Godey's Lady's Book 1851-07: Vol 43 Iss 1

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GODEY’S LADY'S BOOK. PHILADELPHIA, JULY, 1851.

HOW AMIABLE ARE THY TABERNACLES! PSALM LXXXIV. BY MARY §&. MORTON. (See Engraving.) On, Lord of Hosts! how cheerful Thy Tabernacles are! My longing spirit fain beneath . Their shelter would repair. My heart and flesh in Thee rejoice, On whom the humblest rest: Yea—e’en the sparrow in Thy house Securely builds her nest. Continually Thy praises Within Thy walls resound ; And blest are they whose life is there, Whose strength in thee is found: The bitter waters of the vale Their hearts with comfort fill, And hope from sorrow springs to those Who do their Father’s will.

An Renee From strength to strength proceeding, No enemy they fear; In Sion to the God of gods They every one appear : He is their light and their defence, And will no good withhold, But worship give, and grace to those Who walk within His fold. In heavenly peace abounding, One day within thy walls Is better than a thousand days Where specious pleasure calls: A waiting servant’s lowly place Within thy house to gain, Is better than a lordly seat Where sin and folly reign.

MY SUMME BY MRS. L. On. how sweet is the twilight hour! So calm and holy too; Its wings are folding round the flower As gently ns the dew. The eye of day is closing now, As if it needed rest; Sweetly as sleep comes o’er the brow The sun sinks in the west. How beautiful are day and night ! No rivalry they know ; Brother and sister in their light, As hand in hand they go. No strife nor discord, as they glide In quick succession by ; The laws of order they abide Which God has fixed on high. PPE PLL OPP eee R <v Gc. WINDOW. ABELL. Oh yes, the flowers and all obey In every shade they wear; They close at night, or in the day, As taught, they scent the air. Each leaf and stem unfolds aright, In form and color too, And on each stem and petal bright Are lessons there for you. In early spring some ope their eyes, Amid surrounding snow ; They fear no ill, but promptly rise, When called from carth to grow Oh, why not man obedient be, And God’s command fulfil ? What discord and deformity Since he first broke His will!

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THE LITTLE FAMILY. BY KATE BERRY. (See Plate.) “ Anp pray, Mr. Mervin, where have you left Matilda ?” said that gentleman’s better half, as he entered the parlor, one pleasant June morning ; and, while she turned the pages of the last new novel, a somewhat sorrowful look was bestowed on his dusty habiliments. ‘Out with the rabbits, my dear,’’ he briefly re- plied, throwing his goodly person, with a noncha- lant air, into a rocking-chair, and beginning to cool himself by means of his broad-brimmed straw hat. «Forever with those vile rabbits,’ said Mrs. Mervin, sitting upright with a motion of unusual energy. ‘ The child will be entirely spoilt. It’s not half an hour since Bridget braided Matilda’s hair and dressed her for the day, so that she need not be the fright which, thanks to you, she has been at this place. I am ashamed to have her seen by company.”’ ‘‘ What harm will it do if her dress does get a little disordered ?”’ inquired her husband, in a pro- vokingly quiet manner. “What harm, Mr. Mervin? Why, just this; that she is becoming a perfect romp, and cares more for boys’ play than for anything else. What pro- gress, I'd be glad to know, is she to make in her music this summer, when she has no teacher, and must practice at least six hours a day, if all her mornings are spent in this idle way ?” “Not much progress, I dare say,’’ he replied, “in polkas and waltzes on the piano; but I think she will perform a few in the fields and garden that will give her such a stock of health as shall earry her through a city winter.”’ ° “ Those old-fashioned, countryfied ideas of yours over again! I never could train her as I wished in the city ; and, now that we are fairly out here, you must have it all your own way, and make her as coarse as a dairy-maid. I do wish that you would remember she is not to be brought up like a back- woods girl, and forget, at the same time, that you are a farmer’s son.’’ Mrs. Mervin was evidently getting excited. “ There is no prospect of my forgetting what my father was ; you are so obliging as to remind me of it too often for that.’’ And Mr. Mervin continued to keep quite cool, both in the outer and inner man; the former process being facilitated by a gentle fan- ning. ‘And bring Matilda up as a backwoods girl I shall—that is, if I can have my way. I would much rather she should never know a note of mu- sic, or take a stitch of—what do you call it ?—cro- chet, than grow up, as most young ladies do nowa- days with round shot'ders and a pale face.” 6 “ And I, sir,”’ said the wife, waxing warm, “ pre- fer to have her accomplished and refined, like those in whose society she is expected to move.”’ “And so she must spend six hours a day at the piano, which she fairly hates, trying to learn an ac- complishment for which she has no taste, and will forget before she is twenty-five ; that is, if she mar- ries. DolI understand you, my dear?’’ And Mr. Mervin glanced, in a mock inquisitive manner, towards the lady. “ There is no use in arguing with you,’ claimed; and, ringing the bell, she desired Bridge: to bring Miss Matilda to the house. Let us follow Bridget to the rear of the garden, where, in a green inclosure, surrounded by rabbits of all ages and sizes, sits the unconscious subject of her parents’ bickering, occupying herself infinite- ly'to her own satisfaction. She is feeding a juvenile member of the family with a tender cabbage leaf, suited to its infant powers of digestion, while the more advanced inhabitants of the pen are regaling themselves on carrots, manifesting greater attention to the maxim of “ each one for himself” than com- ports with politeness. She feeds, fondles, chases, and scolds each one by turns, gladly oblivious of music and crochet work, till the voice of Bridget calls her from that pleasant little world of her own to a sense of the trials and vexations that await a return to the house. “ Plase, miss, yer mother wants ye just to step into the parlor.” ‘*« Dear me !”’ cried the poor child, “ I was hoping ma wouldn’t find out, in ever so long, where I was.” And she looked with affright at her soiled muslin dress, then thrust her fingers through her shining brown hair, and asked Bridget if any of the corn-colored bows were lost out of the braids ? Bridget assured her that “niver a one was gone ;” at which piece of information Matilda declared her- self highly rejviced, ‘Ma would scold so if she should drop them off in the rabbit-pen.” Then, hugging and squeezing her mute companions all round, she reluctantly followed the lengthened strides of the servant through the garden. Before reaching the house, her downcast countenance lighted up with a gleeful expression as she recol- lected that her father did not go to town that day; and, running to overtake Bridget, she told the sym- pathizing child of Erin that “ her pa would take her part, she knew he would.”’ Mr. and Mrs. Mervin sat moodily, as we left them, wnen Matilda made her appearance, at first peering t.midly in at the door, then, taking courage ’ she ex- wo cnnieetey Aaa ——

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LPP — at the sight of her father, she entered gayly and be- gm an animated account of the various perform- auces in the rabbit-pen, with a description of the peculiarities gf some individual members of the lit- tle community. She was interrupted by her mo- ther— “And a pretty condition you are in to be seen in the parlor, after your play! Just look at those grass stains on your dress !” «Sure enough,” said Mr. Mervin, advancing to the door; “and we ’ll ‘see something green’ be- sides those, and stand a chance to have them ex- tricated by briars : so come, Matty.’’ And, desiring her to fetch her sun-bonnet, they sallied forth on a long ramble in the wood. Such scenes as the above were of almost daily occurrence at the summer residence of the Mer- vins; and, as now, the husband usually had the last word, the wife giving in, with a sullen, ungra- cious acquiescence, to the plans of one who gene- rally had sense and reason on his side, and always an indomitable will. So that the youthful Matilda, while gaining a vigorous physical constitution un- der the tutelage of her father, and subject incessant- ly to the absurd opposition of her mother, stood a very fair chance of losing that most sacred guard of a danghter’s moral well-being, the sentiment of respect for the latter parent. Mrs. Mervin had been reared in the city by a weak but very “genteel”? mother, and, before the age of twenty, had married her father's head clerk, how so prosperous as to be the owner of a country house. I cannot say, though I fully endorse his views as to the employments of growing young ladies, that he was as considerate as he should have been towards his wife’s failings, or that he made himself sufficiently persuasive by a judicious bland- ness, when sustaining an argument with a woman whose errors were the result of a false education. He was not different from the majority of men in the lack of these qualities. And here Iam tempted te moralize, as reflections on the unhappy influence of such differences between parents upon the hearts and minds of their children are suggested. But I forbear indulging them at present, beyond a passing allusion, and will proceed with our story, which, after all, as the reader will discover, is not much of one, having, as we in the north say, “no nwd.”’ Left to herself, Mrs. Mervin, after giving audi- ence to some uncharitable thoughts on the departed pair, whom she had no desire to accompany, con- sidering it a bore to walk in the country, returned to her novel, and soon forgot all petty annoyances m following the fortunes of its hero and heroine. Meantime, Matilda, at her father’s side, wan- dered far away into the old wood, tearing her dress and losing her corn-colored ribbons, quite to his satisfaction. “ Pa,”’ said she, “ when I am a woman, my little girl shall play with rabbits, and run in the fields just as much as she likes.” To which expression of her intentions as to her MARY’S SMILE 7 ess" future course, Mr. Mervin gave a hearty assent. It is to be hoped that Matilda will not forget to act upon her childish resolution. As fervently, too, will we hope that Mr. Mervin’s strong sense and kind heart will shortly lead him to adopt a more coaxing way towards the not unim- pressible woman who is his wife, and that a sum- mer in the country will have so modified her views that, when another spring arrives, she will not only provide stouter dresses for Matilda’s rural plays and rambles, but will herself share in and encourage them. By which means, she will not merely add to her own health and contentment, but regain the lover-like attentions of her first wedded days, as well as secure that hold upon her child’s affection- ate Neart that a sensible, though not sufficiently discriminating, husband has unwittingly assisted in weakening. So, for the present, we will leave the young mis- tress of the little family, trusting that, when she reaches that period where (most truly womanlike) her expectations point, the sky may be as fair and the flowers bloom as brightly in her path as now while she frolics with her pets. But, as her lot is woman’s, and therefore one of trial and anxiety, as outward prosperity cannot make her sunshine, nor a world’s praises strew her way with flowers, pray we that her sunshine may be the inward “light of holy thoughts ;’’ that her blossoms magiyibe found in fadeless affections and undying truth; that, with a heart unchilled by worldliness or fashion’s ways, she may move, self-forgetful as now, among the flock that will look up to her fair face to read the love-smile, and to her gentle hand for guidance. MARY'S SMILE. BY JULIET H. L. CAMPBELL. I HAVE met you in festival hours, Surrounded by brilliant and gay, When time seemed to float over flowers, And exhale, like their odors, away. You were decked with peculiar care, And the toilet’s rare treasures you bore; But the radiant beams of your smile Outdazzled the jewels you wore. Then I followed its beautiful light From the precincts of pleasure away, Where it beamed with a brightness unchanged, And undimmed by the lustre of day. It was sunshine illumining home, Where infancy basked in its light ; It was cheering to manhood in gloom, Asa star to the wand’rer at night. Then smile, ever smile, lady fair, At morn, and at noon, and at even; ’Twill brighten thy pathway on earth, Nor fade on the portals of Heaven.

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BY MRS CHAPTER I. THE DISCLOSURE. ‘* Here ’s a sudden change.’’

« Are you ill, Charles?” said Mrs. Carlton, lay- ing down her pencil: she had been sketching. . Her husband did not answer; but, seating him- self heavily on the sofa, he pressed his right hand on his forehead. His young wife arose gently, there was a slight suffusion on her cheek, but it was not wounded pride that her question had been unheeded. She leaned over the arm of the sofa, and tenderly laid her hand on his forehead :— “Ts there much pain in your head, my love?” “« Yes, deep, terrible. Emily, you cannot relieve 2.” ** Let me try my skill at Mesmerism,”’ said she, as shégplayfully ran her fingers through the clusters of his hair , lifting the dark locks from his tem- ple, pressed her rosy lips on the swollen and throb- bing veins.”. Her kiss was so soft and still that, had a jealous lover been watching beside her, he would not have heard a sound. Real and pure affection is always quiet and delicate in its attentions; and no man of refinement can long love a wife whose demonstrations of attachment are obtrusive and im- portunate. Charles Carlton scarcely heard the kiss of his wife, but he felt its thrill through every pulse and , It was the pledged affection of a loving and true heart. His hand trembled, fell, and his eyes, as they met hers, filled with tears. Emily’s heart sank within her, as the fear of some terrible calamity rushed upon her mind; but she strove to sustain herself, and, taking her husband’s hand in both of hers, she sat down by his side. ‘Charles, dear Charles?” said she, inquiringly. « Emily” — «My dear husband, what can I do for you?” ‘«* Nothing,”’ said he, calmly. nerve. ‘Nothing! Oh, do not sayso! Let me comfort you, at least. Tell me—tell me, what has hap- ed?” ‘<I will tell you, Emily; for you must know. I am ruined !” “Ruined! How? Why?” “TI am a bankrupt, Emily. I have failed—lost all my property—all!’”’ and he again covered his face. ‘« Well, my dear husband, if it be lost, let it go. There are a thousand ways to live by industry ; and I can do a good many things.” 8 THE BROKEN

MERCHANT. SARAH J. HALE. “But, Emily, you do not comprehend this at all. I am a broken merchant. I shall not be trusted with business. I owe thousandsthat I cannot pay. I have nothing—nothing left !”’ ‘“ Yes, my love, you have what you have often called your dearest treasures—your wife and little Henry. We will be your treasures still.”” And she twined her arm around the neck of her husband, and tenderly drew his head upon her shoulder. “Bless you! bless you, my own Emily—my wife !'—you have comforted me !”’ CHAPTER II. FRIENDS. ‘*Ebbing men, indeed, Most often do so near the bottom run By their own fear.’’ “Any news this morning, Mr. Halford ?’’ said John Folsom to the gentleman who entered his counting-room. He was a tail, pale man, with a commercial-looking face ; that is, bilious and rather care-worn; but the keen glance of his eye was tempered by a benevolent smile, and, when he raised his hat, the high, broad, smooth forehead bore the unequivocal stamp of a warm heart and a good conscience. “ The only news of the morning is that Carlton has failed,”’ said Mr. Halford. “ Yes, I knew that last evening,” replied John Folsom. “Is it a total failure? Or will he be doing busi- ness again in six months ?”’ “ Radical: a thorough failure. Given up all.” ‘That is rather an unusual course,’’ remarked Mr. Halford. ‘ Most of our broken merchants con- trive to secure a share for themselves. You are his friend : why did you not advise him better?” * Your pardon, sir, I never advise my friends ; it only offends them. Throw physic to the dogs as soon.”” “T heard that the failure was caused by signing for Cogswell & Co. Was that true ?’’ “Partly so. Carlton lost about twenty thousand dollars by that firm; but then he might have gone on in business for some months, and perhaps have got over his embarrassments entirely, if he had not been so very squeamish.”’ «* Squeamish! How do you mean?” “« Why, he applied to old Colonel Dillis, to whom he was owing a considerable debt, and told him

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THE BROKEN NERCHANT. 9 how matters stood, and the reasons he had for be- lieving he might retrieve his affairs, if he could obtain a loan of ten thousand for a few months; and he offered Dillis good security for the money: but the old colonel knows how to manage. He would not loan the cash, unless he could have his debt likewise provided for in the security. This Carlton thought would not be doing the honorable by his other creditors, and he refused; and Dillis imme- diately levied an attachment.” «Carlton should have applied to his other friends : he ought to have many, for he has been a very obliging man. I think there must have been some who would have remembered his loans. Did he not once assist you, Mr. Folsom, materially?” “Yes, yes, his name was of some service at the time my creditors run me so hard; but I have paid him.” “There are benefits which the mere value re- ceived never pays,” remarked Mr. Halford, dryly, as he left the store of the dashing merchant. He walked hastily up Chestnut Street. “I will call on Carlton,’’ said he to himself, as he went on. “ Per- haps I can hit on some plan to put him again in business. He has a lovely young wife, and it must sorely try the spirit of a man who loves his family to see them destitute. He owes me; but it is no matter. I find he has been honest, even under the hard temptation of bankruptcy. He has acted honorably, and he shall be sustained.”’ CHAPTER III. THE PARTING. —— ‘* Partings, such as press The life from out young hearts.’’ It was June, the “bright and leafy June,” and such a glorious day! There are mornings when it seems as though the ange! at Heaven’s portal had purposely left the ‘“‘adamantine gates’’ ajar, that our cold earth and callous hearts might be revived and purified with the hallowed tide of light, and life, and love. We idly talk of Nature as of a god- dess, and say she renews her youth and beauty, and puts on the green robe of Spring, and the flowery mantle of Summer, and Autumn’s rich sheafy crown ; but the energy of Nature is only the breath of the Almighty, the Creator; her beauty is but the reflection of his benevolence; and her bounty the overflowing of his ever-during love for the creatures he hath made. Rely on him, and thou wilt never be forsaken, never destitute, never in despair. « We will trust in God, my dear husband,” said Mrs. Carlton, as she wiped the tears which, all un- consciously to herself, had, for minutes, been rain- ing from her eyes on the fair forehead of her babe, as he stood at her knee, looking up with an earnest gaze at his mother. He had never before seen her face in sorrow: it seemed to astonish, almost petri- VOL. XLII.—2 fy him. “Dear Henry,” she continued, clasping him to her bosom, ‘ how I wish you could speak ! You should tell papa that we will think of him and love him every hour he is gone. But you will soon learn to talk. Charles, I shall have nothing to do but teach Henry and write to you; and Paris is not quite to the end of the world.” Charles Carlton kept his station by the open win- dow. A stranger, who had only remarked the rapid glance of his eye, as it wandered from earth to hea- ven, might have fancied him a poet in the ecstasies of inspiration. Alas! his musings were of a sterner quality than poet’s dreams. He felt the reality of struggling with himself. There are few occasions that more deeply try the soul of a man than parting with the only being he feels sure loves him. He is Adam, going from his paradise alone. Emily suddenly started up with her infant in her arms, and stood by her husband’s side. She had caught the sound of coming wheels, and she knew he must go. There is no indulging in sentiment when a rail-car or steamboat is waiting. But love, ay, real affection, is as deeply expressed in one word as in twenty. There was such a look of love, of unutterable affection in the tender smile which dimpled her pale cheek, as she held the babe to her husband for his farewell kiss, that it quite overcame the heart it was intended to encourage. Had she wept or com- plained, Charles Carlton would have rallied his manly fortitude to comfort and sustain her; but now he only felt that he was obliged to leave all he held dearest on earth, he was the sufferer ; and, clasping his dear ones to his bosom, his kisses were the only farewell his lips could frame. “¢ And ishe gone?’ On sudden solitude, How oft that fearful question will intrude! ’T was but an instant passed, and here he stood ! And now without the portal’s front she rushed, And then, at length, her tears in freedom gushed.’’ CHAPTER IV. GOSSIP. “ The love of show, alas, that it should warp Our kindliest feelings by its selfish pride !”’ “So your beautiful friend, Mrs. Carlton, the brightest star in the galaxy of fashion, has been shorn of her beams, they tell me, and has left Phila- delphia, and buried herself somewhere in the shades of Germantown,” said Mr. Mears. « Say rather, she is ruralizing in Germantown. I cannot endure to think of such a total eclipse for. poor Emily,” said Miss Arabella Folsom, affectedly sighing, as she clasped her jeweled fingers in a manner to display all the most costly and sparkling rings. ‘Have you visited her since her retirement ?”’ inquired Mr. Mears.

