning, whatever your feel- ings maybe. And I really am of the opinion that your conduct should be explained.”’ ‘* Par exemple !?? exclaimed the widow, regard- ing him intently, evidently as much amused as ‘*What! because tempted by the bril- liancy of an unclouded moonlight night, and find- ing Romilly so agreeable, I chose to walk home with him, you have been working yourself up into ever. a terrible passion; come here looking miserably ugly, and now demand an explanation of what was the most innocent, pardonable thing that could ! Indeed, De Vincy, I did not have taken place think you could be so unreasonable. “TI see in it, madame, that I, your accepted lover, should expect to be nothing unreasonable your escort at all times. Romilly, I presume, was far more agreeable than J have the power of being.”’ ‘Ha! ha! mon ami, and get Shall I tell you that he was not, you humor Come, smooth that brow, and let us have one of your brilliant smiles at once; or, see, De into an amiable again ? Viney, | demolish the purse in a second !”’ And throwing down her needle, she held the purse in one hand, while with the other she pulled out two or three rows of knitting before De Vincy, seizing her hand, could arrest the work of de- struction. ’’ exclaimed he, struggling hard ** Ah, Dolorite, Resume your ‘* Tn pity, stop! to call up the required smile. how you love to try your power! knitting, dear creature; and oh! as you value my happiness, finish the purse soon !’’ That depends upon your conduct, sir,’’ re- plied she, with one of her lofty looks, and shaking off his light hand. ‘‘Well, I world.”’ will be the best creature in the ‘You will not yield to the dominion of ‘the green-eyed monster’ agi ‘No; I promise you. But, Dolorite, there is one thing I am jealous of, I must confess.” ‘* Aha, my penitent, I shall soon have the whole logue of sins now, of thought, word, and deed. Well, That portr what is it ?”’ it, Dolorite !’’ he replied, warm- ly, fixing a glaring eye on the calm, dignified lost ‘* Yes, | am seems to mock at me with its countenance of the husband. jealous of it! It everlasting smile. I cannot bear to have your dear eyes turned from mine, and fixed on that painted canvas as if you still loved the dead a thousand times more than the living. Yes, I am jealous of it!—I paced distractedly up and down the room, like one beside himself with rage. hate it!’’ and starting from his seat, he So great had been his excitement during this speech, he had not once looked towards the widow, who sat trans- fixed with astonishment, almost doubting her ears. *- Dolorite !’’ at length he exclaimed, approaching, and bending in a supplicating attitude over her,

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THE “it must be removed! You will remove this sole interruption to the happiness I enjoy in your dear presence, will you not ?2’’ ** Never, sir !’’ said the widow, her eyes flash- ing, her nostrils distended, and her noble form swelling with indignation. ‘‘ Not to add one iota to the enjoyment you profess to feel, would I remove that portrait! It hangs there as long as I live !”’ “* Never !’’ he ejaculated, starting back from ** You refuse to sacrifice a piece of painted canvas—that breathless, smirking representation of a dead man—for one whom you profess to love, who is your affianced husband! Then will I destroy it!’’ said he, turning from her, and taking a knife from his bosom. ‘1 will cut out those damnable glaring eyes !’’ he mut- tered, as he slowly advanced towards the portrait, as if to execute his threat; but before he could reach it, the knife was dashed from his nervous fingers, and Dolorite stood before him, speechless, from the intensity of her varied feelings, and pointing with a commanding air towards the door. ** Leave the room, sir!’’ she at last found voice to say. Instantly perceiving that he had gone too far, the cowardly De Vincy stood actually trembling before his justly offended mistress. He would have spoken, but his trembling lips could not form words; and Dolorite again spoke. ‘*How dare you insult me in my own house? I command you, sir, to relieve me of your hateful presence! What!—you do not obey !’’ and, un- able to control herself longer, she would have sunk fainting to the ground, had not the sustain- ing arms of the disgraced lover encircled her. His touch gave her new strength. ‘‘ Ah!’’ she groaned, with horror and loathing depicted in her expressive face. She clutched his hands as they folded her waist, and flung them off as if they had been serpents; then tottering to the sofa, she buried her face, now bathed in tears, in the cushions. The repentant De Vincy, thinking she relented, followed, and falling on his knees, he supplicated her forgiveness. ‘* What have I done !’’ he exclaimed, in a voice of anguish, and wringing his clasped hands in the “* Dolorite !—my her in astonishment. excess of his repentant grief. adored Dolorite !—thou life of my soul!—can you forgive me? Wretch that I am to cause you sor- row!—oh! can you forgive me, my own Dolo- rite ?”’ Hysterical sobs were his only answer. ‘Oh, my God!—my own love, do not cry so; every sob is like a knife entering my bosom! What can I do for you, my beloved Dolorite ?”’ ‘* Begone !"’ screamed the widow, raising her face, and then letting it drop again instantly, as if she had not the power to control herself. “* No, Dolorite! I cannot leave you thus. Do but listen tome. I thought to, frighten you into a compliance with my wishes; I did not intend WIDOW. 3 to injure the—the—Oh! forgive me—forgive the excess of my passion for you, which drove me to such lengths !”’ ‘* Pitiful, contemptible villain !’’ exclaimed the widow, recovering from the weakness which had overcome her, ‘‘you dare, after what has oc- curred, still to insult me with your professions of love? Certainly, this is the most presumptuous impudence I ever heard of! Youare beneath my notice, sir; I scorn, I loatie, 1 spurn you! pitiful dog that you are!’’ cried she, with the most withering contempt. De Vincy had some pride: at the words “ piti- ful dog,’’ he started from his humble posture, and stood erect before her, his eyes glaring like a tiger’s. At this moment, little Juan, in high glee, sprang through the open door, erying—‘* Maman !—chere “cs wo? petite maman!’’ and throwing his arms about her neck as usual, was commencing his account ot what had occurred to please him; but perceiving the traces of tears on her cheek, he placed his lit- tle hands on either side of her face, and was kiss- ing her, while she pressed him closer to her beat- ing heart, and returned his embrace. This sight completely aroused the demon in De Clutching the child’s soft arm, he tore him from his mother’s embrace, and slung him off. ‘* OF!’ he cried, almost choked with rage and Vincy’s breast. 4s jealousy. Your prudish mother will not per- mit me to touch her hand even; and you, great boy that you are, are allowed to clutch her about the neck and slobber over her as you please. I and he paced about like "7 can stand it no longer! a lion in his cage. During this speech, Dolorite stood with her eyes riveted on him, as if fascinated, completely astounded by his audacity. The touch of little Juan’s hand, as he crept back to her side, and hid his face in the folds of her dress, recalled her to herself. She laid one hand on his head, while the other, nervously clenched, was pressed on her heart as if to still its tumults. ‘* Monstre!’’ burst from her clenched teeth and quivering lips, as her eyes, blazing with sup- pressed rage, followed the form of De Vincy. She turned and looked at her little frightened boy, and seemed to grow calmer. ‘“You commence to play the tyrant a little too soon, Mr. De Vincy,’’ at last she said, with sin- gular calmness, while a sneering smile curled her proud lip. I am not in your power yet; and [ am extremely obliged to you fur such an exhibi- tion of the loveliness of your disposition. Will it please you to leave my house, sir?’ said she, with an increasing warmth of manner; “ or shall | call one of the women to carry you out ?”’ ‘* You may save yourself the trouble, madame One insult is enough—your ‘ pitiful dog’ of a lover leaves you to enjoy, unrestrained, the embraces of your lngsp And with this insulting speech he hurried from “cc ‘enfant gaté.

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24 GODEY’S the house. A scornful smile was the only an- swer Dolorite made him; but when his form dis- appeared, with a burst of tears, she clasped Juan to her bosom, and then leading him towards the portrait of her husband, she fell on her knees be- fore it, and buried her face in the bosom of her weeping child. For some time they wept to- gether, and naught was heard in the apartment but the sobs of the outraged mother and the tear- ful pleadings of her boy, who strove vainly to calm her agitation. **Oh! my husband!’ she ejaculated, raising her streaming eyes to the calm face; ‘‘ I am well punished for attempting to fill your place—my in- constancy reaps a reward it well deserved. Oh! thou angel spirit of my beloved, pardon—pardon a repentant wife! Faithful to thee unto death, my beloved, will I remain, seeking no other love but thine, happy, too happy, in believing that thy spi- ritual arms ever enfold me; that the house is blessed and guarded by thy ange! presence! Oh! my God!’ she whispered, with quivering lips, ‘**T thank thee for my escape !"’ And here we will drop the curtain, and prepare another scene for our readers. CHAPTER III “Eh quoi! votre courroux n’ait-i! pas eu son cours? ‘ Peut-on hair sans cesse? et punit-on toujours?” Racine. De Vincy’s rage did not last long. In the midst of his violent fumings he saw the noble, commanding form of the widow, and jealous and enraged as he felt, his heart still bowed. in invo- luntary homage. It was her beauty that first at- tracted him; her utter indifference to admiration excited his surprise and deepest respect; from admiration and deep respect there was but one step to the most passionate adoration; and the difficulties he had to surmount in the prosecution of his suit enhanced the value of the treasure he coveted. And now this treasure which he had held in his grasp, himself had thrown recklessly away. him. wealth of her loveliness. That matchless beauty forever was lost to No more could he feast his eyes on the Those eyes, like the sun, too glorious to be gazed on, would never again rest kindly on him ; those lips, whose sweets he had longed to suck, would never, never now be yielded up to the passionate pressure of his own; that glorious form would never be folded in his longing embrace. He was lost, utterly lost; and he groveled in the deepest, the darkest abyss of despair. There was no hope; she had forbid- den him to return; she had commanded him to relieve her of his “hateful presence!’’ What ‘“* Death !—death!"’ he cried, dashing his clenched fist against his throbbing was to be done? forehead, while large drops of bitter agony burst MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. through his closed eyes and dashed down his pal- lid cheeks. For three days De Vincy remained in this dis- tracted state. Shut up in his apartment, refusing all sustenance, and unable to sleep, he was at length driven to a state of mind verging on in- sanity. ‘‘A drowning wretch will grasp at a straw ;’’ and De Vincy, unable longer to endure the misery of suspense, determined at last to force himself into the presence of his offended deity, and be forgiven, or—know the worst. On the fourth day he left his confinement, and, with a kind of desperation sought the presence of the inexorable widow. Hesawno one as he entered, and, unannounced, he crept up stairs and into the He involuntarily groaned at the reminis- cences this room his mind. He glanced not at the portrait—he dare noi! The sight would have enraged him. Still no human creature to be seen; no human voice to be heard ; parlor. brought to not even the rustle of a woman's garments—what a death-like stillness! Was Dolorite ill—dead— or had she left town? With a sinking of the heart, and trembling in every limb, he advanced towards the door of her boudvir, which stood ajar. He gently opened it—and there—oh, the sight! Hiz worshiped, his incomparably beautiful Do- lorite, lay, disarmed of all her terrors, in the downy arms of Morpheus! Unable to resist the languor induced by the heat of the weather, a bath, and the fatigue of a careful toilette, the lovely widow, with a volume of Moliére’s comedies, and sunk in the sleep-inviting depths of a most luxu- rious fauteuil, had gradually lost all consciousness of the petty cares and tribulations of this life. There she lay, every beauty heightened, beneath the gentle influence of sleep. A smile hovered about her parted lips—doubtless, some amusing scene in the volume which hung from her gently retaining hand had occasioned it. It seemed a bow of promise to De Vincy, who stood entranced, half doubting whether she breathed, so still was all around. The gentle rising and falling of a snow heap beneath the veiling net of a black lace cape, soon convinced him, however, that it wasno delusion—no statue, no picture, that he contem- plated—but the living, breathing form of the dreaded widow. Those eyes, whose proud glance was annihilation, and which he had so shrunk from encountering, were curtained by the fringed lids. It seemed to him, though, that he could fee] their power still ; and he advanced on tip toe, and bent his head over the sleeping beauty, as if to assure himself that they were really closed. As thus he stood, in the enjoyment of a bliss he never before had experienced—that of being so near his worshiped beauty—these lines from Guarini re- curred to his memory :— “ Occhi, stelle mortali, Ministre de mici mali— Se chiusi niuccidete, Aperti che farete?”

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THE PRP PPL LPL PLL LLP His warm breath on her face, and the low mur- muring sound of his voice, as he unconsciously repeated the words, caused a sudden unveiling of the ‘‘ human stars ;’’ which, after the first glance of terrified surprise, shot forth a gleam of indigna- tion, at which De Vincy suddenly retreated from his close proximity, and his own blue orbs were lowered, in confusion, to the carpet. There he stood like a trembling delinquent awaiting his final sentence. For an instant, Dolorite’s tongue was chained ; but her eye spoke volumes, as with erected head she looked full at the trembling intruder. “Mr. De Vincy, what means this intrusion ? How dare you force yourself into my presence un- summoned, regardless of my strict, my positive commands to the contrary? Really, sir, such audacity astounds me !”’ ‘** Dolorite !—Dolorite !’? he implored, as he sunk on one knee before her. ‘* Excuse me, sir; I wish not to see you as- sume that attitude before me again ;’’ and she shrunk back, drawing up the folds of her amber- colored satin dress, with an air of offended dignity. ‘*Listen to me!—listen to me but once—but once again! Oh! for pity’s sake, Dolorite, hear me !”’ ““No!—no, sir, I cannot—I will not! It is useless to endeavor to excite my pity. I can feel none for you now, sir—nothing but the greatest repugnance !’’ ‘These last words were uttered in a low, intense tone, and almost a shudder passed over her frame. De Vincy’s quick eye detected it. ‘‘Oh! my God !’’ he groaned, burying his face in his hands, ** has it come to this!’’ and he actually shook with agitation. ‘*Dolorite!’’ he exclaimed, suddenly starting from his knee, and grasping her by the wrist, ‘*you shall hear me, or—I—no matter! Oh! forgive me !—forgive me, Dolorite !’’ he implored, again sinking before her. ‘ Youare all my life, my only hope, my salvation—my God !—my reli- gion! Dolorite, be not appalled at what I say. I adore you! Oh! the torments of hell would be nothing to what I suffer, and what I have suffered since you drove me, with that blighting, scornful look, from your presence. Dolorite, as you value your soul’s salvation, drive me not from you now ; refuse not to hear me ; deny me not your pardon! Oh! cruel, cruel woman, thus to prolong my misery !”’ “Oh! que c’est ennuyant!’’ exclaimed the widow, with great irritation of manner. ‘ De Vincy, are you a man, that you can thus degrade yourself before a woman who spurns you from her as though you were a viper? Where is your pride, man? What! do you think for a moment I could pardon your insults? Have you not out- raged my feelings ?—nay, did you not offer vio- lence to my boy?—my young, innocent child, whom to see is tolove? Never!—never! Pre- sumptuous fool that you are, to deem it possible VOL, XXXIx—3 WwipDow. 25 I could be implored into forgiveness of that last outrage !’” “Oh! pardon! pardon! Cannot my offence be expiated? A life devoted to you, to your child, whom, I swear to you, I love dearly ; for whom I would sacrifice my life at this very in- stant. Can nothing expiate my offence and re- store me to your favor ?"’ “This is ridiculous, sir; and excessively an- noying and tedious to me. I beseech you, sir, compel me not to eject you from the house forci- bly. If you have the feelings of a gentleman, ora spark of self-respect, you will at once leave the house.”’ “* Never, madame !’’ he replied, vehemently. “T pass not over your threshold again a breathing man!’’ He stood before her for some moments with his arms folded over his bosom, his face frightfully pale, and his brows knit over his flash- ing eyes. ‘Then, sir, I must leave you,”’ said the widow, rising as she spoke, and moving towards-her bed- room. “‘No!—stay where you are!’’ he exclaimed, placing himself before her. ‘I will soon leave you—soon leave you—soon’’—and with a burst of tears he sunk on a chair, burying his face in his hands. Dolorite, alarmed by the wildness of his looks, and the eccentricity of his actions, began to fear she was inthe presence of amadman. She would have called for assistance; but it seemed as if a power she could not resist held her riveted to the spot, voiceless, and incapable of moving her eyes from him. ‘“* Dolorite,’’ said he, in a low, trembling tone, raising his head as he spoke, “‘ you will not forgive me? ‘Then,’’ said he, placing his quivering hand in his bosom, and drawing forth a dirk, ‘‘ this ends my miserable existence !"’ The widow Was a little startled; but thinking he only meant to frighten her, she laughed scorn- fully, saying— “Oh, you cannot frighten me thus, Mr. De Viney. You are too great a coward.’’ ‘For the lasf time,”’ continued he, “‘I implore your forgiveness !’’ ‘* Never !”’ ““Then my blood be upon your soul, cruel wo man !”’ The glittering dirk flashed for an instant before her eyes, and the next was forcibly buried in the bosom of De Vincy, who fell prostrate at her feet, apparently lifeless. Dolorite seemed to be completely stunned by the shock. She stood like one suddenly bereft of reason, regarding the prostrate form of her lover, and some drops of blood which had spat- tered on her dress. Atlength she stooped down and raised one of his hands. It fell from her nerveless grasp, and with a piercing shriek, she fell fainting into the arms of Madame Borilliers, who just at this moment entered the room. ’

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MAGAZINE 26 GODEY’S ‘“* Mais qu’y-a-t-il done ici?’’ said she, drag- ging her sister’s insensible form to the couch, and thenringing for assistance. ‘‘ Quel scéne !’’ continued she, walking towards De Vincy, with She bent over him, felt his pulse Tenez,”’ a half smile. and his heart—‘‘I] n’est pas mort! said she to Jeannette, who, just at this moment entering, appeared disposed to follow her mis- tress’s example. “‘None of your nonsense! Take madame into her room and bring her to, and do not suffer her to leave her bed until I say so. Stay! Where is Juan?’’ “Madame sent him early this morning’’— ** Ah!—it is well. He must not remain here,”’ said she, pondering, as she again bent over De Vincy. “He has evidently fainted. I believe the poor fool has been starving himself to death— and Dolorite to be frightened by his violence ! It is just what I expected. If I had not come, what would have been the consequence? A re- conciliation, I presume. But Jacques must as- sist me.’’ And so saying, she bustled off into the court, and dispatched the man servant for a cab. A minute had scarcely elapsed, when Jacques re- turned; and Madame Borilliers, with his assist- ance, wrapped the poor insensible lover in a large cloak, and conveyed him down to the cab. When him safely in, supported by Jacques, she gave them instructions to goimme- she saw diately for a surgeon after De Vincy should have been comfortably put to bed. She now returned to her sister, who, just recovering from her faint- ing fit, was beginning to ask questions which Jeannette was unable to answer. “Oh! Jeannette, what has happened? Mon Dieu !—mon Dieu !—is he dead, Jeannette ?’’ ‘* No—no, Dolorite!’’ said Madame Borilliers. ““ Come, calm yourself.’’ “Ah, machére! Tu es ici?’’ “* Mais certes; je suis ici. AndI think you may be thankful that am. You may go now, Jeannette; and’’—madame whispered —“ for Heaven's sake, remove some of that blood.’’ “Oh! Desirée, did you ever hear of such an Has man killed him- self, or is he only wounded ?”’ “He is wounded—I do not think seriously. He fainted from fright, agitation, and starvation. unfortunate affair! the I hope he will have a spell of sickness, which will cool his passion somewhat.”’ What have you done with him? Is hestillinsensible ?’’ Jacques and I wrap- ‘But, my dear creature, where is he ? **T have sent him home ped him in a large cloak, and, with the assist- ance of the driver, we got him safely in the cab. The poor wretch did not move—oh, he will soon recover. I hired the driver to go for Dr. La- ferandrie after they should have conveyed him to his rooms. He will do well. I trust, when he leaves his bed, he will feel like a reasonable being, and that this will be the end of his perse- But cutions. He has made himself ridiculous. AND LADY’S BOOK. come, ma chere, you must not remain here. My carriage is at the door; come and pass a few You need change of scene Jeannette can follow, you weeks at Borilliers. and change of air. know.”’ Dolorite, feeling that she could not remain in the house without having recollections of the most distressing nature constantly recur to her, readily consented, and was soon prepared to ac- company her sister. Madame Barardine, peeping through the Ve- netian blinds of a window in her house, beheld the carriage of Madame Borilliers stop at her next neighbor’s. She waited to see who should alight. A little darkey, leaving his post behind the car- riage, advances to the door, and is in the act of unlocking it, but the white hand of Madame Bo- rilliers islaid on the door, and Madame Barardine distinctly hears these words— ‘Present my compliments to Madame and beg that Master Juan may be sent imme- diately, as his mother, being quite unwell, is going into the country for a few weeks.”’ ‘Quite unwell! What can be the matter now ?”’ thought Madame Barardine. Jeing afflicted with curiosity, madame was instantly seized with a nervous headache, and found it im- possible to compose herself throughout the whole morning. ‘Towards evening, however, the un- favorable symptoms passed completely away ; for madame’s capacious whispering galleries of ears had caught a flying rumor, which entirely satisfied her curiosity, and gave her employment for a whole week. Hoping that some of our readers may feel suf- ficiently interested in our hero and heroine, to desire to know what eventually became of them, we will here briefly state, that De Vincy, during the second week of his confinement to a feverish couch, had a return of reason. He became vio- lently enamored of the goddess of Health, and as he successfully wooed her, the charms of his goddess of Beauty gradually paled and faded About five weeks after the tragic conclusion of his unfor- away from his convenient memory. tunate love affair, he stepped on board a vessel bound for France, as handsome and charming a man as ever; and, to all appearances, a very careless and happy one. Dolorite, after this specimen of a tyrannical lover, never tried another, and she lives to this day a widow—a beloved and revered grandmo- ther in the house of her son Juan. She still re- tains some traces of her former loveliness—for instance, her hair is as black, her form as erect, and her waist as small as in the daysof her youth. Her eye has lost none of its fire, and her tongue is gifted with an eloquence irresistible, which, proceeding directly from her noble, warm heart, strikes at the hearts of all her hearers. Many a tear has the writer shed when listening to a re- cital of sufferings she has endured herself, as witnessed in others. And many a hearty laugh

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PASSION’S PRAYER. have they had together, at her quaint English, which it would be impossible to imitate. She is an old woman, without being antiquated ; for all her warm, impulsive youthfulness of feeling re- “* Cousin mains; and no one, listening to her still harmo- — > 27 nious voice, accompanied by the soft tones of her guitar, would suppose so many years had passed over her head, or that she was a grandmother. Dolorite’’ is justly beloved and che- rished by all who know her. A PASSION’S BY JOSEPH Ask aught but this. and, by my virgin faith, Over mighty omy wish, although the act be death! ocean’s ceaseless waves I'll roam, Nor know a friend, or ever sigh for home I'll spend my years from social! pleasures free, And have no joy but in the thought of thee: 1h) Linger, in grief, tll toil in mines, or, to the galleys chained, youth’s bright sun has waned: In caves I'll live, where day-light scorns to shine, And, hermit-like, unknown, unnoted pine, Till pity’ Poises } ng death, too long in vain defied, iis dart and stalks up to my side: Through trackless forests I will take my way, And know no rest, nor food, by night or day, But such as weary nature sternly asks To nerve the frame and fit it for its tasks: I'l) tread o’er deserts—to earth’s confines rove— But do not, do not, bid me cease to leve! In And chills my heart, and makes it throb with fear vain the mandate meets my startled ear, No power remains that mandate to obey ; As easy might you bid the whirlwind stay, When it sweeps on its desolating course, Far from the home where it derived its source, As say unto this wildly beating heart, That from its very essence it must pa Thou art its essence—the blood that gives it life ss! queen! its mistress and its wile Its empre \ And canst no more be severed from its side Than streams trom ocean—ocean from its tide! Can I forget that joyous, festive night, When, midst a blaze of beauty and of light, ed > I saw thee peerless, though around thee smi The loveliest dames that ever heart beguiled Can I forget the dream that so/fily stole, Like morning sunlight, o’er my ravished soul, And bade it speed, rejoicing on its way, As night had passed and it had waked to day? Can I forget the blossom of that hour, W hich since has ripened to a beauteous flower, Disclosed its tints, and oped its leaves so fuir, And with sweet fragrance kissed the wooing air? No! though o'er the memory of the past Unnumbered thoughts in endless links were cast— Though a new Lethe, from an earthly head, Burst o'er my soul and made my mind its bed— Though I stood straitened with the burt Oj ing ire volcanic fire— ruady waves from s PRAYER. Though al! the ills that may occur to man Within his life, (not idly called a span,) Should on my head with ruthless fury fall— I'd face the tempest, and I'd brave it all I could do aught that might my manhood prove, But yet I cannot, cannot cease to love Conspiring Fates, that promised late so bright, May crush my hopes and doom thee from my sight May frown upon the union of our hands, And keep us far apart in distant lands, Between whose friendless shores no kindly sails Spread their white bosoms to the fav’ring gales; But Fate itself a triumph could not boast If it decreed the vision should be lost, Which, until now, has made my life a scene More purely bright than any that hath been To simple man by smiling Mercy given, To make his bliss approach to that of heaven Still Fate, regardless of a mortal’s woe, May have reserved for me a cruel blow— A blow more dreaded than the passing breath Of the grim spectre men call gloomy death Oh! let Or, if No doom so ' There’s more than madness in the fearful thought! it not ordain that we should sever, 1 does, let it not be forever dread by mocking fiends is wrought, It burns, like living lightning, through my mind And gives a tongue to every breath of wind Makes cold my blood, and lifts each drooping hair, Stoops, serpent-like, and hisses forth despair! I see thee lost, and o’er my darkened soul Ages of Closing like waves above some drowning wretch, agony in moments roll, Whose arms are raised in the vain hope to stretch Jeyond the awful, drear and narrowing bound Of waters wild that circle him around! I cannot longer on the picture dwell— ’T were better far to say at once “ farewell,”— Not to bright joy, (for, should thy purpose last, All hope of joy forever would be past,) But to the vernal scenes of earth, that swarm With teeming life and human passions warm— Than to live on, and know that thou couldst be Less in thy love than now thou art to me On! it were best, with one deep swelling sigh To breathe “ adieu,” e close my sad eyes, and d Then do not speak those chilling words again ; The wish is fruitless, save to give me pain— For witness, all ye listning powers above, I cannot, no, I cannot cease to love!

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HEROIC WOMEN OF THE REVOLUTION. BY MRS. E. F. ELLETT. BLANDINA BRUYN. THERE are many yet living in whose hearts is cherished the memory of Mrs. Bruyn, while the tradition of her virtues is familiar to the inhabit- ants of the neighborhood where she resided. Hers was the fame most appropriate to the sphere of woman, her days being chiefly passed in the seclusion of the family circle, remote from the show and bustle of public life; yet the influence of a character like hers could not fail to be great and pervading. Her high social position, and at- tention to the duties of a widely extended and generous hospitality, brought her into contact with many of the leading minds of the period; and her exemplary discharge of the continual re- quirements of charity and benevolence, made her known as the protector of the unfortunate, looked up to with reverent and grateful regard by all the poor and suffering who experienced her bounty. Her father, Petrus Edmundus Elmendorf, was descended from the earliest settlers of Hurley, a small town on the bank of the Esopus, about three miles from Kingston, in Ulster county, New York. The subject of this notice was born at Kingston, then called Esopus, on the eighth of August, 1753. She had the misfortune to lose her father when very young, and was left entirely to the care of her mother, Mary Elmendorf, a lady whose noble character, energy, and benevo- lent exertions in the cause of the destitute and suffering, rendered her name widely known at that period, not only throughout a large portion of New York, but in the adjoining provinces of New Jersey and Pennsylvania. She was proba- bly the Mrs. Elmendorf who, it is said, studied medicine that she might be qualified, while the men of the neighborhood were generally absent and engaged in the defence of their country, and the physicians especially were in requisition in the army, to practice the healing art among the poor families in the country around her. She ap- pears not only to have possessed a mind of supe- rior order, but the advantages of cultivation. From this intellectual and accomplished parent the daughter received her early instruction, with the best means of education which, in that day, it was possible to enjoy. She was placed for some time under the care of Miss Blanche Beyeau, a teacher celebrated at that period, and had the ad- vantage of being at a boarding school in the city of New York. However limited may have been the range of mere accomplishments then taught, it does not appear that the more substantial and 28 useful acquirements were neglected; Miss El- mendorf learned to write and speak, with ease and correctness, the English, Dutch, and French languages, in each of which she had numerous correspondents at a later period of her life. These attainments must have caused her to be regarded as a learned lady, at a time when even the privi- lege of a common country school was enjoyed by few, and so many of the daughters of the wealthy gained their only instruction from books at home. Miss Elmendorf’s youth passed in quiet occu- pations and amusements, till a short time before the rupture between Great Britain and the Ame- rican Colonies. She then formed a matrimonial engagement with Jacobus S. Bruyn, afterwards colonel in the American army, whose services to his country brought upon him the severe hard- ships of a long captivity. The tranquil happiness to which the young lovers looked forward was destined not yet to be their portion—the duties of Colonel Bruyn calling him first to Quebec, and afterwards to other places. In the early part of October, 1777, the British General, Sir Henry Clinton, with the small force that could be spared from an important post left under his command, made an attack upon Forts Clinton and Montgomery. These forts were separated by a stream that came from the moun- tain, communicating, by a bridge, with each other. The British commander saw that his only prospect of securing them was by a coup de main, in their then unguarded state, allowing no time for the arrival of succor. Sir James Wallace moved up to Peekskill Neck, to mask the only communication the Americans had across the river on that side of the Highlands. Sir Henry Clinton says, in a letter to Sir William Howe-— ‘*The boom and chain which ran across the river from Fort Montgomery to Anthony’s Nose, is supposed to have cost the rebels 10,0007. Another boom, which we destroyed near Fort Constitu- tion, must likewise have cost the rebels much money and labor.’’* Colonel Bruyn was one of the officers engaged in the defence of Fort Montgomery. The ene- my’s attack on both forts succeeded at the same time, and he was taken prisoner. The Ameri- cans set fire to their ships Montgomery and Con- gress, with some galleys and other armed vessels containing their stores and cannon. A private letter from a gentleman, who describes the storm- * American Remembrancer; New York Gazette, Oc- tober, 1777; Historical Collections of New York.