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GODEY’S 10 ~ “Oh no! It would pain me so excessively to meet poor Emily under a sense of her altered for- tune. Indeed, I fear my emotion would be uncon- trollable, and thus afflict her. I would not spare myself,” said the young lady, again sighing deeply. ‘«‘ Bell is so devotedly attached to Mrs. Carlton, that this misfortune has nearly broken her heart,’”’ said Mrs. Folsom, the mother. “I wish she had not so much sensibility.”’ ‘* Why, it is rather an unpleasant affair to fail in business,’’ remarked Mr. Mears; “ but it is not very uncommon; and I don’t see as it is likely to do Carlton any serious injury. He has gone out to Paris, agent for Halford & Co., a good firm; and I hear he is allowed to do something besides for his Perhaps, in a few years, he will re- ”? own benefit. turn rich enough to flourish as gay as ever. “TI think, Bell, you had better ride out to Ger- mantown, one of these fine mornings, and call on Mrs. Carlton,’’ said Mrs. Folsom. «“T would, mamma, with all my heart, only she lives with her odd old aunt, the Mrs. Eaton whom I used to detest so much. What made Emily en- dure her I never could imagine; perhaps it was that she might have a friend in time of need.” ‘* Mrs. Carlton was incapable of such calculating selfishness, I am sure,’’ said Mr. Mears, warmly, forgetting. in his zeal for the injured absent lady, that he was dissenting from the opinion of her par- ticular friend. ‘** Oh, I dare say you are right, Mr. Mears,”’ said Miss Folsom, with an air of pique. ‘‘ Emily had a most sweet and winning manner, and really she was very amiable, and always appeared to love her aunt; but that was no good reason why others should also adore the old lady. Really, to me she was disagreeable. Why, she was always prosing about the influence of woman, and her duties, and moral improvement, and all such obsolete stuff. She is a walking lecture ; and I wonder how Emily can endure to live with her.’’ “You would not, Bell, I am very sure,’ said John Folsom, as he entered the parlor. «* No, indeed, brother, I could not submit to such a humdrum life. Out of fashion, out of existence for me.”’ “Bell, how wildly you talk!’’ said the mother. “T am really astonished. I never heard you so unsentimental before. Reverses sometimes hap- pen to the very rich; and you are not certain of always being among the fortunate. To be sure, I do not know what I could do if John should fail !”’ and she elevated her large lace handkerchief with a swell of importance. “ T know ; I would die at once !”’ cried the young lady, vehemently. Her brother bit his lip, and Mr. Mears, politely bowing, bade the ladies good morning. MAGAZINE AND LADY'S BOOK. 3 > | ? ; ¢ $ > : > > 3 ; 3 | CHAPTER V. MATRIMONIAL CORRESPONDENCE. ‘* From the wreck of the past, which hath perished, Thus much I at least may recall, It hath taught me that what I most cherished Deserved to be dearest of all.’? From Mr. Carlton to his wife :— “ Paris, Sept., 1832. * * * * * * ‘You see, then, dearest, that my business, or rather that of Halford & Co., goes on bravely here ; and all that disquiets me is my separation from you. I often compare my former ideas of ‘ gay and sunny France’ with the desert-like feelings that now op- press me, whenever I visit, as I do occasionally, its scenes of fame and its places of amusement. I feel little interest in these things, except as I can com- bine the new objects presented with your image in my heart. ‘I will deseribe this to Emily, I will tell this to Emily, 1 will keep this for Emily,’ is the language of my soul when I see, hear, or obtain anything that pleases and interests me. In the hurry of business your idea is constantly present, encouraging me to exertion, and I really enjoy my toil; but when [ go to the solitude of my own chamber, and find no Emily to welcome me with a smile and a kind word, I am desolate and sad. “T wonder how any man can endure life who only lives for himself! Dearest Emily, do write often, and tell me everything about yourself and Lit- tle Henry. God bless the boy !” * cal * * * * From Mrs. Carlton to her husband :— ‘GERMANTOWN, Oct., 1832. «“T have a precious piece of news for you, my Henry can speak a whole sentence. I want dear husband. What do you think it is ?—but don’t guess. to tell you the whole story. Every morning, after breakfast, I have taken him to my chamber, and there shown him your miniature, and I say to him, as he kisses it, ‘It is papa. Henry loves papa.’ I wanted he should be in the constant habit of re- membering and loving you; and this morning he said it himself, of his own accord: ‘ Henry loves papa!’ Oh, I never was so happy! I laughed and wept, and caressed and kissed him, and he was wild with joy, because he found he had delighted me so; and he said, fifty times over, ‘ Henry loves papa!’ How I wish you could hear him! « This incident, my dear Charles, has awakened a train of serious and happy reflections in my mind. I am quite a convert to my good aunt’s theory, that happiness is always found in the path of duty; and then she has another apothegm, which [ hope I shall find as true, that adversity has deeper and purer pleasures than prosperity. “Had we, my husband, continued in our pros- perity, I should probably have lost this dear and precious pleasure of hearing my child’s first sen-

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¥ - THE BROKE tence. Perhaps, too, instead of having his first accents imbued with filial love, and his heart strengthened in its pure feelings by his mother’s caresses, he might have given expression to some angry passion or selfish appetite, that would have defiled his sweet lispings, and might have given an evil impulse to his feelings which could never have been corrected. Oh, it is strange that woman can think so much of jewels from the mines of earth, when she holds the key of the heart’s treasures! I ask myself, what amount of wealth would have given me the unutterable transport which my babe’s first simple sentence has done? I can answer be- fore God, that no amount could have made me so happy.” * * * * * * From Mrs. Carlton to her husband :— «“ Germantown, July, 1833. * * * x * * «¢Tlow do I pass my time this summer?’ is your question. Well, as you seem to rely so confidently on my confession, it shall be frank and full; though somewhat abridged, for patience over a long letter is not, I am told, the virtue of man. ‘‘ First on my list of doings I rank my maternal duties—pleasures I call them ; and if you could see little Henry—he is not /ittle now—and hear him talk—his voice is sweet as a bird’s—you would think [ was a good mother. And is not that some- thing in my favor, Charles? « ‘Then I assist my kind aunt in her housekeep- ing, and in her charities, too; for, though she has no great store of worldly goods, she is rich in good works. Do you wish to know what I contribute? My sympathies, my attentions, kind words, and en- couraging smiles; and really, Charles, I never re- ceived so expressive, and, as I think, so sincere gratitude for all my bounteous gifts (you know we did give largely in Philadelphia), as I now have showered upon me for my good will merely. Charity of spirit towards the poor is more popular with them, and more beneficial, too, than charities in money. ‘« But amusements; ah, I have them in plenty; I walk, ride, read, and botanize. If you could see Henry and me out gathering flowers, and hear his glad laugh when he finds one, and I laugh as lowd as he, you would think it was amusing to botanize. Then my music is a delightful pleasure; because then, Charles, I feel as if my spirit was communing with yours. Thank you a thousand times for your last collection, the pieces are all charming, and I ean perform that ‘ divine air.’ as you style it, charm- ingly ; at least, so says Monsieur D ; and you used to think him the standard of taste in music. Seriously, I do think I have made great proficiency in music this last year: send me the songs you pre- fer, and when you return you will hear me sing like a Prima Donna.” * * * * * * eee N _eeeeee MERCHANT ll From Mrs. Carlton to her husband :— “ Germantown, July 4th, 1834. * * * * * * ** You can hardly imagine, my dear Charles, how happy your last letter made me! And you think that, in one year more, you will be able to return, with sufficient to pay your creditors. And then we will celebrate our independence, Charles. Whata happy day it will be; and how different, too, the sources of our happiness from those which I once foolishly thought were the basis of enjoyment! “T will tell you why I write with such warmth ; you will, I know, be glad to learn that one debt is paid. About three months ago, a poor woman came from Philadelphia to our neighborhood in search of employment. She called at our house ; and, aunt being out, I went down to see the woman. She looked wretched ; and, when she saw I pitied her, she went on to tell me a long story of troubles, how she had live‘ in the city, kept a confectioner’s shop, been unfortunate in her customers, till finally she had to give up her trade; and her husband, for her debts, had been sent to jail. “T asked her why she was unfortunate in her customers? ‘Qh,’ said she, ‘they did not pay me;’ and she went on to name a number of ladies, who were foremost among the fashionables when I was in town, as delinquents. And then, Charles, she ‘named my name’ among the rest. ‘ There was that pretty Mrs. Carlton’—(I give her own words)— ‘ she owed me a hundred dollars when her husband failed.’ «“« My face was crimson, I believe: the woman started to see my agitation, and then she recollected me. I donot think she had before any idea who I was. Don’t think, Charles, that [ am wofully altered. She had never seen me dressed so plainly ; and shall I tell you the compliment? She said she had never seen me look so handsome—so very handsome ; ‘ for,’ said she, ‘I never saw you have such healthy, rosy cheeks before.’ ‘‘f[ remembered purchasing confectionery of her the last winter we were in town; but | had never thought of it since. One hundred dollars! and the articles were nearly all furnished, she said, for our last grand party. Of the ‘dear five hundred friends’ I then invited, only five have ever shown a wish to continue the friendship since our failure. ‘¢ One hundred dollars! The poor woman said it would release her husband from jail. I sold my pearls, Charles, and paid her. And the pride and pleasure I felt that first evening I wore them, when you whispered they became me, was nothing to my exultation when I had sent the poor creature to re- lease her husband.”’ * * * * * * From Mrs. Carlton to her husband :— “ GERMANTOWN, January, 1835. «“ My pear Cuares: I have sad, sad news. Poor John Folsom is dead; shot himself last Friday night! He left a note, stating that his property was

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‘f ; | ae gone ; and that he trusted God would have mere mercy for his sin than the world would for his poverty. Mistaken man, to fear the world’s con- tumely more thun the law of his God! « Oh, how 1 do pity his mother and sister! Poor Bell! I once loved her like a sister; she has entire- ly neglected me since my retirement, and so I[ thought but little of her; but now I feel my affec- tion all revive. Poor girl, how I wish I could com- fort her! If they had only lost their property, it would have been nothing. I could have told them that there are a thousand sources of happiness inde- pendent of wealth and fashion; pleasures which may be enjoyed without money; but what can I say now? What should] have done? How been, if you, oh, my beloved husband—how thankful I[ feel that God has sustained us in our reverses !’’— * * * * * 7 From Mr. Carlton to his wife :— “ Parts, April, 1845. “What shall I say, love, respecting the sad news? I am greatly distressed. Poor Folsom! he was much to be pitied. You do not, cannot know his temptations to the rash eud wicked act; but my acquaintance with his character, and with the mania of his mother and sister tw be among the fashionables, has led me to most painful reflections on his unhappy fate. He was ambitious, but na- turaily generous and enthusiastic; and, had his pride been rightly directed towards useful and noble objects, he would have made a noble-minded and useful man. ‘« But his mother and sister thought only of show and éclat; and they bound down his spirit to the circle of the world of fashion. In their esteem, he was the greatest man who could keep the most expensive establishment, and afford the ladies of his family the most costly array. It was their re- proaches and complaints which poor John dared not meet. He could have braved the world; but there was for him no rest at home. * Do not think I am placing all the sins of my sex to the account of yours. We have a long and dark catalogue of our own: but I do think that, in our country, it is in woman’s power, if she would right- ly exert her moral influence, to call forth our vir- tues, and even to make our more impetuous pas- sions subservient to great and glorious purposes. But if American women worship wealth, the men will sacrifice their souls to gain it. “A thousand, thousand blessings on you, my love! You have sustained my spirit by your cheer- ful affection, and your example and counsel are every day strengthening in me the determination to be worthy of such a wife. Pray for me, that my heart may be purified from all sinful and worldly affections, and kept from those fierce temptations which only heavenly grace can enable us to over- come. Your husband, “ Cuartes CaRLTon.”’ 12 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. ———— EO eae CHAPTER VI. NEWS. ** Ill-favored is the bearer of il] news.” «“ Tuere is a gentleman below who has a letter for Mrs. Carlton,’’ said the domestic. “Why did he not send it up?”’ ‘« He said it was not to you, madam; but he had brought it for you to read, and he wished to make some explanations.” « Did he give his name ?”’ «“ Yes, madam. Mr. Cole.’ « Cole—Cole—I do not recollect any person of that name. It is not a very elegant name, Cole;”’ and Mrs. Carlton, as she hurried to finish her toilet, endeavored, by dwelling on the name, to keep from her heart the agitating dread of some impending evil. What evil could she fear, except as connect- ed with the fate of her husband? She had not heard from him for several months. « Mrs. Carlton, sir.”’ Mr. Cole started at the announcement. He had not anticipated seeing a solitary wile looking so like an angel. She was arrayed in a pure white robe, no ornaments; angels never wear them. “T have received a letter from my French corre- spondent, making kind inquiries respecting Mr. Carlton, supposing him in Philadelphia, madam.” “ Vell, sir ?”? “Mr Halford wished me to ascertain if you had heard trom your husband of late.” “Tt is some time since ; about—about’’—and a burning blush rushed over her cheek, and then as suddenly ebbing, left her face white as new-fallen snow. “« How long did you say, madam ?” ‘“« Nearly six months ;” and her voice sank with the suffocating sensation at her heart, as she thought, “ how long!” «Mr. Carlton, it seems, left Paris about four months since.” ‘« Just the time he named in his last letter that he should embark for home. Oh, what has happened! Where is he? Can younottell me? The letter!” ‘Be calm, madam; pray be calm,” said Mr. Cole, in a most soothing tone. ‘“ Nothing has hap- pened that we can ascertain. Mr. Carlton was highly respected at Paris, and this letter—you may see it—only speaks in general terms of his departure. Be calm, Mrs. Carlton ; pray do not afflict yourself. What! ho! help! the lady has fainted ! “Strange she should faint! I never thought a wife cared so much for her husband. I wonder who would grieve if I should be lost? I'll marry, that ’s settled; I ’ll marry.’? So thought Mr Cole as he rode homewards.

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THE FATE OF A FLIRT OF THE OLDEN TIME. 13 CHAPTER VII. THE DENOUEMENT. ‘« Hope is brightest when it dawns from fears.”’ «Doctor, how do you find my poor little niece, Mrs. Carlton, this morning?’ said Mrs. Eaton. “No better, no better; heart sick, Mrs. Eaton. Medicines do little good in such cases.” « You still recommend traveling ?” « Yes, madam.” «“ A sea voyage ?”’ « T should say it promised to be beneficial.” « To France ?”’ « Yes, take her to Paris; let her see the friends of her late husband, and hear their praises of his character. Such things awaken the current of life and its thoughts; if you can arvuse these, the mo- ther will triumph in her heart, and she will strive to become reconciled te the dispensation of Provi- dence, and to life for her child’s sake.”’ “ A Christian should always be reconciled,”’ re- marked Mrs. Eaton. “True; but Christians need motives to obe- dience ; and, in cases of severe affliction, these motives should be placed in the most touching light. Pardon me, madam; I know I am only repeating your sentiments; those, indeed, which 1 have learned from your own lips and life.”’ « Oh. doctor, you have probed me to the quick! I am the selfish one, the unreconciled. I did not repine that the affections of my niece were given to Mr. Carlton. I felt that she ought to love her hus- band better than any other earthly friend. But I cannot bear that the whole heart of my precious child should be buried in the grave of her husband ; I want her to turn to me.” | | —— « And so she will, madam, as soon as this torpor of grief is, in some measure, removed.” ‘«« Dear Emily !”’ said Mrs. Eaton, greatly moved. «She shall go to. Paris. I will conquer myself. I will talk to her of her husband; he was an excel- lent man, and worthy her love. There! there! Is not that he? Merciful Heaven, my prayers are heard' It is Charles!” * * * * * * «“T sent you a long letter the day before I left Paris, detailing all the reasons which induced me to go to Constantinople ; and stating also the proba- bility that you might not receive another letter, or hear from me;till I had the blessed privilege of thus assuring you of my health and happiness ;” and Charles Carlton alternately kissed the pale lip of his wife and the rosy cheeks of his boy, as they were both encircled in his arms. “The letter never reached me; and, Charles, you cannot know how this silence distressed me.”’ “TI see it, I feel it too well, my own love. If I had anticipated your affliction, not all the bright prospects held out by Mr. Dupin would have weighed a feather. I would have come to you.” ‘Oh, never think of it, Charles. It is over; you are here, and I shall soon be well; and then how happy we will be! You must not leave me again.”’ « Never, never! I have money enough, besides paying all my creditors, except Mr. Halford, who has voluntarily relinquished his claim, to begin business again for myself. We shall know how to estimate our blessings, how to enjoy them. We will live for domestic happiness, for social improve- ment, for religious duties.”’ ‘‘ But never again, my husband, for fashionable display.” « Never, Emily.” THE FATE OF A FLIRT IN THE OLDEN TIME. A REAL INCIDENT. BY MRS. E. F. ELLET. Looxine overa Philadelphia magazine, published in 1791, I was somewhat amused by an article therein, censuring severely the indolence and fine- ladyish manners of the women of that day, and contrasting the enervating habits of modern refine- ment with the simplicity, frugality, and industry of their grandmothers. At the present time, we look back with regret to the good old times complained of by that same censor, and regard the very ma- trons whom he stigmatizes as idle, vain, and frivo- lous, as models of excellent housewifery and indus- trious management—in short, as the very realiza- tion of Solomon’s ideal picture. No doubt, as we recede into the past, we shall find, in successive zenerations, similar examples of veneration for a tygone age at the expense of the present; similar 2* instances of contrast, in which the verdiet 1s always in favor of those who have passed from the stage of action. In the next age, probably, we matrons of the present day shall have our turn of being held up as ensamples for the imitation of our juvenile de- scendants ; shall serve to illustrate the virtues of a past generation, to be emulated, though scarcely equaled, by those who shall come after us. Praises lavished upon us shall then give point to the lec- tures of busy reformers, who reprove the faults of the female world. It is according to the established rule of things that so it should be. Now, although much of this is certainly to be at- tributed to the universal propensity to prize to the worth that which is gone, rather than that which is in possession, it cannot be denied that, in some re-

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—~ we 14 GODEY’S MAGAZINE —— spects, the world does degenerate as it grows old. It would require a philosophical dissertation, with no little historical and statistical knowledge, to point out all the matters in which we stand lower than our ancestors, and in which those who “ catch the manners living as they rise’’ are ready to acknow- ledge that society deteriorates day by day. [| shall not undertake the task, in which the experience and observation of each individual would be a more reliable guide in forming a judgment. An incident, however, which throws a strong light upon the manners of the olden time, may have a bearing on the question, and suggest inquiry to the philosophi- cal as to the effect of luxury and refinement on the manners of a community. The story was related to me almost upon the spot where the occurrence took place, and is confirmed in all its particulars by the recollection of “ the oldest inhabitant.” Some eighty years ago, the now flourishing town of E——, on the Delaware, was but a small settle- ment in one of the remote and comparatively wild portions of Pennsylvania. At the present day, the compactly built town fills the space between the mountains and the two rivers that here form a junction, while their banks are lined with busy manufactories and the dwellings of men. The lofty hills that rise abruptly from the plain, or overhang the waters, are cultivated in spots ; and the patches of woodland here and there seem spared for the purpose of adorning the landscape, and affording secluded walks to the wanderers who love the beauty of nature. At the period to which our tale carries us back, the scenery of this beautiful region was not less enchanting, though far more wild and savage. A dense forest then covered the mount- ains to their rocky summits, and bordered the rivers for many miles; the valley, through which flows a sweet stream to mingle with the Delaware, was dark with the shadow of primeval woods, and the waters, untroubled by the different manufactories for the uses of which their streams have since been diverted, swept in calm majesty along their time- worn channel, scarcely knowing the difference of seasons. Not fur from the Delaware, a double row of low-roofed, quaint-looking stone houses formed the most populous part of the settlement. Other dwellings, scattered about in different directions, were built in the same style, and evidently inhabit- ed by the same sturdy and primitive Dutch popula- tion. Many of these houses are still standing, and give a character to the appearance of the whole place. It has been often remarked how unchang- ingly, from one generation to another, the habits of the Dutch people are preserved by their descend- ants, giving a monotony to their life and manners, while their more mutable neighbors are yielding themselves, day by day, to the law of progress. This inveterate attachment to the old order of things, and aversion to innovations, peculiar to their nation, kept the ancient inhabitants of E—— in the same condition with their forefathers, notwithstand- PPP 4 AND LADY’S BOOK. are ing the improvements introduced from European cities into other parts of the colony. Philadelphia, though at that time but a village in comparison to what it is now, was looked upon as a place of luxury and corruption dangerous to the morals of youth. Few of the families composing the settle- ment at E had ever been there, or had visited any other of the provincial cities. They sought no intercourse with the world’s great Babel, content with the information that reached them regularly once a week with the newspapers brought by the post-boy, which were loaned to the neighbors in turn by the few who received them. Now and then, it is true, when the business of the day was over, a number of men might be seen seated in the large sitting-room of the old stone tavern, or on the veranda, wearing their low-crowned, broad-brim- med hats, smoking their pipes, and discussing events of which the rumor had reached them, when these were more stirring than common. But these dis- cussions were always conducted quietly, and with- out the exhibition of any feeling of partisanship. They were terminated at a very early hour, all though: of political matters being usually dismissed with the last puff of their pipes, as the worthy mynheers took their way homewards. As little did the love of change prevail among the good fraus of thatday. They were of the class de- scribed by a distinguished chronicler, who “ stayed at home, read the Bible, and wore frocks.’’ They wore the same antiquated quilted caps and parti- colored homespun gowns, that were in fashion in the days of the renowned Wouter Van Twiller; their pockets were always filled with work and the implements of industry, and their own gowns and their husband's coats were exclusively of domestic manufacture. In cleanliness and thrifty house- wifery, they were excelled by none who had gone before, or who came after them. The well-scoured stoops and entries, fresh and immaculate every morning, attested the neatness prevailing throughout the dwellings. The precise order that reigned within, in the departments of kitchen, parlor, and chamber, could not be disturbed by any out-of-door commotion. Cleanliness and contentment were the cares of the household. The tables were spread with the abundance of the good old time, and not small was the pride of those ministering dames in setting forth the viands prepared by their own in- dustrious hands. It must not be supposed that all their care and frugality were inconsistent with the dear exercise of hospitality, or other social virtues usually practiced in every female community. If the visits paid from house to house were less fre quent than in modern times, there was the same generous interest in the concerns of others, and the same desire in each to save her neighbor trouble by kindly taking the management of affairs upon her- self, evinced by so many individuals of the present day. In short, the domestic police of E——, at that remote period, was apparently as remarkable for ont