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HEROIC WOMEN OF ing of this fort, attributes to treachery the failure of the necessary reinforcement from Peekskill, which had been twice urged during the day, and arrived on the opposite side of the river only in time to witness the taking of Fort Montgomery. The express sent thence to Peekskill was said to have lingered purposely on the way, and deserted next day to the enemy. Yet, though compelled at last to yield, the men of the garrison offered a brave resistance; and some anecdotes of their courage in defence of the fort are preserved. One of the officers, Lieutenant Timothy Mix, was in the act of firing a piece when his hand was carried away byashot. Instantly seizing the match with his left hand, he touched off the cannon, the dis- charge of which did much execution. The sad separation from her affianced husband, a captive in the hands of the enemy, the severest trial our heroine had hitherto been called to un- dergo, was but the beginning of sorrows. The capture of Fort Montgomery was immediately succeeded by the burning of Esopus. ‘This town, it will be remembered, was one of the earliest Dutch settlements in New York—said to be the third place settled—and commenced about 1618. It is beautifully situated on the fertile flats ele- vated above Esopus Creek. The Catskill Moun- tains are seen in the extreme distance. It had been in former times the scene of battle and vio- lence. In 1663, the Indians of that region, who had been for some time discontented with their Dutch neighbors, made a league between them- selves for the purpose of exterminating the whites. The period of their attack was appointed in June, when it was known that the men would be absent from home attending to their farms. One day, when the village was thus left unprotected, a body of Indians entered on pretence of coming to trade; and having thus obtained possession, made known their real purpose, and killed or carried off sixty-five of the inhabitants. ‘The bold Nether- landers, however, soon rallied to arms to drive away the invaders. The red men persisted in their hostile movements, but were, ere long, com- pelled to flee to the mountains by troops sent to the aid of the country people from New Amster- dam, by Governor Stuyvesant. A British account of the burning of this place, from the postscript of a letter written by Sir Wil- liam Howe to Lord George Germain, may not be uninteresting. He calls the affair ‘“‘a very spi- rited piece of service,’’ and highly lauds the per- formers. ‘* Major-General Vaughan’s report,’’ he says, ‘* dated on board the Friendship, off Esopus, F'ri- day, October 17th, 1777, ten o’clock in the morn- ing, states that he arrived off Esopus on the even- ing of the 15th; that finding the ‘rebels’ had thrown up works, and made every disposition to annoy the British, and cut off their communica- tion, he had ‘judged it necessary to attack them, the wind being at that time so much against us that we could make no way. I accordingly land- 2 v 29 THE REVOLUTION, ed the troops, attacked their batteries, drove them from their works, and spiked and destroyed their guns. Esopus being a nursery for almost every villain in the country, I judged it necessary to proceed to that town. On our approach they were drawn up with cannon, which we took and drove them out of the place. On our entering the town, they fired from the houses, which in- duced me to reduce the place to ashes, which I accordingly did, not leaving a house. We found a considerable quantity of stores of all kinds, which shared the same fate.’ He adds—‘ Our loss is so inconsiderable, that it is not at present worth while to mention.’ ’’ The American account states that one house was spared at the burning—that of Mrs. Ham- mersly, who was acquainted with some of the British officers, and for that reason was favored with their protection. ‘* Thus, by the wantonness of power,”’ say Connecticut Journal, of October 27th, 1777, “‘ the third town in this state for size, elegance, and ’ says the 77 wealth, is reduced to a heap of rubbish; the once happy inhabitants, who are chiefly of Dutch de- scent, are obliged to solicit shelier among stran- gers; and those who possessed lately elegant and convenient dwellings, obliged to take up with such huts as they find can defend them from the cold blasts of approaching winter. We learn that the inhabitants saved the best part of their mov- able property, but some lost the best part of their temporal all. It is said the enemy took little time to plunder, being told that General Clinton was at hand with 1500 men; but, unluckily, not so near as to save the town. ‘They burnt several vessels and houses at the landing, and then scam- pered off precipitately to their vessels.”’ But a faint idea can be formed from these and other descriptions, given with military brevity, of what was endured by the helpless inhabitants. An invasion at night, and the conflagration of the entire town, at a season when the cold must have been severely felt—the distress caused by the de- struction of so many homes, and the anguish of those who knew not the fate of their beloved ones —form a scene whose horrors can scarcely be compassed by the most vivid imagination. Yet such realities were enacted but too frequently. At this particular period—aptly called ‘‘ the darkest hour of the Revolution’’—marked by the reverses that overspread with such gloom the prospects of the country, and the dreary picture of Valley Forge, there was hardly a ray of hope to cheer the most sanguine, or lighten the pressure of calamity. In this melancholy state of public affairs, individual misfortune was felt not the less keenly. The fate of Miss Elmendorf seemed linked with that of her suffering country. By the destruction of her native town her mother’s family was broken up, and the members for some time dispersed. Her own time was divided, after this, between Hurley, Albany, and Raritan, in New Jersey, as duty called for her presence in either place, or as

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30 GODEY’S Providence directed her movements. Many in- cidents, both of an amusing and distressing cha- racter, which occurred during her journeys, were remembered by her, and related afterwards to her children. How interesting a light would have been thrown upon the manners and life of that day, had detailed accounts been preserved in her journal or letters! But, for lack of a record, much that might have given vigor, expression, and coloring to the outline pictures of history, is lost beyond recovery. Colonel Bruyn was kept for some time in close confinement in a prison ship, where, of course, he could have no communication with his betrothed. The horrors of these abodes of suffering, despair, and death, have been often described. Colonel Bruyn was afterwards so fortunate as to obtain release from this den of misery, being transferred to Long Island on his parole. Yet he was still for a long time doomed to endure the weariness of captivity, and to witness the struggles of his country for freedom without being able to take part in the contest. For more than three years he was detained a prisoner. During this long and painful separation, the faithful affection of his fair and gentle mistress remained unchanged. The season of disaster and trial was succeeded by brighter times; and, in the spring of 1782, the lovers were restored to each: other and united in marriage. After the close of the war, and until their death, they continued to reside at Kingston. The various calamities and perils to which Mrs. Bruyn, during her youth, had been exposed, both from Indian and British depredation, as well as the aid she frequently afforded to the patriots, connected her name with the Revolution, and caused those who knew her in after years to as- sociate her with many of its incidents. In spirit and feeling she was a true and worthy daughter of the heroic age of the Republic. Her house was always distinguished, far and wide, as the seat of liberal hospitality, and she was universally beloved by her acquaintances. Modest and retiring in her manners, and disposed to shrink from, rather than court, the public gaze, the energy of her nature showed itself constantly active in deeds of charity and kindness. It was her delight to minister to the sick, to relieve the wants of the poor, and to succor distress every- where as far as her ability extended. Liberal without ostentation, attentive to every duty, and MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. forming the happiness of her household, she was emphatically one of those whose children, in the words of Scripture, rise up and call her blessed. The assemblage of virtues in her character would have been incomplete without the crown of piety, and that, unaffected and unobtrusive, but fervent and cheerful, was her own. In writing the memoirs of so many women dis- tinguished at that period, I have been struck by the fact that almost all were celebrated for piety. The spirit that exhibited itself in acts of hu- manity, courage, magnanimity, and patriotism, was a deeply religious one. May we not, with reason, deem this one important source of the strength that gave success to the American cause ? An accomplished correspondent writes—‘‘T here is a scene, of the myriad in which the ‘heroic women’ figure, that I think no poet or painter could ever properly describe or fitly illustrate : where the woman, after having supplied the sol- diers with all the powder in her possession, went ‘apart to pray!’ I trembled when reading that— not, of course, with fear that she would be num- bered among the killed; but a scene of such mo- ral grandeur is so very—very rare. One cannot readily believe that she approached her Maker with that noisy, distressing vehemence which we have seen in women in times of sudden peril and fear. Such revolting scenes are common enough on steamboats and in like places. But in the din of battle, death and destruction surrounding her, to think of her humbly and trustingly lifting up her heart and mind to Him who alone giveth the victory, is something almost passing comprehen- sion. Surely, it was well to rescue such me- mories from oblivion!’’ And who can tell how much availed the prayers of those righteous women! Mrs. Bruyn died in 1832, in the seventy-ninth year of her age. Her sight and hearing had been considerably affected for some time previous, but both were wonderfully restored a little before her death. Almost to the last, remained unimpaired her cheerfulness and vivacity ; and her faculty of entering with interest into the feelings of those with whom she conversed—a faculty of ‘‘ com- panionship for all ages.’’ Her son resides at Kingston; and some of her relatives in New York. TO THE > MUSE. FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER. I wondeR much what I should be, Wert thou naught, sweet Muse, to me But wonder, how much more, to see The thousands who are naught to thee!

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RECOLLECTIONS OF A GROWN-UP SCHOOLBOY. NO. I.—THE OLD BOROUGH. BY J. Our schoolboy days are looked back to by all with fondness oTIS Oppressed with the cares of life, we contrast our worn and harassed existence with that sweet prime, free from anxiety, and fragrant with innocenee.— Contarini Fleming. 1. THE MATRICULATION. WonDERFULLY enduring are the impressions produced upon the human mind by real sym- pathy! I could hardly have believed that the incidents of two years in my early schoolboy- hood could have been fastened so strongly upon my memory as, after a lapse of seventeen years, to present themselves so vividly to my recollec- tion as those have done which were awakened by a recent and casual visit to the venerable vil- lage of E———. The time since I bade fare- well to that beautiful spot, has passed along amid much change and many cares, and the scenes which then transpired have only at times crossed my mind fitfully, like mere shreds of many for- gotten dreams. But no sooner did I come in sight of the old familiar places, the favorite haunts of my pleased childhood, than I was all the boy again! Each incident of the landscape, as it opened to my straining gaze, was hailed and called by name, and I became every mo- ment more and more impatient to leap out upon the green sward and run over each now well- remembered spot. I remembered well the first impression I ever received of the surrounding scene. It was seventeen years before that I came thither for the first time, and was placed under the careful tuition of a tall, gaunt, Yankee schoolmaster, who was to be my pater familias, as well as pre- ceptor, until I should be ready to enter college. It was just at the setting-in of a gloomy autumn evening, when, having arrived in the cockle- shell steamer “ Bristol’’ from New York, I was conducted to that not now very elegant domicil, the second from the creek, as one comes up thence towards the railroad, that now crosses the orchard where, in my time, grew fruit that rivaled that of the Hesperides, and which was watched by no dragon like theirs. This lowly roof was the abode of Dominie Moses Smith, whose paternal care was extended over some five-and-twenty boys, sent thither from all parts of the Union to complete their preparations for the college or the counting-house. At present, I believe, it is occupied by tenants of less literary pretensions. Being introduced to the whole family imme- diately upon my arrival, and having been left by my conductor to make their acquaintance at my leisure, I could not resist the temptation I felt to look around upon the group, and to make up my opinion of the whole company at once. And soI did. That opinion was in many instances far from a correct one, as future experience de- monstrated; but I was not wrong in my estimate of the Dominie, of whom more anon. What a desolate feeling is that of all others, the overwhelming sense of a schoolboy, who has been used to the constant association of the bro- thers and companions who have grown up with bim around the same hearth and door-stone, when he first finds himself alone in the midst of a circle of staring stranger-urchins of about his own age, the object for the time on which all eyes are fixed! So much did that first scene of my new life disconcert me for a space, that it was some days ere I could recover from the strange impression which it produced upon me. Thus it came to pass that I had the credit, or dis- credit, of laboring under that disease which all school-boys have, and yet which they all laugh at in others—home-sickness. And as I recall to mind those hours of trial, most ludicrous appears to me the kind of compassionate nonchalance with which they affected to look upon my im- puted sufferings—like old salts regarding a luck- less landsman with mock pity while in the midst of those peculiar paroxysms that are apt to seize such adventurers when “one day out.’’ I en- couraged this feeling on the part of my school- mates awhile, as its continuance afforded me some agreeable leisure and enabled me to make my acquaintances deliberately. I found my pedagogue a martinet in all matters of discipline, a true believer in Solomon upon birch, and blessed with a spouse who was as much art and part in the management of the establishment as was the renowned Mistress Squeers in that of Mr. Dickens’ celebrated Yorkshire schoolmaster. But while all the ob- servances of school propriety and household de- corum were most rigidly enforced, there was certainly no lack of kindness and attention to the wants of the pupils entrusted to the care of this Smithsonian institute. Our fare was not like that to which we had been used at home, 31

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32 GODEY’S and the time afforded us in which to discuss it was of the shortest, but the first of these diffi- culties we soon got over by use, and the other came natural to us, as American boys. It is a national peculiarity of ours, travelers tell us, to bolt our food and not to eat it—and if so, it is as well, perhaps, to begin to practice it early. It may not be unentertaining to recall the lapse and incidents of a single day at our school. The reader will not fail to notice the points in which identical with those occurring at ‘* Dotheboys Hall,’’ in Yorkshire —the story of which, let me here remark, I do verily be- they are lieve to be as entirely tree from exaggeration as any narrative ever penned—*‘ Haud inezpertus loquor ad At sunrise we were aroused by the shrill, sharp voice of Mrs. 8., or her handmaiden, and were quickened in our movements by the hoarse, guttural exclamation of ‘* Make haste, boys!”’ from the Dominie, who counted us as we came down stairs and sat upon the steps of the back- door, while we washed ourselves in tin basins on the le dge of the well, wiping off the water trom our twenty-five taces upon two large tow- els. The whole time allowed us for these ope- rations was ten minutes, at the end of which we were at our studies until breakfast time. And were kept tightly at That was our so throughout the day we our books until evening came. principal playing-time, and when the lion was in a placable mood, he would sometimes join us in our sports. When the hour for study (in winter) or for bed (in summer) arrived, our fun was sud- denly brought to an end by a loud and impera- tive summons to the house, fifteen minutes from that time every sound was expected to be hushed for the night. The watch- ful old fox would sit upon the stairs, and if there were so much as a whisper heard in any of the rooms, all the doors of which opened upon a common passage, a gruff exclamation would ope- rate like a charm, and send the whole of us in- continently to “‘the land of Nod.’’ A second or prolonged violation of this law of universa silence, was sure to be followed up with condign punishment. ‘The Dominie would seize a light from the entry table, stalk up three stairs at a stride, enter the room where the offender lay, (he knew each one by his whisper even!) and treat him to a taste of green quince twigs, the favorite substitute for the legitimate birch at the Smith- sonian establishment. I remember how we played upon this trait of the old man’s one eventful night, by way of pro- curing retributive justice upon one of the bigger boys, who had mortally offended our sense of right and wrong in a certain important matter. There was among the boarders a fine little fel- MAGAZINE AND and at the end of LADY’S BOOK, low from Havana, who, being crippled by an un- lucky fall in his infancy, came to school with a black nurse to take care of him. He was an object of much interest to us all, and, in con- sideration of his infirmities of body, we fre- quently bore much with an irritability of temper under which he suffered, and which was con- tinually breaking out in his intercourse with the rest of us. Out of revenge, or from some other unworthy motive, one of the larger boys betrayed one of the little fellow’s pranks to the master, who whipped him soundly. The whole school was up in arms, and we were determined that the ‘‘tell-tale’’ should meet with the same or a worse punishment. One night all the boys had been called in and counted off to bed, and it was noted by two or three only that ‘‘tell-tale’’ had managed to elude the Dominie, and still remained behind. It was a way of his and of others, and it had never yet been discovered. Our plan was laid at once. Awaiting the return of the offender, which was always through a back window at the head of the stairs, we heard him enter his room; and, at the same instant, we rolled down the stairs a foot- ball belonging to him and marked with his name, during his absence. which we had secured Bump! bump! went the j ball down the stairs, till it struck the door of the bump-er-te-bump! master’s sleeping-room with a terrible rebound. Up stalks Dominie, in cuerpo, approaches our room, finds us all as fast as the seven sleepers; then crosses the passage, and finds the delin- ‘“‘tell-tale’’ just in the very act of getting The ball, known to be his, and his untimely wakefulness, were conclusive evidences quent into bed. against him, and the quince suckers are put into operation again in a style to which nobody could have ever done full justice but Dominie Moses. So much for school-boys’ ideas of retribution! 3ut amidst all these peculiarities of the teacher, and all these and many more delinquencies of the scholars, I doubt if there were ever a better or more faithful instructor, or a more studious and improving school. ‘The old man was well- educated, a lover of letters for their own dear sake, and seemed never so happy as when he was guiding, surely and perceptibly, the advanc- ing steps of his pupils along the steep sides of that hill proverbially so ‘hard to climb.’’ He was very successful in fitting scholars for college, and to almost every state in the Union has he He dearly loved the diligent student; and though his smile contributed something in this way. was grim and his salutation quaint, there were none of us who did not prize them, such as they were, more than the most bland and hearty ap- proval and commendation which others could extend to us.

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MYRTILA. A TALE. FROM THE FRENCH OF PAUL FERNEY, BY PARK BENJAMIN. CHAPTER I. Horace DE Bure was a youth who belonged to that elegant and idle class, distinguished as sons of a good family. He was rich and titled, possessed all the splendid gifts of fortune and the gratifications of pride, and for all these was only obliged, as Figaro says, to undergo the trouble of being born. Having envy in others, nor suffered any misfortune, Horace de Burg was a good companion, a merry fellow, and a delightful gallant. The qualities of his heart and the frankness of his character compensated for certain little impertinences, pretensions, sin- nothing to gularities, and eccentricities of speech and man- ner. His father had left him an income of sixty thousand francs and the title of baron. Had he been obliged to part with one of these inherit- ances, he would unhesitatingly have sacrificed his fortune to preserve his title. One afternoon in the month of June, and year of grace 1846, towards the hour when people generally dine, this youthful millionaire was leaning over the balcony of his house in the Ita- lian boulevard. His eyes were fixed in the direc- tion of the Madeleine, and he was apparently gazing in the distance for some expected person. ‘“Ah! there is Christian, at last!’’ he ex- “But he must surely have lost his wits to gallop his horse He will be mistaken for a gendarme or a jockey; and if he claimed, hastily leaving the balcony. in such a fashion on the boulevard. is seen entering my doors, we shall both be dis- Gallop on the boulevard! What an What ignorance of graced. outrage on good manners! the commonest rules of society !’’ The cavalier, whose dashing style had so shocked Horace de Burg, was not slow in enter- ing the court-yard of the house. He was a fine, robust young man, who, by his bold carriage, calm and dignified bearing, and the energetic and irregular style of his features, reminded one of portraits of the hero of Heliopolis, the valiant Kleber. Christian Desgenets left his horse to the care of a groom, and ran up stairs to meet his friend. ‘*Do you wish to destroy both our reputa- tions ?’’ cried Horace, grasping him by the hand. ‘* How so?”’ “How! Why, a dragoon would scarce have dared to rush into a tavern as you have hurried hither.’’ ‘*T was afraid of being late.”’ “True enough; I have waited dinner for you nearly an hour. Where did you come from ?”’ ** Since you ask—from Saint Ouen.’ ‘“* What the deuce have you been doing at Saint Ouen?”’ ‘*Simply bathing. I have spent full half the day in the water, as happy as a fish.”’ ‘* What possible pleasure can a person find in agitating his legs and arms in a river—dabbling in water like a duck ?”’ ‘* Every man chooses his amusements accord- As for me, I love bodily exer- ing to his taste. cise—swimming, riding, fencing, hunting, and even simple walking. In a word, I love motion and action; and I should die of the blues ora consumption if, for eight days in succession, I were compelled to lead the lazy, sleepy life which you regard as the height of happiness. But let us hasten to the drawing-room, that I may offer my apologies to the ladies and gentlemen. Pray, have dinner brought up immediately, for I am dying of hunger.’’ ‘* There is no one in the drawing-room. We shall dine alone to-day.’’ ‘“ What! with no company but our own ?”’ ** Nobody. ‘** Exceedingly. is the first time I ever found you in such a state Are you surprised ?”’ In the first place, because this of isolation; and, in the second, because I cannot satisfactorily account for this téte-a-téte by the pleasure that you will derive from my conversa- tion.”’ “T have wished to be alone with you, my friend, because I have some very serious matters to talk about. Come, let us go to dinner; it is ready.”’ “Your mysterious manner takes away my ap- petite. Come, tell me in two words on the spot what is the matter.’ “T will explain myself after dinner.’ **Ts there a duel on foot ?”’ “No, thank Heaven !’’ ** What is it, then?”’ “* Well, since you will have it, I have a secret to impart to you, a tale to tell, and a service to ask.’’ ‘*Good! I breathe again—my appetite is re- ’ stored.”’ After dinner, Horace had coffee and cordials served in his cabinet. He then handed to his friend a box of cigars.

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34 GODEY’S ‘“* Excellent wine, ice water, and the most frag- rant and delicious of cigars!’’ gaily exclaimed ‘You treat me like a king, Horace; you encourage my small vices. Well, not to be behind-hand with you in complacency, I imme- diately open both my ears. Now for your se- cret,’’ added he, reclining upon a lounge in the attitude of a resigned listener. Christian. But, how- ever singular and improbable it may seem to **T will reveal it in a few words. you at first, I pray you, nevertheless, to consider it as a very serious matter.”’ ‘‘No more preliminaries. To the fact—the fact !’’ ** Well, my dear friend,’’ pursued Horace, in a tone half seriousand half pleasant, “‘ I am going to renounce bachelorhood, and all its pomps and vanities. In short, 1 am about to marry. What do you think of it ?’’ “‘I will give you my opinion after you tell me whom you are going to marry.’’ ‘“‘ Listen, then, to my story. It is somewhat romantic.’’ ‘* Hurrah for a romance ‘* You remember, some five years ago, that I accompanied my father on a journey to the Py- renees ?”’ ea” “* But you do not know that my father had that weakness called love of kindred? Among those mountains we had cousins of all degrees, after the fashion of the country, and by hundreds. My time was wholly passed in forming or re- newing acquaintance with all the branches, more You will do me the honor to believe that all these peregrina- or less indirect, of our family tree. tions bored me confoundedly. They were a real infliction, till one day, when at the residence of one of my most disagreeable relations, I encoun- tered the most fascinating of female cousins.’’ “The heroine now appears upon the stage. Attention !”’ ** She was a young creature, only fifteen or six- teen years old, of a most original and impressive style of beauty, presenting the rarest contrasts of force and grace, vigor and distinction, inspiring, at the same time, sentiments the most various, most noble and tender, speaking to the soul like one of Raphael's virgins, and to the senses like Cradhier. I being so perfectly beautiful, so irresistibly at- a statue of never before saw a tractive. I could not cease admiring her. I looked upon her as one of those marvelous ob- jects of art whose reality confounds the ideal. I fancied that | beheld, at last, a primitive and im- maculate type of human beauty, a living perfect- ness, such as the author of all things creates from time to time, to stimulate or dishearten the geniusof man. ‘This pearl of our mountains was called Myrtila—a charming name, which seems stamped with the poetical and striking indi- viduality of her who bore it—does it not ?”’ ‘It is a question of euphony, to which, so far MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. as I am concerned, I attach not the slightest im- portance.”’ “Indeed! But you will confess that it would have been a species of profanation to afflict this adorable girl with such a name as Ursula or Sally, for example. As for myself, I would never have forgiven my godfathers if they had christened me Jehosaphat instead of Horace.’’ “Let us return to Myrtila,’’ said Christian Desgenets, smiling. ‘*T thought I had said enough about her per- fections, and could dispense with drawing her portrait.’’ ** Doubtless. fied as to the plumage of your bird. I declare myself sufficiently edi- Pass on to her warbling.”’ ‘‘Myrtila is not a woman of wit. I heard a sparkling sally, or a sharp repartee, flow never from her lips. It must be confessed she speaks but seldom. servation and revery. She is, above all, endowed She is naturally inclined to ob- with common sense and imagination—rare gifts, and rarely joined together. From the first mo- ment that I saw her,I loved her. You will un- derstand, then, that, on the morning after my first visit, and on all succeeding days, I aban- doned my father to himself and his cousins to re- turn to the presence of my beautiful, and already beloved Myrtila. and intimate existence, our love was reciprocal. Ah! loved and was beloved. ing with tender sentiments, and my head thronged Enthusiastic, devoted, After a month of assiduities what days of happiness were those! I My heart was overflow- with generous illusions. sincere, confiding, sinfple, I was the happiest, and, doubtless, also the most ridiculous of men; for they go together.”’ ‘‘ That is, generally, true enough.”’ ‘‘ From that time I have been changed.”’ ““ Not too much,”’ said Christian, with friendly irony. ‘* A single fact,’’ said Horace, “might con- vince every one that I was no more the same. Three leagues separated me from Myrtila—me, who had always shunned fatigue like the plague. I gaily walked the whole distance every morn- ing and evening, without taking into account our horseback rides in the environs during the day. There was another proof of my metamorphosis— I was bold in the presence of every other woman except Myrtila; and to her I never could speak of love without trembling and blushing. Do you think I should now be so timid ?”’ ‘*T will not interrupt you; for you have not ’ yet told the whole story. Go on.’ ‘* When I spoke to my father of my projects of marriage, he refused to sanction them under the trifling pretext that Myrtila and myself were, the one without fortune, and the other without position, and both too young yet to assume a de- fined rank in society. I then addressed myself to the father of Myrtila, who, agreeing with mine, refused me for the same reasons, and be-

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MYR yond that treated me with downright rudeness. In a state of exasperation I proposed rebellion and flight to my adored; but her sense of duty triumphed over her love, and I was compelled to endure from herself a final refusal. In our fare- well interview, we promised to love forever, and to await with faith and resignation that period when we could at length be permitted to realize our tenderest hopes. I then returned to Paris, and strove with zeal to achieve a certain social position, but without success. At last, winter melted into spring; and, although my retraction was unchanged, I could not help feeling an inex- plicable joy, for the happy moment was drawing nigh when I should again see Myrtila. In this frame of mind, I was one morning surprised and troubled by a question of my father’s—‘ Are you still in love ?’ he inquired, with a tone of raillery ‘ Yes,’ replied I, affect- My father then burst not habitual with him. ing to be perfectly calm. into a fit of laughter, and handed me a letter post- marked at Tarbes. Scarcely had I read the first lines, when my blood flowed violently back upon my heart, my sight became darkened, my knees trembled, and I fell fainting on the floor.”’ ‘** What did the letter say ?”’ “Do you not guess ?’’ “No, i’ faith.” “That letter was written by Myrtila’s father, and announced the marriage of his daughter !”’ “Indeed !’’ exclaimed Christian, with a slight- ly sardonic smile. “Yes, in despite of her love and her promises, Myrtila was married. And to whom? An old fellow, the richest landholder in the country. How horrid! It was a bargain and not a mar- riage that she had contracted. Notwithstanding my despair, I did not ruthlessly condemn her. I did not refuse her the benefit of extenuating cir- cumstances; for I reflected that she had been constrained to obedience by her father. But I soon became absurdly misanthropic, or rather, misogynistic ; for I considered the sex as devotees of interest rather than of affection. Still my thoughts reverted to Myrtila, and they were most bitter. How many a time, my breast heaving with sobs, have I stole to my chamber to weep in secret and undisturbed, poor imbecile that I was! By degrees this fine despair subsided, and I almost succeeded in plucking from my breast the arrow shot by the faithless Myrtila. Thus terminated the first part of this adventure, or, rather, sentimental misadventure of my extreme youth. Suffer me to take breath, and a drink.”’ “So far, my friend, your story resembles that of everybody else.’’ ** How so ?’’ said Horace. “Why, at the age of twenty, sooner or later, all men love some Myrtila,’’ continued Chris- tian, with a pleasant gravity. ‘‘ At that age obsta- cles of family, of fortune, or of fortuitous events —the conscription, for instance—are generally opposed to the union of lovers. A separation na- TILA. 35 turally follows, always bedewed with tears and attended with a thousand oaths of fidelity, which do not prevent them both, sooner or later, from consoling themselves, forgetting, marrying, and According to all appearances, thus will it be with Myrtila and yourself.’’ having children. ‘“* You are mistaken—and the originality of the catastrophe of my story will make you deem it less common, I hope—only a little patience.”’ ‘** Shall you occupy much more time ?”’ “ Three minutes. I will redouble my attention and ” * “Bravo! my beverage. ‘* Last year, my father’s death having rendered my presence in the Pyrenees indispensable, I re- turned thither for the first time since Myrtila’s During my sojourn, Myrtila’s old She thought it due to my title of And I, in my a visit of condolence due to the inconstancy. husband died. cousin to advise me of that event. turn, deemed widow. I found Myrtila unchanged in appear- four altered nor modified her radiant loveliness; she ance ; years of married life had neither was the same woman—I might almost say the same girl. Our interview was brief and cere- monious. But before my departure, when I ap- proached to bid her farewell, then, by a tacit agreement, without explanation, by a look we There then en- regular correspondence, and my old Out situation—respect for her widow’s weeds—I had, were reconciled to each other. sued a feelings were revived. of regard for her during her time of mourning, to impose a delicat« reserve on any expression of my sentiments; but the funeral debt a wife owed paid, I made known my projects and intentions in the most formal manner. ‘The reply of Myrtila was as prompt as it was satisfactory. Yesterday even, I received from her an invitation to pass the summer in her chateau. Do you comprehend my joy? I am about to make, at the same time, a marriage of inclination—for I love Myrtila—and a marriage of convenience, for our ages and education are in harmony ; and, Jast of all, a marriage of interest for my cousin is now arich heiress. Most men their future What do you think of the end of my story, good fellow ?”’ “In sober truth, were Myriila as poor to-day as she was when you first knew her, would you make her your wife ?”’ ‘* After what I have said, can you doubt it ?”’ ‘Then you are truly worthy of the good for- tune that awaits you; and I have only to offer you my sincerest congratulations.’’ “In good time! What abrilliant and prosperous future lies before me, Christian!’’ continued Ho- race, with enthusiasm. ‘I shall, of course, de- part immediately. And then, when winter comes again, and the drawing-rooms of the aristocracy are thrown open, I will triumphantly present the beautiful and proud Mvrtila, Baroness de Burg. For two or three winters, at least, she will be the embark welfare on one of these chances.