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THE FATE OF A FLIRT OF THE OLDEN TIME. 15 oo _—_—_—_—_— vigilance and severity in hunting out offenders as it has proved to be in times of more advanced civil- ization. The arrival of new residents from the city was an event of importance enough in itself to cause no small stir in that quiet community. The rumor that a small house, picturesquely situated at the edge of a wood some distance from the village, was being fitted up for the new-comers, was soon spread abroad, and gave rise to many conjectures and sur- mises. The new furniture that paraded in wagons before the astonished eyes of the settlers was dif- ferent from any that had been seen before; and, though it would have been thought simple enough, or even rude, at the present day, exhibited too much of metropolitan taste and luxury to meet their ap- proval. Then a gardener was employed several days to set in order the surrounding plot of ground, and set out rose bushes and ornamental plants ; the fence was painted gayly, and the inclosure secured by a neat gate. A few days after, a light traveling wagon brought the tenants to the abode prepared for them. Within the memory of a generation, hardly any occurrence had taken place which ex- cited so much curiosity. The doors and windows were crowded with gazers; and the younger part of the population were hardly restrained by parental authority from rushing afier the equipage. The female, who sat with a boy on the back seat, wore a thick veil; but the pleasant face of a middle-aged man, who looked about him and bowed courteously to the different groups, attracted much attention. The man who drove had a jolly English face, betokening a very communicative disposition ; nor was the pro- mise broken to the hope; for that very evening the same personage was seated among a few grave- looking Dutchmen who lingered at the tavern, deal- ing out his information liberally to such as chose to question him. The new-comer, it appeared, was a member of the Colonial Assembly, and had brought his family to rusticate for a season on the banks of the Delaware. This family consisted of his Eng- lish wife and a son about seven years old. They had been accustomed, he said, to the society of the rich and gay both in Philadelphia and in Europe, having spent some time in Paris before their coming to this country. The information given by the loquacious driver, who seemed to think the village not a little honored in so distinguished an accession to its inhabitants, produced no favorable impression. The honest mynheers, however, were little inclined to be hasty in their judgment. They preferred consulting their wives, who waited with no little patience for the Sabba’h morning, expecting then to have a full op- portunity of criticizing their new neighbors. They were doomed to disappointment; none of the family was at the place of meeting, although the practice of church-going was one so time-honored, that a journey of ten miles on foot to attend religious service was thought nothing of, and few even of the most worldly-minded ventured on an omission. ON eee The non-appearance of the strangers was a dark omen. The next day, however, the dames of the settlement had an opportunity of seeing Mrs. Win- ton—for so I shal! cail her, not choosing to give her real name—as she came out to purchase a few arti- cles of kitchen furniture. Her style of dress was altogether different from theirs. Instead of the hair pomatumed back from the forehead, she wore it in natural ringlets; instead of the short stuff petti- coats in vogue among the Dutch dames, a long and flowing skirt set off to advantage a ficure of remark- able grace. At the first glance, one could not but acknowledge her singular beauty. Her form was faultless in symmetry, and her features exquisitely regular ; the complexion being of a clear brown, set off by luxuriant black hair, and a pair of brilliant dark eyes. The expression of these was not de- void of a certain fascination, though it had some- thing to excite distrust in the simple-minded fair ones who measured the claims of the stranger to admiration. They could not help thinking there was a want of innate modesty in the bold, restless wanderings of those eyes, bright as they were, and in the perfect self-possession the English woman showed in her somewhat haughty carriage. Her voice, too, though melodious, was not low in its tones, and her laugh was merry and frequently heard. In short, she appeared, to the untutored judgment of the dames of the village, decidedly wanting in reserve, and the sofiness natural to youth in woman. While they shook their heads, and were shy of conversation with her, it was not a little wonderful to notice the different effect pro- duced on their spouses. The honest Dutchmen surveyed the handsome stranger with undisguised admiration, evinced at first by a prolonged stare, and on after occasions by such rough courtesy as they found opportunity of showing, with alacrity offering to her any little service that neighbors might render. The women, on the other hand, became more and more suspicious of her outlandish gear and her bewitching smiles, lavished with such pro- fusion upon all who came near her. Her charms, in their eyes, Were so many sins, which they were inclined to see her expiate before they relented so far as to extend towards her the civilities of neigh- borhood. The more their husbands praised her, the more they stood aloof; and, for weeks after the family had become settled, scarcely any communi- cation of a friendly nature had taken place between her and any of the female population. Little, however, did the Englishwoman appear to care for neglect on the part of those she evidently thought’ much inferior to herself. She had plenty of company, such as suited her taste, and no lack of agreeable employment, notwithstanding her per- sistence in a habit which shocked still more the prejudices of her worthy neighbors—of leaving her household labor to a servant. She made acquaint- ance with all who relished her lively conversation, and took much pleasure in exciting, by her eccen- tric manners, the astonishment of her long-queued

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16 GODEY’S admirers. She was always affable, and not only in- vited those she liked to visit her without ceremony, but called upon them for any extra service she re- quired. It was on one of the brightest days in October that Mrs. Winton was riding with her son along a path leading through the forest up the Delaware. The road wound at the base of a mountain, border- ing the river closely, and was flanked in some places by precipitous rocks, overgrown with shrubs and shaded by overhanging trees. The wealth of foliage appeared to greater advantage, touched with the rich tints of autuma— ‘With hues more gay Than when the flow‘rets bloomed, the trees are drest ; How gorgeous are their draperies! green and gold, Searlet and crimson ! like the glittering vest Of Israel’s priesthood, glorious to behold! ** See yonder towering hill, with forests clad, How bright its mantle of a thousand dyes! Edged with a silver band, the stream, that glad, But silent, winds around its base.”’ It can hardly be known if the romantic beauty of the scene, which presented itself by glimpses through the foliage, the bright calm river, the wooded hills and slopes beyond, and the village lying in the lap of the savage forest, called forth as much admira- tion from those who gazed, as it has since from spi- rits attuned to a vivid sense of the loveliness of na- ture. The sudden flight of a bird from the bushes startled the horse, and, dashing quickly o one side, he stood on the sheer edge of the precipice over- looking the water. The next plunge might have been a fatal one, but that the bridle was instantly seized by the strong arm of a man who sprang from the concealment of the trees. Checking the fright- ened animal, he assisted the dame and her son to dismount, and then led the horse for them to less dangerous ground. In the friendly conversation that followed, the Englishwoman put forth all her powers of pleasing ; for the man was known already to her for one of the most respectable of the set- tlers, though he had never yet sought her society. His little service was rewarded by a cordial invita- tion, which was soon followed by a visit, to her house. To make a long story short, not many weeks had passed before this neighbor was an almost daily visitor ; and, to the surprise and concern of the whole village, his examp!e was in time followed by many others of those who might have been called the gentry of E——. It became evident that the handsome stranger was a coquette of the most un- scrupulous sort; that she was passionately fond of the admiration of the other sex, and was determined to exact the tribute due her charms even from ‘the sons of the wilderness. She flirted desperately with one after another, contriving to impress each with the belief that he was the happy individual especial- ly favored by her smiles. Her manners and con- versation showed less and less regard for the opinion MAGAZINE AND POP PPPPOOPOIIII_LEL_LLEILADQRIQOROQLO_woOEOwmEmmESmememOmeeenwnw——"—"— OO O’WW OOO OOO™"Y LADY’S BOOK. ~ —_—~ of others, or the rules of propriety. The effect of such a course of conduct in a community so simple and old-fashioned in their customs, so utterly un- used to any such broad defiance of censure, may be more easily imagined than described. How the men were flattered and intoxicated in their admira- tion for the beautiful siren, and their lessons in an art so new to them as gallantry, how the women were amazed out of their propriety, can be con- ceived without the aid of philosophy. Things were bad enough as they were ; but when the time came for Mr. Winton to depart and take his place in the Assembly, the change was for the worse. His handsome wife was left, with only her son, in E for the winter. Her behavior was now more scandalous than ever, and soon a total avoidance of her by every other female in the place attested their indignation. The coquette evidently held them in great scorn, while she continued to re- ceive, in a still more marked and offensive manner, the attentions of the husbands, whom, she boasted, she had taugat they had hearts under their linsey- woolsey coats. Long walks and rides through the woods, attended always by some one who had owned the power of her beauty, set public opinion wholly at defiance ; and the company at her fireside, evening after evening, was well known to be not such as became a wife and mother to receive. Should this history of plain, unvarnished fact chance to meet the eye of any fair trifler, who has been tempted to invite or welcome such homage, let her pause and remember that the wrath of the injured wives of E—— was but such as nature must rouse in the bosom of the virtuous in all ages and countries; and that tragedies as deep as that to which it led have grown from the like cause, and may still do so at any period of civilization. The winter months passed, and spring came to set loose the streams, and fill the woods with tender bloom and verdure. But the anger of the justly irritated dames of E had gathered strength with time. Scarce one among the most conspicuous of the neighborhood but had particular reason to hate their common enemy for the alienated affections and monopolized time of her husband, so faithful to his duties before this fatal enchantment. Com- plaints were made by one to another, and strange stories told, which, of course, lost nothing in their circulation from mouth to mouth. What wonder was it that the mysterious influence exercised by the strange woman should be attributed to witch- craft? What wonder that she should be judged io hold intercourse with evil spirits, and to receive from them the power by which she subdued men to her sway ? Late in the afternoon of a beautiful day in the early part of June, two or three of the matrons of the village stationed themselves near the wood by which stood the house of Mrs. Winton. Not far from this was a small pond, where the boys amused themselves in fishing, or bathed during the heats of summer. The spot once occupied by this little body

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of water is now the central portion of the town, and covered with neat buildings of brick and stone. The women had come forth to watch; nor was their vigilance long unrewarded. They saw Mrs. Winton, accompanied by one of her gallants, dressed with a care that showed his anxiety to please, walking slowly along the borders of the wood. The sun had set, and the gray shadows of twilight were creeping over the landscape; yet it was evidently not her intention to return home. As it grew darker, the two entered the wood, the female taking the arm of her companion, and presently both disap- peared. “There he goes!” exclaimed one of the women who watched, with fierce anger in her looks, for it was her husband she had seen. “1 knew it; I knew he spent every evening with her!” « Shall we follow them?” asked the other. “No! no! let us go home quick!’ was the an- swer. Such a scene as the night witnessed was never before enacted in that quiet village. Ata late hour there was a meeting of many of the matrons in the house of one of their number. The curtains were closely drawn ; the light was so dim that the faces of those who whispered together could scarcely be discerned. There was something fearful in the as- semblage, at such an unwonted time, of those order- ly housewives, so unaccustomed ever to leave their homes after dusk. The circumstance of their meet- ing alone betokened something uncommon in agi- tation. Still more did the silence, hushed and breathless at intervals, the eager, but suppressed whispering, the rapid gestures, the general air of determination mingled with caution. It struck mid- night; they made signs one to another, and the light was extinguished. It was perhaps an hour or more after, when the same band of women left the house, and took their way, in profound silence, along the road leading out of the village. By a roundabout course, skirting the small body of water above mentioned, they came to the border of the wood. Just then the waning moon rose above the forest tops, shedding a faint light over hill and stream. It could then be seen that the females all wore a kind of mask of black stuff. Their course was directed towards the Eng- lishwoman’s house, which they approached with stealthy and noiseless steps. A few moments of silence passed, after they had disappeared, and then a wild shriek was heard, and others fainter and fainter, like the voice of one in agony struggling to ery out, and stifled by powerful hands. The women rushed from the wood, drag- ging with them their helpless victim, whom they had gagged so that she could not even supplicate their merey. Another cry was presently heard— the wail of a terrified child. The little boy, roused from sleep by the screams of his mother, ran to- wards her captors, and throwing himself on his i LLL OL OOOmEOeeOeeennm™" THE FATE OF A FLIRT OF THE OLDEN TIME. 17 knees, begged for ‘her in piteous accents and with streaming tears. “Take him away !”’ cried several together; and one of their number, snatching up the child, ran off with him at her utmost speed, and did not return. The others proceeded quickly to their mission of vengeance. Dragging the helpless dame to the pond, they rushed into it, heedless of risk to them- selves, till they stood in deep water. ‘Then each, in turn, seizing her enemy by the shoulders, plunged her in, head and all, crying, as she did so, “ This is for my husband !”’ “ And this for miue !’? “ This for mine !’? was echoed, with the plunges, in quick succession, till the work of retribution was accom- plished, and the party hurried to shore. Startled by a noise as of sume one approaching, the disguised avengers fled, leaving their victim on the bank, and lost no time in hastening homeward. The dawn of day disclosed a dreadful catastrophe : Dame Winton was found dead beside the water. There was evidence enough that she had perished, not by accident, but violence. Who could have done the deed ? The occurrence caused great commotion in E——, as it was but natural it should; but it was never discovered with certainty who were the perpetra- tors of the murder. Suspicion fell on several ; but they were prudent enough to keep silence, and no- thing could be proved against them. Perhaps the more prominent among the men, who should have taken upon themselves the investigation of the affair, had their own reasons for passing it over rather slightly. It was beyond doubt, too, that actual murder had not been designed by the actors in the tragedy; but simply the punishment assigned to witchcraft by popular usage. So the matter was not long agitated, though it was for many years a subject of conversation among those who had no interest in hushing it up; and the story served as a warning to give point to the lessons of careful mo- thers. It was for a long time believed that the ghost of the unfortunate Englishwoman haunted the spot where she had died. Nor did the belief cease to prevail long after the pond was drained, and the wood felled, and the space built over. A stable be- longing to a gentleman with whom [ am acquainted stands near the place. I have heard him relate how one of his servants, who had never heard the story had rushed in one night, much alarmed, to say that he had seen a female figure, in old-fashioned cap and white gown, standing at the door of the stable. Another friend, who resides near, was told by his domestic that a strange woman had stood at the back gate, who had suddenly disappeared when asked who she was. Thus there seems ground enough to excuse the belief, even now prevalent among the common people in E——, that the spiri- still walks at night about that portion of the town.

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THE SPORADES: A HISTORICAL LEGEN ; LEGEND Ap OTTO PR NWA Ta ; UP ULL YALD. BY MRS. &. ZH. WADDELL. TO THE READER. Tue writer of this trifling production approaches the arena of taste and letters with the spirit of one who was once desirous of becoming a disciple of Pythagoras : he repaired to Crotona, and, entering the assembly, indicated his wishes by signs; the silent audience filled to the brim a vase with water, to evince that the fraternity was crowded to over- flowing, when the aspirant disappeared, and return- ing, placed upon its surface a single rose leaf. With the hope these simple leaves may meet with a faint part of the encouragement which that of classic memory received, the writer most respect- fully wishes all happiness to those who can endure a journey over “ The Sporades.” CHAPTER lI. *€ Mirror of ancient faith ! Undaunted worth.’’—DrypeEn. Tue Island of Rhodes formed one of those gems of the silver sea known as the “ Sporades,”’ and, in common with other countries over which Time spreads the mist of ages, caused much cavil as to its etymology and geological origin. Pliny con- tended that it sprang from the sea, and that the Cretans (who were its first inhabitants) fled the island and left it desolate, in consequence of their astronomical investigations having proved to them this approaching catastrophe. The etymology va- ried not so much, an opinion being prevalent that it derived its name from the Greek word © rhodon,”’ signifying a ‘“ rose,’’ in consequence of the islands being fragrant with indigenous flowers of that genus. Bochart denies this, by insisting that the Pheenicians, Syrians, Arabians, and Chaldeans called Rhodes “Gisirath-Rod,”’ 7. ¢. “Island of Ser- pents.’? However this may be, we are taught that the Sporades, whether Venus-like springing from the foam of the sea, or more ferociously from the voleanic eruptions of Vulcan, was entitled to the respect which mankind intuitively evince for an- tiquity, for the mingling of past time with eternity— that indefinable something which rivets the mind moodily to the shattered remains of antiquity, and sends the soul groping into the long night of vanished ages. So stands the savage at the base of an aged and noble oak; he surveys its position in the earth, casts his eye upwards to its branching and darkly- clothed summit, and then downwards to its base- ment; and again he gazes above, he sighs, and is thoughtful; some crude ideas of the Great Spirit 18 visit his wild soul, and the hand is enervated which was raised to lay it low. Rhodes, in accordance with ancient customs, chronicled her various political compacts, and, al- though varying from the original form of govern- ment which historians accord to man, the Patri- archal, yet her first civil institution being monarchi- cal might be accounted for by surveying her location ; the Patriarchal must exist where there is a limited and primitive people; she was surrounded by Greece, Egypt, and Asia. all of which were highly improved and populous countries, of undoubted an- tiquity, the latter being the country of Eden. After the destruction of the country (already al- luded to) by the Cretans, the Heliades, grandsons of Phebus, colonized Rhodes ; and, being learned men, they gradually improved the island, which was go- verned for them bya son of Hercu/des. At the termi- nation of the Trojan war, the Darians were their supplanters. We must now descend to mortality, ia the form of the Peloponnesian war—Mr. Hobbes has said, ‘‘a state of nature was a state of war”™— and find the government changed to an aristocracy, which was overthrown by Mausolus, King of Ca- ria, who ruled the island until it became tributary to Alexander the Great. At his death, the Rhodians drove out the Macedonian garrison, and established a republic; and, assiduously setting themselves to work in commercial and other improvements, be- came the most opulent state of the age; so much so as to defray the expenses of a naval! war, in which they were allies of Greece. During this period, the most advantageous trade of the Rhodians was derived from Egypt; but, a misunderstanding occurring between Ptolemy, King of Egypt, and Antigonus, King of Greece, the islanders were en- tangled in a long and tedious war, which ended in their becoming a province of Rome, that moral polypus, whose thousands of colonies grew beyond the parent strength, and who, while nourishing her offsets, was, imperceptibly to herself, her own destroyer. In the year A. D. 1291, Calil, Sultan of Egypt, swore to his dying father that he would leave no effort untried which could extirpate the Christians. They had now been deprived of every province ex- cept St. John D’Acre, which, after a desperate and gallant resistance, was captured on the 13th of uly, A. D. 1291. Thus one hundred years’ possession of the western nations in the east was lost with this stronghold. Only a few knights escaped in boats; those of the order of the Temple departed for their possessions in Europe, while the Hospitallers landed

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SO. a eee THE ——eeen A oe eee at Limisso, in Cyprus, and from thence fought their way to the possession of Rhodes, which was held in vassalage by Andronicus. The fleet of the Hospitallers was headed by their grand master, Fulk de Villaret. They saw that the island was of little value to the emperor (indeed, almost a nui- sance, from the character of its inhabitants), and they craved the investiture; but, meeting with a refusal, and foreseeing that it was a fair position for combating the heathen, the Hospitallers laid siege to the capital of the island, and, on the festival of the blessed Mary (15th of August, 1340), carried their vietorious standard to the castle of a Roman preetor, who governed the island ; and, driving the in- habitants out of Rhodes, took entire possession. A few years after this saw them masters of Telos, Syme, Cos, Leros, Nesyros, and Calymne, comprfs- ing nearly all of the sprinkling around and about the Cyclades, known as the “ Sporades.”” From their manors, amounting to nineteen thousand in different parts of Christendom, the Hospitallers received an income which enabled them to command from the Florentine bankers large sums, at a short notice ; with this, and their “ caravans,’’ as they called a species of civil piracy, by which they amassed riches, they were possessed with resources of much improvement, and the grand master lost not a day in fortifying the islands, and in adding to the skill of the islanders in ship and boat building. CHAPTER II. “¢ Thus even-handed justice Commends the ingredients of our poisoned chalice To our own lips.”*—Macsetn, Scene 7th. Dvrine this period, one of the boats alluded to in our last chapter, called a felucea, touched the shores of the harbor of Rhodes, and two individuals, step- ping out, assisted each other to faster. the chain (secured by an iron ring) to a stake driven in the strand. They appeared hale and cheerful, and the younger of the two so joyous that he would break off from the boat, and, bounding like a stag, fall into the steps of the Romaica, return again, leave the chain, and perform the same feats again and again. The elder commenced laughing, until he was con- strained to hold his sides. At length, this burst of merriment somewhat subsided, and, turning to the Romaica dancer, he said— “ Thou art, indeed, a Mercury this evening, and hast wings to thy heels. I pray thee keep them from thy shoulders, for there is yet a boat-load of wines and sponges to be brought from Syme. Look at thy capote, Abas.”’ The bright, spirited Symean ceased his felicité, and, holding off the folds of the garment, saw, for the first time, that the sheep-skin of which it was made was worn into innumerable apertures, the largest of which would not admit the extremity of his little finger. wee SPORADES 19 “ Well,” he remarked, with uninterrupted good humor, “I may thank the crags for this, after light ing the signal fires for their worships, the Hospital- lers; but I would lose many a bran capote to serve them.’’ He next examined his loose blue trowsers, then his gay shawl, which ans dasa girdle, now his morocco boots, and last bis. close red cap, ejaculating, as he finished each scrutiny, ‘‘ Marry, and it ’s well.” They now left the boat, after securing it, and set forth in the direction of the fortifications, reared by the talented and enterprising Fulk de Villaret. It was a noble and formidable pile, the ensemble strongly impressing the beholder with ideas of feu- dal power and defiance of all attempt at access, un- less by the hand of gentle courtesy. The castle was of vast dimensions, moated and dyked, with drawbridges, bastions, and battlements. Within the fortifications, a wide street, bordered by the cells or inns of the knights, ended in a cathedral of Gothic architecture. The marbles and cedars composing these edifices were furnished by the islands, where nature, indeed, had planted every necessary material for the action of enterprising and ingenious thoughts, whether projected in scientific forms, or in the multitudinous varieties of the arti- san’s square. From a double wall, hedged by wide and deep ditches, rose five powerful bulwarks and thirteen towers; these formed the posts of the knights, according to their various nations, or “ lan- guages,”’ as they were termed. Our Symeans had been admitted by the sentinels into the fortifications, and were far beyond the lilies of France, the eagle of the Germans, and the lion ot England, when they halted ai the vestibule of the Chapel of St. Mary of Victory, and inquired for his worshipful reverence, Prior Giles. The prior was not long in presenting himself. He was of Herculean figure, with a countenance almost the color of bronze. “The statue has fled the Jew and his nine hun- dred camels,’’* whispered the elder boatman to his young companion, whose risible faculties, becoming immediately convulsed, stood before the incensed prior a reanimated Democritus. “Hast lost thy wits? Has Satan sent a legion into thy brain to be exorcised, after thou hast under- gone a severe fast and been shriven ?” The youth grew grave, and stood respéctfully aside from the moment he heard the words "severe fast ;” and the prior, drawing his girdle meré:closely around his long black robe, adjusted the eight-pointed cross on his breast, and, unknitting his brows, ad- dressed the elder islander— “Well, Bias, thou hast called on the business of the wines, hast thou? Bring thee yet from Syme, or from thy more favored neighbor, Cos?” * It is said that the statue of Rhodes was broken to pieces, after its overthrow by an earthquake, and sold to a Jew, who conveyed it away upon nine hundred camels.

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2 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. “ Craving your reverence’s pardon,’’ answered Bias, “I trust your reverence will not give the wines or the people of Syme a suspicion in the whole world, not to speak of the Island of Cos, which contains but twelve leagues; but I will not ask your reverence’s opinion until this boat-load of skins and another stand in your reverence’s cellar, and thy serviente sets aside thy silver tankard with the brim looking much more as if it had poured forth the juice of the olive than that of the vine, and yet unlike the former in its sparkling and primitive colors.” “Indeed,” answered Prior Giles, growing face- tious from pleasant associations, “thou art an en- thusiast, Bias; but methinks thou wouldst have done better 1’ the world hadst thou been left clinging to the sponges of Syme, like a barnacle, for thy daily bread, than rendered bold and malapert by thy being almost made a clerk from education in the holy St. Mary of Victory. But touching the wines, if thou art presumptuous with thy knowledge, thou art useful to the fraternity ; for thou wilt make no blunders in having the grapes gathered at the pro- per cardinal quarter. But, Bias, I would have thee ever remember the simile of old age and decrepi- tude in Bacchus and his foster-father, Silenus, to- gether with their being represented as riding on one of those long-eared animals which, though useful to man, yet have been regarded as the type of folly and stupidity. Justus, es, Domine!” The prior here crossed himself. During this lecture, any one conversant with the human face divine might have observed, from the twinkle of the youth’s eye, and the peculiar twitch of the muscles of his face, that he considered the lecture and the moral as much more applicable to the Prior of St. Mary of Victory than to his com- panion; and, from his restlessness, that he was most anxious to depart, lest, haply, he might en- counter another castigation, or be consigned to the shackles of penance. The prior left his vintager, retreated into a cell adjoining the chapel or cathedral, and, after ringing a small bell, returned to the vestibule. He had nearly reached it, when footsteps induced him to turn— ‘“« Here, Jula,”’ said he, ‘‘ Bias has arrived with a new cargo from Syme: hast thou room for the skins?” The individual, a small, meagre-looking man, re- sembling a mummy with a white linen apron tied around it, stepped into the street as he answered— “Holy Juvencus ! your reverence’s wine can be faithfully packed. I ’ve made room even for more. When I was in Toledo” ‘« Stop, brother,’’ said Bias, who had not been no- ticed by the serviente of the commandery—« stop, we will hear that another time ; the day is wearing, and we cannot lose a moment; for the head wind from the bay will be blowing, and the harbor swell- ing. Just be ready at thy place, good Jula, and all wil] soon be well.” The prior was now handed a rude representation of Roman figures; for, although the vintager had been upbraided for his clerkship, he could scarcely read and write; yet, fur that age, it was more than usual scholarship, the clergy and monks being the only class who pretended to understand more than simply to make the sign of the cross, as a signature of their names, when they did not resort to an im- pression from their coat-of-arms. When the islanders returned to unpack the felucca, they observed a knight, with his arms folded, stand- ing on the strand; his air was dignified, and his melancholy and intent gaze on the distant snow- capped mountains of Lycia and Caria intuitively silenced their cheerful conversation. The noise oc- casioned by the rattling of the chain as it was taken frdm the stake attracted his attention ; and, turning, he walked towards it, and arrived just as the libe- rated skiff commenced rocking and struggling with the billows. ‘«*Good luck and a merry flight to Syme, friends !” said the stranger. ‘*Ay, and the saints speed her!’’ was their re- ply. “ When will the barque return ?”’ « Not until to-morrow, an hour before vespers.”’ “« Well, then, I must be thy passenger; and, per- haps’’—but here he checked himself. The felucca was pushed sufficiently near, and, the knight having taken his seat, they plied their oars, and were soon out of the bay. The surpassing beauty of the svenery of the JEgean has been a subject full of poetical im- agery, from the days of Homer and Hesiod. Her inspiring muses dwelt not only on the heights of Parnassus, but on the enchanting beauty of her azure waters and her islands, all radiant with the “ golden showers of Jove.’ The islands surrounding Rhodes were many of them in sight of the barque, some sufficiently near to render visible the buildings and gardens, with men and cattle moving about them; while others, still more in perspective, presented only a slate- colored line above the horizon. Syme lay directly west of Rhodes, and immediately parallel in latitude with the harbor. The felucca dashed onward to the north, and now she turned westwardly, where the terrible current from the Bay of Glaucus rose in a black and rapid stream, requiring all of the nautical skill of the seamen to avoid being carried precipi- tately upon dangerous shoals, or being immediately dashed to pieces. There was profound silence in the boat’s crew ; the lengthening of thin shadows— Nature’s dial—warned them of the late hour of the evening, while planetsshot their fiery rays into the sea, and the gulls sang their evening hymns. They continued their way, the night growing darker and the stillness more profound. Just now the snow- clad heights of the border mountains of Lesser Asia became suddenly on fire; but it was only the full moon, in her magnified form; and, as she rose in magnificent grandeur, the rich tones of Bias’s

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———e—ee—eeeeeeee ——— voice burst forth, and vibrated over the hushed and dangerous landscape— ** Speed, speed thy way, My snowy bird! Touch, touch the spray But with thy wing! ‘ Light as an arrow From a new-strung bow, Oh, fly o’er the narrows! Away ! away! Fly o’er the narrows, away !”” He was interrupted in the concluding stanza by Abas touching his shoulder, and pointing to the island of Syme, now within a bow-shot. On the most elevated mountain in the island, streams of forked and lurid fire, very similar to a volcanic eruption, rose and became lost in the dense smoke which hovered above the precipice. “ You know that signal, sir knight ?’’ said Bias, respectfully touching his cap. “Not from having participated in the ‘ caravans,’ friend,’’ was the stranger’s reply. “Good!” said the boatman, crossing himself. * And, had the crescents borne down on our craft near the narrows, we should have been chained and ready for the market of Bassora by this time, or, like Jonas, been swallowed by a whale. Soon now the waters will be alive with the pikes and light frigates of this our dear island, the galleys and row- boats of Rhodes, and, indeed, the navy of the Spo- rades, provided they be prizes worth that number of sail. My masters !’’ said Bias, as he continued to gaze on the signal fire, “I’ve heard his reverence of St. Mary of Victory compare yonder blaze to the red mantle hung as a signal of war before the Ce- sar’s pavilion; and methinks it looks warlike. But yonder twinkles the light through the orange and pomegranate hedge, and the moon shows our cottage like a snow bank. By your leave, sir knight, dost thou desire farther service of us, or part we here?” “1 must crave lodgings for the night, good Bias,”’ was the reply. The cottage was flat-roofed, composed of many chambers united by passages; a small court, paved with shells and pebbles (presenting a rude yet inge- nious representation of mosaic), occupied the front ; the margin of the wall was earthed and planted in evergreens and flowers, ending in a fanciful arched gateway. Through this they passed, crossed the court, and entered into a portico leading to a pas- sage ending in a neat apartment, from which the light had proceeded. The door was open, and im- mediately in the front wal! was a niche containing the tutelary saint of the family; a small lamp of perfumed oiffvas burning benedth it. There was not a being visible, and the quiet of the chamber harmonized with the tranquil expression of the Ma- donna, the guardian of the Greek vintager’s home. Abas spread a small table with two platters of fruit, and a flagon of wine. He invited his guest to the simple banquet, saying, “‘May the Madonna VOL. XLIII.—3 PAP PPE PELL LPP ROLL PLP PLL PLP PPP PPP eee ww ~“~_<——_——wmerennm mee E SPORADES. 21

bless this to thy service!’’ They were joined by the elder vintager; and, ere they had finished their meal, strains of music from the sea shore caught their attention. “We will join the dancers, by your leave, sir knight,”’ said Bias; “for I can truly tell you that the bright moon and soft air are strong persuaders to merriment with us.” He rose, and was followed by his companions, in the direction they had entered, to the sea shore, where groups of young Greeks were arranging cou- ples for the national Romaica. It was led by a young girl, whose long black hair, wreathed with orange buds, hung in silky tresses below her girdle. There was not one of the twenty who wore the “snowy veil of Helen;’’ nor had they their hair tinted by the African powder, or the more fashion- able and classic “ Flava Ceesaries’’ of the Lutins. The leader of the dance was followed through its mazes and intricacies by forty youths and maidens ; sometimes she would pursue a wave as it dashed over the beach, and then wander off amidst groves of orange and pomegranates, until her figure was lost the music varying from the slow- ” in perspective : est to the most rapid time, so that it was pleasing to observe the exact movements of the dancers with these quick and sudden alternations in the musicians. “The Deedalian dance ; and well does it describe the Cretan labyrinth,”’ thought the knight. “ Such was Diana on the banks of the Eurotas, as she who now leads the dance. What says Homer ?— ‘ A figured dance succeeds: such as once was seen In lofty Gnopus, for the Cretan queen Formed by Dedalian art: a comely band Of youths and maidens, bounding hand in hand ;- The maids in soft cymars of linen drest, The youths all graceful in the glossy vest: Of those the Jocks with flowery wreaths enrolled, Of these the sides adorned with swords of gold, That, glittering gay, from silver belts depend. Now all at once they rise, at once descend ; With well-taught feet, now shape in oblique ways, Confus’dly regular ; the moving maze Now forth at once; too swift for sight they spring, And undistinguished blend the flying ring ; So whirls a wheel in giddy circles tost, And, rapid as it runs, the single spokes aré lost.’ And that gay youth, in whose eyes dwells laughter, may be compared to Theseus, after he landed at De- los, where he danced around the altar Keraton, composed of horns from the left side of the heads of beasts. The inhabitants of that island called this dance the ‘ crane,’ in consequence of its similarity to the flight of these birds; yet it was the same 1 @ how see, and yonder is the very figure which was the occasion of its winged name.” While these impressions occupied the stranger's mind, a contention arose between a short stout man, with a shock head of hair, and the vintager. « Look, man,”’ said Bias; “thou must recollect the rules, and remain quietly until thy turn comes to join the new set.”

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22 ee, * Thou art as sour as thy best grapes,”’ answered bushy head. Bias laughed heartily at his remark, which great- ly incensed him, and, stamping the sand, he voci- ferated— “1 always thought that thou and thy son were not only half-witted, but rogues in the bargain.’’ «« Now, by the Madonna’s guardianship,’’ said the Greek, “ thou shalt recall that, or say thou wast not in earnest !”’ «“T shall not!’ was the answer—“I shall not; for thou art a rogue, and only fit for yonder dungeon in the fortifications of thy masters, the Hospital- lers,”’ The good nature and cool temperament of Bias lost its admirable equilibrium, and, raising his stur- dy arm, he struck his antagonist in the mouth. By this time they were surrounded, while the ery of— “Stand off, sirs! Let the vintager of St. Mary have at him !”’ rang the air. “Cato shall not be imposed upon!” shouted a solitary voice. But he was now retreating, and, turning on his heel, whispered— * Thou shalt repent this !’’ The crowd dispersed, and the Romaica was re- newed with spirit, until an aged man stepped on the strand, and, holding a laurel wreath above his head, called for the divers. Five young men arranged themselves before him; and, upon a signal given by him, the first and oldest sprang into the surge and disappeared. He remained so long buried beneath the waves, that our knight became uneasy. ‘‘ What,’’ thought he, “if they are offering vic- tims to Neptune, and I be seized by the blind fana- ties and given to the sea! I fear not; but do not choose to die in such a cause. I will seek Abas, and inquire the meaning of all this.’’ The young islander informed him that it was a national custom. “« Seest thou yonder fair girl who led the dance ?”’ he answered. “ This is a contest for her hand; for, when there is more than one suitor, they must wrestle with the waves, and he who is most skillful wins the lady. Thou canst see that ceremony car- ries with it the wisdom of an ancient country; the youth must love the maiden truly to become accom- plished in this art, and he insures, in a great degree, his capability of providing for her by his skill in diving for sponges* (our chief export), and his fear- lessness and hardihood in marine expeditions.”’ The crowd remained on the sea shore until the victor won and claimed the crown, when loud and spontaneous shouts, with joyous music, rose above the roaring of the surf; and, forming with perfect order, they dropped into the steps of the Romaica, and returned home beneath a landscape and sky which ean only be compared to the earliest dawn of the first day in Eden, so soft and brilliant was the moon, so fresh and newly-bursting into life and fragrance the vegetation of the island. Abas slept * Twenty fathom they are to dive. GODEY’S MAGAZINE ; ; | | - AND LADY’S BOOK. ee —— on a mat in the apartment assigned the knight, and, on the following morning, after waiting in the little parlor for his father—for such was Bias—he sallied forth into the vineyard ; but, finding that he was not there, hurried back to his chamber, apprehending that he was ill. He had barely entered the door- way, when a shriek occasioned the knight to hurry to the spot, where he found the young man senseless on the floor, and the vintager weltering in his blood. Upon examination, he discovered that his throat was cut from ear to ear, and that the murderer, in his hurry to escape, had dropped his dirk; this he placed in a drawer, and betook himself to the re- covery of Abas, after which he laid him on a sofa, and sat by him until his strength was spent in grief. When the paroxysm was over, he entreated hiin to man himself and perform his last duty to his parent. ‘« See,”’ said he, “‘ there is proof of this dreadful act; for the dirk by which it was perpetrated has been secured by my own hand. It was almost the first thing I saw after entering the apartment.” Abas promised to make an effort to command him- self, and his stranger friend left him for a moment, and returned with the weapon. “IT see it all,” said the youth, growing deadly pale and calm. “Look here, sir knight.” He pointed to the handle of the blood-stained blade, where a clumsy representation of a tortoise was deeply marked. “What does this mean?’’ said his companion. ‘« He designs not this as armorial ?”’ “No! no!’ answered the islander. ‘Since Ca- to of Cos has heard so much of the Crusaders, he undertook to identify himself among the Sporades in this way. He has been notorious for ten years for his malignant nature and bad habits. Many a gallant ship he has caused to be wrecked, and many have been the murders committed by his unseen hand. No, not the most skillful reader of heraldry could divine the origin of this wretched representa- tion,” pointing to the handle of the weapon. ‘Once, most unjustly, he fell into a fit of passion with a sea captain; they quarreled and fought like tigers, when, suddenly stooping to the deck, he seized by the tail a turtle (though an unclean animal to the Greek), and hurled it at the captain’s head. So vio- lent was the blow, that it occasioned the unfortunate man a brain fever, from which he has not yet re- covered. The demon’s thirst was quenched by blood, and he returned to his home rejoicing, and shouting that, hereafter, he would be ‘ Cato, the tortoise.’ He has wealth, and thereby perpetrates his acts of villany.”’ The young Greek sank into silence, and remained so for half an hour. The knight watched his coun- tenance, and saw that thought hadfssumed the mastery for a short time over his feelings, and wait- ed patiently the result. Nature is very much the same in all of the human family, when the extreme of passion exists. The desolation of grief, the ex- stasy of joy, and the ravings of anger, approach each other so nearly that a deaf man could not un | al