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ODEY’S 26 G lioness of the faubourg St. Germain. Moreover, my wife’s fortune, added to my own, will enable me to inhabit a hotel, to give balls and parties of the most brilliant description—what felicity ! The women will be jealous of Myrtila—the men will envy me. But why do you not interrupt me, Christian, nor suffer me thus to run on extrava- gantly? I spoke of a service that I wished you to render me—why do you not ask me what it is?”’ ‘*Have you given me time todoso? Well, come, reveal what is the nature of the service you ask at my hands.’’ ‘It is, my dear friend, that you accompany me to the Pyrenees.’’ ““ Accompany you !—and for what purpose ?’’ “T really want you.”’ ‘Once more I ask you why ?”’ ‘* You understand that if I arrive alone at the residence of my cousin, from the very day of my installation I shall be pointed out by her neigh- bors, and by the country people, as the successor of her late husband, a pretender to her hand, a lover. That would, perhaps, be an embarrassing situation for Myrtila, and surely very unpleasant to me. The part of a lover, which is charming when played in solitude, becomes anything but delightful when performed in public. Your pre- sence, if it does not put a stop to all surmises, will divert them partially from myself, and give me room to employ my talents in the art of pleas- ing with more liberty and less ridicule. It is a real task which I desire to impose on you, my dear Christian—it is the service of a friend that I demand. Moreover, let me add, as a last and conclusive reason, that I most particularly and prodigiously wish that you, my comrade in child- hood and youth, my mentor and best friend, should be the affectionate and legal witness of my mar- riage. It would be a source of lively sorrow to me were you not present on that solemn occa- sion.”’ ‘*T will accompany you,’ hesitatingly. ‘*Ah! how sincerely do I thank you!” cried Horace, with emotion. ‘‘ This act of devotion shall be recompensed. I will find for you in the Pyrenees a second heiress—another Myrtila.”’ **T will not put you to that trouble.’’ ** Be content; I will discover one who is young, pretty, distinguished, and very rich—in a word, worthy of you.”’ ‘* Were she a thousand times seductive, I should refuse her.’’ ** You are hard to please.”’ ‘* No; but I desire to find and choose for my- self, the woman who can love me enough to share my lot, whom I shall esteem sufficiently to be- stow upon her my name. To say everything, I shall not easily consert to receive wealth from the hands of a wife.’’ **What pride! Well, Christian, that I may not belie my promises, and still serve you as you deserve, I will address myself to the discovery of ’ said Christian, un- MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. a young girl perfect in herself and perfectly poor. I will throw her in your way. You shall see her, love her, espouse her, and we will return to Paris both married. That will be funny—don’t you think so ?”’ “You are mad.”’ ‘*Yes—mad with joy! please you thet we depart ?”’ ‘* Whenever you desire.’’ ‘*Me!—I am at your disposal. How much time will be necessary for you to make ready, in view of several months’ absence ?”’ “The time to pack my trunk.’’ ‘* What '—are your affairs in such order that you can set out unexpectedly off-hand ?”’ ‘* My life is regulated like a soldier’s. always ready for everything.’’ ‘* Wise man that you are! Christian—I must say it—you are not a man of the present age ; you are cast in an antique mould. Simplicity of man- ners, pride of character, loyalty of soul, independ- ence of spirit, a heart of gold and a body of iron, you are made up, my dear fellow, of old virtues and qualities gone out of fashion. Frankly speak- ing, our ‘coat’ sits illon you—the Roman tunic would become you better.’’ “* You are taking revenge of me, Horace—you ” Ah! when will it I am are jesting. ‘* Upon my sacred honor, I am in earnest.”’ ‘* Well, I must leave you, crazy wag. will meet to-morrow.” ‘“‘T will order horses to be ready at six in the evening. Will that suit you ?’’ ‘*Very well. Ata quarter before six I will be here with arms and luggage.”’ We CHAPTER II Myrtita was not the widow of an old man, as Horace had maliciously informed his friend, Chris- tian. She had married M. Canzales, formerly a captain of the guards under Charles X., a faithful legitimist, a man not more than fifty years of age, youthful in feeling and amiable in disposition. It was not through ambition that Myrtila had contracted this alliance. Her consent had been determined by sentiments of a more respectable kind, more elevated in their principles or their application. Her father, under obligations to M. Canzales, endeavored, in the first place, to make her understand that it was a sacred duty for her to devote her life to their benefactor, and thus dis- charge the family’s debt of gratitude. Then, as the young girl continued to hesitate, he attacked the most delicate susceptibilities of natural pride. It was really unbecoming in her, he said, to take advantage of the love with which she had inspired young Horace, to gain admission into the rich family of De Burg, in opposition to the will of its chief. Since she would bring neither dowry nor patrimony to her husband, she ought, at least, to

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respect herself too much to introduce discord to Alter hesitation ceased on the their domestic hearth. divers considera- tions of like nature, all part of Myrtila. She consented to sacrifice her- Seif, as ail young women In an anaogous situa- tion do, nor tear to } fiecting that express it, Without at aii re- they thus avow themselves guilty of protoundly immoral. When Myrtila, now become a widow, saw t time, she could not repress a lively emotion nor a tender reminiscen ot the past. She was secretly glad to be free once more. much reflection, she attributed the young man’s fidelity of affection to their old engage- ments, and she esteemed him the more because she had herself proved faithless to them. new intentions, when they were a year afterwat declared to her, excited in her no surprise. With- out wishing, in the first instance, to encourage or repel them, she limited her good-will towards her former adorer simply to a diplomatic invitation that he would come and pass the summer at her house—an invitation which, plainly enough, had not that serious import that Horace was disposed to attribute to it. A young girl, in her aspirations after the unknown, may blindly gather the first knowledge within her reach. fruit of the tree of To be chance married, she often resolves to commit to a large share of her future happiness. But a woman, a widow, experienced in married life, does not again tie the conjugal knot without sus- ! picion, after long reflection, and sometimes even alter caretul investigation, 1 dwelt on a very fine property, situates on the edge ol a valle y, at the foot of one oi the Pyrenean mountains. This property consisted ot a very extensive farm, which constituted only the smallest portion of the vast estate of Madame Canzales. What one can have for half a m yn in acou ry poor and magi fi ent, 13 incalcu le. - , Myrtila lived in this grand and peaceable retreat, surrounded by her own family, that of her hus band, and a real population of laborers. Among all this thre ng, we will distinguish o ya ece o M. Canzales, a charming little blonde, about six- teen years of age. Her name was Pau! lor »uTro ar more than three months had Horace de hristian D Myrtila t id his friend, ¢ sgenets, already hat liberal and caretul hospitality which is generally practised in the received trom country. The dandy, Horace, had experienced a real dis- Look ng of a new and gallant sp appointment. upon himself as a Cwsar cies, he believed that he h id ouly to come, be seen, and congue theless, he had been present for more than three months, had been seen, and absolutely conquered that his prompted a retreat. What a check! He was ' ] 1 Stlii so little, wounded pride sometimes condemned to pay court, to play the agree- able, to employ his talents in the art of pl ising. In one word, he had not, since his arrival, made the slightest progress in the affections of his cou- VOL. xxx1x.—4 ‘ha. 37 sin. So much coldness in Myrtila was not na iral—at least, so thought Horace. ‘These inde incessant hesitations, seeme Everyth ng in the of his former betrothed appeared strange, ic, incomprehens and full of mystery. How ever, he did 1 lose courage ; he wanted to know the solution of the enigma. So, as much ona count of his self-love as his love for Myrtila, ha he lately resolved to submit to everything, endure eve ryth ng, undert ike eve rything, to triumph ove this sweet, aflectionate, but most obstinate resist sed his des res. As for Christian, he had In the comme: taken part in the festivals, ex« become wet stranger in the house. had sions around neighborhood, and equestria! amu ments, to which the recent arrival of the P ums had given rise. But for am 1 pas had almost entirely absented himself. He v the eve r Dut rarely seen in the circie ar I the mistress of the house. At the earliest daw 1e departed with his gun on his shoulder, to } company W those hardy mountain rs who as guides for tourists, and whom he had made h friends, and even admirers, by the frankness ¢ his manners d his aptitude for the chase. Inde fatigable and rash, he escaladed the heights ot th mountains, or, defying cold, he resolutely explore: caves and the depths of precipices, to discove those bear d eagles spoken of by travelers In the ardor of his pursuit of this rare and dat ger Is game nis a ences were ire l itiy pre eagles, he i to save the honor of | was (¢ ot arms and the reputation of his skill in venery, pursue those bands of wild geese and ducks whic! regulating their flight by the course of the s migrate at this se n of the year. In a wor Christian had seemed for a short time past quite devoted to the worship of the great Saint Huber So it happened that Horace and Myrtila ha frequent Opportunities of uninterrupted interview At close of one of the most beautiful of days they were taking a solitary stro out the env rons Lightly chatting, and carelessly walki l UY Sid 1 Vv « 1 to a quiet no rue t y arra eda L place of repose in side oO ah It was a trysting spot well known to b Am ere they were all alone, in the mids deep silence, and in that obscurity so befi contide e and tender avowals Horace deemec the moment favoral lor explanation ‘* Let us rest a momenthere, my dear cousin— will you not?’ said he, speaking with a swee and insinuating tone. ‘* Are you weary ?”’ “Weary! No! But I think it would be vers agreeable to repose a while on this rocky sea Pray, consent.’’ ‘“ Willingly,’’ said she, sitting down before him. “Does not this place awake any tender memo-

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AGA IN Mi ? S i H 1 voice Of soit I \ te in day e by l 4 ) = y a A 100 il i ) |e.) } ' } I very place [yrtila, where I 1 1) ! co é ( 1) ) r $ .-s I s ia ’ I express ict . 4 . 7 ” - § wish | me y l i ice - r Ww y per re t \ ) p i? ( for Ss to mild . Oo ~ ~ — D ' ou . ’ r 1 Vv \ r cr l \ co y l oO V vt l iemoryv D “ i vO » mn r ‘ verb t m r I yr | 3s or $ Ss retros} y ‘ ‘ ( 3 (Am | l s way? i i ‘ Our stars ( j 1¢ £ yw 4 ind more a 1 vou and I have rrived t that e y eopie live in the We have n backward to s Vi ive h | c er CA t { Le i ul r ol s, Horace rather vo ' estimabie | Y ] Ss ce to W bea il I worn ré 1S 3 Let us Ir ( ( rate ¢ I iris ) 30 “ to \ I ier th l } } Ve ( ~) | riea Y } my ear ¢ l 1 ve e4 t l I mii e¢ ye s \ S noma and 1 ' r S care 3 r. E.xcelient! cri J 1, with a yous I e been? Ix ’ ita I ; ed that th — r this 1 greater dolt than I. ' ri \\ !—my faultt you are a — what you r \ y metorunonat ] ) I i f wr rT \\ + '* | y¥ “ r ) ya fauit; 1 see } rt ir ) is ot? ewe i bh ved that we wer \ i \ were “ Ww } st i \ att rk W hen AND LA y S BOC . once ¥ re wi wo s ' r ( m \ e th ‘ ry i I in I I l e ( ‘ ( < ) te i ly café ivuo 1 W I hope t I 1 r ow t Iw ( you \ y cear \ ( ver . ro j 8 m I der ! f . j p ed 1nis ny risy W ‘ \ lL more reiy !’? cried Myr ex rprise Ye I tell you the t n S « r eariy youtn i ted a sty oO 1 own Of all t — ove te piel s absolutely h No!’? « | Horace t j i and ia 1 I ) ir INO; | vis ex ve ¢ I hat married 1 ing aw I \ rural s fa " \ ‘ P \ yy \ t no t uo t iw i I w ite sites ) ike domes i 1 y the § No— ‘ I r i—I vastly I g ( \ ed , I All S say 3a \ These re 1s } s re tT r ‘ nro = I pr m utes +O € ol nil ) ) is } \ é mie i us ] ut vi ) V r? rt W { ey r ¢€ pas I

t ( re i mo- 7 iu ct i i i itil i ( l ( r ¢ V I am ( I he rms for me Ss and senti- resses me en mé As tor ot 1

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= > > >

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10 ; MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. v we y \ sed from t r This v ir ty struck t » | . ; l- vs 8s € i elr gial I a j i — en in t same expt L , (To ) —<—* TOKENS OF THE DEAD. BY 1 nl i Hi VW ) t I Tha A i 1 s ‘ Fa I = y ir e S r Ar ! A I With k ‘ A 1 ss ( i r m | N I ] A —— 6 & = I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY. } y 3 Ss W r ¥ I W I ( A \ \ ( ~ My n v I \ And I kine ( i Asa l \ v's W i A H y iH kK t l \ I ' A ‘ ~ V \ nN A Isa I I \ ( l« ‘ There w i

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. ; } “ae ’ LA Ra & eee | ‘ i , lv . Did » no . I ( . yfa ( . yr ¢ 1 \ } f T P r ) ' ! ie i I 3 ia \ | 8 ' } } ( . . i ° ‘ | | ‘ l ‘ ’ l " \ ( 4 ) ‘ \ r S l | ( ) I Iw \ Vii ( \ V i to \ W » ¥ ul i Pp ra I ° i x , . { was Si ‘ i I \ “ i\ l t j ! o r con \ — 4 ' , I { ] ( ‘ i »>wW mii e; _ ; i, \ 1 ither A > ‘ Fier | ’ ( r ! ? 4 TT } { ( ) i as ‘ } y - f r ) ( ~) ) 1 l ) ) — 3 i ( l y t ihe S , l i \ 1¢ r I rou s ( \ l r é l . } 1 I ca be 1 to Db : ) ( i n i i Ww \ pu r in ick V 1 | 3 P ) | < at her - . ‘ ( sterwe r nt ! tut A . . I « , down to a stranger till I | o changed 1 ;"’—answered Mrs. r- Judd from Con ; displa a face t ; wood Giv ie my) ve and wi nus th 1 very strong-! lred, Was D} ml 3 } i— i¢ Vy— l l \ 1eedn ’ of a r of } \ “And = l a. sea . . s ta S ( Even her b i ) \ ( in oman—** to you » longer 1 l : 4 1 al tas s§ ~ pense rs pens l ipresi ey e

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2 DEY’S MAGAZIN at. having a creat desire to see the world, I have me to pass a week or two in Philadelp ia with 1 your | 1, who, you know, is, like ysell, al e of Conne Are you a relation of his?’’—inquired Mrs. erwood. . te—though I was once very near é I am cousin to a first love of his, Fa- 1 Faber, to whom he was much attached at Yale; and they would certainly have en married only she f d that a New York é int was more to her taste; and she went r 1 to | [ ind died there. I é Ir. Chesters 1 but twice, for I did » New Hav Ile was desperately in e with my cou Fab d I dare say for r re mie id show me every V ve so We 3 the first tin I have rsw } whoie sex s e | iwver Snively de- er I r } Widow S ris.,a Ww i noted rr r wea ind r finery.”’ M Chesterwood ked at her st, and was ) 1 surprised atl ur t tl desertion Vow - ed M } I—"* I will ex- \ ’ ug me up, ieit me, at e! ! ‘ Lv not far from vew fl ind m y ¢ rh to support it and yself; and there I have been liv for the last ( ve with very good help, daughter to one ) cd é yas I please i have re s in New Haven, of whom | am t inde} lent; here re [ do not care tor iny of thei ivice ind am determined to go vhere I | e, and as I please; always r car » do rt ng morally wrong. So very sum I take a irnevy somewhere to see world 1 hav heard that Harry Chester- wood had 1 rried a southerner, and settled in Philadelphia, and being cousin to his first love, I ive come to make a v Now here is a cer- icate of my respecta ty, signed by some of he best names in New Haven county, for I never ravel witho i characte Nobody ever should.”’ Mrs. Chesterw 1, much amused at the sang frov ind ¢ entr of her gnest, looked at the ertificate, and found it every way satisfactory as » the respectability of Miss Jonathina Judd. j to ex e her for a lew She then desired the lady left the room to give orders con- minutes, and ing the apartment to be prepared for her. When Mrs. C Miss Judd had located herself in the front parlor, cer! hesterwood returned, she found where, having raised the sashes and drawn up the | ht, si was seated at one blinds to their full height, she and dust pouring in of the windows, with the sun her, ‘“You see’ trance of her hostess—‘‘ I have begun already to As yet I have upon and upon everything in the room. *‘—said she, on perceiving the en- njoy the sights of Philadelphia seen nothing go by but people, and not many of he weather is now so great’’— replied Mrs. Chesterwood—‘‘that few persons venture out till after the sun has declined.’ ‘* Ves, I know’’—resumed Jonathina—‘‘ many people have a prejudice rainst the sun. My idea is that we ought to enjoy everything, and be unnoyed by nothing. ‘That is my philosophy.”’ Vine is’ —replie i Mrs. ¢ erwood—“‘ that is in quietly submitting to y inconvenience that we can easily prevent or remedy. For instance, are you not incom- moded, at this very time, by the glare of the sun and the dust raised by every carriage that passes i ? You see how it has come in at the open a : I have long since made up my mind’’—said Jonathina—‘‘ never to look upon the sun as a troub And asto the dust, only two carriages have passed by ind iree ¢ ises I counte l every one; ior accuracy Is i in all things In the first omnibus were three men, two wom nd a ¢ | | S nd were——’’ And now, Miss Judd’’—interrupted Mrs. Chesterwood—“ your a ’ is ready, and a servant is waiting to conduct you to it You will pro y wish »cna your ares ' “Why ?’’—inquired Jonathina After trave ¢ in warm we uther’’—replie 1 Mrs. Chesterwood—‘‘ most ladies wish to refresh themse es by change ot a — i am t a lady’’—resumed Miss Judd ‘Don’t be startled—at least I do not call myself But I am a pertectly and I am above all the non- spectabie woman, sense of er forms ceremonies. Now, in our! iblican cou t terms lady and gen- tlemen e entirely out of place They belong only to tl iristocracies of Europe. We Ameri- eans should glory in being men and women. As to dress, I regard it merely as a covering; and I consider the time devoted to it as a mere wa of existence. To dress once a day is enough; and I was dressed clean this morning, before I lef New York.’’ ‘* Would you not like to arrange your hair ?’’— said Mrs C “7 cessary trouble int 1esterwood. cut off, purposely to avoid all unne- had it ‘But really, Miss Judd, it dered.”’ ‘So much the better’’—(leoking in the class ‘*When it stands on end, the air passes through it, and it is far cooler when thus disordered, as you call it, than if pressed down close upon my head with a comb or brush. Now, that is the I hil ysophy of hair ‘*T think’’—observed Mrs. Chesterwood—‘“‘ as there is so little to be seen in the street during the heat of the afternoon, you would find it pleasanter t om, and repose till tea-time. to ret You will find some new books there.’ Then calling Zuby, who was standing just without the parlor door, Mrs. Chesterwood de- Miss Judd up stairs, and re to yourr ’ sired the girl to show

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attend to her. The baggage had already been carried up, and Jonathina sat down on her large DOX. here’s chairs plenty’’—said Zuby, handing her o . sie Maybe you'd like to get something out of your trunk ?”’ ** Good girl’’—replied Jonatl i, looking at her with great complaisance. I feel a friendship for sions are lasting. I foresee that you 11 will be te two sis rs ° 71 . 1 +} ] } “Oh! laws a mercy !’’—exclaimed the colored ‘As to my name’’—replied Zuby—‘‘ I can’t of myself I shou ive ¢ se a prettier I should to have een Rosalily or B : flower And | hate my name worse s boys that w ried us to death here la Ww 1 a way of saying—‘ Zuby, Zuby, rhymes to lvo- by. I see we shall be friends’’—resumed M Judd And now, Zuby, for a beginning, 1 will treat you with unbounded contidenc , Id t ow what bounded confid e ia’ »bserved e girl—‘‘ but if you'll only use me Well and be pt e to me, that will do.’ I take the utmost interest in your whole race.”’ “| can in pretty fast, to be sure’’—said Zuby —‘‘and I could race if there was any ov on. But Va ( 3; the one that goes most of the ar- rants.”’ ‘*Your ideas no doubt are excellent’’ marked Jonathina—‘‘ but I see I must assist you 1 developing them to advantage. Ask me any- “That I will’’—answered Zuby, with much animation. “So what’s the reason you wear such an ugly gown? And where did you get that horrid bonnet? And why don't you travel with a right sort of trunk and a right sort of And what And why did you ring the bell so queer have you stuffed into that big ‘*Stop! stop !’’—exclaimed Miss Judd—*‘ you are running on quite too fast. I must answer your questions one at a time.’’ “Do. So first of all—why did you let your mantuamaker spoil your gown so? Did you pay 14 her? She did not deserve five cents. She must be the worst mantuamaker that ever lived. And your milliner is just as bad, for your bonnet ’s dreadtul.’’ ‘‘'The mantuamaker and the milliner were the same person’’—said Miss Judd, looking down. ‘* Sol should think. *T'would bea pity if there were two such.”’ **It was myself’’—said Jonathina. ‘* As there LL Y \ ON Ge 13 is no reason why all womens ld not make er own cl ae ways d Oo, bY way ol r cx tit} t > mys i ra.’ i an! i re ne 1 Zu | } think they w be w 0 tollo | ‘ pies 1 t own 0 mit I tt \ you lor] é hav y own t ir wav of ds r ever t —- Jona la—** just accor to n ow t d co nience Zu! ( t¢ a vay 0% " ‘“*Oh! dear no, ma’am’’—said 1} rtsey- i! I'd mu’d t ey st a V ut next, Z ~ ie I 100 ) baggage—it look in ia) ‘*T see no reason for wasting money on hand- a rir \ rass orname $s, or showy ¢ ) s, W 1 they a ( adtoa ‘ i cle i r i! 11 i rave 1 1 } 1 plain I a as i ¢ 0 I} Sf W \ lve said last And 3 ‘ sl ut . t ve straw t ny I ws crown | forgot it t my xX and ere 1 as 1 i ney co j I I V oiher way than to sque¢ it ) 3 ba f () \ 1 Y « [ ever he ir the like? VW »a eve | rupasi vn ) is to cram it » a hand-basket? Whata ] V | be! | \ wou that bell ringing— \ vy you] } rand hard I don’t care mu ibou I it Vance wants to know I always 1 i bell powerfully, and long enough to ensure its beu veard. What is worth do y t all worth do r wel ‘That s $s sens 0 True enough, many people pull the bell too weak, so that don’t sound; | then they're vexed at Vance con 0 f di TY 0 enou = “The world I pled with fools.’’ ‘Pretty much so. That’s what Vance is al- ways say And now’’—continued the girl, emboldened by the tan irity of the stranger— ‘Var and m ire a good deal "plexed and p ed about knowing who you are, and what brought you to our house. ‘I’o be sure, you're so very rich here, and not a bit mean, like the people next door. We could entertain the Queen of Mexico.’’ Jonathina Judd then very condescendingly (or rather without teeling it a condescension) gave the girl Zuby an account of herself, similar to that Vrs. Chesterwood, and so the ce ‘Oh, la!’’—exclaimed Zuby—‘‘ how wonder- ful—for white folks to be traveling with a pass- port, like colored folks in the southern states,”’ “Tis a great pity they don’t’’ —remarked Miss J 1. ‘*It would then be known what th

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N [ ING w 1 good grace, too. Let us y her tliat 3 I I r 3 a source of amuset It is ’ S ! 3s to m V ranew ana t- ) var v of the 1 SI ? I nvit V Ww | yr rather 1 on ¢ , : 7 —remarked Mrs rw i ( rte el e€ 1gnor ol : aioe ; S I - 1 Mr. Che rwood — wv ‘ ‘ i e ¢ ( S5 | eu W ) y WO! \ » does r a ‘ i a ay a _ \ ound ’ — w on ur ° “ S i l nd i vcommon I 3 i y will look on her with du 1- \ lear Harry’’—answered his wife— I vy ry to yard this visita most i —at least it will afford 1 n op- y of exercising a virtue for which I have erto had but little occasion—that of forbear- 7 Very well, my beloved Julia. And the more your vi es devel p themseives, the mort of yurse I sh ve you Miss Jonathina Judd came down to tea, fresh i : peg ' 1e Improving hands of Zuby, who had ma- ed to make the ill-fitting striped silk look somewhat passable, by means of taking open ro there, and | mit aown in some

ergone an additional smoothing, a her eck was graced with the new collar. Mr. Ches- erwood came forward, r ed Miss Judd, ind ced to her of Conne t er own room d not coming down a , Mrs ( I ! Zu to S¢ Lifer ner ’ ' ! p . ~ a 1 : , in the rocking-chair, absorbed in moe I s | her ( ( l Zuby’’—said she— ind t e a red of my ney, and Vv sy, | have « m ‘ vwn.?? tt ’ 17 vv é ) ( sur —_—eX i eda 4 \— t iW i I It o nari \ 3 wher It m be work lrag y I Oo W I | wha 4 - | }’ lisal \ ius cap ot mv ow | ) ( rt CK OF J r he \ ve was | ) t \ act t l ‘ \ l y f t » array i os ind Vv \¥ i ica ] i sa é y — 1 1 CA v0 i l All i a { ( ! ( H Vv e « — we « y ) cases, ra er \ wn <« lor ead —W i pu s i ) Ss WV i } t | s \ Ww r ~ str ¢ case l cd- I S I 1 \ = s ( f ?

W ’ wel i i i my : Sii¢ t | I is t ! SO I se’’—ré 1 { i certainly a new m ! s ] he s saw patter —' it’s i way $ ~) when you pu m pand on \ l way ol y n tt er Oo + ae cently If they are to go flyir twos ) oi t in’t much of o1 ents "Taste ar ( t iby’’—ren irked M Judd ‘Yes, yes, I know that very well As \ says— Som ren ‘ 0d meat, a 1 some pre fer rank I I ] nt 4 e sam with 3, lor ere , Chris- tian tas llowever me hav liry J can make it s | will stick ¢ \ he If Sis yo S cal 10 V \ ! is so scrabbly Zu hen took the cap, and endeavored to re der it wea | r ] 1 | ; back; and f ig the front i lik a sha] 1 Oo red oO ieave S¢ LW str . r Yow, M Judd’’—said Z _ s my so- el 1 re : \ ‘ W se } now i : ¥ i t so a » t hem all t

t ) \ . 1 4 é or v¥ I very \ \ \ . r r }? y ¢ ¢ j ‘ ] 1 ; =) \ ra © i { 1 . i . nome VoV I is Wi ! ( f ! | i ‘ iv i 1 y aN 3 i j ir “ sey ¢ ¢ » wat as -. MT i y V . \I { WW i

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=

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' — | |

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~ w vas | ut s \ AN “ kis s »w N i valls Sul s é \ I utch iis glances tha > Ss J I i int ea i lo w om your husban s pa 1 I S rand d rece kiss rhe swee ishing / ic ¢ = 3 be ks proper to i ; 1” BOAST O ( l l was griey iss - Iter \ " ep anguish was aT r rhe « imi ¢ mbition had P R l'o the sin of seeki i mat = hung dow er head, as she m Rustic ma s shi I ‘ Phe pride w 1im : I b sru t ume to ace M rm and my Wings have ¢ : f Above the sir daughters tha \ P i But the tale I've told is a iess¢ s ‘ rhat others should se c | ype . Fac rirl sno i rem 35

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THE TR DIVINE POWER AS SEEN IN THE PHENOMENA OF LIFE BY REV. ALONZO POTTER, D. D In the March number. some remarks were offered in respect to the light which Vital Phenomena, and espe- cially the phenomena ot mucroscopte if cast on the Power of the Creator—it being our object to show how this attribute of God, no less than His wisdom, can be illustrated through the smallest as well as the greatest of His works In the remarks that follow, it is proposed to show that even according to the popular apprehensions of Power, is most ited in this perfection of God impressively exhil the functions of Life. For the sake of greater simp we may consider Life as a single force, and we may at- tempt to estimate its dynamic energies either by con- sidering the multiplicity of organized creatures (of spe- ll as individuals which originate through its mmces which 7; or by reflecting on the mighty resist it overcomes. We points, *ntion to the latter of these ll confine our & and shall notice a few of the barriers, chemical. pirysical, and mechanic ul, which Life is able to prostrate as it pours its ceaseless and multitudinous streams over and around our globe First.—Consider the chemical forces, which the Vital Power is able to master nue. and su Deprive an individual plant or animal of life, and how quickly does it decay and putrefy—its constituent ele- ments hastening to abandon the state of unstable equi- librium in which they have been imprisoned, and re- turning to chemical conditions more congenial to their physical properties. Life is the power which has thus mastered them and bound them, as it were, with chains So long as th power pervades the organism, it can sub- due some of the strongest ¢ ities, and transmute some of the most refractory substances in nature It can solidify gases; it can digest limestone and flints; it can bring together from earth, air, and water, the most hete- rogeneous elements, and transform them into living, organized substances ;—in plants, transforming ali these eiements into sap, ar d from that sap evolving hbrous matter t y one process, gum by another, resin by another, oi! by another, sugar by another;—in animals, digesting every kind of food into blood, and from this fluid ex- tracting bone for one part, muscular fibre for another, nervous matter tor another, gelatinous matter for ano- ther, albuminous for another, and so on almost without limit Second } —Consider again the a physic 4 > © ; rhere is hardly powe rs, in spite of which Life mainta tself imit Which men have been accustomed set to the the Vita a to onward movement of Power which it does not pass. It is so with the limit of light, of cold, of heat, of moisture, of time It was once thought that plants could not grow, or, at least acquire a fresh color with- out! ghi—yet, at the depth of more than one thousand feet below the surface of the sea, where it must be as dark as midnight, plants not or grow, forests not only wave, but they acquire a vivid green hue.—It was once supposed that anwna could hardly maintain itself ife by natural means beyond certain lines of latitude; and VOL. XXXIX.—5 E 4 ASURY. yet in the neighborhood of either pole, in the residuum of melted ice, which floats as high as 78° 10’, far beyond where larger animals have ceased to exist, many new varieties of invisibly minute infusoria have been found, iving, but contending actively and success- not only fully with the intense cold.—It was once believed by all no anism could g existin a heat above 150° F th in living org on , or when wholly deprived of moisture; and yet e acart live in DOlling Water as Well as scathing aico- hol: the rotefer or wheel animaleule, has been revivified afier having been dried for twenty-eight days in vacuo, and after having been subjected to a heat of 248° F mixed with oil of vitriol. Seeds have germirated that were taken from the stomach of a man buried beneath a Roman barrow, nearly two thousand years as has been the case with seeds tak 1 from Egyptian mum- ! 1ies four thousand years old In some species, even d plant seems to e endowed with an almost America the develope deathless vitality. are trees in South such as the boabab, which are supposed to have tained the enormous age of five thousand years, and which have thus stood unharmed amidst the war of ele- ments, while kingdoms have risen and declined, and unnumbered generations ol! mighty men of war have gone the way of all the earth Even where the individual dies, and dies soon, he rarely does sv without detaching a portion of himself containing the germ of another like individual, perhaps of many such; so that though he disappears, he leaves behind him an unbroken stream of vital power, which flows on from generation to generation, and which no natural causes known to man can arrest. All our living species are about six thousand years old It is doubtiul whether one of those that lived when the great progent- tor of our race was created, has perished Itis known that many species now living must have existed through all preceding geologicai epochs, back even to the time when animal life first appeared on theearth. And when those whose fossil remains are entombed in the rocks and mountains of our globe, became extinct, “the death.” says a great naturalist,* “seems to have been a violent rather than a natural one”—thus intimating that as it required a God to create, so it requires a God to de- siroy a living species “We have.” he adds, “no ¢ rpere- of the extinction of a species by a gradual abrogatto of the procreatiwe powers wn the individuals of successive nerations Consider, in the third place, the power which Lif exerts in overcoming mechanical resistances, and which we can, of course, Measure more accurately Observe first the dynamic agency exerted by the vital principle i It ment, that the force which causes sap t ints has been ascertained by careful experi- » ascend in th trunk of a pear tree, is sufiicient to balance a column o 1 height mercury thirty-eight inches i rhe pressure of the atmosphere can balance a column of mercury only twenty-eight to thirty inches in height, so that the up- ward pressure of sap is in this case nearly one-fourth than the ] greater upward pressure of the atmosphere But the as 's well known, to a pres- sure of about fifteen pounds to the square inch, and is * Mr. Owen