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= THE SPORADES. 23 OOS, derstand the difference where it is only visible to the eye. The effects are the same on the frame, and a state of quiescence follows the violent com- motion of each of these conflicts. He rose at length, and, taking the knight respectfully by the hand, said to him— ‘«« Farewell, my friend, for such, indeed, thou hast proved thyself; though I saw, when we first met, that thou wert a stranger to the /Zgean. I be- queath thee that bloody dirk as a bond of union be- tween us, until we meet again. Take this’’—he took from a secret panel a heavy purse—“ and keep burning the lamp of the Madonna. This thou canst easily do by inquiring for one Jula of the com- mandery. Say to him that the vintager’s son”’ Here the youth paused. He made another effort to speak, but failed, and the knight, anticipating his wishes, replied for him— *“T will faithfully fulfil thy wishes, Abas; and, that thou mayest be assured of this, I will swear to thee by the Madonna to perform them to the ut- most.”’ * Only this, then,’ said the unhappy youth. * When I am gone, blow this silver whistle three times, and those who are necessary to assist thee here will come to thy help. Farewell.” “Stay,” said the stranger. ‘Is there aught else in which I can befriend thee?” Tears blinded the young Greek’s eyes as he an- swered— “ Nothing.”’ He placed a purse, a small roll of parchment, and a dirk about his person, and, falling on his knees before his tutelary saint, covered his face with his capote, and prayed fervently. Rising from his prostrate attitude, he darted from his home, manned a small skiff, and arrived at the island of Cos only to hear that his father’s murderer had disappeared. Cato, like Sancho Panza, stood in Catholic fear of the holy brotherhood, and, hastily arranging his affairs, betook himself to flight, embarking for Egypt under pretence of pressing business. CHAPTER III. **T hate the eumberous chariot’s slow advance, And the long distance of the fiying lance ; But while my nerves are strong, my force entire, Thus front the foe.’’—Jliad, 5th Book. Eeyrt, the country of antiquity, of the arts, and of science, the country upon whose fertility many nations depended, was, from the reign of the Ptole- mies to that of the Fatimites, a period of one thou- sand years, in the fallen state of a province. Each new dynasty introduced individuals much more anyious for personal aggrandizement and wealth than for the welfare of the country. Even the Fatimite caliphs sought more assiduously the pomps of empty show, extracted by oppressive taxation of the populace, than the ample resources of improve- 4 atti aa ment which were spread forth by the borders of the Nile and the productive plains‘of the Delta. These causes, united with ephemeral and rapid changes, the result of stratagem and hoarded wealth, soon corrupted the leaders in the government, and formed opposing factions every way calculated to produce a distracted and desert country. At this juncture, Naser Mohammed rose to the throne of the Fati- mites; his wisdom and financial talents were to Egypt as the bursting and radiant sun in a dark and stormy atmosphere. At his personal expense, he disseminated public works of vital importance ; and, from the year A. D. 1310 to 1340, he laid the foun- dation of a firm and good government, renewed the ancient and dilapidated improvements of the coun- try, restored to the Delta and the Nile their creative and bountiful supplies by converting their arid sands into the black alluvial soil so peculiar to the Ceno- pean and Pelusian boundaries of this equinoctial and celebrated Adavi, or Father of Waters. Seven years after the death of Naser Mohammed, Egypt was scourged by the plague; and, after its appalling ravages, we find, in 1365, the Mamelukes of Cairo, and the Ottomans of Asia Minor, struggling for the ascendency in the scale of power. The in- tervening islands in the Mediterranean (then partly possessed by the Western Christians) became a de- sirable acquisition to the strength of each party, and, consequently, entangled the Hospitallers in this bloody conflict. They contended with heroic valor for their possessions ; and, after a severe struggle, a peace was concluded between the Egyptians and Hospitallers which lasted for many years, until again interrupted by their wars with Tamerlane, Mohammed the Second, and Solyman, his grand- son, which brings our history to the period A. D. 1510-23. It was early in August, when the Nile had at- tained its proper height, and waen the Etesian winds were blowing, that the young Greek wended his way over its swelling tides: and, reaching the quay of Cairo, he hired a djerm, which conveyed him through a canal toa caravansary. Disguising himself as a Saracen, he returned to observe from the djerm the ceremony and wild fanaticism which were exhibited by the populace on the arrival of the tapestry destined for covering the Caaba at Mecca. It was transported from Constantinople by way of Syria; and, as soon as it was announced, the Mo- hammedans ran from all parts of the city, and most happy and fortunate was he who could approach sufficiently near to kiss a part of the trappings, or the footprints of the camel which had the honor of bearing it. The city was full of festivity, and from the houses was suspended the most gorgeous drapery of scarlet, crimson, blue, and yellow. There was juggling in the streets, and, beneath the wide- spreading sycamore-fig, might be heard the ringing of bells, answering as castanets, and attached to the fingers of the individuals who moved m the primeval, yet degrading and revolting, dance of the

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‘ ' _—— 24 GO! YS MAGAZINE AND LADY'S BOOE. ~ PRI Almeks. Again, groups were collected to hear the story of some man of genius, whose strong memory and poetical gifts gave him temporary control over the minds and feelings of his auditors. Towards the latter our traveler was particularly attracted ; and, calling to the boatman to push off from the canal, they landed on an island of the Nile called Rhonda, where, beneath tall clusters of palm and cypress, and upon a verdant sward, reclined an Apollo in gifts of imagery, in figure, and in giace. The poet sat cross-legged, according to the fash- ion of his country, his eagle eyes glowing with ethereal fire, and radiating his handsome and manly countenance almost with a superhuman expression. Clapping his hands until the crimson feather of the flamingo vibrated in his snowy turban, he com- menced his dramatic story; and the young Greek placed himself within a convenient distance to hear, in the Turkish language (in which he was well versed), the following legend :— THE POET’S STORY. “Followers of Islam, and in courtesy to the truce of Issevi* also, listen to the history of the Mame- luke Selar; and seek even Alix Lila va Lilint—and you will not there find, in its thousand stories, one more replete with wisdom for the sons of Ben Adam than this you are now to hear. Even the sultan” (he touched the earth with his forehead) “ delighted so much in its relation, that he called it ‘ The cas- ket of pearls and tears.’ “The Mamelukes were originally Tartars, sold by Syrian merchants while children to the sultans and nobles of Syria and Egypt, and educated to arms in their camps. It is well known that they became the strength of these governments; and, as might have been expected, the ambitious often attempted intrigue, and some even reached at the overthrow of the empire. Among these, was the Emir Selar; his mind was capacious and his views enlarged, but his soul the seat of insatiable cravings for wealth and power, united to a nature cold, luxurious, sus- picious, and melancholy. He had won the confi- dence of the sultan by his apparent disinterested prudence, and his sovereign was not slow in shower- ing wealth and honors upon him. As he rose to power, he oppressed the people; but this was al- ways by insidious means, and never in a direct manner. Many of his agents, or tools, suffered from the bowstring and dirk by the mazes of his mea- sures ; but this appeared to make little impression on him. ‘One day in autumn, soon after he had returned to Rosetta from an incursion in the desert, for the purpose of making treaty with a sheik of the tribe of Bedouins at Saccara, a spacious saloon in his marble palace was thrown open for the entertain- ‘ ment of some of his most distinguished adherents. There he was seated on a cushion of azure satin, while many slaves, sumptuously dressed, in span- } The Arabian Nights. * Jesus. gled turbans, with silk caftans spangled and em. broidered in silver and gold, were engaged in spreading the finest napkins, on which confectionery and fruits were placed in salvers of pure gold. When these were removed, slaves, yet more splendidly attired, knelt before each guest with silver censers of burning perfumes, while others sprinkled rose- water from flagons inclosed in a network of gold and diamonds. «It was now, while the apartment was filled with the odors of Arabia, and while the court resounded with the din of kettle-drums and the shrill notes of the cathara, that Selar was complimented by his satellites. ‘Live forever, great emir !*for in what lackest thou that the sultan or caliph themselves might desire? Thy counsels are commands to the throne, and thy wealth conveys to thy palace the luxuries of the whole world. Who is like Selar the wise, the strong, and the magnificent?’ Just now, a rapid clatter of horses’ hoofs was heard at his gates, and a cry of ‘Make way for the courier of the king of kings!’ The doors flew open, and an emissary of the sultan, covered with dust, called loudly for Selar. He rose from his luxurious cush- ions and prostrated himself, while the messenger informed him that ‘the great leader of the faithful, before whom all nations veil their faces, awaited his coming upon important business.’ It was enough; Selar was in the saddle, and his fleet courser bore him on the wings of the wind to the feet of his sovereign.” Here the poet rose, adjusted his turban, dropped his robe over his folded arm, rested his head upon his bosom, and, with an expression of the wildest despair, exclaimed— “Selar is now a wretched captive! damp and cold stone forms his resting-place ! the light of day is excluded from his sunken and lack-lustre eyes! hunger and thirst are preying upon his vitals! he has scarcely strength to stand erectly! Now his prison door opens; he starts; it is the first sound he has heard in ten suns. ‘ What! is the sultan appeased ?’ cries he, with a hollow scream. Lo! a covered dish of solid gold is handed him. He seizes it with the grasp of famine ; the cover is raised by his trembling hand. Are there refreshing fruits and cooling water? No! no! a dish of coin, fresh and brilliant from the mint of Cairo. ‘Oh, Alla! Alla!’ cries the wretched emir, ‘ what is gold, the wealth of Indostan, for a cup of cold water and a dry crust of barley bread? Just art thou, all-powerful Alla !’ he whispered, as the memory of his former extor- tions now added to his horrors. ‘«« He raved until he fell on the hard pavement of his prison, and sank into a troubled dream. It was of shade and water, of his sumptuous and luxurious halls, wrung from the little stores of the thousands he had oppressed and tortured. He wakes; all is still: yet no; the iron door turns upon its hinges— another golden dish! Oh Hope, true is it.that thou lingerest even when thou art compassed by wretch- edness! Despair, thy gladiator, combats thee on é . eye ae

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THE SPORADES. 25 anna every side, yet nothing but Death can vanquish thee. His eyes reanimate, his frame becomes in- vigorated; his outstretched arms show that now he believes his parched tongue will be cooled, and his insatiablebunger mitigated. He seizes the dish, dashes the cover from him—a priceless chaplet of pearls lies spotless and limpid before his distracted gaze! Sela falls to rise no more ; the blood gushes trom his mouth, and flows over his unchanged yet prificely robes !”’ At this moment a wild cry burst from the sur- rounding audience ; for, as the poet fell, the rich vermilion streamed and bubbled from h¥® firm-set lips and ran in rills to his girdle. Another moment, and he was seated gravely upon his carpet, wiping the juice of the dete/ nut from his mouth and beard. Our young Greek looked around the crowd with a disappointed gaze, and, setting forth, returned to his lodgings at the caravansary. Late one evening, after having searched through- out the city in vain for Cato, he was attracted by the figure of a man in the habit of a Turk, whose back was turned towards him, and who appeared earnestly engaged in conversation with another in- dividual, so much shaded from a pillar, against which he leaned, that he could not distinguish him. As he entered the narrow street where they were standing, now almost as dark as night, he heard the concealed person say— ‘« Hast thou the ‘Stygian water,’ Mezzo ?” “ Verily, I have,’’ was the reply. “ With the blessing of the Prophet, fresh from Arcadia. It is deadly and cold, just as it was distilled in dew- drops from the rock Nonaerss, and sealed up in an ass’s hoof, the only substance which can contain it, aud it is almost priceless; for know, infidel, it is now a lost secret, and, since the death of the all- conquering Macedonian, has never appeared in the possession of any but our race, on whom rests the blessing of the Prophet of Wisdom to the third son.”’ A rush of blood suffused the face of Abas, and he breathed so suffocatingly and quickly that he intui- tively feared that the throbbings of his heart would be heard, and thereby defeat his indomitable pur- pose. He saw the Turk make a sign, after which they disappeared in an adjoining building. The young Greek drew blood from his wrist, marked the white plaster of the house, and afterwards re- turned to the bazaar, where he sat down to think. In half an hour, he had prepared himself, and re- turned to await the first opportunity of coming in contact with his enemy. Hours wore away, and he heard the revel of intoxication and the bitter oaths of ruined gamblers. As the day dawned, Cato appeared. It was but the act of a second for the islander to spring as a hungry lion upon him. Cato was strong, and he Tesisted with gymnastic skill. They fell, they rose, they writhed around each other as the fabled Laocoon of their native country ; yet Abas kept his hold. They fell to- gether, and lay as if each were dead; they would 3* then start suddenly upon their feet, with corded veins and swelling muscles, and glare upon each other like demons. At length, the clank of a chain was heard, and then the spring of a lock; and, in another moment, Cfto stood bound fast to the waist of his antagonist. His strength was spent, not so much from the combat as from the difficulties of re- spiration, and he was led off by the throat without the least resistance. Down went Abas to his djerm, and, whispering to the boatman that he had captured the murderer of his father, they floated in Mohammedan silence through the canals, and down the Nile, to the ship- ping which crowded and whitened its blue and rapid waters. The young Greek arrived in the port of Alexan- dria in time to take a berth on board of the “ Queen of the Seas,”’ then the wonder of the nautical world. This immense vessel went every year from Alexan- dria laden with silks, spices, and all sorts of mer- chandise, which the Soldan’s subjects brought from the Indies by way of the Red Sea, and was carried by this vessel from Egypt into Africa, and to Tunis, up as far as Constantinople. The carack (as it was called by way of species) was of so extraordinary a bulk, that the top of the highest mast of the largest galley was not near the height of her prow; six men were scarcely able to clasp the mast;* it had seven stories, two of which were lower than the surface of the water; and it was able to carry, be- sides its freight and the merchants and seamen necessary for sailing, one thousand soldiers for defence. It was, indeed, a floating castle, mounted with above one hundred pieces of cannon. The dress of each of the Greeks, and the facility with which Abas spoke the Turkish language, in- duced the commander of the “‘ Queen”’ to receive them on board with but little attention, after his curiosity was satisfied as to the manner and cause of so extraordinary an imprisonment. Previously to embarking, Abas had taken the precaution to say to the Cosite— “Hark ye, Tortoise, the voice of my father’s blood cries to me from the ground; yet I never meant to tyrannize over thee, but to call thee to just punish- ment, for which I readily risked my life. Thor canst not speak one word of infidel language, unless it be with thy own heart’’—there was a momen- tary change, a cunning expression in the counte- nance of Cato, but he remained doggedly silent— ‘ peradventure, a Greek tongue may be found by thee in yonder leviathan, yet thou hadst better cut thine out and give it to the fishes than make the least attempt to my injury. Thou mayest say that thou art going to thy trial for life or death, and that vengeance, thy darling passion, would be satisfied in the loss of my head with thine, or my being sold a slave with thyself; and that, in the latter case, thy life would be insured. But listen, Cato; the moment thy tongue is loosened to the infidels, thy * Vertot’s Knights of Malta

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26 life, by the holy Madonna’s guardianship, is gone, and forever. I carry a priceless blade, although I used it not in thy capture; for thou hadst no wea- pon with thee but the miserable remains of thy purse.”’ The “ Queen of the Seas’’ had traversed a dis- tance of several leagues from the Egyptian shore, when the sun crowned the western horizon of the Mediterranean with a diadem refulgent in purple and gold; its base was brilliant with myriads of coruscations, varying in color and shape as the evening breeze ruffled its billows. At this time, a sailor on the watch cried, “‘Sail!”’ In the distance, rocked by the waves, was a single black line, which rapidly increased in size from its swift sail in the direction of the ‘ carack.’? The commander of the vessel turned from an examination of its nation and size with a countenance of ineffable contempt, and, seating himself, he reached a cithara as he said— “ Yonder galley carries the flag of the Knights of Rhodes. By the beard of my father, it must be freighted with fools or madmen, or they would have fled the mighty ‘Queen of the Seas’ as a cloud be- fore the storm. By the beard of my father, it rouses my ire to think they should dare appear in our pre- sence! Even while endeavoring to fly, methinks they would call on those rough waters to cover them, rather than endure our presence !”’ With the utmost scorn, mixed with anger, he drew his fingers over the instrument, and, as if dis- satisfied, flung it on a cushion, and rose to pace the deck after his favorite fashion. Whenever he turned in the direction of the galley, he would spit in the sea, by way of exhibiting his disgust. ‘ The infi- del dogs,’”’ he would exclaim, “are not fit for the mines of the Tartar!” The galley was now within cannon shot, and her commander put forth a long-boat with an officer, directed to summon the captain to deliver up his ship. The Saracen was thrown into a rage by this insult, as he deemed it, and returned answer— « That, so long as the ‘ Queen’ had sailed on those seas, there never was vessel or vessels daring enough to attack her. That he had Mussulmans sufficient to destroy his men, ship, and all, at a blast.” The long-boat flew over the distance which sepa- rated the vessels, and presently returned. The knight who commanded the galley had taken ad- vantage of the surprise and contempt of the Saracen commander, to approach nearer while engaged in parley. The officer now bore this intelligence— «“ That his commander had been ordered by his superiors to attack the ‘Queen of the Seas,’ whether he was strong or weak, and that he was obliged to obey orders; that, if he would surrender, he would promise them good quarters, but, if they refused, he would burn or sink them.’’ By this time the galley had approached near the earack, and the infuriated Saracen stamped his foot and ordered the officer of the long-boat to— “Begone! If thou darest return, I will send GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. thee to the bottom of the sea, and hang thy captain over the prow! Begone, or I will blow thee to the gates of Ebles! By the beard of my father, thou art of no more consequence than a bubble on the wave !”’ The officer left him foaming with rage; but no sooner had he stepped into the galley than a sheet of flame cast a lurid light over the dark waters, and a broadside of cannon loaded with cartridges rained through the upper deck of the ‘‘ Queen of the Seas.”’ The smoke rose in clouds above the vessels; the place occupied by the commander, his officers, and many seamen, was left vacant. The remaining crew appeared overpowered at this unexpected havoc; and, the next instant, observing a prepara- tion for another broadside, the bewildered crew lowered the national flag, and ran up in its place one of white silk. The “Queen of the Seas’’ was captured. The water, but a short time previously so glossy and deeply shaded, was now covered with floating bodies, bows, arrows, and turbans, while rills of smoke curled above the shattered parts of the noble vessel. The crew, consisting of merchants, seamen, and soldiers, were divided for exchange with those of the galley, who, in turn, went on board of the “Queen of the Seas.” During this arrangement, there were loud bursts of joy, with the shout of ‘“« Long live the brave—long live the dauntless L’Isle Adam forever!”” What was the joy of Abas, who escaped injury, to discover, in the heroic L’Isle Adam, the friend on whose bosom he had leaned when bitter grief converted his manhood into a ‘‘ bruised and broken reed !” ‘¢ What hast thou at thy side, man ?”’ he inquired. ‘ Thou canst not’’—he paused, and, looking intent- ly, turned on his heel, muttering, ‘‘ The villain Ca- to of Cos, or the Tortoise! Ho there! send a smithy and guard !” Cato was severed from his captor, and placed with the Turkish prisoners in the hold. Upon en- tering this foreign assembly, “ ‘Tortoise’ bethought him how he should turn his new position to advan- tage. He took for granted that he might, with some address, pass as a Mohammedan ; and, folding bim- self in a corner, he first pretended drowsiness, dur- ing which time he carefully reconnoitered the pre- mises and captives ; he next feigned sleep. There was a profound silence for some hours, when the yawning of some of the prisoners betokened a dis- position to rest; gaping succeeded, and finally be- came contagious; one by one fell back upon another, until a general sound of deep breathing prevailed. It was at this time that “ Tortoise” observed a Turk move inch by inch nearer his side, and pre- sently that he was relieving him of his purse. « Now, brother,” he whispered, ‘‘ you have only to put your hand here, and you will find also a pouch with several round pieces.”” The Moham- medan dropped his head, and eyed his companion closely, without uttering a word: when Cato con tinued, ‘ Help thyself, man—I am in earnest; for I

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A PLEA FOR EQUESTRIANS. 27 have taken a fancy to thee, and will give you this,” laying the gold upon his now open palm. The Turk grew confident, assumed coolness, and deliberately counted each piece into a purse beneath his girdle. «“ Now,” continued Cato, “thou art my friend, by the beard of the Prophet; give me thy hand, and let us swear, by the Caaba, friendship until we are ready for Paradise.” The Turk extended his leathery hand. ‘ Now thy name, brother?” ‘«« Amine,’’ was the graphic reply. “ And thou,”’ answered Tortoise, “ canst always have an answer when thou callest me Caleb.”’ After a long silence, Caleb, alias Cato, resumed the discourse— ‘¢ T know, brother Amine, that thou art a man of courage from thy countenance. Canst thou face a danger for our freedom ?”’ ‘“« Tell me, brother,’’ replied Amine, ‘‘ what it is ; for know I never go rashly to work in any enter- Thou hast already had a sample of my dis- J prise. cretion.’ swer. ‘ Well, to be rid of these Christian dogs, we have only to seize the officer at midnight, and make our escape through the door which he will open to observe that all is well with us. See, he will open the door and make his appearance. It will depend upon circumstances how we proeeed. The pri- soners must not be waked, mind. I will lead the way.” Tortoise and his companion again sank into si- lence, awaiting the midnight watch. The appointed officer opened the door, lowered the lantern, and was scrutinizing the surrounding individuals, when Cato sprang on his neck, whispering Amine to blow out the lantern. The suffocated officer was laid on the floor ; the two worthies made their escape and passed to the stern of the vessel. A sentinel called, ‘Who ’s there ?’”’ when the ready answer of Tor- toise enabled them to reach the cable of the boat, down which they slid, severing it after them. The skiff skimmed along for several yards, after which they set to their oars, leaving the vessel far in their ‘*So much the better,’? was the immediate an- wake. (To be continued.) ———- +~s.eer -—— — A PLEA FOR EQUESTI ANS. BY ALICE B. NEAL, WE do not intend to write a learned or critical essay upon this most delightful of all accomplish- ments. In the first place, we have not the requisite knowledge, and should only betray our ignorance if we attempted to speak knowingly. We have not the dashing fearlessness of Mrs. Kemble, nor the graceful ease of Grace Greenwood, to bear us out in any such assumption. Our chief exploit in horse- ianship is a quiet canter through pleasant places ; aud yet we have somewhat to say on a subject of which we may seem to know so little. It is very natural, at least to people with a tolera- ble share of benevolence, when one has received pleasure or benefit from any easily attained object, to point out the ways and means thereto to others who could never have thought of it for themselves ; and we have often wondered, when cantering along in the face of a fresh breeze, far out in the open country, how so many ladies can deny to them- selves so simple, soexquisite a pleasure. “Ah, there is nothing in all our experience to equal it! The regular, gentle motion of your horse, be his gait what it may, the braced upright position which you are forced to maintain, whatever may be your in- clination to “the line of beauty’’ under other cir- cumstances, the light wind kissing your cheek into the rosiest flush! Who could resist beautiful thoughts as the long shadows quiver over the road- side, and the breath of the new-mown hay offers you a sweeter perfume than any Parisian eztratt you can name? And there are the soft sky and the | : | | floating clouds, and perhaps a blue lake to make up the delicious landscape! You would have lost this charming view if you had rolled over the country in the easiest of carriages; you would have gone home as languid and careworn as you came forth, if you had nestled all the while in its luxurious cushions, with muscles relaxed and nerves un- strung. But now your hand guides the reins gently, yet firmly ; your whole frame feels the excitement of the rapid motion. The spirits rise in pure exhila- ration, such as the rafest champagne could never give—but here we must speak from observation rather than experience, for we have seen eyes grow brighter under the potent beverage which we have never quaffed—and the world seems more beautiful to you, and Nature steals into your heart with a potent spell you never recognized before. We do not speak to dwellers of the city, for, of late years, Fashion has issued a reasonable, health- ful mandate, and few fair votaries dare to disobey. Especially in our own Philadelphia, as the bright spring comes on, there is scarcely a day that its environs are not enlivened by parties of fair eques- trians, all trimly accoutred, and animated with the pleasing consciousness of looking extremely well. All winter long they have frequented the riding- school, and now they are to put in practice the les- sons of the ring. So away they goin their fearless- ness, now dashing on and on in a rapid, but beauti- fully sustained trot, then more idly adopting the long, swinging canter, or pacing quietly through

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28 GODEY’S some shaded lane, made vocal by their playful chat or joyful merriment. Oh, commend us to an eques- trian party of all parties in the world! Now, what is there to prevent all this enjoyment in every country town or village where there are comparatively few social pleasures in which all may engage? There are none of the disadvan- tages we have to contend with inacity. Horses are more easily obtained, and they are less expen- sive. There is your choice of a road, and you do not have to pass through two or three miles of drays and carriages, over a paved street, to reach it. No; you are up and off, and in the shadow of a wood before you are fairly out of sight of home ; and there are no clouds of dust, and no impertinent stares from the “fast men’’ on the road _to annoy you. Yet, with all their advantages, our country women learn to drive rather than ride, and can ma- nage a horse in harness much better than under the simple direction of a rein. One thing may be urged, that they have no teach- ers in the country, and little or no opportunity for practice before they go out upon the road. But one of the best horsewomen of our acquaintance has never had a riding-school lesson, and mounted for the first time in the open street. All that is necessary to be learned is mounting, how to hold the reins, the seat in the saddle, and to guide the horse ; and then, if a lady has courage and firmness, all is known. Perhaps we could give, even with our humble experience, some hints upon these most necessary points ; and will our lady readers accompany us for the purpose, in a morning’s visit to the most cele- brated riding-school in the city, perhaps the best regulated in the country? Visitors are always wel- come, so do not shrink back as you mount the stairs, and are ushered into a kind of gallery, furnished with comfortable settees on either side, which are at this moment filled with spectators, the friends and relations of the pupils. A light railing separates this from the ring, which is more properly an ob- long space floored with tan, and lighted by a long range of windows and skylights, thus provided with plenty of fresh air and sunshine. A class has just dismounted, and a long row of horses, twenty or thirty perhaps, are drawn up to the centre. We will not wait to watch the animated faces of the pupils, as they discuss with one another the good points of “ Jenny Lind,” the swiftness of ‘ Eagle,” or the tricks of “Spry,’’ but mount another flight of stairs to the dressing-room. Here are skirts and hats, public and private property; and, fastening one of the former, usually of some dark, heavy woolen material, over an ordinary walking-dress, and substituting a straw flat for your thin bonnet, you are ready for your first lesson. The ring is full of gay, laughing girls, who are too busy with their steeds to notice whether the They will tell present- ly when the swift evolutions commence. So do not fear ridicule, or even your own awkwardness. stranger be a novice or not. MAGAZINE | ; ND LADY’S BOOK In mounting, take it for granted that you are going to succeed, and you will. You gather the long folds of your skirt with your left hand. Your right, with the whip, is placed upon the pommel or horn of the saddle. Place your left foot firmly in the ex- tended hand of your instructor, give him your left hand, still gathering the skirt, and, as he raises your foot, straighten your left knee, and spring from the right instep. It is so easy a matter, difficult as it looks, that few fail, even in the first attempt, to reach the saddle. The instant you are seated, take the reins, without waiting to arrange your dress, lest your horse should start ; meantime, your teacher has placed your foot in the stirrup. Then, either grasping the mane with your left hand, or placing it upon the shoulder of your escort, as you prefer, rise in the stirrup, and arrange the drapery of your skirt to fall gracefully and comfortably about the figure. In reseating yourself, place the right knee over the crutch or horn of the saddle. Mean- time, the reins, for here we ride with both the curb and snaffle rein, are drawn perfectly even, and ar- ranged in the left hand, one between each finger, the curb rein on the inside, and the whole’ kept quite tight by the pressure of the thumb. The right hand still retains the whip, and should be suffered to fall gracefully, but in such a position that the horse will not be irritated by it. When it can be avoided, the whip should never be used; but, if necessary, apply it with firmness. A horse soon feels if he has a cowardly rider, but is best guided by the voice, a gentle pat upon the neck, or a firm pressure of the reins. And now fearlessly—‘ affect the virtue if you have it not’’—join the long caval- cade, who are pacing quietly around the area. Presently, they will quicken their pace to a brisk trot, as they fall in one after another, instead of riding abreast as now ; and, when your half hour’s first lesson is accomplished, you can dismount and watch the rapid military evolutions with which their ride will close. Now, at a signal, they form into lines and squares, halt, advance, back, or turn from right to left, at the word of command. It is thus they gain firmness, courage, and skill. In dismounting, take your reins and whip in the right hand, placed upon the crutch of the saddle. Your left hand gathers the skirt, as before, and is given to your attendant, and so you spring to the ground, supporting yourself by your hold upon the crutch. To back a horse, a very essential pot, hold both reins perfectly still and throw yourself back a little, pulling evenly. When you have more skill in ma- naging the reins, this will be easy, and you will find how slight a pressure will turn your horse to the right or the left. Now you can mount and dismount without the aid of a chair; you know that the reins are not to be held in one grasp, through the hollow of the hand, as we have seenthem used. A little observa tion will tell you whether your horse is pacing, trotting, or cantering, and which gait you prefer; - : : : :

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_m and then, if you have courage, all the essentials are yours. You are to preserve a firm, upright seat in the saddle, neither leaning backwards nor stooping forwards; the latter destroys all the grace of many otherwise good riders; and remember, above all, that gentleness is as much appreciated by horses as by any other creature you may chance to guide, and that they often yield to it when brute force enrages. CONFESSIONS OF <- BY MRS. E. PART I. . “The things that day most minds by night do most appear.’’—SFENSER. “T really am ashamed of the poverty of my dreams.”’ CHARLES LAMB. ‘¢ Which gives me hope That what in sleep thou didst abhor to dream, Waking thou never wilt consent to do.”*—MILTON. ‘« Nay, oft in dreams invention we bestow, To change a flounce or add a furbelow.’’—Pops. ‘¢ Behold, this dreamer cometh !’’—Bibdle WE were telling a dream, and looked into the face of our listener with that obstinate kind of idio- syncrasy that belongs to dreamers, but which it would be difficult to explain—we, an obstinate psy- chologist, believing in all spiritualisms, because the good Father has made this part of our nature so urgent and unmistakable, that it is more difficult to doubt the realities of the internal than the external life. We looked into his face— ‘‘T never dream, madam.” ‘‘ Never dream! Then I am afraid you have no soul.’’ * No soul! Madam, do you believe in the Bible? or are you only talking poetry ?”’ “Only talking poetry !—on/y! I am talking of facts—of the most undeniable testimony to soul- existence which dreaming affords. Suppose it ts poetry. Is not poetry truth?—the deep, sudden truth felt at the bottom of every soul ?—truth that will lift up its voice and cry aloud in every human heart till the world stifles its utterance ?” ‘‘Oh dear, madam, I do not comprehend a word you say; and yet I dare be bound it is very good.” No more did he. How could he, who never dreamed, understand poetry? And what right had I to attempt indoctrinating him with the spirit of poetry, and disturbing his smooth dullness and ex- cellent digestion with a malicious and energetic speech out of the common track ? Did the pre-Adamite men and women sleep? Did they dream? I think not. Todream well, one must be alone: there is a neutralizing of the divine essence where another head is busied with its angel Adam, alone in Paradise, on the same pillow. As to dress, it matters not how plain the material, so the skirt is ample and the corsage easy ; and we would recommend, from present experience, a broad straw hat, or flat, as it is called, as a protection for the head and face. No custom is more simple or graceful, and a plea of expense need not be urged against the rational pleasure and improvement, both to body and mind, of frequent equestrian excursions. A D

OAKES SMITH. slept, and Eve was his dream. Milton says that Eve slept, and the serpent was fers, “squat like a toad”’ close to her ear. Alas! for the sad change from the sdlitary dreamer of Eden, when Eve was conceived, and the wild waste of earth, with its wearisome companionships, and the tree of know- ledge guarded with the serpent stings of unsatisfied yearnings ! The spirit needs no sleep; what death is to the body sleep would be to the soul. It finds its Sab- bath, which is rest, when it reposes upon some great and beautiful thought; when it has reached some companionship nearest its higher elements ; when it finds itself in some atmosphere akin to its nature, and it breathes and glows in loveliness, like the blossom of the field, too ineffably content even to need a voice. We may imagine the spiritual being laying down its material companion tenderly to slumber, withdrawing itself gently from the ex- hausted receptacle, and rejoicing in its freedom from the frettings of daily life; while itself, need- less of repose, goes out into new and untried spheres, filling its urn at divine fountains, lighting the torch of its existence in the glories of the Infinite Source ; holding its companionship with undying affinities, and enlarging itself by ranging through illimitable space. Once, during a period of suffering, I must have remained soul-conscious from the moment of sleep- ing. I was then, as I often am, aware of the pro- cess of sleep, its coming on, and the fading away of consciousness. Ideas commingled, and I felt a sensation of pain in the region of the heart ; a sense of dread, as it were, pervading the nerves, as if they shrank from a power which they could not resist. I think this state is not unlike death. It is always so distinctly defined, I am almost lost; then rouse myself, as if in opposition to some state which appals me, and then am gone. Death’s twin brother has the ascendant. At the time of which I am speaking, I thought I raised my body up genuy and laid it in a grave that seemed ready for it; I smoothed the turf down orderly with a vague feel- ing that blossoms would grow therefrom, and then stood, the only mourner over my poor self, weeping bitterly. The impression was so vivid that I awoke before my soul could start upon its journey.

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c : A R L oo THaT season of the year in which there is but lit- tle to do in the way of absolute work in the garden is very suitable to the formation of rustic seats. Trees which are not wanted for their bark are gene- rally cut down in winter, or in very early spring; so that their branches are now generally quite ready to be sawn into the shapes required for making rustic chairs and tables. In osier grounds, the wil- lows intended for the basket-maker are generally cut twice a year, that is, in November and in March, so that the willows that may be wanted for the curved part at the back of the chairs, &c., will now be ready for use. Hazel may also be cut at this season, as the bark is less likely to peel off now than it would be if the sap were more in motion. When the chairs are to be made, the first thing to be done is to make what may be called a working plan, on which all the dimensions are accurately marked ; and then to select pieces of wood suitable, and saw them into pieces of the proper size and shape. The willow rods will generally curl easily ; but, if they are at all stiff, they may be warmed be- fore they are bent, and then tied into the proper shape. When the chair or table has a number of hazel rods nailed close together. a frame must be It is generally considered best to varnish rustic work at least once every year; but a brittle varnish BY made by a carpenter, and the rods nailed on it. oa aaa ECORATIONS. should not be used, as it would do more harm than good. In nailing the wood together, brads, or nails without heads, should be used, to prevent any danger of tearing the clothes of the ladies who may use the chairs. ln making the rustic seat, it is first necessary to fasten some planks together for the floor, and to attach a frame to them for the back. These portions of the design may be done by a common carpenter. Four young larches, or spruce firs, are then provided for the upright columns or pillars, which are fixed in holes made for them in the floor; the plinth round the base of each being made of square pieces of deal

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nailed on the bottom of the pillar, and covered with bark, also nailed on; the whole being finished with

two rows of cord, one thicker thah the other. The top of each pillar is finished with a square piece of | wood to serve as a capital, and spandrels are formed from these capitals to the roof, with arches of flexi- ble wood, such as the willow, or the hazel, and with § TABITHA’S FIRESIDE. PAPRARALR APR ALAA PDL 31 deal boards. When finished, the whole must be washed over with coal-tar liquid, or some kind of cheap dark-colored varnish, but not with any kind eae ZT WAH

The roof is thatched and finished at the Cord is pegged down in two of paint. eaves with fir-cones. rows along the top of the roof, and finished at each end with a small wooden cross, or a large pine-cone. The back of the seat is formed of smooth hazel rods, arranged so as to form diamonds, and after- wards varnished over.

ATINT ™ RI™ & Bissk I.—THE ti 4 »a TTPtrea ' VW &2 42 dv ts Wi i de HAUNCH OF VENISON. BY EDITH WOODLEY. «“ Don’t believe in witches? Why, Lizzie Par- | ker, how you do talk!” said Aunt Tabitha Tremlin, dropping her knitting-work into her lap, and holding up both hands with astonishment. «I cannot say that I do,’’ replied Lizzie. “ Well, your cousin ain’t sich a wicked sinner as not to believe in ’em, I know—are you, Paul ?”’ Paul, who sat in front of the fire, idly stirring a large bed of glowing rock-maple coals, threw a merry glance out of the corner of his left eye to- wards Lizzie, as much as to say, ‘‘ Now for a little sport ;”’ then, quickly assuming a look of profound gravity, he replied— ‘«T hardly know what to say, Aunt Tabitha; but one thing is certain, strange things have happened in this world of ours.” «« That ’s what there has. Lizzie can’t gainsay that. But I want to have you tell me, Paul, if any of ’em ever happened in your own spear of observa- tion.” *« Why, there was a little affair took place, that seemed some like witchwork, during one of our college vacations, which I spent in New York.”’ *<T ’ll warrant it,” said Aunt Tabitha. “Tell us all about it, Paul.” And, clasping her hands tight- ly together, she commenced a rocking motion, such as is sometimes adopted by persons who have a } taste for intensifying their feelings to what might, ; to borrow a phrase applied to metallic substances, be termed a white heat. g « You never heard of Mr. Pragg, I suppose?’ said Paul. «‘Haven’t I though? I used to know old Pete Pragg as well as I know you.” «« Mr. Ebenezer Pragg is the one I mean.” “La! well, if I never seed Nezer, I’ve heern tell ofhim. He’s a kin to old Pete: his father and Pete were second cousins. Well, what of him? Has Nezer anything to do with your story ?”’ «You shall hear,” said Paul, solemnly. “ Mr Ebenezer Pragg, who is a resident of the city of New York, belongs to a club. The limited to six ; and no one is admitted except he is number is a bachelor. Though every evening plenty of re- freshments are placed upon the sideboard, they have what they call a regular supper only once a week, which is prepared in the basement of the same building containing the club-room. One day a man by the name of Bluff, who was a member of the club, told me that they were going to have a veni- son supper that evening, and invited me to attend ‘It was a fine haunch of venison, so Mr. Pragg told him,’ he said, ‘ who had received it from a friend in the country as a present.’ tion; and, when we arrived, we found all the other I accepted the invita- members assembled. As I shall have occasion to allude to each of them hereafter, I will mention that the names of the four members besides Mr Bluff and Mr. Pragg, were Questman, Nixon, Stilts, and Sippet. Not long after we arrived, a lad came into

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32 GODEY’S the room and whispered to Mr. Pragg, who imme- diately withdrew. He was absent about ten mi- nutes; and, when he returned, he looked white as a sheet.” “The land o’ massy, Paul, how you skeer me !”’ said Aunt Tabitha. ‘«¢Gentlemen,’ said he. He could go no farther ; but stopped, and gasped for breath. ‘“‘T never !”’ exclaimed Aunt Tabitha, rocking her- self backwards and forwards more vehemently than ever. ‘Go on with your story, Paul.” *«? Would harrow up your soul, freeze ‘¢¢ What has happened, Mr. Pragg? What have you seen?’ said Mr. Questman, breaking in upon Mr. Stilts. “¢ We are all curiosity, “¢Freeze’—said Mr. up the thread of his recitation where Mr. Questman broke it off. “<Tt must have been really awful,’ said Mr. ] said Mr. Nixon. Stilts, catching Nixon, ‘or Mr. Pragg would never have turned so pale.’ «“¢]It makes me tremble to think of it,’ said Mr. Sippet. «“ « Free—eeze’—again chimed in Mr. Stilts. «Permit me, Mr. Stilts,’ said Mr. Pragg, wav- ing his hand with great dignity. ‘I think I can tell it now.’ «Certainly, certainly; I perceive—I see that ‘Richard ’s himself again!’”?’ Whereupon Mr. Stilts, who looked as if, by means of some invisible machinery, he was screwed and contorted in a manner very painful to endure, resumed a natural attitude. *««Can you tell itnow? If not, take longer time to compose yourself,’ said Mr. Nixon. « «Yes, lam composed now; perfectly so,’ said Mr. Pragg. ‘You know, gentlemen, that we ex- pected to have a nice haunch of venison for supper?’ «“<«], for one, knew it,’ said Mr. Bluff. “¢And so did I,’ said Mr. Stilts; ‘for, as you may remember, Mr. Pragg, I was present when it arrived.’ “¢You were, Mr. Stilts; and do I exaggerate when I say it was nice—exceedingly so?’ «Not a jot, mot a jot. 1 can certify that— *« The haunch was a picture for a painter to study, The fat was so white, the lean was so ruddy !’’? «“«That is what it was,’ said Mr. Pragg. ‘But it has turned out to be a leg of mutton !’ ««« And blue and hard as a whetstone!’ said Peter, MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. tte the lad who had called Mr. Pragg from the room, that he might witness the remarkable transforma- tion it had undergone. ««« Peter, you must have made some mistake,’ said Mr. Bluff. ‘I have no belief that a haunch of venison could turn into a leg of mutton.’ ««No, I haven’t, certingly,’ said Peter. ‘Miss Mullet, Mr. Pragg’s housekeeper, told me twas the wenson ; and I seed it, too, afore she did it up in the cloth, and it didn’t look a bit as it did when the cook took the cloth off.’ ««<«Come, let us go and see what it looks like now,’ said Mr. Bluff. «<That ’s what I say,’ said Mr. Questman. ‘Come, Sippet, come along.’ ««<¢Gentlemen,’ said Mr. Pragg. ‘it is my wish that you al go, and thus satisfy yourselves that the astonishment—I might say, alarm—which you saw depicted on my countenance was not without a cause.’ ‘In consequence of this request, we all proceed- ed to the cook’s sanctum, where we beheld, as had been reported, a little blue, miserable-looking leg of mutton.’ ‘««¢]t is my opinion,’ said Mr. Sippet, in a hoarse whisper, ‘ that it is bewitched.’ «¢ You are bewitched twice as much,’ said Mr. Bluff. « ¢T am inclined to think that Sippet is right,’ said Mr. Questman. «“<« The truth is, Mr. Questman,’ said Sippet, put- ting his lips close to that gentleman’s ear, ‘that Mrs. Mullet, who, you know, keeps Mr Pragg’s house, is—at least, I ’ve no doubt of it—what the Scotch people would call a little uncanny.’ «<¢]s it possible? What makes you think so?’ ««¢ What has now taken place would be enough ; but I have other reasons.’ «¢ You think, then, that Mrs. Mullet’—and, glane- ing his eye towards the mutton, Mr. Questman eked out his sentence by winks and nods. «¢ Just so,’ replied Mr. Sippet. “Mr. Pragg did not speak, but kept his eyes fixed on the mutton, as if it possessed the power of fascination. ««¢ See how our partner’s rapt!’ said Mr. Stilts. And then giving a sudden jerk at Mr. Pragg’s sleeve, he added— ‘« Why stands Macbeth thus amazedly ?’’’ “ This had the effect to rouse Mr. Pragg, who, stamping on the floor to give emphasis to his words, said— « «Gentlemen, I will sift this matter to the bot- tom !—I will confront Mrs. Mullet !—I will compel her to account for this transformation! Peter, take this leg of mutton and carry it back to Mrs. Mul- let. I shall soon be there myself. Gentlemen, will not some of you go with me?’ «<<Tt is my mind that we all go,’ said Mr. Nixon. «“ Peter took the mutton’’—

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“ Well, I wouldn’t ’ave touched it sooner than I would a live sarpent,” said Aunt Tabitha. ‘Go on with your story, Paul.’ ‘‘ Peter took the mutton, in order to carty it back to Mrs. Mullet; and, in about five minutes, we were all ready to follow him. When arrived at Mr. Pragg’s residence, according to his directions, we, in silence,stole round to the back of the house, where, through the uncurtained windows, we could see Mrs. Mullet, who sat before the kitchen fire knitting. Peter had not yet arrived. «<< Do you see that great kettle steaming over the fire ?’ whispered Mr. Sippet.