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50 ;ODEY’S MAGAZIN sufficient to raise and keep suspended all those clouds which curta this our earthly habitation, and from which our rain descends Now it 18 computed that were these same clouds to be raised by human strength, it would tax the efforts of all our race for a period of two hundred thousand years. I as this esti- mate may at m, it ess so il we consider discharged annually from these clouds ie 10 riobe 1o an aver depth of thir incnes, 80 it a hollow sphere of the diameter of the e: he gravity of water, and thirty inches in thickness, would represent ss than the vast weight of these clouds It required one hun- dred thousand n for twenty years, aided doubtless by machinery, to build the great pyramid of Egypt. | what were the masses the raised to those which are raised | he vital energies of the ascending sap and of the abs r diges r lea What is every torest but a forest of ture’s pyramids, in which each tree rises by the power ¢ ,’ Note y the trees thatstand on trom \ to year, pe aps from age to age, but their leaves and branche ilso, W he annual plants at have taille and perishe allt st be embraced when we wot rec 1 the wel s raised or mechanical effects | lake a 1 ints alone Look at the earth in tl ope oO w he 1 s ela waste l iumer>rabie seeds de some by ma sume e, slumber beneath the clods. They soc ‘ " forth their plum : ind as t ya vyhat immense masses ot super nbent matter are silently upheaved rhe Coruithian capial is but a transcript of an acanthus forcing iis way upward, aro 1a weight which had be ip it Hardly any seil i s but the tender shoot so impervio ean make its path towards the light and heat. Ina few months, what teeming abundance, w t tangled. matted Masses Of VE tation load the helds and the witidernesses lalely so eriie rhe s ips of commerce, whit are ploug! every sea and thr yr every port, find a large por of their freight in 1 seeds and seed-ves- seis whit ire the growth olas e season; and these be it ren ered, are the least weighty parts of the plants from which they are taken—while those plants again, are but an insignificant tra on when compared with the measurable qua matter which, d y e same per od, has eously from the ( d, and bee uphe in spite of gravity, by the power or | From v ‘ imics, as seen in vretables. turn to ant fir ) e lor exerted by the tm ine iary of lake yr example he human hea which co s with a force of six pounds to the bie ors \ pounds lor the Ww ple tvlerior sur- ri un I se conira ms are repeated tour Put in hour, or nearly o hundred thou- sand tumes in a ¢ Mu one tf lred thousand by Sixty and ou ta yr ot 6.000.004 pounds repre- seni em i il power e) ed by each of these paipitating 1 ‘ ol r ry ve four hours Or in ¢ wor i 1 es iral contra le efforts « r one da could be concentrated nto a si I 4 would sullicient to itt from ear iu s rock weighing 6.000.000 bs.! it the / ’ ot one individual, be m - vhed by t mber of people on the earth, theu we get an aggregate of six tho and t ions of pounds to re- resent the A fl irt-work of the human famiy nd t ca is it one of tnany organs in man, and m otn an Aa million Of sepa ule s Besid to Un vVuluulary and AND L unintermitted motions in animals, you must add their voluntary and intermitted motions Busy insects, ever on the w during their waking hours; fishes, ever in quest ot prey or rioting in sport, or escaping trom hun- gry pursuers; birds, reptiles, quadrupeds, all seeking food, shelter, and enjoyment; man, ever active, never satisfied—man that goeth to his work and to his labor u li the evening— ie is an aggregate ol dynamic power put forth by Life, between ever ris ga d set- ting sun, which may well lead our adori ig thoughts to Him in whom all organized creatures live and move and have their being In conclusion, look at the mechani power put forth by the extinct lite of vegetabies Look at that great in- strument of modern civilization, the steam- engine — work and everywhere working wonders It is in the m ant 1 the factory, on the highway and at sea, atthe bottom of deep mines and on the heights of lofty mountains It excavates the ore; it helps to purify and prepare it for it bears e metal to the artisan; it beats it, rolis It, presses it, draws it It sp ns yar it weaves cloth; it prints books; it files with these sea It eso orlung tlers, perso ur propert ringing places near yridging over all ocean, and, in one word achieving changes as rapid as they are great and unex- ample¢ Now, what is the moving power here? What ves to this instrument 1 amazing value and eth > Did itever occur to you that it is tne power RELIGIOUS BIOGRAPHY BY W. A. JONES he e Dr. Johnson was the first critic to com t 1 of the | ry of E sh iography It a com uintt t savored more of hastiness and ignorance 1 it s cotemporar idmirers would have been Ww to allow a eviewer to discover in him buts t was suct and now that every pretender to criticism make tapomtt 11 rough but manly old natist, we m allow r s the privilege of picking : vdditional flaw his ¢ al reputation most worn out by repeated a \ It is « undoubted vigor and t oO writer o ever made so many and suc gross ¢ cal blunders as Doctor Johnson On rea e and domestic morals the character and ma ers oO Londoners; the ly- pocrisies of men of the world i n-skinned sent me ’ es of pretenders to se ! and criticism, he ex ed a ‘ teness ot obser tion, a comprehen- siveness o jgment, and cy of satire that have never bee eur eced But the held of lilerary cri- cer perception, the PTOSSNess his senses, no less than the ootuseness ol his taste, r red him unf | iily and intellec- tua t eof poeist I Oo i \ I e rich ter y of « English lteratare, there is t, pe ips i more 1 i] province than that of ! phy; not only in the clas form of lives, but ilso memoirs, diaries, and autobiography. It is true t ves m enera read at present were written either d ig the lifetime or cel death of Johnson; 1 ' e former period e classic lives of Goldsmith ’ Ik “ ’ e memoirs of Cumberland; and from that pe rm te he present « heaps of wret red ‘ " s, we must d the first book of the " the w Bosweil’s on. the learned auto ni ‘ (a the sin yel fase A y sol

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Hume and Franklin, honest selfpainters; the compe ims ¢ Southe sot Burns and Lockha and ' or sketches of Irv 1lest per " t work « s class is e Me im vé mes Oo ! old I riish ry r t e ft 1a choice : classic s \ I i ves by Burnet, of Ha and Roches corrupt ¢ 1 e and pure ¢ t ind utile wit and libe e subs oas f Chris in Wa s es are » we cno upo the heroes em at pr 1. yel W co o | ‘ ‘ ea i if 1 su cts of his v mes—H era Wot Donne and He ¢ i Sa rso Zou Walt Limse » be clu is um pa mn of these The we ive Nor s t of r " awyers ¢ of « S James Ii F : \l i VW Ham I : 3 ‘ of ¢ I. , ‘ da I Am s ¢ of Co Gar f \ ‘ iall s be ve co Of au ‘ | \ I L, ‘ s e first | ind Cla ) i dix $ vere 3 " Or 3. le bi x , P , , al rick biilw (lua Mi ) \ I F re t ot I im \ = 1 I i t i i |! Gramm ms iit in his | I ef i usness O ( ! ii i oO e spot, | I i irs ( t li is W oas ‘ e her il qua 1 s h iil ue a ir m Bas ere R ) A is tor ) ‘ yerso ‘ yw | »t if a Ve ive € t . r

rw 3 mT How » P ri s I 1 ‘Ss | v ke ‘ A i ( o ‘ Cnris y 1 presum ) \ 0 va 1s mo S co R ‘ G be Sol sta m tha et w i ¢ er 1 t em mn ) I or ex ' ( wou from a struck betwe tI may thie ero was t er , | y w . ; " sant sw ‘ I vas . i 2 K I 1) | l I sec } T i iil ! \ j " f se, Ga a « r ras 0 ma ‘ Li¢ i la und ¢ parts ‘ i i ! i «ters w ’ il t il " m ‘ ot i i ma ‘ ( I * Life “Ww hom the ( Ww i . i res iw t rea sin user i } v a K mi a ~ " Hoyt ti ed rw "

30 i drea ane 1 down i neti 5

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ways, un

GAZIN ter portion of on trom

$s soul oO pious pus COon- oO com j » i i od ma i ul j and on t t unlike i CA

AND LADY’S BOOK

a good man, and a courteous gentieman Requtescat tn return to the general s ct. For modern reli- ‘ is eral we entertain no eat favor rhe writers « tare in most cases i1!-fitte for their task, and, in ad l i cliced in compos southey $ Ves i| ds history of I odism) and He- ber’s life of Ta are the only two clas works in 8 department, of u elteel 1 ce we can a presentr 1 ves Of Most missionaries are more eres or the statistical i rmation they contain tha els Missionaries 1 be good trave wrilel et we find only a s e Borrow an r then cis of re ous ( raj yare in ni St cases good peo ut Gg e unworth I g em- balmed for idmiration of poste y The embalming is irown awa rthey neve reach pos \ All eminently grea good Man, an exemplar o 1th and charity, should never be allowed to pass out of the me- mo solr ca ot be k oO he W vel idi- uo 1 pruved books B many good, humble ( ristians cal Vhom it is y means essenua

ot re ) certainly ¢ teralur considered purely is lo make y pron l The icts ¢ 1eir ves are v1 have done e to alfectt rest oft ma ad; their greatest victories (si t and ¢ cure ive been over themselves (the 1 t« clories hit eir | ou est discoveries t een oO the . ielr own hearts The cts, to he in- div i others the most im; su e litte tere e world at large The story of the ¢ is- I s $ a 1 two words R j t 1 Lov Now . y in t es on ir, or ¢ kus delalis pres 1 i t Ou t vu i 0 rs. } Ss S ver tO lil steven the most sympa el reader l r done to litera ré i f xi of religious ves is ¢ KS na t 0 SO! 0 r ¢ mo i A tion of mankind W ‘ er s t, however the o v oth of the s sa authors of 1 ives M 1a Nil real humility n i 1 i ret J $ Y i themselves i ve I Kind, and th A | cauon oO t rs é religi x ! essary ior the salv the world. With such w in pretend to ave no | since we | t y are seil deluce t i ind rather to | { admired lhe si re ( 3 l i ) ion Un- known to men, he is no rgo s Ave la- l and if his sn yid in risha books ot human authors, his um sn s 1 stered in

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MRS. MY VISIT TO HARDINGE ; OR, HOW TO MAKE MUCH (OUT) OF A GUEST. ONE OF MRS Wuen I was about seventeen, my mother re- ived assing visit from an acquaintance of her earlier days, a Mrs. Hardinge, who stopped to dine with her and renew their old intercourse for afew hours, while returning homeward from a journey to see a married daughter. She wasa large, handsome woman, of about forty-five, a ot every one. She had an ever ready widow, and showed the amability of trying to be agreeable to smile, which displayed a mouthful of first-rate false teeth, and which made us forget that her restless gray eye had a cold as well as a keen expression. ‘To my father she had abundant talk on politics, crops, roads, and manufactures, which subjects she really seemed to know a good deal about; and to my mother she spoke with a sub- dued voice and saddened counte nance of her wi- dowhood, her cares in bringing up her three daughters, and her loneliness from having parted with them all. Towards us young people her manner was so winning, so full of apparent inte- rest in our pursuits and admiration for our per- sons and accomplishments, and her language so replete with expressions of endearment, that we could not help often saying to ourselves, ‘‘ What Mrs. Hardinge!’’ She iriy Ingratiating with me, the a charming person is was particu eldest of the juvenile division of the family, commend- ing, in unmeasured terms, the skill I displayed n some branches of domestic affairs that came under her observation, and being struck with astonishment as well as delight at my success with the needle, through what she was pie ised to term, the perseverance and industry with } | I sneat } >< ] } ] : ] » which mus lave availed myself of judicious home instruction, since my leaving school. Be- fore tal r leave of us. she insisted so urgently on my making her a visit, that my parents were

1 1-) induced to consent, and the more readily that my times called into hbor- hood on business. He had, father was some her nels indeed, once or twice stopped at her house, and knew her to belong to the best society in her own part of the country, where she was distinguished for a capacity for and mon in one of her sex, having management money-making quite uncom- d fortune ily reared an rnoto

ildren on the moderate had left she was regarded as a person of considerable educ ated he ren her husband her, but increased it until affluence. I had never been from home in my life, ex- * vy ALLANBY’S REMINISCENCES F. ANNAN indeed, at school; and thinking it must be cept, delightful to range in ‘‘ fresh woods and pastures I was exceedingly a particul new,”’ nxious to accept this invitation, irly as I knew that the den Tresli- ce of Mrs. Hardinge was within a mile of the large ot ! party-giving spirit, its fashionable county town B—, celebrated for its and attractive int, gay Lothar ;”? and belles, and its ‘wal g 10s in $ | was gratified. } } My father, in taking a trip to a distant : the course ols month x oreight part of the State, was obliged to pass through B—— to transact some business matters there, and offered to take me along and leave me with Mrs. Har- not | two or three weeks e for to Mrs. } our aesign, dinge until return, which might My mothe r wrote of return ol Hardinge, to apprise her which was duly approved by mail; and after the overhauli Iks and ribbons, the whiten- ing and clear-starching of laces and muslins, and the fussing in general, usually preparatory to a young lady’s departure from home—though, in re- ality, I had very little to be done, my coming-out wardrobe being still in its prime—we were at which, after Ona length ready for our journey, all, was 1 1 e Ol less to than aday’s duration. ‘countota new evening dress, which, at last, was packed up unfinished, I had det uined my father a day after his appointed time, and as he was obliged to reach B—— within bank hours, we set out before sunrise. I shall say nothing of our trip, except that it was performed in a small, close carriage, and on day of the season, about the middle Kar! the first hot of June. y in the afternoon my father point- ed, with his whip, to a number of gilt balls, ar- rows, and fishes, the vanes and ornaments of t litt at a distance in the various steeples, glitt | ‘ sun, and observed— ‘* Yonder, at last, is B—-; and here, the house just before us, is the mansion of Mrs. Hardinge.’’ In a few moments he drove up to the middle ' gate in a large semicircular white fence, and handing me the lines, stepped out of the carri the which After seemed minute at of working a ate, the numerous ail rht o have one ments gates are heir to, he walked up a strai gravel walk, glaring and unshaded, while I stuck my My first impression of disappointment. The which I wards learned, had been built and furnished by 69 7 F) head out after him. was one house, aiter-

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m4 ;ODEY’S MAGAZINE Mrs. Hardinge her own accumulations, really out ol was a fine one; a large, new structure of unpainted brick, with a handsome portico in front; and the yard was as trim as care could make it; but the whole place was wanting in the picturesque allurements of the old homestead I 1 I had left behind, the clumps of wide-spreading trees, the knots of luxuriant shrubbery, the trel- long, the patches of flowers, and the birds fluttering lises of vines, with their waving runners, among the variously tinted foliage ; there were none of these, and no arrangements had been made out of which time might produce similar attractions. ‘There had been some trees planted, but they were ranged regular order along the fences, and a few arbory and young cedars stood at right angle orners of the large, 1 grass-plot it nota single brighter well- weed hue, bespeaking the prese nany part ol the e of flowers, was to be distinguished i inclosure. P te = mes, a considerable My father rang seve r was opened by a last the d ntervals, and at white servant-girl, who, t h she looked to be woman-grown, had her hair cropped close to her ‘ head, and wore a bib apron of coarse, unbleached linen. After parleying with her a few moments, he returned to the carriage ; and saying that Mrs. Hardinge was at home, he sisted me to alight. As he escorted me » the house, he reminded upt me of the counsel he had before given me, as to my deportment as a such as paying due respect to my hostess by consulting her tastes my habits to those | promise d the strictest com- and wishes, and conforming of the pliance ; and looking at his household. watch, he then took leave of me, requesting me to make his apologies to Mrs. Hardinge for not waiting to see her, as he had but twenty minutes left for driving into B—. The door opened into a wide, handsome hall, ascended, and which The girl } ] ; directed me into one on the left, that of the front in which a winding stairway had entrances to rooms on both sides. parlor, and opening a very narrow crack between a pair of the window shutters, she retreated, turn- ing her head and staring at me over her shoulder until the last. When my eyes had become accustomed to the twilight of the rooms, I could perceive that they were both large and lofty, with elaborately stuc- coed ceilings, and beautifully polished mantels. ‘They were also richly carpeted, and filled with furniture both costly and elegant, calculated, al- together, to give one an idea of taste and wealth in the owner. Whilst I was making my casual survey, Mrs. Hardinge came in and embraced me with an appearance of the most cordial welcome “This is really very kind of my Mary,’’ said she. “I shall renew my you, dear quite youth in having a cheerful young companion do- You left all well at home, I take it for granted—but your pa- mesticated with me once more. pa, why has he not come in ?”’ ’ LADY § BOOK. AND I offered the excuses he had dictated, which Mrs. Hardinge then apologized fur being so long mak- were received with many regrets; and ing her appearance, alleging that she was in the habit of taking a nap in the afternoon. ' it was hardly kind Sut. really,’’ added she, “ in you not to get here for your dinner. I always like my friends to make it a point to be with me at meal-times, instead of stopping on the road. You should have taken a very early start.’’ ‘* We did so,”’ too warm to allow us to drive fast, and’’—I hesi- I answered; “but the day was tated about saying that we had not dined, sup- posing that Mrs. Hardinge must know of there not being any places on the road at which we could have had a mid-day meal. “To be joined, quickly; “‘and on that account I shall sure, the heat was intense,’’ she re- have to overlook your delinquency this time, in being willing to avail yourselves of any kind of accommodations on the road, particularly as I Lal} shall have the company of one of you as an en- joyment at tea. 1 can’t let you off though, my dear, without taking a trifle of refreshment now, f only i name of hospitality.”’ Taking a bunch of keys from her pocket, she stepped to in the g the door, and then turning back with a laugh, she exclaimed—-‘*I was actually about to commit the trespass against modern opinions by bringing youa glass of wine, the force of habit is so strong in us old people! You must excuse me for forgetting at the generation are generally brought up on the cold water principle.”’ rising Without wait- called to the servant-girl, ing for an answer, she who had set my trunk on the portico. ‘* Run, bring a pitcher of nice, fresh water— the most delightful spring in the whole country—the I’m sure you will say Cindy, and the coolest you can possibly get. 1 have water is a perfect luxury. you never tasted anything so delicious,’’ she con- tinued, to me, adding—‘‘ But you must also have some cake \gain taking out her keys, she crossed the to the room opposite the front unlo¢ king a sideboard. In a few minutes the girl reappeared with two heard her on a waiter, and Mrs. Hardinge ying a shallow tumbiers ol water followed her, cart ilver basket, that contained four thin pieces ol sponge-¢ ike, which, from their dry ccating, must have been cut for some former occasion, and which felt more cork than the I ate hungry, but could When I had declined it, Mrs. Hardinge took her basket back to the sideboard; and then, putting like substance they were named after. a piece, however, for 1 was very not venture upon a second. her arm affectionately round my waist, she ob- s¢ rved— ‘* Now that you are rested, my love, I suppose you will wish to clear yourself of the dust of your journey ;—come, and I will show you up stairs. Lucinda, bring up Miss Mary’s trunk.”’ basket herself, 1e lront par- She insisted pon carrying my } s ; and ied me into a fine chamber over tl

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lor, which contained a sumptuous-looking bed, adorned with delicate ruffled pillow-cases, and embroitered draperies matching those of the win- dows, with all other proper articles of furniture of ‘orresponding richness, While I was brushing the tangles out of my curls, Cindy came in lugging my trunk, assisted by an elderly servant-woman with a little turned up nose, blackened with snuff, and a pair of heavy eye brows meeting in a tuft over that intere sting When they had deposited their burden at the foot of the bed, they both withdrew as organ. slowly as possible, twisting their necks miracu- jously to look back at my proceedings, as I could perceive through the glass; the elder snuffing her nose very hard, and blowing back, with a corner of her mouth, a part of her casing sun-bonnet of ided calico, which flopped down over her eyes. ‘You may go, Tabitha, to your spinning ; and you, Lucinda, bring up a pitcher of water tor Miss Mary,’’ said Mrs. Hardinge; adding, in a low voice, some orders which I did not hear. ‘* You must excuse my domestics, my dear,’’ she ob- served to me; “I have no well-trained family such as you are used to at home, though servants I am considered very well off with such as I have. As I am all alone, I live in rather a plain way, as you will see; for 1 don’t intend to make a stranger of you.”’ Cindy, in a few minutes, came back, conveying 1 very small basin of the commonest delf ware, ind an equally small pitcher, with which she ap- proached the handsome washstand; but Mrs. [lardinge prevented her from displacing the showy porce lain toilette sé rvice on the marble s 1D, al d lirected her to set the things onachair. Then she herself half filled the basin from the pitcher, ind set the latter on the hearth. She next took a the hung it on the back of the chair, but also tine damask towel from washstand-drawer and hung over it two others of coarse, thin diaper. \fter I had bathed my face and hands, and re- turned to the dressing-table, she carried the basin ind pitcher out of the room, and carefully wiped he chair. then left me for a few minutes, ind I heard her unlocking several doors. When I had changed my dress, and was accompanying She er down stairs, I observed that there were three ed-rooms on the floor exposed to view, of a simi- ar size to the one I had been in, and all hand- somely though not so expensively furnished. I was about to walk into the parlor we had left, it Mrs. Hardinge drew me back and seated me yn a sofa in the hall. ‘* We will sit here, my love,’’ “7 ilways prefer the hail in summer to the parlors— Feel what a breeze said she; s so much more cheerful. there is passing through when the doors are open.”’ There was a breeze indeed, but a very warm I was properly conceding, however; and atter she had fastened the parlor shutters and loors, she took a seat beside me. *: Indeed, I seldom use those rooms now,”’ said ye. ARDIN she, with a deep sigh, and putting her handker- chief to her eyes for a moment ; they seem so desolate since my dear gir!s have gone.”’ The topic of her daughters being now intro- duced, 1 pursued it, and learned that they had all married very young—at from sixteen to eighteen —the eldest about tive years before, and the third something more than atwelvemonth. I felt much surprise, though I did not express it, when she incidentally informed me that not one of them, though they all lived within fifty had visit- mies, sion since she left it as a bride. ed the maternal man But we were soon interrupted by the appearance of Cindy, peeping and beckoning at the back door to leave me. my | . ry....3 of the hall. . Llardinge arose ‘‘T must give you war rve,”” said ning, ‘that I shall very often be compelled to sac- = ! society to my household duties, re- to do it. rifice your ] i uctant as | I am one of those jor the With my shall be unfortunate people who seldom find rest sole of their foot from morning till night to assist me in the management of no one affairs, nor to relieve me of their burden for a single hour, I must be in constant action. But always try to feel perfectly at home, and amuse yourself as well as my dull establishment will let you."’ I begged her to give herself no uneasiness on my account, as I never was in any difficulty about ‘But I hope, dear Mrs. Har- when you have become a lit- passing the time. I added, ** tle more accustomed to me, you will let me follow dinge, you to any part of the house to which your do- mestic occupations shall call you. 1| am getting to be quite a housekeeper myself, and, at least, if I cannot assist you, I may have an opportunity to learn something new.”’ She highly commended my answer, as being expressing her gratification that very “sensible ;’’ I knew how to set a proper value upon domestic pursuits, and assuring me that industry was the “‘ very life of the body.”’ When I was left alone, I stepped into the back parlor, where I had observed a piano of very showy and finely finished exterior. 1 attempted to raise the lid, but, to my disappointment, I found it double book-case locked. My next resort was to a large, in the hall. Through its sash I could see that it was well-filled, though none of the volumes looked new. That was of not much to could not well have formed a very extended ac- consequence me, however, as, at my years, I quaintance with letters. I read on the backs the names of several of Miss Edgeworth’s novels, and all of Fanny Burney’s, besides others that I knew would interest me; and I tried the doors with avidity, but they also were locked. I opened the front door, but the sun was still shining two hot on the walks and grass-beds of the yard to tempt me outside ; and, presuming there must be a gar- den in which I could promenade, I turned to the other end of the hall Here, be- yond a wide porch, I found an extensive one ; it } to reconnolitre. but, though it displayed an imposing range of

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5b ;ODEY’S MAGAZINE cabbages, beets, peas, and other culinary comforts, there was nothing in it that could afford a shelter from the afternoon sun. I looked about in vain for flowers. ‘There were none to be seen, except a few stalks of poor, single hollyhocks, a large patch of sunflowers, not yet ready to bloom— which, I afterwards learned, were cultivated for chicken-feed—and, on a narrow porch running along the back building, a few common gerani- wall-flowers, and capsicums, planted in ims, pitchers without handles, teapots without spouts, and leaking tin-cups. ‘These last were the pro- perty of Cindy. I could not help thinking of our various means of amusement at home, besides those in the open air, books, pictures, and musical and | deeply commiserated Mrs. Hardinge in having no instruments always at hand in the house young people around her to make such resources necessary. At length I found, on a window-sill, a newspaper, which, though dated from B—-, three or four days back, had evidently never been the advertisements, opened. I soon got down to and even &¢ ‘ond micht as went over those of the dry-goods the time, when the thought struck me that I well employ myself in unpacking my hanging up my dresses to get the k, and Mrs. Hardinge now joined leaving me reases gut ot the m. me tor a few minutes, and on her again. | propose d it to her said she; ‘*I forbid ** Oh no, my dear!”’ you to think of such a thing. It will not do for you heat is so great. Your When night, I will show you where to dis- to exert yourself while the irney has been enough for you to-day. you retire t pose of your wardrobe ” I then expressed my disappointment at being inable to try her beautiful piano; and going up to the book-case, said that I had felt it very tanta- lizing to see so many works of which I had heard a great deal, without being able to look into them. She condoled with me, and keys trom he taking the bunch of r pocket, unlocked the case, pressing me to make a selection of anything I might fancy. I took down the first volume of ‘** Cecilia,’’ and while I was glancing at the title-page, she turned the ke y and restore iit to her Pp rocket. I had becoming interested in my Mrs. H to tea, for which I had heard Cindy making pre- right of the hall. now employment to my taste, and soon 1 heroine, the time ap- neared short when irdinge summoned me paration in the front room at the lhe table presented an appearance in accordance with the things around, having a cloth and nap- kins of fine damask, several articles, including iorks of silver, and a handsome service of china. But, on inspection, the fare was less inviting than might have been expected of a housekeeper of so much pretension as my hostess. ‘There wasa plate of tongue which had been boiled so long before, that it was as hard and dry as if it had never been boiled at all; and a plate of biscuits that were cold in the middle, having been warmed over. The silver basket, with the three pieces of sponge BOOK. cake that I had left, stood in front of the tea-tray, having the addition of half a dozen sugar crackers ; and there was a glass dish of dark-colored pre- serves, which I would have been at a loss to name, Mrs. Hardinge were also a few until called them raspberries. There radishes, which were good, being fresh from the garden, and a very small quantity of butter, which, from its flavor, I judged must have been brought in by mistake. My appetite, however, from my journey and long fasting, prevented me from being fastidious, and Mrs. Hardinge, who pressed one thing after an- other on me with the most anxious solicitude, must certainly have been gratified by the relish with which I partook of them. said she, “if you will not Now, my dear,’’ have more of the substantials, you must let me he Ip you to some of the sweetme ats—raspbe rries, Have some of the cake with them, They do not you perce ive, won't you?—then, some cream ? look as nice as some, indeed, being only plain family done for You perceive I do not make a stranger of you, but treat preserves, common use. you, as one of the family, to plain family fare.’’ I professed myself grateful for such a mark of adoption, and took my saucer of raspberries, into which she had emptied the contents of the cream- jug, which, if it had ever been cream at all, was now very much diluted. The fruit was hard and dry, and the syrup in which it swam had a strong twang of molasses. While I was trying to obey Mrs. Hardinge’s whole allowance, a door opened at the innermost entreaties to dispose of my corner of the room, and a little old man, witha -al-looking bottle nose, stuck in his head, on com which was a very bell-crowned white fur hat, with the rim left only on one side, a world too wide withal, but made to fit by having a rolled-up handkerchief thrust between it and his forehead. ‘*T’m come to tell you I’m got back from town, Mis’ ‘I’ve fotched home two pounds of coffee and Hardinge,’’ said he, in a very loud voice. three pounds of sugar, or three pounds of sugar and two pounds of coffee—I can’t tell which from t’other.”’ “‘ Very well, Jeremiah, that will do,’’ said Mrs. Hardinge, blandly. ‘*1 had to take the **they wouldn't have it at Thomsonses ; butter to Brownses,’’ pur- sued he ; they said they didn’t want to trade with us no how ;—and Smith’s boy, he said when I fotched butter to their store again, I mought as well leave the pound of coarse salt we always keep putting in every lump at home; when they pay for butter they like to get butter, and if they want coarse salt in it they can find it themselves, being it don’t cost so much.”’ “That will do, Jeremiah,’’ said Mrs. Hardinge, more loudly; and she added, to me—‘‘ The poor old creature is as deaf as a post, and never under- stands one word in five that is said to him,’’ and she commenced washing the cups by pouring hot water over them in the slop-bowl.