**¢ Double, double, toil and trouble, Fire burn and caldron bubb!e,’ whispered Mr. Stilts in reply.’ “You ’d seen an awful sight, if you could ’ave seen into that calderon, I ‘ll warrant you,’’ said Aunt Tabitha. ““<It is my opinion,’ said Mr. Sippet, ‘that she and some of her cronies are going to have a good set-down, and that she is cooking their supper in that caldron.’ *« ¢T shouldn’t wonder if she was,’ said Mr. Nixon. ¢ Fillet of a fenny snake, In the caldron boil and bake,’ whispered Mr. Stilts. ««¢T can’t think where Peter is,’ said Mr. Pragg. «<¢] shouldn’t think strange,’ said Mr. Sippet, ‘if he has had a witch-bridle slipped over his head by this time.’ «You had better look out, Sippet,’ said Mr. Bluff, ‘or you may have one slipped over yours. It’s my opinion that you would make a spirited little nag; and the witches, I ’ll venture to say, won’t think of walking home after feasting on the contents of the caldron.’ «“ «They ’ll have a merry time of it, I dare say,’ said Mr. Stilts; and he commenced repeating— ** ¢ Now about the caldron sing, Like elves and fairies in a ring, Enchanting all that you put in. Black spirits and white, Red spirits and gray ; Mingle, mingle. mingle, You that mingle may.’ « ¢ Peter is coming, I guess,’ said Mr. Pragg, so- lemnly, who, with Mr. Nixon, had been peeping round the corner of the house. «< « What are you about, Sippet?’ said Mr. Quest- man, as, by the dim light which gleamed from the windows, he perceived him seated on the ground, coiled up somewhat in the form of a ball. « «Turning one of my stockings wrong side out- wards,’ was the reply ; ‘and I advise you to do the same. Certain kinds of persons—such as, you know who—can have no power over those who have on any article of apparel turned wrong side outwards.’ VOL. XLII.—4 SARALEAR AAA PAD PPL PDL LPL PLL PPP PP PPL LL PPL LPL PPPOE PPP pp pen

TABITHA’S FIRESIDE. 33

“<¢T°’ve a good mind to turn one of mine,’ said Mr. Questman. “<¢Tt appears to me,’ said Mr. Nixon, who now approached, and was let into the secret of turning the stocking, ‘that turning the coat would be a much better protection. Not that I’m afraid; but it can do no harm to take proper precaution.’ And, taking off his coat, he turned it. *“ Mr. Questman’s mind was now thrown into a most painful state of dubiosity as to whether it would be better to turn his stocking or his coat While he was still halting between two opinions, Peter arrived ; and, in answer to Mr. Pragg’s some what noisy summons, Mrs. Mullet had opened the There was no longer any time for hesita- It was a moment of door. tion, and little for execution. anxious, almost overwhelming, solicitude, when a bright thought, like a gleam of sunshine cast upon dark and troubled waters, came to his relief. He had a flannel night-cap in his pocket, and quickly taking it thence, he turned 1t and put it on his head, thinking, as he did so, that, if there was any spot more vulnerable than another to the weird glances or invisible weapons to which he imagined he was about to be exposed, it was more likely to be on his head than his heel. A most logical deduction, ris- ing not only from the fact of never having, like the renowned Achilles, been dipped mto the River Styx, but from a consciousness that he did not, in any other respect, bear the most remote resem- blance to that redoubtable warrior of the olden time “Nearly crushed with the weight of the honor thus unexpectedly thrust upon her, of having so many gentlemen enter the kitchen, Mrs. Mullet hastened to place chairs for their accommodation round the fire. No one, however, except myself seemed disposed to take advantage of this hospi- table movement ; and, though an eye was now and then directed stealthily askant towards the boiling five-pail kettle, each tongue was chained in solemn silence. Mr. Pragg was the first to break it. ‘“«« Peter,’ said he, ‘place the mutton upon the table.’ «Don’t you think that the blaze of the candle looks uncommonly blue?’ said Mr. Sippet, in an under tone. “This gave Mr. Stilts the cue, who, in alow, deep voice, as if horror-struck, exclaimed— *¢¢ The lights burn blue. It is now dead midnight’— ««¢ Oh no, sir, it is not,’ said Mrs. Mullet. ‘The clock has just struck ten.’ ‘¢ Peter, in the mean time, had laid the mutton on the table, as Mr. Pragg had directed him. “<«Go to that knife-basket, Peter,’ said Mr. Pragg, who had placed himself, with an air of so- lemn dignity, near the table, ‘and see if you can find me a silver fork.’ “¢That ’s a bright thought,’ said Mr. Sippet ‘It is said there is great virtue in silver, in cases like the present. You have all of you, no doubt, heard of the execution a silver bullet has d ione,

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AND LADY’S BOOK.

~~ when a company of the sisterhood has been heard riding through the air on broomsticks.’ ”’ ‘*T guess J ’ve heard the vartue there is in silver, if they never did,” said Aunt Tabitha. “ Why, when I ’ve been churning, ’specially arter it got to be putty late in the fail, I’ve been obleeged forty times, and forty to the eend of that, to put a piece of silver money in the churn afore I could get a speck of butter. Paul, go on with your story.” «As Mr. Pragg raised the cloth upon the tines of the silver fork, he said— «“ «Mrs. Mullet, step this way.’ «« Tremblingly, she approached the table.” ‘It’s no wonder she trembled,’ said Aunt Ta- bitha. « «It is my wish,’ said Mr. Pragg, fixing his eyes on the countenance of little Mrs. Mullet, < that you will account for this transformation.’ «What transformation?’ Mrs. Mullet ventured to ask. ««] am not to be questioned: see for yourself,’ said Mr. Pragg, continuing to look her steadily in the face. ‘* By this time Mr. Bluff, armed with his own natural courage, Mr. Stilts, who thought too much of his poetical quotations to think of much else, and Mr. Nixon, shielded by his turned coat, had boldly taken their stations on the opposite side of the table; while Mr. Questman peeped over Mr. Bluff’s shoul- der, and Mr. Sippet under Mr. Stilts’ arm. As for Peter and myself, we took advantage of a place convenient both for seeing and hearing. « *Why, how is this?’ said Mr. Bluff. ‘ This ap- pears to me to be as good a haunch of venison as I ever laid my eyes on.’ ‘<< It appears the same to me now,’ said Mr. Nix- on, glancing his eyes over the armor of proof in which he was invested, in the shape of the turned coat. *« ¢ And so it does to me,’ said Mr. Questman, put- ting his hand to his head to assure himself that it was well covered with the protecting night-cap. ««¢ And so it does to me,’ said Mr. Sippet, plant- ing the foot covered with the turned stocking more firmly on the floor. *« «So also it does to me,’ said Mr. Pragg; ‘ but, gentlemen, I saw, and you saw, and we all saw, that, though it is a haunch of venison here, it was a leg of mutton in the kitchen of the club-house.’ «¢ Yes,’ said Mr. Nixon, ‘ though venison here, jt was mutton there.’ ‘«« «Tt has undergone singular changes, truly,’ said Mr. Stilts; ‘ yet it was no great feat to perform for one who has we lernit frae the fairy folk, And frae her master true, The words that can bear her through the air, And locks and bars undo.’

«*T am a poor ignorant woman, and can’t under- stand what you mean,’ said Mrs. Mullet, beginning to have a strange fear creep over her, as she listen-

ed to the wild lines repeated by Mr. Stilis, and ob- served the grotesque appearance of Mr. Nixon with his turned coat, the sleeves of which were lined with yellow satin; and of Mr. Questman, with bis long sharp face, rendered particularly cadaverous by being surrounded by his flannel night-cap. * « Come,’ said Mr. Bluff, ‘time is wasting, and 1 think we had better go back to the club-room. Pe- ter, take the venison and return with it—that is, with your leave, Mr. Pragg; for I can see no rea- son that we should be disappointed ef our supper.’ “¢] couldn’t taste a mouthful of it,’ said Mr. Questman. *«* Nor I,’ said Mr. Sippet; ‘my appetite is all gone.’ «« «So is mine,’ said Mr. Nixon. that, I would show you I ain’t afraid to eat it—I would.’ «Mr. Bluff,’ said Mr. Pragg, ‘if you think you can relish the venison, let Peter take it to your house.’ ‘« ¢ Much obliged to you,’ replied Mr. Bluff. « My sister also will owe you her thanks, for I shall ‘If it wan’t for Stay at home to-morrow evening, and assist her and my friend here, Mr. Parker, and one or two Mrs. Mullet, I see, looks pale and fatigued, and I think we had better go.’ “« This proposal was acceded to, without a single dissenting voice. others, to eat it. Mr. Pragg, in a confidential whisper to his brothers of the club, assured them that he should never lodge under his own roof an- other night till Mrs. Mullet was gone. Mr. Stilts threw a sidelong glance towards her, repeating, as he left the room— ‘<* The spell may crack, and the bridle break, Then sharp your weird will be.’ «“ Mr. Bluff lingered a little behind, that he might direct Peter where to carry the venison, and then courteously bid Mrs. Mullet ‘good night,’ an exam- ple which was followed by your humble servant.” “ Well, Paul,’’ said Aunt Tabitha, “1 want to ask you one question, and that is, whether you went and helped eat the pison stuff.”’ ‘© I did.’’ “ You did? you were one of the most presumptionest critters Well, I'll say one thing, and that is, that ever breathed the breath of life since the flood.”’ « Presumptuous or not, aunt, I made a most capi- tal supper.” “ Well, all I’ve got to say is, that you ’ve reason to thank yer stars that it didn’t make you ravin’ dis- tracted. sel of it, any more than if it had been so much ratshean. Now, Lizzie, arter hearin’ Paul’s story, I hope you ’ll give up that there are sich folks as You wouldn’t a got me to swalier a mor- witches in the world.” ‘¢] must confess, Aunt Tabitha, that I am as un- believing as ever.”’ «« Well, I declare, if that ain’t paying Paul a com- pliment, and with a witness, too. If I was to say it, I should call it tantamount to telling him he lies.” .

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THE PICKING BEE. 35

~~ “I suspect,’’ said Lizzie, ‘that Peter, or some other person concerned in the affair, was fond of a practical joke—was it not so, Papl ?”’ “For Aunt Tabitha’s sake, who would take so much comfort in believing that, by the aid of spells and enchantments, the venison was really turned into mutton, and then back again intg venison, I am sorry to confess that you are right.. The truth is that Mr. Pragg was almost daily in the habit of practising some petty piece of meanness towards a man who kept a cellar, where he frequently took what he called a luncheon, though he generally made it answer for his dinner. The man had been looxing out for an opportunity to do him a shrewd turn. Peter, who, on his way to the club-house, called at the cellar to rest and have a little chat, told him what he had in his cloth, and for what it was designed. He had, when he entered, laid it upon a table, and the man, thinking that he should not have a better chance to effect his purpose, watched his opportunity, and succeeded, unperceived by Peter, in substituting the mutton for the venison. Filled with wonder at the marvelous transformation, which persons much older, and, as he believed, a great decl wiser than himself, imagined had taken place, Peter, on his way back to the residence of Mr. Pragg, could not resist the temptation of again calling at the cellar, to make known what had happened. It exceeded the man’s most sanguine expectations, and, to more fully carry out the joke, he made a second exchange.”’ ‘<I don't believe a word of it,’’ said Aunt Tabi- tha; ‘it’s a likely story that he could change one for t’other, right afore the boy’s face and eyes, and he not see what he was about! If the raal truth of the matter could be come at, I'll warrant you that it would turn out the suller-keeper was in league with that Miss Mullet. It would take more suller-keepers than could stand from here over te the North Parish meetin’-us to make me believe sich a shaller contrived story as that ”’ “] should like to know, Paul, what became of Mrs. Mullet,”’ said Lizzie. “Mr. Bluff was so much pleased with her ap- pearance, that he recommended her to his sister, with whom he boarded. Her health being delicate, she was in want of a trustworthy person to super- intend the housekeeping.” “Well, if anybody ever heard the like of that !”’ said Aunt Tabitha. ‘For my part, I don’t know what the world’s coming to. In old times, people had more sense than to uphold sich characters in If Miss Mullet had lived in them days, and sarved the pairson she kept house for sich their wickedness. a trick as she did Mr. Pragg, she wouldn’t ’ave come off quite so easy, I guess—she would ‘ave bad her desarts, and I wish to my heart she could have ’em now.” “A wish in which [ most heartily join,’”’ said Paul, with great gravity. “And now, Aunt Tabitha, with your leave, I will go and get a few of those nice walnuts, and some of your favorite apples.” ‘That ’s right, Paul; and when you are about it, bring along a mug of that nice spruce beer, that’s a good soul.”

THE lan] Tp ” \r yas) E REMINISCENCES OF OTHER DAYS; BEING ODDS AND ENDS FROM AN OLD PORTFOLIO. A TRUE BY MRS. A To those of my readers who have never breathed the atmosphere of western wilds, listened to the rude jargon of real Down Easters, or placed their dainty feet on aught save cultivated glebes, the un- couth heading of this sketch will prove an enigma, which must be unraveled ere I proceed. ‘To the uninitiated I would therefore say that, though the rapid march of improvement has rendered ” almost obsolete now, yet, this cognomen, “Bee, comparatively but a few years since, it was, in parts of our country, the fashionable title given to tea, or scandal parties, whichsoever name you most prefer. I myself am convinced that these self-same parties frequently embrace the compound qualities of both appellations ; for, certainly, due justice is generally done both to the refreshing qualities of the beverage, and also to settling the affairs of poor unfortunate neighbors, Who, with their eyes wide open, are, alas! blind to the proper government of their own house- SKETCH. NWN ; A F. LAW. holds. reader nine: and now to my story. In the interior of the State of New York, in the most uncultivated portion of that country situated on the borders of the Black River, dwelt, long years since, some of the members of a German family, who had been driven, by the ravages and persecu- tions of war, to seek a peaceful shelter in the wilds I beg you will pardon this digression, dear of America. Unacquainted with the life upon which they were entering, and entire strangers in this new land, they were easily persuaded by pilgrim companions to join in their wanderings; and at last, tempted by the ap- parent richness of soil in this far region, and by the attractive inducements held out by land-dealers, this little roving band became the settlers of a tract of country, wild beyond description, and, at the time of which I write, almost uninhabited. It was with sad hearts these wanderers from home

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7 oo mit WT i 36 GOD MAGAZ and kindred viewed the desolateness of their future abode ; for, in dear Germany, they had been sur- rounded by the comforts and intellectual enjoyments of life; and most striking was the contrast with this their present situation. Their dwelling was a rude log cabin, with apertures scarcely deserving the names of windows or doors. They were rich in the extent of their lands, ’tis true; but the profit to ac- crue from them must be procured by the sweat of the brow, and by that toil which makes man o/d ere he has reached the prime of life. In vain, with longing eyes, they searched for companionship in this wilderness; no answering social smoke curled up from neighboring roofs, for one uninterrupted scene of forest and glebe, river and lake, met the view on every side. In unconfined luxuriance na- ture displayed her leafy treasures; and the wind, on a winter’s night, howled fearfully as it swept past the little tenement, threatening, but for its lowliness, to cast it to the ground: and to the wakeful ear, in dead of night, came that fearful sound, the howling of wild beasts in search of prey. Amid this wilder- ness scene, ofttimes the pilgrim band sent forth upon the evening air the plaintive lays of their *“ Vaterland,’’ and then the trickling tear and oft- drawn sigh told that their thoughts were far away, mid the familiar scenes of that dear clime. ‘Ist auch schén im freurden lande, Dennoch wird’s zur Heimath nie.’ A few years of unwearied exertion soon changed the aspect of the place, and it gradually acquired an air of civilization; for other settlers joined the feeble colony, and the bearded fields and lowing herds told the force of improvement. The log hut gave place to a commanding stone mansion; and this acquisi- tion, by mutual consent, made our German friends the lords of the land. They had already gained great influence, and were looked up to as superior beings, because of their larning, as ’twas called; and now that they possessed a real “stun’’ house, with upper rooms, and a stairway—for these several accommodations, look you, were unknown in those primitive days, ladders being the usual means of ascent to the upper room of the house (said mansion ordinarily containing but two rooms)—by these ac- quisitions, [ say, our German friends had become the great people of the place. At this auspicious period, some near and dear re- latives, who had become residents of one of our large cities, determined on a visit to these dwellers in the west, and accordingly embarked, with a freight of children and other commodities, on board a steam- boat: not to be conveyed like a flash of lightning on their way, but to progress by slow and tedious rates —the journey from Philadelphia to New York alone occupying nearly twenty-four hours. Patience is a most commendable virtue, and by dint of exercising it to its full extent, the voyagers, despite the vocife- rous exclamations of tired babes, arrived safely at their destination. Have you, my readers, ever been separated by ‘ trim, the family set out upon this novel visit. AND I long distances, and still longer years, from those you hold dearest on earth? If so, you can well appre- ciate the loving wgrds and warm embraces of those who thus met after a period of sad and protracted separation. Together they dwelt upon the sacred past ; and names were breathed and scenes recalled which had long lingered in the heart, as the witch- ing phantoms of days “lang syne.’’ Again upon the evening air went forth a spell of melody; but the cloudless eye and beaming face told that it was the pure incense of praise, ascending from glad souls. Ah, a happy, reunited family were they who rested their weary heads that night beneath this unassuming roof in the wilderness ! Madam Rumor is wmvariably the busiest dweller in either city or country; and by her kind consider- ation, it was soon known that the village was graced with an arrival of real gentry, all the way from one of the dig cities : and great was the commotion ex- cited by the news! Old bonnets were retrimmed, old gowns new turned, and the best breeches scoured and brushed, in honor of the first appearance of our friends in the rustic church. Curiosity was stretch- ed to its utmost tension, and with eagerness was awaited the time when the belles and beaux should be refreshed with a glimpse of city fashions, and obtain an inkling of city manners. The day at length arrived; and toes were trodden upon, and sides most unceremoniously elbowed by the expectant crowd; while the sum total of public opinion was simply expressed by an old gossip, who said, “they ain’t so mighty grand and proud-like, after all.” The great entrée into society being thus effected, the next day the travelers were greeted with numerous calls, and abundant invitations to spend the day, and take tea. How very different, in its every aspect, 1s hospi- tality, as displayed in the country, from that which is extended by city dwellers! In general, civilities are tendered by citizens with the well-bred courtesy of those who deem it proper to offer attentions, but who would gladly dispense with the task, were it consistent with propriety to do so: whereas, in the country, Visitors are met with open hand and open heart, and naught is deemed troublesome that can conduce to the pleasure of the guests. This genuine and truthful hospitality was fully displayed by the inhabitants of the village of which we write. Al- though their speech was rude, and manners strange, yet the Heart shone forth witb its qualities of genu- ine kindness. The incidents which are mentioned in illustration of their peculiarities, are not meant as ridicule, but are used simply to show the vast difference between the past and the present, and the modes and customs of life incident to the first settlers of portions of our country. Among the civilities offered the strangers, was an invitation to a “Packing Bee,” which was promptly accepted; and, early on the day appointed, some- where between one and two o’clock, attired in party