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MY ViIsiT ro But the old man still held the door in his hand, ind also raising his voice, resume d— ** And lidn’t want any of our eggs, ’ca’se they was al- ['homsonses young man, he said he ways a little 7: Lous ; but he took the bacon flit } t iy ¢ . ] thone} when he had cut in it a piece. le said, though, mmon, ’ca’se the last one | he didn’t want the g ery or so.’’ yrung him was a little skip; ‘** You may go, Jeremiah,” again repeated Mrs. Hardinge, ina still higher key, getting very red. Jeremiah, however, still kept on, as if it was she that did not hear, instead of himself. ‘*T said he wouldn’t take the gammon’’— “‘] hear you ;—don’t I tell you, you may go!”’ reiterated Mrs. Hardinge, higher and _ higher. ‘*The miserable, stupid old wretch!—every one tries to crack jokes on him,’’ and she energeti- cally motioned him to withdraw. “If you don’t b’live me, Mis’ Hardinge, you kitchen and see—the gam- And none of the stores don’t want any of old ‘l'abby’s wrap- ping-yarn, ’ca’se it’s spun too slack; and they may come out to the non’s on the table, and the eggs too. say the last I tuk must have been made out of rotten tow—anyhow, they all use cotton twine > now.’ ‘* What a ridiculous old creature, never to know when people are quizzit | yhim!’’ exclaimed Mrs. Hardinge, as the old man, having now ended his back his head. “ Really, it intelligence, drew makes me laugh and considering it a capit joke, I laughed louder than she did. After carefully putting away the tea-things in the ideboard and closet, including the tongue, cake, and raspberries, I \irs. Hardinge rang the bell for bringing from the adjoining Cindy; and then room — her bed-chamber—a well-worn woolen stocking, she commenced raveling the foot, pro- posing that we should sit a while on the portico. ‘* You would have a very fine yard here for tlowers and shrubbery, Mrs. Hardinge,’’ said I. Are you not fond of cultivating them ?”’ ‘6A } Ah! my dear,’’ she answered, with a sigh, ‘*my time is too entirely engaged with matters of ibsolute necessity, to allow me to consult my own gratification in my pursuits.”’ I looked at her sympathetically, though I was not able to penetrate what her pressure of duties could arise trom, as I knew ladies, with large tamilies of children, who could still find leisure to exercise a taste for ornamental gardening. Mrs. Hardinge seemed rather disposed to listen than to talk herself, and recollecting my father’s instructions that I should make myself as agree- able to her as possible, I took pains to answer : } | minutely the very numerous questions she asked me about every one in the neighborhood of home, of whom she had ever heard—their characters, furtunes, habits, and modes of life. So the time wore on until twilight, when I hoped to be able to entertain my hostess with music—the family amusement of a summer evening to which | had been accustomed—but after diligently raveling at ~ MRS. HARDINGE vil her stocking until there was no longer light to continue it, she left me for a moment, and re- turned with a round-bottomed basket of peas which she went to work as industriously to shell. This occ ed her until a lit n el-clock In ul a ne-room struck hine, when she ex uimed, gathering up the pea-pods in her apron— o'¢ OCK Indeed | id 1 1it was SO late iz it not to have ke \ iup so long, my dear, alter your fatiguing Inne} I will show you at once ») your chamber, and see that aa i I I begved her not to give herself any trouble ; but saying she always liked to look afier the com- forts of her guests in person, she called to Cindy to bring a light. We had been sitting in the dark, not a ray of light being visible, except what faint- 1 ly crossed the back door of the hall from the kitchen windows. A _ greasy-looki brownish candle was with which Mrs. Harding brought in, accompanied me up stairs. I was about to enter the chamber into which she had conducted me to by say- change my dress; but she st ppea me ‘This is your room, my love,’’ and opening } - ra. , ’ } ] the door of a very small apartment over the hall. ‘‘It is asnug, cozy little place,’’ she continued, “s / which I keep exclusively for my young lady visitors. It always seems tothem less lonely and han one of the larger chambers. I } more secure have had your trunk brought in; and here, behind the door, you will find a row of nice pins to hang up your dresses, and keep them fronrbeing mashed d in your trunk. Let me see if Lucinda has brought up water. Oh, yes;—and here, hanging on the } r chair, are the towels you were using. Do let me unfasten your dress. What a beautiful cambric collar !—is it possible you did the running of al! these delicate little tucks yourself? And sucha tasteful night-cap!—more of the fruits of your " : Ose 5-1 really does me good own industry, I suy ung iady now-a- to see so much hand days. You don’t iat an Impression it *s! I shall have to | hy get you to show me how to make up some such made on me at your nice little things—old as I am, 1 am always ready to learn.’’ I replied that it would give me great gratifica- tion to assist her in any possible way; and when she had turned down the bed-spread, and shaken up my pillow—a single one, and very sparsely supplied with feathers—she kissed me afiection- ately and withdrew. In looking round for my trunk, I made an in- voluntary survey of the accommodations of the } room, which were on a scale that suggested to my memory those of the couple famed in nursery rhyme— vhich extended from the front wall to

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;ODEY’S MAGAZIN within a foot of the door-casing, was the narrow- est I had ever seen; and on the other side of the window was a table ot corre spondingly contract d —_ ’ limenstons, above which hung a looking-glass of ie size of a medium window pane. ‘This was ilso to serve as a washstand, the basin and pitcher I had used in the afternoon having been placed on it. There was a chair in front of the window— the one on which hung the two diaper towels— and my trunk stood against the wall near the table, thus, altogether, leaving me four or five juare fee »> move about in. l unpacked my trunk and hung up my dresses ; ind then, the room feeling already very close, though the w »w had been open when we came into the room, and had been but a few minutes closed, I raised it again to admit the air. As the hour was earlier than my usual bedtime, I did not feel sleepy, and I wished that I had brought my book up with me; but fearing that I might dis- turb Mrs. Hardinge if I went down after it, I un- dressed, closed the window, and went to bed. Che room, having no « nney, and no means of ventilation, excepting the window and door, soon again became oppressively warm, and fearing a current ot 1 ht air, I rose and left the latter open; though without much benefit. I passed a very uncomfortable night, and could not help re- gretting, more than once, that my kind friend, Mrs. Hardinge, should ever have met with young ladies so fvolishly timid s to think themselves safer in a small room than in a large one. I was finally aroused from my uneasy slumbers, when the first faint im of light appeared in the eastern horizon, by a stat r peal from a large bell which hung on the garret landir ind which Mrs servants; the proved Hlardinge, designed to awake the grumbling, yawning voices of the two women reaching me soon after from the stairway Feeling no longer any incli- nation for sleep, I arose as soon as day had fairly dawned, intending to refresh myself with my ac- customed morning walk. Making the small al- lowance of water in the room go as far as it could in my ablutions, | quickly dressed myself; and taking my bDonnet trom the pin on W ich I had hung it, over one of my dresses, I commenced descending the stairs as yutetiyv as possible. But ist as I came to the first turn, Mrs. Hardinge stepped out of the dining-room with a hand. bell, which she rang vigorously until she perceived me beside her. I bade her good morning, telling her how softly I had been moving for fear of disturb- ing her No n hour,’’ ar mm. “Fa lad to see that vou, ion, love, at this my in affectionate saluta t ive been up this long while; and I am are an early riser.’’ rule at h **Tt has been my yme to take a long walk before breaktast,’’ said I; ‘‘and I have, as you see, prepared myseil tor it now, ac ording to Ob you u.ust not think of before going ANI ADY’S BOOK. breakfast, my dear. I can’t let youthink of such a thing as to take exercise on an empty stomach— you know I have charge of your health now. Be- sides, breakfast is nearly ready—indeed, I rang to prepare you for it.’’ Accordingly, I laid aside my bonnet; and ina few minutes Cindy appeared carrying a plate, in whi here were three thin slices of fat bacon, ind a bowl containing four eggs. ‘The silver forks and 1 ipkins were not produced, and the table ware was much inferior tu that of the even- i vefore; but Mrs. Hardi was as kindly so- licitous that I should eat heartily, always accom- r her invitations w rances that she panyin did not make a stranger of me When we had done breakfast, it being then but a little alter sunrise it on my walk, SK 4 lr Hardinge what dire¢ yn I sh | ike My ir M must not think of going now, ’ sa aq sne. ney How imprudel t you young people are! Don’t you know it is ruinous to di- to walk soon after a meal? Come, si down, and talk to me while I wash up the break- fast things.’’ I acquiesced, as in politeness bound; and when Mrs. Hard ye arose to go to ner § leboard, I looked around for my ook She noticed my search, but gave me no information \ few mi- nutes a war } pa y ihe OOK. Case | saw the missin voiume wal unger 1locn ind key. Vhen ¢ idy had bee sun ) 1 to finish th removal of breaktast, Mrs. Har re said to me— Come, my dear, I shall now introdu you Into my san¢ m sanctorum—my im r—wWi 1 I make my common sitting and working-room. But allow me to admire that sweet morning wrap- per you have on '!—surely it is not of the domestic mantuamaking your mamma told me about ?—it is the most periect fit I averred that it was my own handiwork, and Mrs. Hardinge was prodigal of encomiun “wy she, was once very fond of my needle,”’ with isant o¢ ipations W of the ple bright eyes, can indulge in. I have a dress com- menced for myself—a plain, dark silk—but I am afraid I shall ne body lin- ing, unless I meet with some kind friend to lend me a he y hand.’’ ‘“‘ Perhaps, dear Mrs. Hardinge, I may said I. you—thank ipin be able to assist you,”’ ** Thank offer is really you, my love; such an ] +t ange an unlooked for kindness. Take this low sewing-chair, and I will show you my aress. I 11d it ou of mv Grawer this morning, l I laid it out of ] I intending to go to work upon it to-day. Perhaps you will show me how to plait the body—the lin- ing has been fitted already.”’ I took up the silk, and Mrs. Hardinge not prov- to her eyes, The ing an apt learner, owing, she said she soon left it altogether in my hands.

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MY VIsSIt To task of covering a very large body with very small plaits, required all my attention and skill; and, as my experience was not of long standing, Whilst I was thus busily employed, Mrs. Hardinge looked on at occupied me several hours. first, but she soon recollected some duty in the dairy, and I saw but little more of her until I had finished. She then loaded me with compliments on my beautiful work, protesting that she would be afraid to spoil it by putting a needle in it; and, somehow, I saw that she expected me to do the sewing after the basting was done. I, therefore, kept on, and she came in every fifteen or twenty rom the kitchen, minutes with many apologies for her absence, and as many encouraging speeches my Mid-day having never laid down my sewing for a moment, I felt on industry. came, and quite tired and languid, for I had been accustomed to varying my employments every hour or two. Mrs. Hardinge led me out to dinner when it was ready, the meal being again, as she termed it, ‘* plain family fare ;’’ and my want of exer during the morning having affected my appetite, she was much concerned to see me eat iringly, insisting, pressingly— ** Do take a slice of this piece of shoulder, my dear—just try it; it is of my own curing, and surely you will not refuse me. Now let me give you some of the salad ; it is fresh out of the gar- den, and | have dressed it in my own way, with- out any condiment but salt and vinegar, and, therefore, it must be wholesome. And have som« of the peas—surely, they ought to be good; you know I shelled them while enjoying your delight- ful cor Afier.a dessert of preserved raspberries—th« had had on the table the ning before—we returned to the bed-room. Now, my dear, you must go and take a little id Mrs. Hardinge. tom to sleep awhile after dinner.”’ iversa ion.’ same dish of them we ev nap,’’ sa ‘**Itis always my cus- I felt exceedingly glad of the respite ; and the day being too warm for walking, I would have solicited the key of the piano, but recollecting that music might inte Mrs. Hardinge, oe] ple ase, I rfere with the slumbers of I observed— never sleep during the day; but, if you should like to have my | book out of the took out the volume and handed book case, and go to my room and re Mrs. Hardinge it to me, and, while I hastened up stairs, re-locked the book- case I had not read more than half an hour, when Cindy open d the door without knock- ing, and sa d— ‘* Mis’ Hardinge says you must please to be so kind as tocome down, for she wants your com- pany acain.”’ And, interested in my story as I was, I felt my- self constrained to go * You see, my dear,’’ said Mrs. Hardinge, ‘‘ I am spoiled already by your society, so that I do not like to give it up a moment longer than is necessary. But I have usurped your low chair, M S. HARDINGE. 59 of which you can make so much more profitable use than I can. I have began to run up the skirt of my dress; but I am afraid I sha’n’t get half the breadths in before you have finished the body Perhaps you would like a stronger needle for the corded seams ?”’ I took the hint, and resumed my sewing ; and it was not until Cindy rang the bell for tea that my tired fingers had a chance to rest again The table had, by this time, an entirely differ ent aspect from that of the preceding evening— a much coarser table-cloth now having been added to the other changes. The eatables, however were literally the same, comprising the same plate of tongue, the same three pieces ol sponge cake the same raspberries, and the same biscuits, which t however, had been dipped in hot water and but- tered, by way of variety. When we had left the table, 1 remarked— ‘*T should like to try your beautiful piano, Mrs Hardinge ;—you have not yet heard me play and sing. Won’t you letn e give you a little music ?”’ ‘* Certainly, my love,’’ returned she; but she added, quickly, si r, and with a very melan- choly expression of countenance—‘I should be delighted to hear you; for I am certain that your playing, like everything else you undertake, must be excellent You must excuse me for not ask- ing you ;—but the sound of the piano makes me so gloomy since my dear girls are gone.”’ with ready tor proposing BS What Don’t you some- ‘“*Then I sh 1 A UTS ull not play,’’ said I, mpathy. ve me i ‘ vs a lovely evening tor walking ! s\ times take walks, Mrs. Hardinge ?”’ ‘Very seldom merely for amusement, my dear. I am kept so much on my feet attending but little in- I have to my household affairs, that cilnation for further exerc! ‘Then I shall have to venture upon a stroll] by myself,’’ said I. ‘I | ; ‘ 1 7 walk at least once a day accustomed to a long Will you tell me which am way tog »?” ‘Oh, pray don’t think of it, my dear Mary I never like to see young ladies walking alone ;— I should be nervous all the time you were gone. If I were not so busy, fatigued as I feel, I would and take care of you; but I on hand exert mys¢ lf to go have a very particular job for this even- ing. Supposing you help me ?—it will prevent the evening from seeming long. There is no- thing like employment for making the time fly.’’ She brought out to the portico a very large earthen basin anda basket of cherries, which, she said, were to be stoned for drying ; and receiving from her a small knife, with which to assist in the operation, | found myself in for the evening, ata ha rers stiff and sore from sew- ing We kept at work until the clock struck nine; and, the jub task that, with my fing was neither easy nor agreeable. being then finished—(we had worked for an hour by a candle on the hall table)—Mrs. Hardinge gave me a light to go to bed

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60 GODEY’S MAGAZINE “‘ Early to bed, and early to rise, is my motto,”’ said she. my room, it was with- ‘““ What a Hardinge, My book now being in that I bade good night. said I, to Mrs h kindness of disposition, and every ] l out reluctance pity,”’ myself, ‘* that with so muc please, efatigably and industrious!’’ and I could should be so ine desire to unnecessarily not help sighing as I thought of home, where our hours of work always alternated with those of healthful recreation for the body or mind. my book soon banished my twinge of home-sick- ness, and I[ sat reading the volume. h loss of rest the Sitting up late, together wit previous night, now caus ind I did not elbow d me to sleep soundly ; wake until Cindy shook me by the inthe morning. Mis ‘She’s got the eggs ‘* Why, didn’t you hear ’ Hardinge’s bell ? said she, still shaking me. you don’t Nothing W henour home, if they didn’t get up to their work like Tabby and me, she kep’ on at them the biled and the toast made, and if come down in short metre she ’Il be hopping. aggravates her like staying abed late goals was at whole day like all snakes.”’ *“*T shall be ** But, now that I think of it, dressed in a few minutes,”’ said I. couldn’t you let me have a larger basin in my room, with more water ? I am in the habit of using a good deal.’’ ‘** La’s sakes !—I don’t see what any body that never does any dirty work could want with a big- Why, I can handful of water at cer basin and more water nor that! wash my face with a double- the pump, and wouldn’t tl atall. It other basin * tor iank nobody for no basin use, either, to talk about an- Mis’ Hardinge about the bettermost ones in the four big rooms. ain’t no is very partic’ lar She keeps them more for looks than use, and she don’t like to That’s the there’s only one, int see pe ( ple meddling with them. reason she mostly puts them, when J Ieoel ’ ’ his little pen of a place, ’ca’se And to bring up much water; she’s afraid they might her things. sptiie she alway s tells me not she’s so afraid of splashing. She always comes up every day to see that they don’t splash the strip of carpet, and don’t lay the soap down on the table instead of this little blue-edged plate.’’ ‘*T am always careful not to do those things,’ said I. ‘* Why, goody gracious '—didn’t you fetch up that whole candle what [ brung in and sot on the entry table ?’’ ** Yes, I had a whole candle.’’ it? Does folks need candles to see to sleep by where you come from ?”’ ‘* Then, what's come of Being rather amused than offended by the girl’s ignorant familiarity, I simply answered that I had been reading rather late. hen you better not tell Mis’ Hardinge, or she'll flare up like blazes. Any how, she'll be like to find it out, for she'll be apt to see the can- dlestick. Our s never du’st waste a smite of AND LADY’S BOOK. candle reading. She’s no friend to reading, no how. She was to give me a year’s schooling be- fore I got my freedom—I’m bound, you know— and I’ve got to get the first day of it yet, and only months to sarve. have eight She says, though, she ’Il give me pieces to make a bed-quilt if I don’t mind it.’ ‘* Won’t Mrs. Hardinge be likely to want you, Luc as if she inda?’’ said I, not venturing to dismiss her had been a better trained servant. When I no table set; but cot down to the eating-room I found Mrs. appeared at the door in the far corner, which, I immediately Hardinge had discovered, communicated with a narrow pas- her chamber to the back- sage running past building. Don’t think you are to be cheated out of your breakfast, my dear,’’ said she, with a good morn- ing kiss. ‘‘Itis waiting in my little family break- fast-room, to which I will take the liberty of in troducing you, as we have made a bargain that I am not to treat you as a stranger.”’ I apologized for being late, and followed her through the passage, which terminated in a small apartment that looked like a lobby, having no fireplace, and opening directly uponthe porch. It was uncarpeted, and also unfurnished, except by two painted tables and a few very common chairs ai mon eatin * continued Mrs. Hardinge, ‘‘is my com- g-room, where I always take my meals when I am alone—it is so convenient. In the win- ter, [ can have it warmed from the cooking- stove by merely operfing this door into the kitchen; and in the summer it keeps the flies from swarming into the other rooms.”’ These advantages I could readily understand for the place was now heated from the kitchen almost beyond endurance ; and as tothe flies. they were certainly abundant enough to warrant a hope that they had evacuated every other part of the house. ‘The breakfast was placed on a small square table without room, and consisted a leaf, in one corner of the of two rounds of toast, th } plate of tongue, and a saucer of sour curds, ot cottage cheese.”’ When our repast was ended, I was glad to es- cape from the heat and flies at Mrs. Hardinge’s There my work was Mrs. Hardinge, in the most winning manner, solicited me only to * cut invitation to her bed-room. already laid out for me. out the sleeves,’’ yet, by implication, left me t make them altogether. She regretted that, as it was wash-day, she must leave me more alone than usual, and I saw little of her during the tore noon, though she often came to the door for a minute, with a piece of coarse knitting in her I had wondered how, with so small a family, she could hand, to note the progress of my work. be so constantly employed; but by occasionally overhearing her, during the morning, through the open windows, I began to have an inkling into the manner in which her time was occupied. ‘* Lucinda, what did you do with that milk that

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left this morning after I made the cream- 2—thie must have been better than half a tea ip! il lhrew it into tl slop, | deed! Well what if it did turn sour ?—haven’t I always or- dered you to put every drop that turns into one of cr for ¢ eese ?—you know as “ is I do, tha re is n ing of more ready saie at market. W hen I got those rounds of bread out of the bre for the toast, I did not see two es that were left from dinner ye er- day—where did you put them? Then 1 1 t I ove! oked en y i ao tor oast to I I | nimv w er e sever 1 | e¢ ‘ rust In t slop-tub!—how did they cor the t Old Jerry t eat them ‘ '_ i tty v! Whatil v were left sit Vr. e ‘ tea here /— sl n ( i t iv » It y did ge é ildy I ! i t ) \ ( I 1 ) 1 4 \ ia i y hive i h ¥ o rev m 1 in \ r e! n it have eats ( », W 1 yous I i , | i } | I . Wie it kK VV ( ’ said eyv e ot ( ly; you always told us to p eu r\ l'a 1, what on ¢ } » you mean by using so much svap?. It that so long used to my ways, you sh i so wasteful. W you are plast | so thickly? No; s of ») use to a —]’m ) y r to have “ 1 out wv 1 \ l- t ] ‘Like to know ) 1 J \ ( he e to t clea vy way ’ | | ’ s pa I ) t ( ) ( \ t a wee | I é em 3 \ sa l ( ) ! \ s p W ( : W el i W i Vrs y ( €¢ wa h- any ( cotiee, € ad ‘ { I r . a i as was é ie OF s i - for the remai V umes of my\ ‘ yr I m was given t n ind | proceeded u urs to my room I was " lately 1? We ] { ( i ner arms : r to f ) ind a weta ha y a Vn ér tu M 1 pg n. ¢ I ] oft mary isiV « irse i ) i ] el M h s rid » the bed | e me, With atwi I Cor- respo ly r read Mis’ H rf \ vou don’t want to t ke iny nap the day im said ( = yoe id like a littke work when you're up here all alone by ye self; 1 sl sé you this 1 i’se its eas and you can do it witho openil the shutters to let in the flies You can let stay up here, and keep working at it every day Every little helps, and old Jerry’s pretty bad off io shir Ss 1 thought myself in duty bound to obey the suggestion, and unro the rent, Which Was VO! XXXIX —+t over seaming it, | found my eyes ind i fell asleep with it in my head le ou the side oft n awakened by atouch on the arm H I e sland Ine hou SILK eV ** Excuse me, n V love ior dist said she; ‘‘ | did not suppose you w lust cam up to é youtos »w ine 3 eeve ut tl ha 1, is Vv a | it t l here i v ve very per cened w Ss 1 | iy ) 0 i I fe la ( eri i e} 1 i I é r I | ) l ( v 1 st el i mn i , , ‘ d 1 n ‘ \ ( > my » have \ I : t Vv on. @ , | 3 ~ so | i i ‘ Nn V \ u Ww oO \ t 0 +] i \ ’ eV ] ‘ ¢ , — . , t | ve ( } we W try | We \ ‘ \ ay } j iP 1 Ww t me read { H » | e to ) ul ye L, ¢ rly ~ om ft my r' Is t wat l s ' read I y hear you t —, 31 ) s nm. I sha \ some en W not inter . . ! little p which I b i ri r little iny, and wi ith ) Se ) WwW evel I< ir beautil sewing 1s ¢ s,and ] yw it y ( e, when | write that an re j } ot mine had a hand ini ] he b y s be y aire ly { it peared to me Mrs. Hardi la 1antity of work cu it, not to be eediewoma a | be 1 at the long s skirt, which, being of very fine, hard upon needles and fingers both— meanwhile, employi herself in The clock struck nine, and I could v retired ; but my companion declared ning had | od so ky RS marked with pins. I But af ter | had con I rt j } ti

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Pe ;ODEY’S MAGAZINE When she the candles had burnt down so low, that I was in soon. rolled up her stocking, at last, hopes she would have ordered a fresh one for me, but she merely remarked that she suppose d our stumps of car dies would answer for undressin rs and remembering Cindy's communication in the morning, | said nothing about my desire to read, but quietly withdrew. much varia- Again I Hardinge—as it The following day passed without tion from the two that had preceded it. yirs was left very much alone by was ‘‘jironing day.” I worked from morning till " ht at the silk dress, m rand ig on, at r request, 1umerable tle corded bands, by way of trir vy; a ter I resumed the babv tro he fourth day had a similar com- me t I was nov | 1 and dispi- rite 1 s clo ( ent i v rk hung my hands, a tl his tried to fe é » Mrs. Har { er flatteri enco { I no 1 not ia r ’ ot \ s I I ] l } 1 », Which pr i me trom partak- j of 9 y t « | i ¢ ner ind when \l s Hard ! 1 to her rfor her allernoon nap. entr rm to fo w er exam lor th cure of my headache, I 1 sted permission to walk in f irden e! r that the free air “ e much more é | he day being ( iv, [declined the offer of a sun-bonnet, and was I rout with a 1e eagerness of a chil es Irom th conh ment ot the nursery when M Hardinge « 1 me back, play con ron my hurry W iif i moment my io ” sa ] she: : I i et you at a iit task which w rood F r you, and w et you have the enjoy- m of the fresh air a e same time It is to ’ some peas for me there, off some of thos long rows near where Jeremiah is digging. Lu- ‘ i'’’ she called, from the porch, “‘bring here my small hand-basket for Miss Mary I shall send out a larece ¥ etab le sketfor you toempty 1 my dear.’”’ so my hopes of running round the garden at perfect liberty were cut off at once; but endeavor- to show my disappointment in my counte and was followed by I took the basket Cindy with another—such a one as I had seen used by gard ket, and capable of holding at least two bushels. to fill that, Cindy r said I, jestingly, as she set it down beside ners to carry their produce to mar- You don’t expect me me. ‘* If you don’t, somebody else must,’’ returned she, quite in earnest ; ‘‘ for that basket’s got to go to market full of peas every market-day. Ok Tabby’s at her churning, and has to weigh out her butter and put it up for to-morrow morning ; and I've got to wash up your dirty dinner dishes, and scour and scald all the milk pans before I can come out. So I guess Mis’ Hardinge means to keep you at it a pretty long spell.’’ A loud call from old ‘Tabby, whose voice rang AND LADY’S BOOK like a broken tin pan, hereupon hurried the dam- sel away; and I thrust my hands among the pea- speculating upon the length of time that vines, might be required to fill such a basket, my ex- perience in my present occupation being very limited. My approach had not in the least disturbed old Jerry, who was indusiriously digging a square of ground, at the other side from mine, of a row of peas, only stopping occasionally, like Coleridge’s sexton, to ‘‘ lean on h s spade and cough Alter a few minutes I heard his voice, and supposing he had lressed me, I looked over the pea- cks to answer him. But, in his deafness, he i not yet dis ered that he had a ne ohbor, ind I « 9 the ft ywing soliloquy :— ** Nothi but whip and spur, push and drive— t! Crow 1 i" ‘ r ree o'¢ ck ol mor s e she was a roost ler’ miah- le ying me out her to hoe ! and pick r dark, like I was a ow s got as I e} sala r eel, and s! a i e { ndy, e, and old ‘lab, to have as many hands asa ind-legs—ahem! A | V issent shake t r fist at her behind her back butshe sees ’em ; ind then—whew !—spitfire!—when she cracks a body over the head with a broomstick, don’t it | ra se umps! I'd put out, sol wo ild, only she’d again; and then—whew !—gim- next time "Il be , rd - [f wan dan’t niew taint no fare playing if you don't play I’m bound of I binds myself to sarve ten years, it to "arn some thing ;— for keeps, with me my o 1 accord for wittles and clothes, and none of ’em’s my own. My coat’s hern, and my hat and ! nan. Old Tab my trowses, for all she’s a wor says the madam tuck me ‘cause I’m a fool; but I know better nor that. If I was a fool they'd carry me to the poorhouse, and I could live there like a gentleman.”’ ( alle d ‘So you are the gardener, Jeremiah ?’’ '"? exclaimed the h, eracky old man, jump- ing to one side, and letting his spade fall, while but seeing me, he chuckle, vou scare became quite white burst into a sort of nervous saving— ‘* You little thought it what did a body the madam. What did pigeon was I repeated my query “Oh. ves,’’ returned he; “sorter gardener, and sorter horseler, and sorter anything she makes me turn my hand to—I ain't partic’ lar.”’ ‘““You have lived a long time with Mrs. Har- dinge, haven’t you ?”’ ** More nor eight years—ever since Molly, my wife, departed, and my little ’Nezer **So you have had a family ?”’ ‘« Why, I'm a widerer—didn’t you know that ? That's why old Tab’s always a-picking at me ;— she sot her cap for me, and I wusn’t a going to See her in France fust !—I’d 'most as Mis’ Hardinge. My Molly was a have her. soon have

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before she took the spine in her night spry woman back, and the house burnt down.’’ ‘*You have been very unfortunate,’’ said I. ‘* How d sd d the house burn down ‘Why, it cotch fire. You see, it was in the night, and it mought a burnt me up before heard it; for I always was deaf-like; but Molly she got awake, and punched me till 1 opened my eyes. She put the child in my arms wrapped

a blanket, and pinted to the door, so I knowed is to be done. There was no house irto take litthe "Nezer to, so I goes across a five-acre : ‘4 u lays him downina lence corner, walking

away lUp- toes and I tur Well, the house was burnt up root and branch ; and is bac k once to see ll he kep’

when I got through the field again to Molly,

I | Molly was a standing in her bare feet with bed- clothes on her, and she hadn’t bri th > b some iron pots and ‘ ‘O J y! Jerry! says sie v ( t \ l toro ( vn the « i ti I iT ) save our nos ’—now t re e! ‘W Molly suys I, ‘it’s no se to cry over 8} milk.’ ’’ ind the simple laugh with which the poor old cre e concluded his narration, v | i that his mity was 1 as th b dy And yet, by s t ¢ no appear that they wet ess, Mrs Hardi: continued to exact from him a greater amount of servgce than most laborers, in poss ion of the ordinary faculties, are in the habit of per-

forming len ed my little basket three or four t al t n went into house le y ied from ! ind rather wv e of my |! than I I found Mrs. H r faci yn her skirt; that, and a few ott str sean { rine s I ry rik pont are We , my dear i at ik \ feel t er of y P in the open air ?”’ ** On the ce ry, | am not so we said I ‘ I be ve | will lie down awhile : was exceed y concerned, and proposed g ip stairs to ess ‘ bye I i t eed assistan Id ned er proziere 1 kindne requesting tha ] might not be called to tea | did not rejoin her till dark. The baby fro¢ id been brought out, and was lying on the table of the bed-room; and I apprehended that it would be offered to me I, therefore, placed myself at s distat m the light, shading my aching eyes with my hand, and Mrs. Hardinge, though she smoothed down t chintz with her hand s 1 no on the subject only that sh was sorry | was not well enough to enjoy my ® nicé little work So far, during my stay, not a single visitor had called at the house, nor had I seen any sign of sovial intercourse, except a note of invitation to Mrs. Ha *, which B——, and came trom bserving that she , } = which she iaid aside, merely 0 MRS. HARDINGE. 63 had given up parties. Neither had there been anything said about taking me into the ' town; and anxious to know whether or not I was to be ke pt in ¢ lose confinement to the end of my visit, I began to fear, would prove a disappoint- ment in every respect, I observed— ‘*You do not Mrs. Hardinge, to be always heard that it was a pleasant, h appear to go often into B—, living so nearit. I have indsome town, and have had a good deal of curiosity to see ‘*T hope I shall soon be able to afford you an The truth is, I thought I should have had time te work at my dress and opportu

7, my dear. get it finished for the purpose ; for to be seen be- side you with all your beautiful new things, just as I am, | dowdy, indeed. mince my very shabby old shoul i look |

girls have left me, I have paid but little attention to dress, as I Idom go from home, do not entertain much, and s¢ got quite old-fasl yned and henever we have the new silk done, we will take a drive all round the town.

Let me see—to-morrow is Saturday—perhaps w can have it done so that I can wear it to church on Sut ” Tl xt morning was dark and gloomy, with rain; but under the charming prospect ola cna e of sce whenever the dress should be co d, I worked at it with vigor; and I yt only succeeded in finishing it during the day but also the baby-slip in the evening. th a clear sky, and after mak- ing my 1 putting my room in order—an é ew I had performed after the first two days, a nt from Cindy, whotold me that Mrs HH nge expected it of Il t} ris that came to see her’’—I | ‘ my things for a speedy preparation for church **T am afraid, my dear,’’ said Mrs. Hardinge, “that we are doomed to a < ppointment tor to- day Owing to so much rain having falien in the yesterday, the road is not in a fit con- dition tor carriages this morning.’ Mrs Hardinge, the ¢ tance 1s so short,’’ said I, anxiously; ‘** we can easily put up r and jolt ng of a bad road tor “You have no idea how bad the road is, my dear: there are hollows in it that are always frightful mu 1-] uddles after a hard rain, and I really do not like to risk driving the carriage through them. Jeremiah such a miserable old crea- ture, that if t carriage should be badly dir- tied he would never get it clean; and as it still ijOOKS as we is new though I ive id hive or six years, it would be a pity to have it spoiled for merely going once to church I have always been careful never to use it in either mud or dust.’ Childish as I knew it to be, I was almost ready to cry; and going up to my room, I! sat at the window brooding over my disappointinent until I heard the faint chime of the distant church bells,

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ele d ‘ s er ’ ‘ ry ex i if- r) rl arawe On . ‘ 1 , th W i if this mate stand o if n te iwee { = tu to Tl e pass al » the ey ! ft ne ‘ € e. W ) r { re - \ elw s » < me ’ ) oe to ft l ! ) rum wie ilar f 1 \ i W i AU r | i « ' \ ) } t ro ) 1 I " y 1 s¢ ‘ ‘ ‘ ire ‘ va ) cI ( er ra Vae- : it rool m pu ) ywwn ) t W her review y F r¢ 1 ‘ ints vw l¢ n usu . y mm; andi w 1 y room ’ r is us - h 2 mot ner a t l - yw t to r m 1! d wa the - ) e next, t l ’ ' , i y answere , es ol ran parents i | ry etty ets.”’ ist 1s yt construe y irticles I very | 1e cap . y vn y rying your 1id be such @ pieasure to ] spoil your net, Mrs. co beyond my skill [2 al 72) I ce any ot mo es V s uf V work me! You per yf 1 ) y ‘ A ‘ a i I ] ) \ ! t ty \ ! it wi i ( y ( l i - wire f ) ro T+ y I t | \ j r é — i j ’ ¥ i — / * ( eV I ' v \ \ cor ‘ ' } ‘ ( é ° i a - \ ( . r I . % 1. W 1 ‘ »’? ) ( y Ot V l ' i l 1 é La Ss ‘ ere 1s 3 i 1 |} \ ' t home we f | ‘ very V ! ; Killed, i 1, j 1 t uM ; ‘ j vi i r 1 ¢ i { , ’

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shook her head threateningly when Cindy an- swered ‘‘eat up.’’ ‘*I must stre tch myself out on one otf your cool sofas to rest awhile, aunt,’’ said the new visitor; ‘‘I feel so giddy in my head and so stiff in my limbs, and so warm from be shut up in that abominab! stage ;’’ and she threw offi her bonnet on her aunt’s bed. “Then come into the dining-room, my dear; I'll darken the windows again, and you can lie on he sola there **One of those in the parlors vill do a great deal b I returned the niece; ‘‘they are as nice and soft as need be. I would as soon throw myself on the floor as on that hard, old-fashioned concern in the dining-room.”’ She walked to the parlors, and stretched herself out on the sofa that seemed to } ease hel be ~ fir t go ithe ring up sé veral pu ws Oo I it under her head. When she had settled her po- sition to her mind, she resumed—‘*‘ Did you no- tice that gentleman, aunt, that helped me out of the stage? It was Lieutenant Farnham, most delichtful fellow in the world Papa] ed me under his care—and, indee I sh have come in tl stage at allif I had kk | such | isant company tle is lo stay iW >D— t 1 will con ou every d y no dk t | li Ling a 11. 99 Bella, swer in her own strain; replied her aunt, seeming to find it best ** that ited to Mary already, and she is very com- room 18 ap- propr fortable t not so finical as you are. I don’t in , as she is inl But where are you going? tend to put you into my best chamber.”’ Bella bad stepped into the show-room, into which I had first been ushered. ““Why not? It is the pleasantest room in the house, and when there are people to use it, I don’t see why it should always stand vacant. I car make myself quite home in it, I assure you And sl began t unt ick her basket on the dressing-table. HARDINGE. Mrs. Hardinge colored and looked ang

catching my eye, her face in a moment smiling as ever. ‘I will have the room back of this fixed up for » Bella, 1 young taqady reluctantly ” you, my dear,”’ said she t taking up her } basket; and the ithered up her things and followed her. Now, Mary, my love,’’ said Mrs. ipposing you and I co down sta rs and il Miss Be is never very exped awake unt lla As each other join us? she us in her toilet, I don’t see that we need be wastil our time upon her. Shall I take your work down for you?’’ and she stepped into my room and took the bundle of li en off the window. I commenced stitching away as usual in the bed-room bel W stairs, while Mrs. I] irdinge went back and forward between the kitchen and the tront din ng-room, in which It appe red Miss k'¢ nwick’s dinner was to be set. In the course of filteen or twenty minutes the you dy made her appearance. ‘* Why, what on earth is this you are sewing at?’’ said she, catching hold of my work. ‘I hope, Aunt Hardinge, you don’t set your visitors at making kitchen towels ?’’ ‘Isn't it kitchen towels?”’ said she to me ‘* Your hands don’t look used to such work.”’ **Mary’s hands are much more useful than yours, Miss Bella, though they may not look so,”’ re torted Mrs. Hardin e. This was a compliment not exactly to Bella’s mind, and she changed the subject by asking about several of her acquaintances in B——. As she addressed herself to me, I could only reply—*'I do not know—I have not seen them,’’ and refer- red her to her aunt ‘*You have not seen them? ‘Then, pray, whom have you seen ?’’ ‘N ked myself, and It would have been easy to answer but I Hardinge to answer. body,”’ on my first impulse, che looke d to Mrs ‘he truth is,’’ said she, ‘‘ 1 have not vet had an opportunity to take Mary into b—, and | presume it is not known she is here.’ gthened Not been once W hat Bella drawled out a very ler Qamncn)y * and then added—*‘‘ 1 town nor had } ? a single cal in the world did you do with yourself ? Mrs. Hardinge parried the question by taking her in to dinner, which was handsomely set out with fine linen, china, and so forth—the chicken served up being the first I had seen on the table, though I had with their feet tied, caught to be taken to market. When raspbe rries—Mrs. Hardinge regretting the ‘‘ nice twice observed bunches of them, Bella had got through to her dessert ot pie * that she had been too late to partake of, and handing her the cream jug, she looked into it and Vhy, Aun taught that old ‘Tabby of yours yet to send cream exclaimed—‘ Hardinge, haven’t you to the table for fruit instead of milk? ‘The st Vv old wretch seems still to be afraid to spare a spoon-

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66 DEY’S MAGAZINE ful from her churn. I like cream with fruit, not vilk. Pah! Lil eat the rasp ries without. But are they really r erries tho ? You ought to ha mamma’s receipt for preserving me we always have these deli-

cacies | har »a 1 to ten h ne how to make ! f s liss | 1, said her aunt () i nev couid n any! y that way, nyse l write to mamma, if you choose, oO give 1 dire 5 But we were talk Mary. ab your ving been in town nor making any 1a sfromthere. You must } e more t for un ng@ here a e than I would have VV it did aunt say was e reason you didn't go? Didn’t you wish to?’’ ** Cert ‘ i] i @ courage f it had been ¢ \ ent ‘irs. Hardinge, 1 should have been de ed to go.” “We lil ta you myself,’’ said she, rising n the . **Can’t old Jerry bring out the carriage for us in an hour or two, Aunt Hard- inve ? ‘*Why, Bella, you must be cr ,”’ returned her a : tter riding thirty or forty miles ina day, tov to be rain !*? ‘I’m not a 1; and the sooner I let le know I’m re, the better. Ill drive pe round and le ople ype suit meé ive some cards. It wouldn’t to stay here a week without seeing anybody. Shall I send Cindy to call old Jerry ? ‘*T really don’t think, Bella, Jeremiah has time to go—and, besides, it is doubtful if he has the horses in order.’’ ‘* Well, you can easily let him take time; and as to the horses, he can certainly get them fixed up rainst we are dressed. Come, aunty—you are ist as much afraid as ever that the carriage will it old Jerry will use up his best Mrs. Hardinge darted an angry look at her, but affected to laugh, and exclaimed—‘‘ Oh, Bella, i ? bet i In less than two hours we were in B——., driv- zy up one street and down another, Bella dis- tributing ecards, and nodding to gentlemen here and there from the carriage windows. It appear- had been bridesmaid the previous year had ed that she » Mrs. Hardinge’s youngest daughter, and visited her aunt several times before; her ac- quaintance in the town was, therefore, pretty general Well, what are we to do with ourselves this after we had finished our drive and taken tea. ‘‘ Summer evenings are al- ways so tiresome without company,’’ she added, yawning. ‘Don’t you call Mary and me company ?’’ Hardinge. Nv. By company, } . asked 9 | I mean beaux,’’ answered ‘We can always find something to do with our- selves, can’t we, Mary dear?’’ said Mrs. Hard- ———

nae As I know you never refuse work, I must ask you to do another | for me I is 0 hem-stitch a hand f. Iw 1a ht into the d r-t 1, as Bella does I e to sit in my chamber.’’ Why not into the parlors, aunt?) They " —_—" ly inter.’’ said | ’ ‘*1 always na l me par rs c t r th i in ° wi else, except when Iam essed. What do you Mary, of Aunt H e's | »? I remer 1M Hardit sigh w 1 Thad pro] | ying, and | Sw ¢ 1cau isiy that I {not heard it. Bellas ered into the fron | r, saying—‘‘I used to < it would hav f vd if t had been w x to keep it in tu Why, it’s ced The iot kee r locked, as t would wear « with nobody to play onit! Ple t, te ( y to bring in lights, and I'll play for you.’’ ‘* Never mind, Bella. IL don ive lichts taken li slave excent on t . o—they ! e the ce ng so,’ said Mrs. Hardinge—a V ( re reason from one she had given an’ Be sisted upon having the key, and played a li vy the stra r I passed thre " the open doors from the ¢ room But she soon gave it up; ands r she did not car to pla was for y,”’ alter all sh lay is t 1 we to sieep.

we wi d wish to silee p toge her she had | d my lings t n into ft is room Of cours el- ther of us o cted; and on ying up stairs, I found not only ut my tru i dressing-box had been brought the larger umber, but the little table, with its appurtenances, which I had feund too small for my 1 l displaced the handsome wash-s ow to accommodate us both On going down to breakfast the next morning I speculated in my mind whether there would be the succession of changes in the style of the table which I had already witnessed, but Mrs. Hardinge was evide tly atra 1 of the unr ly tor ie of her niece, and everything was co e il faut, and so remained. During the morning several carriages arrived from B——-, all bringing agreeable people, who politely regretted not having before had any inti- mation of my visit in the neighborhood. On this Mrs. Har gave various and not ve ry consistent e subject I always left linge to answ and she X- cuses, such as that the weather was too warm or too wet to go or send to town, the roads were too dry or too dusty, or important circumstances had yn The principal topic of conversati which Mrs. Hardinge had re soon alter interfered was the party to ion my arrival. It next day, and, ceived the invita was to come off the evening of the from the preparations being made, it was expected to be an unusually grand ailuir.

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' In the iternoon, invitations to € party ying cards, came out for Be! Land me, ar eagerly decided to accept them. Mrs. H i; did, Sewing the ace ¢ ried with Mr. Farnham and two o n, who had walked out from town to « ipleton you are to be wor 4 yes out for Aunt Hardinge,”’ said | " “ id retired to our chamber Ha scovered that the more you do for her . will exact? You re I ot r hters, with your dutiful p é veness; and if she had you long in her | you would be apt to get out of it as they did low was that ?”? By run ry away with the first fellows ered Haven’t you heard that r vO es made runaw iy matches? And ) ) for there never was just such an r scre despotic task- mistress as Aunt Lard W ell ’ ‘She must have been greatly distr 1 iey deserted her in that way,”’ said [. Hardly. Irather think she was glad t 1 of them, particularly as their 1 chanced to turn out pretty Ww ’ I was always grieving over the ¢ ense of br ters, though she gave girls a education as she decently could, and allowed no company nor amusements of any kind, dressed them down to the very verge of s ies 0 But she always speaks about them mos tectionately,’’ I observed. l‘alking doesn’t cost anything. and son makes a very fine show,”? returned Be 1, W wh. ‘*How gullible you are! She 1 makes any speeches to me, for I let her see I ler d her like a book, and that’s the ré I fare better than any one else with her. | she would be glad if I never set my foot in house, but I like B= of all places, al 11. people for my own gratification, not theirs I do come, she makes the bestot it, andr herseli with the appearance ‘her niece’ makes the attention ‘her niece’ receives. ‘That su exactly, for she shares the credit of hay belle in the family, and pays not] for it the case of daughters, she could not have it so che ip.” I thought nothing the better of my new quaintance for her communicativeness, countenance must have expressed my d added, apologet ca ot bation, for she you think unnatural sort Aunt sre me an Hardinge is not my own ly my uncle’s widow. is on The next morning after breakfast we the Bella things we had stairs to get out party. been talkir f the night about a dress she y— l niece, aunt, aiter i went up r 1 in } id intende | to wear S \ I way 1 the dress Ww T 4 Ll ex e\ ‘ I n Mvi \ I S | \ = " ! n ma yn i] } ce ed _ d com Ww ) ( wD é V ‘ in \ j hie ! ‘ i ! } res I W 1 Sa 1 { \ f | ~) J Mrs. H el | 1 eX d, exulti y rew oO r - \ \ ( to m ind- e roo ind L L'a e | finishir ) lie has 1 lress vet mi yi it on \ | » ex ind ¢ ! ) s W \ f D ' ‘ ane oO 1 ike me ' S 1 S t 1 too 3 V y narrow. Poor Bella \ na { Shi ‘ j | | i 3 l ‘ l l ) r s \ the d t ‘ ‘ i 1 uy nd m y \ vou »M i ? = j M Has ; indersta out i nges— 1il we LK itoinit ng , we ¢ 1 cet tltered I looked u t my dress, for though the s er | s ol t ere nearly fi sned they were yet to ti er, and | w that I s i é to ire I therefore s d ii 1 l l ve nto town ind 1 | ! ertodao t neces ry a ring 1 } e no dou my dear,’’ returned Mrs IH I I are iker nave heir of work tor the party, ind Bella would ( se t oing alter m Besides, I ‘ t 4 r erem } is Inv having 3 to-day Surely, when re are I s not neces I to em Ss na f the house.”’ But i \ ike a cood deal of Ir! I per- s } iore and more u sy ‘Per ips, B 1, you brought another party dress +?’ “'l’o be sure I did,’’ answered she, snappish- ve * it it lL « 1t wear th s, I I stay at h "Rd =" I there’s nothing like an eflort,’’ ] Hard é “You had better begin at e, Bella, and rip your dress apart.’’ ot ee y said | 1: “but you must show me eve mov [ make or | have had no- t rtodo\ ) sewing, of any consequence, in a ’ W I set busily to hemming the skirt of ! white k under dress, Bella commenced rrip . it si frayed the crape so much that, in fear she would spoil the dress imme-

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68 ODEY’S MAGAZINE diately, I took it fro her and did it myself, Mi Hardinge—wiho usual, was too much occupied 1 household afiairs to take up her I ii@— nT yr in every tew moments to incite me by compliments, and assure me that I was too expert not to be able to have both dresses done before ni . Dinner time came, and Bel- ia s dr s was not finished; yet I could not lay it aown wi out pos velyv reftusil to comply with juirements of Mrs. Hardinge, fully entered into the s ol “ ber niec dis- playing the | somest dress in the room. *] shall now give \ dress to you, Bel- la,’’ said I, at last. ‘1 have the body basted on and the sleeves basted in, and surely you can do he wi yourselt.’ i sho i be ire to tear into slits or prick my fingers to pieces if I attempted it returned Bella. * Dear aunty, do you take it in hand.’’ ‘** My dear, I have not sewed at such work for ve — d, besides, I re y have not t é ] must attend to weigl r the butter, and also have to assist ‘Tabitha in preparing the provisions for the work- peopl 1 the fields; for, though I et my farms work yn the shares, [ have to supply the afternoon meals in harvest and hay- makin ° So, you SC ¢ s impossib!| My dear Mary, it would be such a pity, when her beauti- ful new dress is so near done, not to go on and ‘But I shall not have my own to wear, Mrs. Hardi l “Then, my love, no doubt re,’’ I ventured to say. you have another that would answer ?”’ ‘Not parti one that would suit as well for such a ular occasion. I have only a new muslin. My other evening dresses not being so suitabl for summer, I did not bring them with me.’ ‘* Why, my dear, a new muslin would be the very thing, so pure, and chaste, and simple! I’m sure you will look sweet in it. You know ‘beauty when unadorned ’s adorned the most.’ You need not regret your other dress when you have afresh muslin. I can have it pressed out, and I dare say that you will look better in it than Bella in all her finery.”’ I looked at Bella, would have generosity never doubting that she enough to come to my relief, but she joined her persuasions to those of her aunt. I sewed on in silence, with tears in my eyes, and trying to strengthen myself by re- the lessons of self-sacrifice that calling some of had been instilled into me, and to soften my own disappointment by thinking of the happiness I would confer on Bella. After awhile it was suggested by Mrs. Hard- inge, who took it for granted that my muslin was to be worn, that I had I went up stairs to obey her, and better send it to Tabitha to be presse d. was followed by Cindy, who stood over me gap- ing into my trunk, while I disengaged my dress from its wrappings * That Bella Fenw gr 7 do imbled she —_ AND LADY’S BOOK. wish she would keep away! She always turns the house upside down when slie comes here, and has everybody running after her to wait on her. I guess she'll keep you sewing so’s you won't ¢ my frock done, after all.’’ What frock ?’’ asked I, looking up in sur- ‘Why, Hardinge’s | work-drawer, people rah had Mis’ Hardinge didn’t » rest of the things Mirandy « d let smart, and help sometimes to rake in the hay- new calico, in Mis’ my that I bought with the money the Ww he n our ©a guv me what stayed here a wedding last spring a year. It’s queer show it to you, tor out, and she said she you make it if I’d | field Mirandy was to a’ made it before you ” cane “Who is Mirandy?’’ I asked, in still greater wonder “Why, don’t you know? Mirandy Beams, Harding ets to 1 pays er ant ind pay the lame woman what Mis come a couple of times in the a dollar year, a week todo up all the sewing as gathers since the Mis’ H irdinge me. She was to be here now, but when heard you was a coming, she got her to stay a couple of days for halt a dollar and cut out that drawer full of things, and told her there was a young lady roing to visit her as was very handy, and she meant to get her to help with the sewing. Didn't she tell y about it ?”’ I never knew before what it was to be struck speechless. I handed the girl my dress, and scarcely seeing my way as I walked down stairs, I resumed Bella’s dress, and mechanically work- it until it was finished. Severai visitors ed at had called during the day (par parenthese), but Mrs. Hardinge always told me to “‘ never mind, as Bella could apologize for me, and say that | was very much engaged preparing for the party As I handed Bella her dress, Cindy came rush- liming—** Goodne ss alive. ! Thdeed and ing in with mine, exe Miss Mary, now you'll be hopping double, it’s enough to make any one ravin’ mad! Just see what that old Tab’s done to your beau- tiful dress—sot a scorching hot iron on it and burnt it black !’’ She held up the dress before her, and too truly, alas! darkly conspicuous on the front breadth was the full mark of a flat-iron! Mrs. Hardinge came in to condole with me and la- awkwardness of “‘ that stupid old crea- Tabitha ;”’ ot safely through her own troubles, that ment the ture but Bella was so elated with having g she paid very little attention to mine. The communication of Cindy in my chamber, with my subsequent reflections, had produced such an effect upon me that I met this misfortune almost with apathy, giving up the party without regret; and when Mrs. Hardinge planned tor me that I visiting dresses, and go in spi should cut off the sleeves of one of my e of the acciden I listened without interest or comment.

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« ’ ’ 70 EY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. e¢ I intained bv ire uent intercourse. I was rie e ol he r he spl al lV nan I was Wilil g ) very cautious in speaki ibout my late hostess reve d I never meet any of the family with- but, from knowl« e ot her character and habits, out hearing some quizzical allusion to my. visit to they were able to understand more of my expe- Mrs. Hardinge. HA 2p 1 r 1 " i©rmtwDpD 1: 1a AMERICAN CHARACTERISTICS. NO. VII.—THE PIC-NIC PARTY BY T. 8S. ARTHUR (S P ) Mr. C whose pencil is always graceful | day is spent in dancing, fishing, walking in the as well as graphic, has given our readers a picture woods, or other amusements that the place and in this number, that every Philadelphian at least occasion suggest, and is highly enjoyed by all will recognize with a feeling of pleasure. During ‘ rned. A little love-making scene, behind a the warm summer mo into which we are now century old oak, has been happily introduced by passing, the romantic inks of the Wissahickon, the artist. It will be recognized as natural enough and the picturesque shores of the Schuylkill, are by not a few who look at the picture. daily visited by pic-nic parties Ir m the city. The ————* > _ 7 ‘Dp a) THE GRAVES AN ORPHAN’S HYMN. BY MRS. S. ANNA LEWIS H nb ormy fa yw mourn t it! Whent te ite form was elas is a Phat he w 1e gt n 1 e mind \V oso was white as the Pa < »W 0 mile of parent 1 ha ut W i i s ot raven I Or his lineaments dear n irt wel t 1! Like er-threads, sprink thy forehead of snow. Yes, my sire ist I 1 knee prayer Where in days of 1 ‘ oft Ihave we How solemn. dear m r' it seems it the cla Imploring thy s| ) ) n s f Relentless and co yweencul s the s And at eve zy und mor sweet vigils have kept W here, all helpless, se oft I ancy ia And, soc iby tw iby, so d me to rest Ere my young mind cou isp them, they told me That on earth I sha t eholdt again woes; Never more fee y ros ps pressing my brow Of the virtues that 1 ever to me © 1y fairy h i smoo ny plliiow o - OF the love of thy trie = 1y 28; r fle 1 and lo mus ever torego! That in features and I was Ke ) ef with daw th S vy I wove AIv sisters eeps next ov \ ossom of heave The and the p al | s « m reast A why wast thou summoned so ear away? The ) r to soar to th ‘ t W so soon Was the ond of our sisterh« 9 And repose | line arms e La of the Blest A [ left alone on the cold earth to stay? Wi wast u not spared to ¢ ta ene I ave ne'er seen a par lren caress, My desolate heart. "mids depre ) ’ n (ir ) 1e inlo if ing s s W iV ve rea r els to iden ear Ww storm of mis ur i < W ongs and thy smiles to ¢ imy But ars a < ) i r to m eyes I hav e’er met a maid side of her sire Sleep o ve belove is better to rest Or beheld t tal a tat vho kept In the halls of the dead, than to linger in Wat ver h ’ ter. and s ved to admir Wher ‘ t i ie bosom w | press’d H < ar eau i ut ve wept And es s wwurl y sor \ s Sleep o ugh no blossoms your homes are pe M ‘ « by m aa of the skies! im R ce rr t id n ‘ T t ness and ¢ i fror scorda ir é A 1 ) A t e é es Th ely and i il ire col A eauly and health were illuming thy cheek ; And in my pale vesture | soon shali be there

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CAGE No BY ANNA C itt | 4 : | (We articles on cage birds. thank our correspondent for her delightful They are precisely adapt- ed to the readers of the Lady’s Book; inasmuch as they comprise all the information necessary in order to enable any lady, who is desirous of the society of these beautiful and melodious inmates of the parlor and boudoir, to gratify her taste in- telligently, as it respects the choice and the care and keeping of her feathered companions. The scientific details, and the matters which exclusively belong to those people who make a business of rearing and selling birds, are very properly omit- ted as unsuitable to a popular work intended for general readers.] —Ep. Lapy’s Book. THE CANARY. This bird, now kept and reared in every part of Europe and the United States, on account of its ] G4, if my dy ys Rg DP Mh ~ ci gh SI RDS. 1 AUSTIN pretty form, its excellent song, and its suscepti bility of education, is a native of the Canaries, where it breeds on the banks of small streams, in the pleasant valleys of those delightful islands. It has been known in Europe since the commence- ment of the sixteenth century. Its arrival is thus told: A ship, which, in addition to other mer- chandize, had a multitude of that were consigned to Leghorn, was wrecked on the coast of Italy, and the birds, thereby ob- taining their liberty, flew to the nearest land. Elba, where they found so Canaries on board This happened to be propitious a climate, that they multiplied without the intervention of man, and would probably have naturalized themselves, had not the wish to pos- sess them been so great as to occasion their being hunted after till they were entirely extirpated. In Italy we, therefore, find the first tame Canaries and they are still reared there in great multitudes

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~J) w

THE CANARY. At fir th rear was attended with consider- For the following direct pec ot ca i lifficulty, pa \ cause the mode of treating and food of the Canary, we are indebted to the ex ese d e stra was not sufficiently un- cellent treatise of Bechstein. ler 1, ar par ecause males chiefly, and Except during the bres ling season, the males yt fema rt to Euroy ire kept in small bird-cage renerally of ‘I P< | rav ¢ r, which merge to shape of a bell, n of wire, W 11 U rreen | mbling nor ol east one io i nm and € ie | meter the lint of dum ication - ind furnis i with two tr vel | f But mat in re with other birds, becom the female is either ¢ 1 to hav lom so m l sn Vv now re mie the room Wilh 1fS WINGS ¢ ppe 1. r is | ( i with rray, vellow, | breeding-cage with plenty of r » keey white, bla } I 1. | wh, continue the its limbs In constant exercise an | preserve the chief colo v t lividually seen in in health d strength In the bell-shaped cages every degree o " ymbination, thus pre- wherein, it must be understood, on one bit senting bine ] é sh i be 1 iced both the « ing 1 di ri} j e is sca » be dis ruisned trom vesseis mu r placed on the putsid at the ex t m it th erally d r and tremities of the lower ] 1. These should righter « : is rather thicker and surmounted with a cap of tin, so that the bird may r er throughout more not scatter its food easily slender; and emples and the spa around Cleanliness will often prevent thes? deli 1 eyes ar wal) ola n r veliow han the birds irom su ] ring many al rd rs, al 1 itis very rest of e body desirable that the floor of the « e should be made I va s al size of the iinnet, five movable, that it may be more easily cleansed and iches long, of w } t omprisestwo inches strewed with coarse sand. B r inhabitants « and a quarter; the beak five lines long, stout, a warm climate, and rendered delicate by consta and sharply poin ind whitish; the legs are residence in rooms, and so in a manner habituated flesh colored, and eigh es high. to atemperature similar to that of theirown cou! In Europe, it is a fas practice to obtain hy- try, great care in winter is necessary that the brids by as 1a 4 ( ! her birds; same temperature be pre served, avoiding the ex and Bechs 1 des rae by pairing posure to cold air, which, however refreshing the C ry with the s the gold- summer, cannot be otherwise than prejudicia

hineh, and the linnet. them, causing sickness, and even death i

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THE FIRST keep them in a healthy and happy frame, it is very important to observe that in summer they must be frequently hung in a cage, in brilliant daylight, and, if possible, placed in the warm sun- shine, which, especially when bathing, is very agreeable to them. The food of the Canary is a most important con- sideration. The more simple and true to nature the food is, the better does it agree with these birds; whereas, when too artificially compounded, it renders the birds weak and sickly. ‘The best food for them is the summer rape seed, which is sown in spring, distinguished from the winter rape seed, which is sown in autumn, and is larger and blacker than the former. Like the linnet, they thrive very well on this food, but it should be occasionally intermixed with some crushed hemp seed and Canary seed, for the sake of flavor- ing it, and this especially in the spring, when they are intended for breeding. As a treat, may be given them a mixture of summer cabbage seed, whole oats or oatmeal, with millet or some Canary Here, as in everything else, we should With this simple mode seed. strive to imitate nature. of treatment I have reared numerous Canaries, and kept them healthy for many years; whereas, others, who have attended theirs with the greatest labor and care, have incessantly complained of all kinds of vexations and unfortunate casualties. Besides a multitude of short essays upon the mode of treating Canaries, lengthy volumes have also been written upon it. ‘These contain a va- PARTING. 733 riety of very artificial modes of treatment, all of which effect no more than the simple ones here described will do. The hen is likewise supplied with this food ; but in winter they are contented with roll or merely barley grots, moistened in milk, if given to them fresh every day, to keep it from becoming sour. Besides, both males and females have given to them, in summer, some green cabbage, gorse, groundsel, and water cresses, which must be previously washed and cleansed from anything prejudicial, and in winter fed with pieces of sweet apple. ‘Two teaspoonfuls of Ca- nary seed is a day’s allowance for a Canary. When kept on other food it should be given in about the same proportion. They require fresh water daily, both for drink- ing and bathing; and at molting time a rusty nail should be occasionally placed in their drink- ing vessels, as this tends to strengthen the sto- mach. They pick up the little angular grains of sand with which the bottom of the cage may be strewed, and which very much assists their digestion. These kinds of food are for the full grown bird the young require different nourishment, at least as long as they require the care of the parent birds We might add several pages on the breeding, rearing, and education of the Canary ; but we be- lieve the above directions are sufficient for gene- ral purposes. At present it is much cheaper t« buy than to raise this beautiful songster of the boudoir and parlor. ot AH O— THE FIRS PARTING BY AMEREL, Must we part, so late united, After years of hope and fear Thou to roam where promise plighted Soothes no sorrow, dries no tear! Where, as glide the moments dreary, *Neath the stranger’s chilly stare No familiar smile will cheer thee, None will smooth thy brow of care? When, upon the heaving billow, Whirling tempests round thee rave Who will! watch thy sailor pillow! W ho the stranger boy will save? Oh! that in the gloomy hour, I thy lot, thy fate might share VOL, XXXIX.—7 e Plate.) Triumphing in Love's strong power Over danger and despair Sadly now will come the morning Hailed with childish joy before ; Sad the evening dews, returning— Thou with night wilt come no more Thou away—and Summer’s dawning With its cool and balmy air, Autumn’s noon, and Spring’s gay morning To this heart no comfort bear. Now we part, but not for ever ;— ’Mid the hours of grief and pain Hopes, that distance Cannot sever Whispers, we shall meet again

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THE MONTHLY wither; tude ¢ and die; Shapes of light are wafted hither, Then, like visions, hurry by J. G. Percival Another month requires a new Bouquet; and, though ese beautiful lnuterpreters of th ade, the emotions, the hopes a ave awakened, will n ess of the Bouquet Oh! what tender thoughts Those silent flowers are } ua 1 pass Will thought and feeling must fections they may the passing bright- ying, BOUQUET.—NO. II. Hid within the mystic wreath My love hath kissed in tying'!— M And then flowers may be a memento of friendshi; well as a token of true love. The following is an a propriate motto to send with a bouquet to a dear an respected friend :- Oh! let my friendship in the wreath, Though but a bud among the flowers, Its sweetest fragrance round thee breathe— *T'will serve to soothe thy weary hours Ameia B. Walby

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THE FLOWER BY THOMAS KIN Tue following directions for the appropriate distribu- tion of flowers are ingenious and amusing. We are much obliged to the gentleman who suggested the pian, ind hope he will receive, from the friends of the Lady’s Book, plenty of “‘ Forget-me-nots I would give— To Heroes, “ Laurels.” To the Cruel, “ Barberry ro the Wounded, To the Af To the Persecuted, “ Balsam.” icted, “ Heart’s Ease.” “ Balm of Gilead.” To Housewives, “ Thrift.” “ Devil in a Bush.” “ Deadly Night Shade.” To Murderers, ro Banditti, To Victoria, A “Crown Imperial.” To the Grand Seignor, A “ Turk’s Cap.’ A “ Monk’s Head.’ London Pride.” To Priests, To the Lady Mayoress, To the Chancellor of Ex- chequer, “Penny Roya To those who love kissing, “ Tulips.” ‘Honesty ” ‘Milk Maids.” ‘Lad’s Love.” To Lawyers, To Ploughmen, To the Lassies, To the Vain, To the Malicious, To the Resiless, ‘Coxcombs.” ‘Black Hellebore.” * Poppies.” To your Wife, To Eliza, To Broadway To Beauties, To those who crel, To little Gir Beaux, sign i To your Children, To the Nervous, To Apothecaries, To Perfumers, To Writing Masters, To the Low Spirited, To the Precise, To the Learned, To the Wicked, To Spinsters, To the Frigid, To the Huntsman, To the fair R c To Tobacconists, To Triflers, use, MANUAL. Yew, ‘Sweet William “ Painted Ladies.’ “ Venus’s Looking G 1 Se- To the deserted Damsel, To Peace Makers, To Masons, To the Notable, To the Idle, To my best Friend, oa PARTING ENIND their cloudy curtains Over sunset’s crimson sea Like fires along a battle field, Intensely. mournfully, The radiant stars are burning, That will burn no more for me Ere on yon path of glory, Which still the daylight warms, Walks silently the midnight, With the pale moon in her arms, I shall be where longings trouble not, Nor haunting fear alarms Nay, weep not, gentlest, dearest, When joy should most abound, That the dewy, tender clasping Or thy arms must be unwou We ave journeyed mig tovether In life’s wilderness profound Like the shi ing threads of silver Which the showers of summers ave When to webs of beauty woven By the golden loom of eve, s the path that lies before me now— ie, dO not grit SONG. E CAREY Mortality A wheel And Is Was soothe Asa Or f nai t heet Of palin, at vest k, although thy gent land almost ble has been to me Love in a Mist.’ “Wax Work.” None so Pretty ‘ Valerian.” Senna.” ass.” “Jasmines and Violets * Jonquill.” ‘ Lavender.” “ Primroses.” ‘Sage.” “ Rue.” ‘ Bachelor's Buttons ‘Snow Drop.’ ‘ Larkspur.” ‘Lily of the Valley. ‘Virgi ‘Catch Fly Willow.” “ Everlasting.” ia SLOCK ‘Stone Crop * Thyme.” Birch.” “ Forget-me-not.” the sepulchre, to rest Not when Like n *morm is ¢ a banner o'er the owl yrim in the shadow r 1 é sl, brave, Nor when the world is bathing In Will I come 1e noont O Love, to meet *s amber wave, thee From the chamber of the grave. rough the sil Leanin 1th W he Or; I wi From the shadow of the As W 1 I 2D pe isome g e earthward trom U ver columns n pale and solemn army night Is on the march, } ts bosom aw! ide. O Love 1y are trembles i re to meet thee, ars the dark procession ges sweeping irtis tremoil susie of the sky { love

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TO MARY. ¥Y FRANCIS DE H. JANVIER. As a pilgrim, worn and weary, As the pilgrim, sinking, sighing, Wandering o’er a desert dreary, Cast upon the desert. dying— Bowed beneath the sun’s hot burning, Ere life’s latest link be riven, For some shelter vainly yearning, Lifts his weeping eyes to heaven, Feeling each fond hope retiring, Pouring forth his plaintive story Sinking on the sand, expiring— To some gentle saint, in glory— Pines to see his native mountains, So, sweet angel, spirit-broken, Pants to quaff their cooling fountains— Craving still some saving token, So, a wanderer—lost and lone Pouring here, in adoration, Meeting disappointment only, From my heart, a pure oblation— Worn and weary, lorn and laden— One last, lingering trust I cherish, Pine I for thy love, sweet maiden! Listen, loved one, ere J perish! EE THE MAYWOOD STREAMLET. BY CHARLES MURPHY Away to the wood where the grave oaks grow, With a smile and a blush for its merry pranks, And Pheebus at morning peeps modestly through! And wild lilies list, as it dances along, Far under the boughs at the valley's side, To its lively and gladsome voice of song! lhe pearly waters right merrily glide ; vere’s bloom in the forest, there’s balm in the air; rheir pathway is pebbled, their borders are gay With the verdure of Spring and the bloom of May; For the angel of peace reigns cheerfully there— And the moss robe is rich in sunny gleam And the soul bursts her fetters while strolling away hat carpets the bank of the beautiful stream *Mid our greenwood haunts in joyous May! There is food for the soul, there are charms for the eye, Where the crystal waters go prattling by; I love to roam through a vale like this, Where the wild flow’ret rears its delicate head, And follow the streamlet wherever it list All glowing and fresh from its damp leafy bed; For pure are the joys that gush o’er the soul, Where the violet blooms, in unconscious pride, As, bidden by Fancy, thus careless we stroll, In each fairy nook by the streamlet’s side Where the springlets of May all the riv ts swe Where the Spring | ity modestly bends from its banks, And the founts of the heart feel a kindred spe! PATTERNS FOR EMBROIDERY. NO. 1—THE UNENDING BRAID PATTERNS Tiuesk six patterns are intended to be worked with bi ions are pretty on children’s clothes; for instance, 1, either siik or worsted on any material sufficiently black on scarlet, pink on blue or any of the drab colors k to bear the weight. The pattern is drawn care- Sometimes the braid is very fine and wider than the paper. and then basted on common kind, and is sewed on so as to stand on the fully and distinetly on tissue | ficult than the other way. The This is more d the garment. The braid is then run on thickly, and with very smal! stitches. The braid should be kept from work is also done with very coarse saddler’s silk, in twisting. This work must be, of course, in one con- chain stitch. This is very pretty for flannel garments tinued line. as the braid cannot be pieced. The most e is not united, but would do last pattern on the | eautiful effect is produced by having the braid as nearly very well for corner possible the color of the dress—though some com- 76

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PATTERNS FOR EMBROIDERY.

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EDITORS’ For EVER in bloom Book must always keep warm life Like the monthly rose, the Lady’s in its heart; and thus > make one volume only closes t room for another to open. As the fresh-breathing rose is always more lovely than the one passing away, so each new number Nor do ence shall decline, if the most care- of the “ Book” excels the one which preceded. we intend this excel ful culture and untiring exertions can insure its “ Book,” forth in the burning noon of the year, when nota shadow per- petual progress. This number of the as it goes rests on the beautiful perfection of nature, should be for magazine literature the Rose of full bloom and perfect beauty. Is it notso? In every department of Art where is its equal’? In the sweet and sacred influence of its moral mission and home lessons, it warms the heart, and strer gthens the soul of its purifies the affections, } reader for all the sacred duties of life. And thus may it continue to be—the “ Book”—every American lady is proud to call Aer own LETTERS TO THE Eprrors.— Were we gifted with as many hands as Briareus, and had the full supply of sta- tuonery the poet meditated when he wished that All the world was paper, And all the seas were ink! und should work on the twice “ten hour” system, we could hardly showered And interest for our success and } reply to ali the letters upon us- these, generally so warm in their expressions ot that we feel the writers are dear friends; yet we cannot reply to their kind and often How glad long episties, even by a line we should be to take these noble-hearted friends by the hand. and thank them for their favors. We dothis often in fancy; we look in their ple asant faces, and re ad there the approval which sweetens our unremitting and task And these expressio often weary now we send by our herald, the “ Book To the yut their fee is of our warm regard and ove young and older ladies who have poured ings in their letters to us, we say—to those who count themselves happy preserve, by active ex- ertions in good works, this cheer hoping disposition ; rin Cs it is more valuable to you than the richest} fornia. To the sad and desponding, we would urge the same course of active employment If this does not re- move or cure the cause of unhappiness, then the pertec- tion of character must be gained by meek endurance— as one of our correspondents has beautifully delineated Calm, silent endurance! Whata sublime power of the soul is this! To resign ourselves submissively to disap- pointment—to gaze with a calm eye upon the picture of ife which Time unrolls for us; unwavering when the hues of mourning are spread to sadden it, unrepining bright when the fountains of joy that we hoped would sparkle on our pathway are iost in the eternal sea of the to this—is it not noble? murmur aiong that rolls Life Is it not an inspiring thought that the sorrow, with meia shore of to submit silently soul of feeble wo- man has within it a germ of such mighty power as this } > seilt-control No one is alone in grief or disappointment. We may not outwardly sympathize with each other, but when re.) TABLE. another drinks of the bitter cup, how sadly do we re. member that we, too, have held it, and shall inevitably hold it to our own lips again. Thus in sympathy, all hearts should be as one. Thus we respond to our many friends. ARCHERY.—The spirited illustration of this graceful We have called this practice of archery a graceful accom- accomplishment for ladies must win admiration plishment—perhaps a healthful exercise would be the more appropriate term Ladies brought up in cities have too few opportunities of using their arms, and the back and chest cannot gain the requisite strength and roundness unless the muscles of the arms are developed by active exertion. Every young lady educated in the city, would gain health and beauty by the practice of archery Cace Brros or America.—It will be seen that we have commenced a tile. They serve to sharpen new set of illustrations under this will be found very interesting, and will the appetite for the beautiful colored ones we shall soon give, and for which our artist, Mr Tucker, has orders to send us from Paris. EMBROIDERY.—This is a style of work now first given public through the medium of the Lady’s own Book We have various patterns, which we will give from time to tume To CorresronpEents.— The following articles are ac- cepted: “A Song about “A Word to the Wise,” “The Errors—the Consequences—and the Re- morse,” “A Year ago Singers,” To-day,” * The Heart's Visitants,’ “Those trembling Stars,” “ Death among the Flowers.” “Lines inscribed to one in Heaven,” “The Village Church,” “The Child and the Angels,” “Sleep,” “ The Slight Mistake,” “I'm kneeling thy Grave, Mother,” he World of tlome,” “ The Past the Present, and the Future,” The St ry of a Disappointed Ma “Our Conversation is in Heaven,” Cora Linton rhe Evening Star,” “Spring-time Musings,” ‘*- Lines written and * Zillah” Mina” month. on board the Steamer Baltic,” The receive contributions of and “Jenny Gray” wil attention next Several other articles are yet io be considered. “ Her the September number. de Soto” is accepted, and will appear in A new novel of deep interest will be commenced in the August number—to be continued to the close of the vo me. . We do not consider it necessary to blazon in the “ Book” the particular merits of each article inserted Our readers are, we } trust, competent to discover the ‘auties and exceliencies without We require using the editorial microscrope are sure the nares of our contribu- tors do not to be sounded by the editorial trumpet! “The Ghost of a Scold” we do not think quite fitted for the “ Book.” “The Castle of the Virgins” is the title of a story that has been sent us. No letter accompanied it. “Stage Coach Gossipings” will positively appear in our August number

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EDITORS’ KAVANAH. A Tale. fellow. Boston: Ticknor, Reed, & Fields: pp.183. We By Henry Wordsworth Long- hazard little in predicting this will be the favorite book among all the works of its popular author. It is the Nothing is told beyond the experience of common village life in New England; passion, or description; vivid and beautiful as the most periect romance of realities we ever read nothing is e) gerated in sentiment, or scenery is painted by the poet-novelist, the glorious and varied scenery of nature is beyond even his wonderful power of word-painting But though every scene in the story is to the reader, if New England born, as plain as the way to church, and true as the catechism, yet the lights and shadows in this picture of home life are so artistically arranged, that we seem walking in Fairy- land, or rather living over again the sweet tancies and feelings of early youth, when each day was like a new enjoy ne pleasure We hardly tion we would so cordially commend What a contrast between novel.— We trust our readers will a of a personal acquaintance with * Kavanah. kuow a work ot to the youth of both sexes. * Kavanah” and Lamartine’s late novel, * Raphael These two works are most significant proots of the moral diilerence in the character of the people of France and America. REPUBLICAN CHRISTIANITY; or, True Liberty as exhibited in the Life, Prece} ts, and early Disc ples of the Great Redeemer. By E. L. Magoon. We hope this book will be Boston: Gould, Kendall, & Lincoln: pp. 422. widely circulated, and become the text-book of every true republican. Next to the study of the Bible, every human being should be encouraged to read and study works that show the true principles of human rights, of We welcome this book as the harbinger that Christan men are waking and arming moral and civil treedom themselves with the weapons of Truth to fight in the great struggle now going on between freedom and de- spotism ABRIDGED HISTORY OF THE U. STATES, OR REPUBLIC OF AMERICA. By Emma Willard This is a new and enlarged edition of an excellent ma- nual tor schools, iong and well approved—as are all the works of ihe author. GUIDE TO THE TEMPLE OF TIME AND UNI- VERSAL HISTORY FOR SCHOOLS By Willard We cannot, in our short notices, attempt an explanation Of this book, evidently prepared with mucao Emma ngenuily a id care; but we commend a trial ot the *‘*Guide” and the remple of Time” in all schools where history is studied. Both works are handsomely printed. New York: A.S. Barnes & Co ELEMENTS OF GEOLOGY By David Page Edited by D. M. Reese, M. D., LL D ELEMENTS OF CHEMISrRY AND ELECTRICI- TY. By B. D. Reid and Alexander Bain. Edited by D M. Reese These two works are illustrated with numerous en- gravings, and will, we think, prove very valuable aids in education. Geology is a new study in our schools but one that must become very important. We are glad to see such excellent text-books as these prepared for the young. New York: A.S. Barnes & Co. Philadel- H. W. D ry & Co., ¢ phia: John Ball BOOK TABLE. LIVING ORATORS IN AMERICA. Baker & Scribner, New York executed volume of nearly five hundred pages, by the By FE. L. Ma- goon A beautifully Revolution,” &c. The sketches of character are usually well, and often ad- author of “Orators of the mirably drawn. Portraits are given of the most distin- guished persons preseuted. We see that Webster leads the van. These personal sketches of men now amongst us are very interesting RURAL LETTERS AND OTHER RECORDS OF THOUGHT AT LEISURE. By N. Parker Willis Baker & Scribner, New York We do not give the whole of the title-page, which is in Willis’s usual style. This volume contains the famous * Letters from under a Bridge,” and various other old and new essays. It is hardly worth while to recommend this book, for the au thor is too great a favorite to require a “notice.” We cannot, however, omit to praise the beauty of the vo- lume, for which and for the preceding one we are in- debted to Mr. J. W. Moore, 193 Chestnut street FERNANDE; OR, THE FALLEN ANGEL. By Alexandre Dumas. Stringer & Townsend, New York. Another emanation from the teeming brain of this pro- We do not previous works, but it is still lifie author ike it so well as others of his enough to enchain the at- It is also of moderate tention of the reader to the end length, a desideratum much to the credit of the author VALERIE A Tal Carey & Hart, Philadelphia. Not the least interesting } portion of the history of this book is the fact that it was By the late Captain Marryat. left unfinished by the lamented author, and has been completed by “a literary gentleman.” He has been successful—praise enough, we should think, for any one The book is deeply interesting THE HEIRESS MADELINE AND OTHER Arthur. Henry F. Anners These are two of Mr. Arthur’s most charming works TALES *hiladelphia. By T. 8 As he always writes beautifully and with admirable morals, it is difficult to pronounce one of his works } These, however, are unusually ished by Mr than the other interesting They are beautifully pul Auners MEMOIRS OF A Joseph Sever PREACHER By George Lip- pard. is & Co., Philadelphia. A publica- ton in cheap, but very handsome form, of a thrilling novel that has appeared in Mr. Lippard’s paper, the ty.” Itisin the “(Quaker C usual style of this author, and not, we think, ia his best vein vere are, how- ever, passages of great strength and beauty in it; but yet it lacks—what Mr. Lippard’s books seldom lack—a dis- tinct and ever-prevalent moral. We apprehend that it has been written in extraordinary haste THE ADIRONDACK; OR, LIFE IN THE WOODS By J.T. Headley. Baker & Scribuer, New York. The typographiéal execution of this book is of the first order. The title-page is remarkably beautiful; and it is, indeed, in all respects, a mode! book, and does great credit to ter, and bind the paper-maker, prin r. It will be sought for by the friends of the author. We received it from Mr. J. W. Moore DIANA OF MERIDOR; OR, THE LADY OF MON- SORLAU.

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S) GODEY’S MAGAZINE GENEVIEVE;: OR, THE CHEVALIER OF THE MAISON ROUGE These two extraordinary from the French of novels, Alexandre Dumas, are just published in beautiful style, by T. B. Peterson, No. 95 (¢ prise is filling the country with the choicest productions hestnut street, whose enter- of the best authors. Both are historical romances, and depict the most thrilling and interesting scenes in the France history of olden W. Herbert, Fsq., illustrated rhe latter is translated by H one of the most elegant writers of the Both are with numerous engravings. age They are unquestionably two of the most brilliant pro- ductions of this writer. CAPTAIN MARRYAT’S NOVELS Phil: T. B. Peterson, lelphia. Mr. P. is also publishing, serially, the complete works of this lamented author, comprising ‘Peter Simple,’ “Jacob Fait “The Phantom Ship,” “Midshipman Easy,” “T Pacha of many Tales,” The Naval Oilicer Snarleyow,” “* Newton Foster,” “The King’s Own,” and “The Pirate and Three Cut- ters.” Each novel is complete in itself, and is sold for only twenty-five cents, and can be mailed to any part of The This is, The type the country for about five cents postage. whole eleven may be had for two dollars! without doubt, the cheapest edition ever published and paper are excellent. GRACE DUDLEY; OR, ARNOLD AT SARATOGA. By C. J which Peterson. Same publisher. This charming story, has been so popular during its weekly publication in the Saturday Gazette, is now published book gravings. Mr in neat form, and illustrated with numerous en- Peterson has selected an interesting por- thon of our revolutionary history and interesting charac- ters, and has succeeded in writing a book that will add atlon as an author John Fleetwood, D. D This ished in magnificent torm by these to his previous enviabie repu LIFE OF CHRIST. By W.A book has been repu Rev Leary & Co, Philadelphia standard old enterprising publishers. The paper is fine and white, the type large and clear, and the binding of the most It is also illustrated with a large The book y appreciated, substantial character number of well-executed itself engravings is sO Well Known and so universa that it is scarcely necessary to refer to its contents. Present- ing, as it does, a connected history of the life of our Sa- viour and the Apostles, itis extremely valuable to the biblical student as well as the general reader. The his- tory of the Jews, attached to the volume, renders it still more valuable LIFE AND SERMONS OF CHRISTMAS EVANS W. A Philade executed volume by the Leary & Co., phia. Another be: tuuliiuily same publishers. It is a new transiation from the Welsh, by the Rev Joseph Cross, and is embellished by two fine engravings. The ad- excellent man will be It is page teems with mirers of this eccentric Dut to have so handsome a copy of his works like sit- ting down to a rich feast, for every beauties that do not fade even after repeated perusals rHE GLASS; OR, THE TRIALS OF HELEN MORE. M. E. Harmstead, Philadelphia. This is a thrilling Temperance Tale, edited by Maria Lamas. It is professedly a true story, and is admirably written Like all temperance tales, it portrays the evils of intem- perance, and the reader finds his heart shaken and his eyes dimmed when he comes to the end It is published do much good ELLA STRATFORD; OR, THE ORPHAN CHILD. By the Countess of Blessington. T This is cert m cheap form, and wil B. Peterson, Phila- delphia unly one of the most charming of aii the works of this distinguished lady, and is destined am iat popularity Pie beauty and cheapness of this, the first American edition, cannot be too highly commended. BUNYAN’S HOLY WAR. byterian Board of rublication, No. 144 Chestnut street, Published by the Pres- Philadelphia. This edition contains the notes of Rev. George burder, and is embellished with an authentic portrait and sixty-eight engravings. Itis bound in va- rious styles, and may be had for various prices, varying from $1 50 to $5 5U. The copy before us is elegantly bound in Turkey morocco, and handsomely gilded. It has been the common custom to rank this Allegory far below the Pilgrim’s Progress, but the mistake is being discovered, and it is rapidly taking its proper place in the estimation of the reading community Phe beautlul style in which it is now published will do more than anything else lo aliract attention to tt FHOUGHTS ON FAMILY WORSHIP. By James W. Alexander. An excellent dissertation Rev Same publishers. intended to enforce both the duty and the privilege of domestic worship. The subjectis discussed and that iis bearings, with a plainness beauty every reader will admire. The volume is beautifully inscribed to the author’s parents ANNALS OF THE POOR. By Legh mond. Same publishers. The “ Dairyman’s Daughter” Rev Rich- and the “ Young Cottager” are too familiar to require iotice or praise, and we can only commend the very beautiful style in which the volume is now published It is illustrated with a portrait and other engravings, which enhance the pleasure of its perusal IS CHRISTIANITY FROM GOD? By Rev. John Cumming, D.D. Same publishers. ‘This volume is no- ticed in another column. The Board publish it in avery neat and cheap style. Itis a book that should be in the hands ol eve ry reader, tor, as a manual of Chrisuan evi- den it has never been surpassed THE CAUSES AND CURE OF SKEPTICISM Same publishers. A book so small! that it may be car- ried in ones vest pocket, bul which, if properly read and appre iated, will convinee the most obstinate. It should go side by side with Doctor Nelson's excellent work THE PROVIDENCE OF GOD DISPLAYED IN A SERIES OF INTERESTING FACTS rhe tide sufficiently indicates the Same publish- character of this book. Some of the facts are so wonderiul that the most skeptical reader could not possibly refer them to any less cause than an over-ruling Providence. It is a va- luable book for the pulpit or the conversation table THE CHRISTIAN SOLDIERS. Same publishers A series of religious narratives, showing the triumphs of grace in the army. Some of them reter to members of our own army, which render the work more interest- ing They are all well authenticated. MADAGASCAR ANDITS MARTYRS lisbers. This little book is intended chiefly for the young, Same pub- but may be read prohtably by older persons, as it has been compiled trom authentic sources, and gives much valuable informauon about a country and people but litte known. It is handsomely illustrated BRIEF MEMOIRS OF THE PIOUS Too many such books as this cannot be pub- Same pub- lishers lished. The history of the lives and deaths of individu- als eminent for their virtue and piety, cannot but exert an influence on the reader. In this book there are seve- ral narratives we do not remember to have seen before MEMOIR OF MARY JANE GRAHAM A more extended Same pub- lishers narrative than those in the previous volume, and one that enchaius the attention of the reader from the first to the last line PARENTAL DUTIES. Same publishers This is

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EDITOR’S written by Rev. Thomas Houston, an eminent Scottish divine on the subject of the blessings resulting from the faithful performance of parental duties. The imprint of the Board is enough to give it character, but it is ad- mirably written in a most forcible and manly style Every parent should read it and act upon its teachings [We hope to renew our notices of the publications of the Board in our next number, and have no doubt our readers will thank us for introducing to them their ex- cellent books } LECTURES ON THE PHILOSOPHY OF ARITH- metic. By Uriah Parke. Moss & Brother, Philadel- phia. In a series of very interesting lectures, the author shows the adaptation of the science to the business pur- poses of lite, illustrating them with numerous probiems, eurious and useful, solved by various modes, and gives such explanations as will make the study pleasant and profitable to those who have not the aid of a teacher We have examined it carefully, and pronounce it the most admirable work of the kind ever published. It also contains a vast amount of curious information re- specting the science of numbers, &c. We prophesy a speedy and extensive popularity. BIBLE EVIDENCE FOR THE PEOPLE By Rev. John Cumming, D.D. M. W. Dodd, New York. A charming little work, answering in the plainest and most satisfactory manner the question—“ Is Christianity from

God?” It is prefixed with an introduction by Hon. The- odore Frelinghuysen, who recommends it in the highest terms. No one can read it and remain unconvinced of the great truths it presents. FRUITS OF THE MAY-FLOWER. M. W. Dodd, A valuable book for the young, being a N series of conversations respecting the Pilgrim Fathers aw York.

It contains an accurate history of the settlement and early existence of the Plymouth colony—a subject with which al! should be acquainted. CHARLES O'MALLEY and JACK HINTON. By Dr. Lever. T. B. Peterson, Philadelphia. Two of the very best novels ever written in any language, and ones that will hold the affections of readers to a good old age. Mr. Peterson has got up a new and beautiful edition, which can be forwarded by mail or otherwise, to any part of the country VALENTINE VOX, THE VENTRILOQUIST. By Henry Cockton. Same publisher. This most laughable book is also republished by Mr. Peterson. Those who have not read it have missed a treat seldom attainable We can never read a page of it without hysterics. It is embellished with fine engravings. CHAMBERS’ INFORMATION FOR THE PEOPLE. T. B. Peterson, Philadelphia. This is pronounced the greatest and most useful book of the age, being a popu- lar encyclopedia, embracing all the branches of gene- ral knowledge necessary to constitute a well-informed man. It comes within the reach of every person, and is a whole library in itself. It is published in sixteen numbers, of one hundred and twelve very large imperial octavo pages, and at the very low price of twenty-five cents each. When completed, it will form two elegant volumes of 550 pages each. It contains upwards of 600 engravings. Eighty thousand copies have been sold in England alone. The numbers can be sent by mail. GRAMMAR OF THE LATIN LANGUAGE. By Leonhard Schmitz Lea & Blanchard, Philadelphia. Another volume of the classical series in course of pub- lication by this house, and bearing the warmest recom- mendation of best teachers and scholars in this and

foreign countries. It is very neatly got up MY UNCLE THE CURATE. A Novel. Harper & Brothers, New York. A new work, by the author of The Bachelor of the Albany,” which was so deserv- BOOE TABLE. 8] edly popular. This is of a different character, and in a different style, but is one of the most interesting books of the day FAMILY FAILINGS. A Novel. H. Long & Brother, New York. By the author of “The Henpecked Hus- band.” &c. This work has received the warmest enco- miums of the British press, and is pronounced to be in the best style of the author. It portrays the mysteries of social life in the higher circles, and is full of interest A HISTORICAL GEOGRAPHY OF THE BIBLE By Rev. Lyman Coleman. E. H. Butler & Co., Phil delphia. This excellent work to the reader of the Bible ine

must prove of inestimable value. As many will follow the map to trace the progress of a bloody conflict. so will the reader of the Word of God refer to this valu- able work with a better and truer aim in view. It is illustrated by maps from the latest and most authentic sources, of the various countries mentioned in the Scrip- tures. STEWARTS NEW YORK PICTORIAL AND MOTHER'S SPELLING AND READING BOOK; or, Child’s First Step to Knowledge sent us by Grigg, Elliot & Co., of this city INTERNATIONAL ART-UNION, Goupel!l & Vibert, New York. We have received, through the attentive agent in this city, Mr. Byerly, two beautiful engravings The first is the title of a work —*The Power of Music,” and “ The Prayer.” is a specimen of French lithography, and it is certainly the most beautiful specimen we have ever seen It is as fine as any line engraving. The second is a most superb mezzotint, and a most lovely picture. The face of the child in prayer is seraphic. This institution is very successful NEW MUSIC. Mr. A. Fiot, No. 196 Chestnut street, has sent us the following new pieces, which are published in his usual beautiful style, viz:— The Celebrated Medley Overture to La Sfogato, which was so popular during Madame Bishop’s reign, and which comprises her favorite airs. It contains seven- teen pages! Guadalquiver Waltz and Je suis la Bayadeére, arranged as a Rondoletto. Both are by Mr. Bochsa, and are em- bellished with fine portraits of Madame Bishop. Mr. Fiot’s edition of the favorite song, “On the banks of Guadalquiver,” is also embellished with the portrait, and has been newly arranged by Mr. Bochsa. Le Chant des Oiseau purports to be—a brilliant waltz—and what it must be (Song of the Birds) is what it to be the production of E. L. Walker. It is one of the sweetest things we ever heard Un Soir au Chateau Rouge (a Paris). <A fine Polka By Charles Voss La Redowa d’Amour. By H. A. Pond. Very good. La Moscowiska. A Polka Mazurka. By Lefebure Wely Messrs. Lee & Walker, No. 162 Chestnut street, seem to publish a new piece every day, and seldom a poor one. We are indebted to them for the following :— Olga. By Charles Voss. An elaborate work, founded on a beautiful Russian melody. Fleurs Ttaliennes By Ferd. Beyer. No. 1 contains Lucia di Lammermoor; No. 2, Beatrice di Tenda, and No. 3, La Fille du Regiment numbers, and to embrace the choice works of the best It is to extend to twelve Italian composers. It will form a rich volume by itself. Salut & Washington—(otherwise, “Oh, Susannah with Variations) Good, of course ; the author’s name is sufficient guarantee. By Charles Grobe

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S2 GODEY’S MAGAZINE Wedding Polka euted The sweetest ol By Charles Zeuner. Very well exe- Bud One of the Ethiopian By F melodies, and, if Virginia Ros Rieman. the properly one that will draw tears from the most senseless. side the sea By T. H. Tully. No. 40 anywhere to be sung, A little cot be Messrs. E. Ferrett & Co., publish t musi¢ South Eighth street, 1e cheapest found—it being almost invariably half price. Their assortment is extensive and their attendants gentlemanly. They send us— Le Carnival de Ve By Paganini. Arranged by nise Charles Voss. How they can sel! these ten pages for twenty-five cents is more than’we can understand. Grand Ethiopian Medley. Embracing all the popular and well arranged. nant By Verdi By Balte. ud must sever? By airs of the day, March from Er The Midnight March The Vi Is wu thus Mat fate Grand and beautiful. reinia Rose

Mathias Keller. A -ong From Firth, Pond & Co., New York, we have re- eived— The Gustave Blessner Military Comic Polka. Amazons

A Military Quadrille and March. Polka. By Henri Herz By Henri Her Love is a pretty frenzy. A Song. Words by William J. Wetmore, M. D., and music by Signor de Begnis. It

is worthy of both. All the above are beautiful, and will please our readers We have also Cousin Carr A Song. Written by one of our contributors — ‘* Carl Linley” — and set to music and ballad Mr 160 Chestnut street, where may by Wetmore. Itis a very sweet touching It is a treat to step into the magnificent room of Walker, No ve found Chickering’s pianos « Edward L | sorts and prices, and a collection of foreign and domestic music unrivaled by any other establishment. He has recently published a beautiful ballad, entitled Mary Bell, the words of which are by Thomas Fitz- , the accomplished ¢ Item,”

gerald, aq ind the music by George F. Benkert. Each seems to have been written for the other, and cannot fail to please. The Morning Star Polka y Henry C. Watson, which saiso destined to become very popular Our readers eed have no fear in ordering any music that has Mr W alker’s imprint, for he w I " thing that is not xcellent Ovr Juty Numser.—Do we keep our promise? Here ire eighty-four pages ol rea eariy double a com- ron number—and a new set of wood engravings We ave not dropped the old ones t we intend to alternate them so that an agreeabie var w be always given ur cover is again a noveity indina we think the matter and illustrations in We terary nus num ask ver are uli- ipproachable would riicularly attention to e reading in this number, as we think there is not ano- er magazine published that « give such an array of iames—and what is better, with good to them Our success this year is astonishing, but ex- tremely er We set up e type for the January

wmber three times, for the February twice, and « { those rnd every succeeding mo oM Ly, we have nota copy eft. With this number, we print FORTY THOUSAND co- pres! Thisis an edition unpara lin this country, and, ed,in any. Our increase since January, 1849, has een twenty-lour thousand copies, which ts alone larger than the circuiauon of any other macaz AND LADY’S BOOK. ACADEMY oF FINE Arts.—We have to record one of the The array of pictures has never been surpassed, and best exhibitions of this time-honored institution that of statuary has never been equaled. The beauty of the Arts is only excelled by the beautiful in Nature that flock there every evening A word to the managers.—There are two pictures pur- porting to be portraits, that ought never to have been placed on those walls Tue PicrortaL TREASURY Look out in our next number for something very beautiful under this head. We perceive that the press is very complimentary to the poem, “Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven,” pub- in our May number W.H quarter view of the —Th house, and COTTAGE OF GaTzMER, Es large plate gives a three the wood engraving the front elevation We in this number rior Mezzotinto give two very suzy Tue GiovcesterR LINE or STEAMBOATS.—The proprie- tors of this line have commenced their trips for the sea- son We know of no more delightful and invigorating pleasure jaunt for children than this The boats are the most beautiful, and at the same time comfortable. that we have. There is every disposition on the partof ptains and others, to make the trip an agreeable Our Mustc.—We are happy to present to our readers in this number an exquisite piece of music, never be- fore published—the words of which are by Peter Rich- ings, Esq., who, it will be seen, to his other brilliant accomplishments, adds the character of a charming poet. The music is by Dr. Cunnington, and is in his

best style. We feel y proud of our Musical Depart- ment, and notice that the Press throughout the country applaud our efforts to please in this respect. We | ve we are the on magazine in the country that em- ploys exclusively a musical editor

soon present our musical re aders with his portrait ow in ngraver’s hands, that they may See Wial sort ol! man he is NM AULAY’sS IlistoryY OF FE-NGLAND The ch pest edit 1¢ 1s greal work Is now pu shing in Scotts Weekly Pay rhe paper is only one dollar a year. and yu we re whole of * Macaulay” wi all the other Variety of an excellen wspaper

Mount Vernon inter the one int or view ast number, and 8, are from Original Gesigns, laken and en- ‘R DOOK Thirty: Five’

may mst Oo 1 er led py 1 Newark Some have a suspicion that they daily see the original.” It would be s ir, out of x mu) ed thousand rea T it a resen ce shou tbe fk dadtoever female te published in Book We have fre- e 4 Nn ow } rs< to p ( is¢ is el T eT accou ot t T sem L1i¢ ‘ soln ‘ e ot our maie faces to some rie | The insertion of the article on page 8, of “The Bath is an error; it was intended for August, in mber tne piate will appear

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CHIT-CHAT UPON THE P In “ Passion’s Prayer,” page 27, the reader is request- ed to alter the word “ straitened,” in the second line from the bottom of the first column, to “threatened.” This error passed through part of the edition only. DESCRIPTION OF THE FASHION PLATE. Fig. 1st —Walking-dress of plain stone-colored silk. 1e skirt full and trimmed with silk buttons, and four rows of ribbon guilling or braids, two on each side the square plait in the centre of the front breadth. The cor- sage is high, and the trimming extends from the hem of collar of French the skirt to the throat. A square cambric. The mantilla is of the same material as the dress, which is a decided fashion of the season. A flounce of very broad French lace surrounds it, border- ed by a narrow lace anda ribbon braiding, the same as Blue bonnet—straw-colored gloves. glacé silk that on the dress. ink Fig. 2d —Child’s costume. Dress of | The skirt full, rather long, and finished with two narrow flounces, pinked. The display a full chemisette of white muslin. Broad float and pink gailerse, complete corsage piain, open in front to Sleeves demi long, with full muslin undersleeves Leghorn hat, White trimmed with green ribbon and a g plume musiin pantailettes this tasteful dress Fig oI gree A dress I 3d.—The neatest costume of the season nu silk, corsa or extreme MOUSSE with a tu y fine ow and short sleeves. An over waist of Skirt, or lace, as best suits the wearer, com- fine India muslin, ing close to the throat, and finished with a small square collar. It is laid in fine close plaits, from the throat to the waist, and confined there by a be ie color of the dress, andagold buckle. Long gloves, of black silk net Pamela braid or full ext linearly to the elbow Bonnet of euds Of white ribbon, with a chip, uimmed with n lining of tarleton or lace. Pink parasol, lined with white silk season are without fringe, and extremely twill be noticed that the parasols of the present plain as re- frame. The hooks, ring, and slides of former gards the years, have given place to the straight point and staff. The staff is usually finely turned, and inlaid with mother of pearl, otherwise of rose wood, ebony, and their vari- ous imitations. The most fashionable parasols are of entire plain silk, or have an embroidered border of three inches or so in width. The favorite patternis a wreath of rose-buds. CHIT-CHAT UPON PHILADELPHIA FASHIONS New Jewe_ry.—We promised our readers this month a descr.ption of the neweststyles of brooches. bracelets, eic., and that we might give t most undoubted au- thority, we have eXamined lhe eXlensive assoriment of A. B. WaRDEN, corner of Fifth and C} it streets. It is to his politeness, then, that you, ladies, are indebted for this description. The square in which Mr. Warden is located, is that of all others on Chestnut street, “ where shoppers mostdo congregate.” In descending, you have first the above-mentioned establishment Then come the names of Misses Wharton & Wilson, our first mil- liners. Next in interest we have Root’s famous Da- guerreotype saloon; then Bennet & Caldwell’s, Bailey & Kitchen’s jewelry stores; and this range of plate glass fronts ends in “ Levy’s,” the “Stewarts” of Philadel- phia, and of which we shall have more to say anon The principal novelty in jewelry is the chatelaine, or, as some have inelegantly termed it, the charm. This consists of a smali Tring alts 1ed to the watch chain, and on this are fastened innumerable smal! trifles;—seals, rings, miniature fans, shoes, heads cut from coral, hands the unniest of ivory or mother Of pear, elc. TILADELPHIA FASHIONS. S3 possible proportions, so that the whole scarcely balances Now the first name of this new toy, given to it by the original invent- the weight of a small Geneva watch. ors, the French, is derived from chatelaine (a warder), whose duty it was to carry the keys of a castle or man- sion, which were usually worn suspended to his girdle The other, “charm,” comes from the collections of fish bones, shark’s teeth, metal butions (when they can get them), and bits of gold or silver, worn by the savages of the South Sea Islands to keep away evil spirits. We confess we look on the chatelaine of 1849 as about as sensible an appendage, and we leave our readers to de- cide which name they would prefer to adopt. Some one declares that all jewelry is a remnant of barbarism, be- ing a subdued form of the nose-rings, ankle-bands, and tattooing of the savages. However, this is somewhat severe, and what would be the use of family diamonds if the fashion were entirely abolished? Those who can afford it, will, of course, have an entire set of whatever ornaments they prefer. A set usually consisis of a necklace, ear-rings, bracelet, ring, and brooch. For instance, we were shown some beautifu turquois as above, with the addition of a tiny watch, set with the same stones. Pearls are worn somewhat more than of late. Carved coral and cameos have quite gone Rea diamonds are worn by those who can ailord them, and out, except when they are veritable antiques by many who cannot;—we doubt the good sense of a woman who displays them while her husband is still in business. Very few American women honestly can afford the outlay; and imitations no real lady would wear. Leave that for European fine ladies, who have pawned their family jewels to cover their extravagance and cover their “ paste” with the reputation of still pos- sessing them Wat In fact, the smaller are worn much smaller than for years past +} 1es the better for our ladies. They are worn in the belt, or balanced by a chatelaine, as in the June fashion plate. Neo long chains are seen; they are made very heavy, and to extend from the watch pocket to the belt, or from one side of the belt to the other. En- ameled watches are more frequently set with jewels than ever before Buckles for belts are universal. They are sometimes of gold or silver, richly chased; again, they are ena- meled, and set with jewels. For mourning, jet is the thing allowable, of course. For second mourning only there is a pretty style of hair bracelets, with a clasp of gold with black enamel. and a brooch to match, enclos- braid of hair; a plain gold belt-buckle and watch- ing a chain may be also worn. Many prefer dark cameos set wilh a simi arenamel Turquois ornaments should never be worn by ladies with dark complexions, though, as they are rather the style just now, itis often done. The truth of the whole matter is this, that our ladies cannot afford to suit their ornaments to their different styles of dress, and so one Let than to set answers for morning calls and evening parties them remember that nothing Is in worse taste wear brilliantjewelry in a morning toilette. Plain gold ornaments, Cameos, or opaque stones, are alone allow- abie Knots of ribbon are by far the most suitable and lady-like. Above all, never wear any other at « reh or when traveling—the latter particularly. Bracelets and showy chains are as much out of place in a railroad short sieeves, o1 As flashing car and steamboat, as alow corsage uny other etcetras of an evening toilette would be the professional gam yler is detected by his brilliants, so liberally displayed on our public prome- nades, so will a female be judged as a lady only by pre- its of her jewel case travel on her FASHION the conte tension, ul neck and arms

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Y’S LAbY’S BS NEW VOLUME COMMENCED IN JULY. Now is the time to form new Clubs or send on single subscribers, for we intend to make the present volume THE BEST EVER PUBLISHED. TOLU ES AABLA« This volume will be commenced and concluded in such a style, that any attempt at approaching it on the part of those who live upon our ideas, will be preposterous. It will be ONE BLAZE OF BEAUTY THROUGHOU LOL LLP LOLOL LOLOL LOL LOLOL OL OD The proprietor of the LADY’S BOOK, through the liberality of the public, is enabled to go to an expense that wou be ruinous to those who publish small editions—hence the advantage a subscriber to the “ Book” has over those to an other magazine. He dares, and has the liberality to publish a wore that is apprec anes by the publie, and ene tat is unapproachable by others. What he promises, he will fulfil. 22e never falsifies his promises A NEW STYLE OF EMBELLISHMENT WILL BE ADOPTED! Jt cannot now be mentioned ed to take out a copy or an attempt will be made to imitate it. We hope one of these days that a person may be t were to place all our engravings at the back of the “ Book” instead of the front, others would doit. If the Lady’s Book Gdoes any ling, it must be right OUR MAGNIFICENT MEZZOTINTS! OUW SPLUWDUID WITS UTGRBAVIRIGS 23 THE UNAPPROACHABLE FASHION PLATES!!! While mentioning Fashion Plates, it may be as well to remark that one of our cotemporaries has said that it was pre- posterous to suppose 1 at there were more than tour fashions a year in the city of Phi idelphia, and yet the same inge- uous person, not daring to go to the expense of colored Fashio Piates, has given his subscribers, in severa imbers miserable wood « ravings of the fashions in Philadelphia W hat becomes of the truth of his first remark? No won- cert tthe public put but littie ith in a yearly prospectus for in no instance save our own, has We pu isher of a ly other magazine kept his word with the public WE CHALLENGE AND COURT A CONTRADICTION OF THIS FACT We wish it, and we will make such an expose as will give professing persons, wh« Casi #iurs upon other magazines, such & lesson as will teach them hone sty in future, For the succeeding volume, we have engaged ALL THE BEST ARTISTS IN Met - CITY An» NEW YORK. » write their own notices, and in them We have sent an artist(Wm. E. Tucker, Esq.) to Europe, who visit FRANCE and ENGLAND. and fur h us with ever iovelty that is to be found in the capitals of tho countries Ww e have subjects now the hands of our enerav ers, lithographers, designers, and colorers, that will astonish the public, and raise the cry still higher—* How can so much read ind s0 many engravings, besides a newspaper, be given for 33 a year?” IT © 1 1 THE SAME TE RMS WILL STILL BE RETAINED—CASH IN ADY ANC r. One copy of the Lady’s Book and the Lady’s Dollar Newspaper, one year, - £3 00 Two copies without the Paper, - - - - - - - - ® UO Three copies . “ - - - - - - - - 6 00 Five copies 6 “ and one copy to the person sending the club, - - - 10 00 Five months subscription, - - $1 00 | Single copy, - - - . 25 Persons wishing to obtain the LADY’S BOOK and LADY’S DOLLAR NEWSPAPER for THREE DOLLARS, must send the money direct to the publisher Address L. A. GODEY, 113 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia. LL LLL LD LLL LDL LLL LLL LO LOLOL LOO EE OE Ll LS LE Ll ADVERTISING THROUGH THE MEDIUM OF THE LADY’S BOOK. We are prepared to insert in our immense edition such advertisements as may not be objectionable— said advertisements to be forwarded us printed. They will be published at a price commensurate with the large circulation of the “ Book.’”’ An advertisement will be inserted on one page of the Cover for $50. Address L. A. GODEY, Philadelphia. SELLE LLL ELE LOLOL OL LOL LL LLL Al ll A A hl OOO CLO LOLOL ALLL LAL OLE THE LADY'S DOLLAR NEWSPAPER ' EDITED BY FANNY LINTON, “ONE OF OUR CONTRIBUTORS.” This Ladies’ paper is published twice a month, and contains as much reading in two numbers as a forty- eight page magazine. It is given gratis to $3 subscribers to the Lady’s Book. The publication of entire English Annuals is now going on. Now is the time to subscribe. A new Novel by Lady Blessington, written for the London Lady’s Dollar Newspaper, will be commenced as soon as we get through the Annuals. There is no paper offers so much good reading, and so appropriate tur ladies, as Fanny Linton’s Lady’s Dollar Newspaper. One copy one year, $1—six copies, $5. Address L. A. GODEY, Philadelphia. ‘i t for his ideas yutas that at present cannot be done, secrecy must be observed li we wer

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THE AMERICAN ART-UNION, 497 BROADWAY, IN THE CITY OF NEW YORK, IS INCORPORATED FOR THE PROMOTION OF THE FINE ARTS IN THE UNITED STATES. ~~ OFFICERS FOR 1849, PROSPER M. WETMORE, President. GEORGE W. AUSTEN, Treasurer. ANDREW WARNER, Corresponding Secretary. NATHANIEL JARVIS, Jr., Recording Secretary. Committee of Management. Georce W. AvsTeEN, | NATHANIEL Jarvis, Jr. | Ropert Ketty, James H. Van ALEN, Joun P. RipNer, | ANDREW WARNER, Henry J. Raymonp, Witiiam J. Hoppin, | Bensamin H. Jarvis, Erastus ©. Benepict, AspraHam M. Cozzens, | Joun H. Austen, Wituiam B. Deen, MarsHa.i O. Roserts, James W. Beekman, Prosper M. Wetmore, Freperick A. Cor, | Pure Hone, Cuartes H. Russett, Lerrerts G. Co es, | Evert A. Duycxinecx. To accomplish this truly National Object, the following plan is adopted: Every Subscriber of FIVE DOLLARS is a Member of the Art-Union for the year, and is entitled to all its privileges. The money thus obtained (after paying necessary expenses) is applied— First—7o the production of a large and costly Original Engraving, from an American painting, together with a set of outlines, or some other similar work of art. Seconp—7o0 the purchase of American Paintings and Sculpture. These Paintings and Sculptures are exhibited at the Gallery of the Art-Union till the annual meeting in December, when they are PUBLICLY DISTRIBUTED BY LOT among the members. Turrp— The Institution keeps a large Picture Gallery, always open, well attended, and hung with fine paintings, and FREE to all. The Institution publishes a Bulletin, which will be furnished gratuitously to Honorary Secretaries and to those members who, after paying their subscrtptions, shall ask for it at the desk, or signify their desire to have it forwarded by mail. The business of the Institution, out of the city of New York, is transacted by Honorary Secretaries, who receive and remit subscriptions, and deliver the Reports, Engravings, and Works of Art. Honorary Secreta- ries are now appointed in about four hundred cities and villages, and others will be appointed by the Com- mittee of Management, on application to the Corresponding Secretary, from persons suitably recommended. For the members of 1849, YOUTH, from *‘ Tue Voyace or Lire,”’ by Cole, is to be engraved in large size in line, together with a set of outlines by Darley, illustrating Mr. Irving’s story, ‘* A Lecenp or SLEEPY Hotiow.”’ There will also be distributed, by lot, it is expected, about 800 Medals, Paintings, and other Works of Art; the paintings richly framed, including some of the masterpieces of American Art. Subscriptions and payments may be made at the Art-Union Rooms, or to the Honorary Secretaries, or by letter by mail. *.* All letters and remittances should be addressed to the Corresponding Secretary, at 497 Broadway, New York. LOLOL ELLE LE LE LLL LOLOL LOLOL EL LOL LL OAL ALLO AL AL OAL OAL OL LE LOOM dt ll STORRS’ CHEMICAL HAIR INVIGORATOR Acts as a solvent upon all impurities of the hair, and, at the same time, restores tone and vigor to the delicate organization upon which the growth and beauty of that crowning ornament depend. Unimpeachable testimony has placed this among the “ fixed facts’’ in the records of experimental science, Price 25 cents, large bottles. Prepared only by Grorce F’. Storrs, to whom all orders must be addressed. None genuine without his signature, Principal depot, No. 1 Ledger Building, Third street below Chestnut.

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84 PAGES: 36 EXTRA. No deception as to the number of pages—more now than in January, wenn VOLUME XXXIX. eaaeaaRP9RPRRaEaaEaEESaEaEeaeaEaeP>ESeE=eEeEeEeEeeeeescsss GODEY’S LADY'S EOOX FOR JULY, 1849, A DOUBLE NUMBER. LR FRLRLOUL OLLI NUMEROUS AND SUPERB EMBELLISHMENTS. . THE FIRST PARTING, a superb mezzotint, engraved by WaLrTer. . RETURNED FROM HIS TRAVELS, a superb mezzotint, engraved by Wetcu. COTTAGE OF W. H. GATZMER, ESQ., printed in colors, by Waener & McGuiean. . SUMMER FASHION PLATE, Americanized and colored, engraved by Pxase. ENGRAVED COVER.—RIDING-DRESS by Neaate. THE PIC-NIC PARTY, No. 7 of Arthur's “‘ American Characteristics,’ engraved by Croome. . GREAT HALL AT MOUNT VERNON, built by Wasuineron, engraved by Frost. . ARCHERY. . MUSIC—* A Daveurer’s Love.’’ Words by Peter Ricaines, Esq ; Music by W. P. Cunnineron. . FRONT ELEVATION AND GROUND PLAN OF COTTAGE, two engravings, by Frost. 11. THE CAGE BIRDS OF AMERICA, No. 1, two engravings, by Frost. 12. THE MONTHLY BOUQUET FOR JULY. i3. PATTERNS FOR EMBROIDERY. CSCanrouvrvne -_ ~ — FR PELOSI ES OI OI OI OIOIOIOS PLEASE LE LE LES EL EL EL OL ELE LEI CL CL CL CL CL CL CH CONTRIBUTORS AND CONTENTS.—JULY, 1849. The Traveled Monkey, by Alexander J. Morton, ----- 3 The Bride of the Sun, by Inigo Jones, ------+-+++.+++ 48 Ruins, by J. Wm. Werdemeyer, «+++++++++e+ee+eeseees 5 Divine Power as seen in the Phenomena of Life, by Ulivia, by J. R. Orton, «+--+ + eee cece eeew ener es eceee 6 Rev. Alonzo Potter, D. D. + ++++ avéhanshbceranedadine 49 Humor, by H. T. Tuckerman, -+-+++-+++++eeeeee renee 7 Religious Biography, by W. A. Jones, «+++ «.+++000+.+ 50 The Bath of Beauty,- +--+ +--+ ++ee ee eee cece ee ee neees 8 My Visit to Mrs. Hardinge; or, How to make much Leviers from ‘Timberville, -- +--+ «+ +0 cece ee cece eeecnee G (out) of a Guest, by Mrs. A. M F. Annan, «---+..++ 53 My Ange! Wite and Cherub Boy, by Lewis J. Cist,-- 13 American Characteristics, by 7. S. Arthur,-+--.----+ 70 The Midnight Vigil, by Grace Greenwood,.---+--++---+ 14 The Graves, an Orphan’s Hymn, by Mrs. S. Anna Sonnet, by William Alerander, -+---+++++++++++++ coco 14 Lewis, os0eccrcccccccccsevesscccocesecces tecccesces J The Widow, by Kate Hall, of New Orleans,---+-+-++- 15 Cage Birds, by Anna C. Austin, «++ ++++eeeeeeeceeees 71 Passion’s Prayer, by Joseph A. Nunes,---+++++++++++ 27 The First Parting, by Amerel, ------- eee ees | Heroic Women of the Revolution, by Mrs. E. F The Monthly Bouquet,--------- Sedcccece cocccccccccs Fh Bidet, « «cece cc cccc eww cc ne cena eeeeee anne weeeeeeeees 28 The Flower Manual, by Thomas King,-++--++ ovccess’ To the Muse, from the German of Schiller, «+ +++++ -++* 3O Parting Song, by Miss Alice Carey, «+++++++ eeeeese +* 75 Recollecuons of a Grown-up Schoolboy, by J. F. Os, 31 To Mary, by Francis de H. Janvter, - «+++ ++e+eee.e00+ 76 Myriila, a Tale, from the French of Paul Ferney, by The Maywood Streamiet, by Charles Murphy,----++- 76 Park Benjamin, +++++++++ss cere ee reser ereeeeecens 33 Patterus for Embroidery, Tokens of the Dead, by Mrs. Joseph C. Neal, -------+ 40 Editors’ Table, --.- +--+ +--+ escecseceee I would not live alway, by Mrs M. G. Horsford,----- 40 Editors’ Book Table,-----+-+ . Nothing Morally Wrong, by Miss Leslie, ----+-+-++++ 41 Notices of New Music, ----+-++e+seeseees eccveces oe» 81 Lines on the Death of Lieut. Geo. Decatur Twiggs, Description of the Fashion Plate, ---++++-«+++++ eoeee 83 by Miss A. C. Twiggs, «+--+ +-++++++eeer er eeeceeees 47 Chit-Chat upon Philadelphia Fashions, -.---....-...- 83 rer ererereres SLL ELE LEE LE LE LELELES BL EL EL EL EL OL EL EL LOLOL OL OLA ALO te AGENTS FOR THE LADY’S BOOK. We can fee! but little commiseration for those persons who allow themselves to be imposed upon by every individual that represents himself ds an agent forthe Book. Its great popularity is, indeed, an inducement to such agents. C. W. James, No. 1 Harrison Street, Cincinnati, Ohio, is our General Traveling Agent for the Western States, assisted by James R. Smith, J. T. Dent, 'T. G, Smith, Frederick J. Hawse, John W. Armstrong, Jasen Taylor, E. M. Stevenson, W. Ramsey, and Perrin Locke, who are each furnished with a certificate of agency by H. E. Spencer, Esq., Mayor of the city of Cincinnati, Ohio, under the seal of office Israet E. James, 182 South Tenth Street, Philadelphia, is our General Traveling Agent for the Southern and South- Western States, assisted by James K. Whipple, Wm. H. Weld, O. H. P. Stem, Jolin B. Weld, T. S. Waterman, John Collins, James Deering, Albert C. Wellington, R. 8. James, Charlies E. Mustin, and M. F. Taylor, who are each fur- nished with a certificate of agency by Richard Vaux, Esq., late, or Ropert M. Les, Esq., present Recorder of the city of Philadelphia, under the seal of office _ .— M. Lewss, of Montgomery, Alabama, is our General Traveling Agent for Alabama and Tennessee, assisted by Mr. Brett. Tomas SEvERN, State of New York. Ww. A. Prerce, for Pennsylvania. Cras. W. Sartori, tor New Jersey. Joun Nimmo, for Canada East and West. Jusrus Wurrs is authorized to procure subscribers in New York and Canada. Mr. C. W. James and his assistants named above possess the certificate of H. E. Spencer, Esq., Mayor of the city of Cincinnati, stamped with the seal of said city, and descriptive of their persons. Mr. H. M. Lewis and Mr. I. E. James and their assistants possess similar certificates, given under seal of office by Richard Vaux, Esq., Recorder of the city of Philadelphia. These precautions have been taken in consequence of impostors having assumed the names of the gen- tlemen thus provided with proofs of authority. Of course, the above notice is not intended to prevent those of our subscribers in the above States, who may find it con- venient to remit by mail, from doing so. On the contrary, we would much prefer their remitting us the amounts due us prompdy, as they would thereby save us the heavy percentage we have to pay our agents for the trouble and expense of col- ting. Subscribers wil! please observe that subscriptions not paid in within the year are charged at four dollars, to defray the expense of collection.

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—_— AUGUST. TERMS, $3 per annum, in advance. Subscriptions for subsequent years, when not paid within the year, $4. EDITED BY MRS. SARAH J. HALE, GRACE GREENWOOD, L. A. GODEY. VOL. XXXIX. A. GODEY, HILADEL PHIA.

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THE SATURDAY EVENING POST. DEVOTED TO MORALITY, PURE LITERATURE, FOREIGN AND DOMESTIC NEWS, AGRICULTURE, SCIENCE, ART, AND AMUSEMENT. A MAMMOTH PAPER. CONTAINING MORE LITERARY AND NEWS MATTER THAN ANY OTHER TWO DOLLAR PAPER IN PHILADELPHIA—AND FROM ONE-FOURTH TO ONE-HALF MORE THAN THE GENERALITY OF CITY WEEKLIES. TERMS.,—The terms to single subscribers are $2 per annum, in advance—$3, if not paid in advance. For $5 in advance. one copy will be sent three years TERMS TO CLUBS.—In order to accommodate the large number who wish to tuke a first class paper, but mistak- ingly think they cannot afford it, we continue the following low terms for Clubs—to be sent in the city to one address, and in the country to one post-office, Four copies - - - - - - - - - - - $5 00 per annum. Richt “ (and one to agent or the getter-up of the club,) - - - - 10 00 Thirteen “ (and one to agent or the getter-up of the club,) - e e o 15 00 Twenty “ (and one to agent or the getter-up of the club,) - « : - 20 00 “ THREE COPIES of the Saturday Evening Post and ONE of either Godey’s Lady’s Book, Graham’s Magazine, or Sartain’s Union Magazine, for SIX Dt LL ‘ Rs rHREE COPIES of the Saturday Evening Post, and TWO of the Lady’s Garland, for FIVE DOLLARS. ALWAYS IN ADVANCE. Iways be sent in advance. Subscriptions may be sent at our risk. When the sum is The money for clubs must al be deducted from the amount. Address large, a drait should be procured, if possi the cost of which may DEACON & PETERSON, 66 South Third street, Philadelphia. {> Editors copying the above, or who wil! give a fair notice of the paper, and insert our list of terms, in the'* «¢itorial columns, shall be entitled to an exchange Such as are aire ady entutled to an exchange for the current year, shallreceivs our thanks. N. B.—Any person desirous of receiving a copy of the POST as a sample, can be accommodated by notifying the o— by letter, post paid SCOTT’S WEEKLY PAPER, THE LARGE FAMILY NEWSPAPER. Containing more reading than any other weekly paper, as advertisements are not inserted. The con- tents are of the choicest kind, and greatest variety. A new feature has just been commenced—the republication of the whole of MACAULAWS HISTORY OF ENGLAND, which will be continued regularly until this great work of the age shall be completed. The space occu- pied by the History is about equal to that-used by the other weeklies for advertisements—so that sub- scribers to Scott's Weekly Paper will receive the work free of cost. TERMS FOR CLUBS. Seven copies, ‘“ - - - : 6 | Twenty-six a - - : - $20 Twelve copies, “* - - . ° 10 Thirty-three copies - - - - 25 Twenty copies, ‘* - - . - 16 Forty copies, : - - . : 30 The Lady’s Book and Scott’s Weekly Paper 1 year for $3—with the Pictorial. 7 All persons subscribing to ‘Scott’s Philadelphia Weekly Paper,’ and all those at present sub- scribers, who may renew their subscriptions, will be presented with a large and BEAUTIFUL PICTORIAL SHEET! double the size of the Mammoth Newspapers, and containing the Largest and Handsomest Engrav- tngs ever printed in the U nited States, with fac-similes of 200 gold and silver coins. Address A. SCOTT, Publisher, 115 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. > All letters must be post-paid, otherwise they are not taken from the Post-Office. x Newspapers copying the above will be entitled to an exchange and a premium. xy Any person desirous of receiving a copy of * Scott’s Weekly’? as a specimen, can have one by notify- ing the publisher, post-paid. DOD OD CLC OOD AD OD CCI ALO CAD CAP OA CCAP CAP CAP CAP CP CPAP CAP CTP OP CLP CPO OPO Ce FU A Ue eee le ‘ ‘¥ A r N] T A RE AGENTS AW A Ra That a more favorable opportunity is offered in the Lady’s Book to reaiize a handsome yearly income than by any other magazine in the country? It is acknowle< iged to be the most popular work of the day, and our terms are now even more liberal than they have been, since we have found out that our cotemporaries have altered theirs—they supposing that we, with our immense edition, could net afford as favorable terms as they could. We believe that more subse sibere could be obtained for our magazine even at a less commission than any other, but we will not be undersold. We require the best of references—and, to save trouble, they should be indorsed by the postmaster of the town where the applicant resides. Address L. A. GODEY, Philadelphia,

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<i <7 A TUT T ATOTT leas + V 1.4 ‘LO LY uu . ” ; 7 ————— ™ ———— ———— ——= - nani { ‘ 4 y as 4 as — * Tesi ber” ri xe SS = t +4 * = : AAR AA nA Lh = “. ee apne be & T = ——_ " 3 ‘ = i, * $4 — = —— Ve 64aney 4 = =" RT //Z z = = . ——- — ‘ — :