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THE PICKING BEE. 37

The “Bee’’ was given by one of the wealthiest settlers, and thereby was afforded a complete insight into the aristocratic society (there is an ‘‘wpper ten’’ even in the wilderness) of the village. Arrived at the hospitable mansion (a/tas log cabin), the guests were immediately welcomed with “ Well, will you go up chamber?’’—which means in polite phrase- ology, “ will you enter the dressing-room ?”’ Divested of their riding attire, they joined the cir- cle in the general sitting-room, used for culinary, as well as other purposes, and there found the guests occupied in separating and cleansing tangled masses of wool, and in which disagreeable task, of course, they joined. The sayings and doings of the com- munity at large afforded a fruitful topic of conversa- tion; and not a little curiosity was displayed in observations calculated to call forth the peculiarities of the city gentry, and the history of their where- abouts. Their various articles of apparel were han- dled and commented upon, and some of them were even tried on. The value of the goods was de- manded, and the possibility of obtaining similar ones discussed, intermixed with tolerably open hints that patterns, and even some of the articles themselves, would be very acceptable .* As though unconscious of observation, the culi- nary operations progressed, under the care of some of the females, in the midst of wool picking, and an unceasing din of tongues. Sundry asides were con- stantly given to a set of noisy urchins, who, despite boxes on the ears, and various sly poses and winks, managed, by means of their fingers, to taste the good things preparing for the feast—these said good things rendered much less palatable by reason of the mud puddles, &c. in which aforesaid fingers had been lately thrust. Suddenly, a sonorous voice ut- tered, ‘Ali hands wash ;’’ and thereupon, to the great surprise of the strangers, a general rush ensued, and before they well knew what it meant, they found their hands immersed in an earthen crock, containing water, into which all the company dipped in suc- cession, after first obtaining a portion of soft soap from another crock which stood close by. There being no change of water, my readers may readily imagine the eventual hue of the once clear liquid. This washing operation concluded, the company next ranged themselves around the hospitable board, filled to repletion with solid eatables—placed, how- ever, without much attention to order; and it must be acknowledged that some of the articles bore ra- ther a questionable appearance. Ye lovers of delicate repasts, imagine, if you can, the compound which graced the centre of the table! It was contained in a huge deep dish, and consisted

* This inquisitiveness was not the effect of rudeness; they simply followed the customs of those parts, and, being rightly understood, they were kindly humored by the strangers, who strove, in their turn, to amuse them by a relation of facts in connection with their own his- tories, which appeared quite as uncouth to their listen- ets as did their own oddities to the narrators.

4*

of a mingled preparation of mutton, bacon (good fat flitches too), deans, pumpkins, beef, and potatoes ; into which mess “all hands’’ dipped with exceeding gusto. Among the relishes, placed at the four cor- ners of the table, were bowls containing custard; whilst, scattered here and there, were plates of wild raspberries and pickled beets. Now these various edibles were not each honored with a separate ladle, but every person was at liberty to use his own spoon, in order to procure a portion of the dainty mess; so that, in a very short space of time, the custard was transformed into a marvelous mixture, with black and blue tints, tinged also with occasional streaks of red; and the beets and berries were swim- ming in a yellow sauce quite foreign to their nature. This Epicurean repast was seasoned with sundry smacks of lips, and exclamations of ‘how good!”’ and, “well, do tell, where did you get them sert-er gimeracks?”’ “I never seed the like afore.’’ Also, “Guess you ’re sort-er proud, ain’t ye, hav’n them ’ere city folks to eat a meal with ye?”” “ Well, Miss Marshall (all married ladies were styled Miss), where did ye get that boughten tea from? Do tell: guess it cost pretty smart !’’* The foregoing are but a few idioms, yet still suffi- cient to show the mode of conversation. Supper ended, the “‘ woods-people”’ (thus called because re siding in the woodland portions of the country) hav ing some distance to ride, and it being already dark, hastened to equip themselves for their departure, thus breaking up the “Bee~’’ and our city friends also returned home, quite satisfied with this, their first, appearance at a “ back-woods’’ tea party; car- rying away with them many pleasant and amusing reminiscences, in store for future days. Ere 1 conciude this sketch, I will trespass on the patience of my courteous reader, in order to relate an incident which occurred in the presence of some relatives, who, years ago, made the western tour. They rested for the night at a log cabin, by the way- side, occupied by a family who seemed “ well to do”’ in the world, and who received them most kindly, Preparations were immediately commenced for sup- per, which, in these parts, was a combined dinner and tea. Whilst all things were in cooking process, a little urchin, covered with mud and dust, ran into the room, and demanded to be washed. No coaxing, no threats could deter him from the accomplishment of his purpose; and, at length, the indulgent mother took an iron skillet, which was standing by the fire ready for the reception of some food, and, filling it with water, stripped the youth, and prosecuted the cleansing operation. tilted, and the contents emptied on the earthen floor; This ended, the skillet was

* The usual tea used in that portion of the country was hemlock ; and the * boughten tea’’ was an ordinary sort of black or green tea, purchased at the village store, and only used on “ state occasions.”’ It was con- sidered the height of politeness, and extravagance too, to regale visitors with this high-priced article.

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GODEY’S 38 MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. and, without receiving even the slightest attempt at rinsing, the mess of meat and vegetables, in wait- ing, was placed in it, and, from a wash-basin, it was instantly transformed into a cooking utensil. This was the custom of the house, and as they all partook, without hesitation, of such dainty fare, it did not enter into their minds that visitors should ; meet with a different fate: The incidents which I have related are not the promptings of imagination, ’ but are facts, gathered from actual observation. Should these leaves from my old Portfolio meet with a favorable reception, perhaps, at another time, I may be persuaded to display another sketch from among its varied contents. ASPASIA AN BY ANN ‘€ Slow sinks, more lovely ere her race is run, Along Moreas’ hill, the setting sun ; Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, But one unclouded blaze of living light.’’ Tuvs passed daylight from the glorious old city of Athens, and such was the presage of a beautiful evening. The absence of twilight made still more welcome the approach of Night’s gentle queen. Moonlight, like the smile of beauty, soon rested upon the lofty Acropolis, and bathed with its soft radiance the temple of the virgin goddess. How pure and white seemed those pillars of Pentelic mar- ble, and the vine and honeysuckle, carved by the hand of Phidias, twined gracefully around the cor- nice! The battles of the gods, the exploits of he- roes, and the actions of the goddess are here com- memorated by the same master hand. On such a night as this, one could not but desire to enter those massive brazen gates, walk undisturbed through the Propylea, and gaze upon those works of art which have since made the Athenians immortal. That day the great feast of the Panathenzea had been cele- brated. The solemn procession of minstrels and priests, horsemen and victims, passed through those consecrated avenues, and performed their wonted ceremonies before the golden statue of their favorite goddess. The music had ceased, the flowery wreaths that adorned the lyre and harp were withered, and the weary hands that, all day long, had drawn sweet music from their strings were now folded in sleep. Priest and soldier, citizen and slave, exhausted by the exciting events of the day, had left the scene, and naught was heard save the monotonous sound of the waves of the gulf, and the heavy tread of armed watchmen. Leaning against one of the mar- ble pillars, one solitary gazer alone remained. He was wrapped in an ample cloak, which concealed his form, and seemed absorbed in contemplation of the beautiful scene before him. Far in the distance were the dark waters of the 72gean, on the other side smiling vineyards and olive-crowned hills; while above him was the blue sky, from out which the full moon looked down in gladness on a quiet world. The head of the muser was uncovered, his helmet was in his hand, and the lofty brow and noble profile were no unfit companion for the marble bust of many D CLE E. PORTER. a worshiped god around him. “Thou art a late wanderer, my dear teacher,’’ said a voice, whose tones were musical as the harp touched by the eve- ning wind. ‘Night is the time for thought, Plato; all day } long I walk the thronged and busy streets, imparting } my small stock of wisdom to the youth of the re- public. At night, like the flowers, I gather dew and sweetness to relieve my own wearied spirit. I have } now been reviewing the past and dreaming of the future. The vain pageant of to-day, in which I $ joined in body, though not in heart, has ruffled the usual calm of my spirit. Now, as I gaze upon the boundless sky, that glorious moon, and stars, to me mysterious, I feel the insufficiency of our religion to satisfy the soul. Here, here,’ laying his hand upon his heart, ‘‘are wants which idle peean and useless sacrifice fail to satisfy. I feel, Plato, like a part of something infinite; that within this deformed and shapeless bogy the spirit will dwell but a brief space. Farther than this I know not; but I believe that goodness here will be perfect happiness with the ods.”’ “If so,” said Plato, who now drew near to his master, while both seated themselves on a block of marble, which lay ready for the builder’s hand, ‘ if so, how foolish to strive for immortality here !’’ and he pointed to a marble statue of one of the gods, the features of which were an exact copy of those of Pericles. “Poor Pericles!’ said the philosopher, as he bowed his head upon his hands, while he wrapped his cloak closer about him. “«* Poor Pericles!’ sayest thou? Why, he is the idol of Athens, favored by the gods with wealth, beauty, and power; why callest thou him ‘ poor?’’’ «“ Poor indeed is that man, Plato, who excites the pity of one so poor as myself. Alas! the mighty Pericles is learning, in his old age, the lesson which I learned long since ;’’ and, as if bitter memories of the past thronged upon him, the philosopher con- cealed his features in his mantle. «“T have unwittingly,’’ said the gentle Plato, “ re- > called sad thoughts. Shall we not retrace our steps to the grove of Academus, and, amid the beautiful works of Phidias, forget all but the rich pleasure of our own friendship?” enw es ee, a

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ASPASIA AND CLEOMENE. 39 “Not so,’’ answered Socrates; ‘ you, Plato, are the mirror of my soul. Naught passes there but may be reflected. Sit down again, and I will re- hearse to you a chapter in my life, known as yet to none but myself. Men call me philosopher, and fancy that no event disturbs the tranquillity of my spirit. Itisso. There is within me that which is more powerful than the lyre of Orpheus, when it charmed the savage Cerberus. It has lulled every passion, and led me to find more happiness in the little domain of one soul than Alcibiades or Pericles in the applause of all Athens. Men pity me that the gods gave me a deformed body; but I have learned, while I love beauty, to prize more highly the spirit- ual beauty which I seek than all the fair forms which matter may assume. I have said I delighted in beauty. The silver moon, and her sweet attendant, mild Hesperus, have, to-night, filled my soul with rapture. Not a stray wild flower in Attica, not a silver brook or rushing waterfall, a vine-clad hill or singing bird, but is a source of pleasure to me. Neither do I forget the human face and form. When this right hand carved the Graces, my eye and heart were not insensible to their beauty. And when I first gazed upon the beautiful Aspasia of Miletus, I felt a thrill such as I have never experienced since. You saw her to-day as she rode in her chariot, rich- ly adorned: you thought her enchanting then, and Pericles, forgetful of the sad Cleomene by his side, had eyes only for her. She sees her power, and throws around him cords which will bind his soul like bands of iron. “Tt is not many years since I too sat at the feet of Aspasia, and felt delight, yea rapture, in the thraldom. In my humble occupation as a statuary, in my earlier years, I studied the finest models; but, while I did so, I became more acutely sensible of my own imperfections. The sight of this defective body, and these shapeless feet, caused me many an hour of bitter murmuring against the gods. I was happy when Crito relieved me from what I feared was my taskwork for life, and bade me pursue the more congenial path of philosophy and literature. It was then I met her, compared with whom the ladies of Athens have no beauty. The full, deep, lustrous dark eye—the rich mass of black hair, which, unlike others, she braided with pearls and precious gems—the small voluptuous mouth—and the form which since has furnished Phidias for a model for many a goddess ; all these, and more— the fascination and polish of a cultivated intellect, and the graces of a Milesian education—conspired to captivate my eye and heart. You cannot appre- ciate this part of my spirit’s discipline—you will attain the felicity of the gods without the suffering through which I have passed. I have been through Hades onearth. But listen. With all the reverence that a Greek feels for his gods did I worship this gifled woman. Not with the pure, cold, and spirit- ual attachment peculiar to yourself, Plato. Not such my nature. Men call me philosopher, and speak of the purity and simplicity of my life. They little > know the effort and toil it has cost me to ascend from the mist and darkness of a lower region to a higher spiritual existence. And yet, I am not like the fuel consumed to dull ashes by the intensity of the flame ; nor, like the tame beast of burden, broken and spirit- less—but like the tramed war-horse, whose paces are regulated and mettle curbed by discipline and practice. The warmer passions of my nature are not extinguished, but burn with the steady and con- stant flame of a vestal fire.”’ It was the evening meal in the house of Pericles. Cleomene, with the utmost deference and zeal, had attended to the wants of her illustrious husband. At the close of the meal, as he poured a goblet of wine for his wife, he said, “We will go to the theatre; Aristophanes has a comedy this eve- ning; then I wish you to accompany me to the house of Aspasia, where Anaxagoras, Plato, and others sup.” The gentle Cleomene promised obedience, but the sad expression of her face showed that her own inclinations were sacrificed to the wishes of her husband. She arose and left the room, followed by her maidens, who resumed their spinning. She turned to her embroidery, and her delicate fingers were soon at work upon the figure of Minerva pre- senting the embroidered cloak to Jason when he went in search of the golden fleece. As she plied the polished shaft, and twined the gold and silver threads, tears filled her eyes and fell upon the beau- tiful fabric. Then, as if remembering the presence of her maidens, she resumed the dignity of a Gre- cian matron, and, suppressing all outward appear- ance of emotion, entered gayly into conversation with the fair group. The great feast of the Panathe- nea, which had just taken place, formed, of course, the topic of conversation for sage and maiden throughout Athens. The eyes of the young girls glistened as they rehearsed the scenes of the exhi- bition. The torch race on horseback, a part of the ceremony which had that year been introduced, was admired and commented upon. «“ How well Laertes rode his noble steed!”’ said one. “Yes, but not more gracefully than the son of Pericles, when he turned his horse’s head, and re- fused a garland from the hand of Aspasia.” At these words Cleomene started, and a look of surprise and pleasure lighted her beautiful counte- nance. The conversation was resumed—for, so interested were the maidens that they did not notice the emotion of their lady. ‘And that reminds me,’ said another, “ of the oak garland upon the sacred robe. I wish we could obtain some of those rich colors for our use.” “Do you not know,” said Calyce, “that they were imported from Miletus by Aspasia, and that with her own hands she wrought that garland ?” ‘‘ And what right has a Milesian dame to inter- fere with the employments of Athenian maidens?” «The sacred robes should be wrought only by such. But the men of Athens seem, now-a-days,

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40 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK.

to prize beauty and learning more than modesty and the domestic virtues.”’ While the maidens were thus talking, Cleomene glided from the room, and retired to her own cham- ber. She sat down, and, leaning her head upon her hands, gave free vent to the emotions which she had so long concealed. But one pleasant thought, like a stray sunbeam on the cloud, mingled with her sadness. ‘ Yes,’’ thought she, “ my first-born, my beloved child, feels the insult offered to his mother in the homage which his father pays to the beautiful Milesian. My gossiping maidens little knew the comfort which that sentence, so thought- lessly spoken, has given me. But am I so faded, and are all the charms of my youth so utterly gone, that I cannot win back the early love of Pericles?” She rose, and gazed on her countenance, as re- flected from the polished mirror. True, the bloom of youth was gone ; but there was the same classic head and regular profile, the mild eye, and transpa- rent complexion. But the gaze did not wholly satisfy the wishes of the sad wife. She saw not the sweet, mild ex- pression which usually dwelt there, or thought of the quiet performance of all the duties of wife and mother; neither was there reflected in that mirror the loving glance with which she ever met the return of husband and sons. She did not remember the qualities which made “ Cleomene the beloved,” but only of the brilliant beauty and rare endowments of the fascinating Milesian, which made her “ Aspasia the admired.” ‘ To-night,”’ said <he, “I must again meet her, be a witness to the admiration with which she inspires my husband, and mark, with the quick and watchful eye of a wife, his devotion to her charms. But I will make one more effort,’’ added she, mentally, and rose from her seat to open her casket of jewels. They had long lain undisturbed, for this Athenian wife and mother prized far more highly the treasures of her heart, the loved ones of her home, than all the precious gems which her wealthy father had la- vished upon her. Amid the other glittering contents of the casket, her eye fell upon a golden cicada, most ingeniously and beautifully wrought. It was one of the early gifis of her husband. More than a hundred precious stones, of very minute size, and of various colors, were so arranged as to form a perfect resemblance to the insect itself. She re- membered how Pericles had admired it as a work of art; and then, too, as a native Athenian, she could proudly wear it. It was an ornament which distinguished the inhabitants of this famous city, for, believing that it sprang from the earth itself, as they supposed of Athens, it hence came to be a national ornament. Cleomene placed it amidst the glossy braids of her hair, and then arraying herself in her richest robes, as became the wife of Peri- cles, she sat down to await his coming. From the theatre they adjourned to the house of Aspasia. Here were assembled the choicest spirits her

of Athens—the mild Plato, the witty Aristophanes, the eloquent Anaxagoras, and the calm, philosophic Socrates. Aspasia presided at this feast of reason— her beauty heightened by the charms of dress, as well as by the brilliancy of her conversation, and the vanity of her attainments. She could talk with the philosopher of his studies—with Pericles of the affairs of government—with Phidias upon the pro- portions of a statue, or the beauty of frieze and cornice ; then, with the jest of a young girl, she could discourse upon the beauty of a tunic, the fit of a sandal, or the ornament of a bodice. Cleo- mene, on the other hand, preferred retirement, seeking no admiratior from the crowd. She lived for her husband and her children. This evening Aspasia was unusually brilliant. Whenever Pericles left the weightier duties of his office for the gay feast and social gathering, her greater charms were brought into requisition. Pe- ricles could not resist her power, though he was not then fully aware of the strength of those silken cords which she, in soft dalliance, was winding around him. Poor Cleomene listened in silence, and a sensation of fear and heart sickness came over her as she saw the rapt attention of her husband, and marked his admiration of this accomplished woman. But one, in that company of learned Athenians, noticed the deadly paleness of her cheek, and the restless- ness of her eye. There was one who, ever forget- ful of self, and always mindful of the suffering, knew the changes of the human countenance, and could thence divine each inward phase; for he had learned his wisdom in the crowd by day, and in communion with his own spirit by night. Yes, Socrates, the wise and gentle, had watched Cleo- mene this evening, and knew the agony of her heart. He approached, and kindly entered into con- versation. He spoke of her sons, and expressed his interest in their prosperity, and advancement in the state. The mother’s heart was quickly won, and not many minutes elapsed before she was, all un- conscious to herself, talking well and wisely upon the education of youth. Socrates could learn even from the humblest citizen, nor did he refuse to glean wisdom from the experience of a wife and mother; and such as Cleomene might well win his esteem and admiration. We have seen with what feelings Socrates had formerly regarded Aspasia. These had passed away, and were known only to Plato and himself; but his own experience led him to sympathise with Pericles, and tremble for Cleomene. “« Aspasia is uncommonly brilliant,” said a young man who now joined them; “the beauty and talents of Milesia are well represented in this ac- complished lady.” “ Are the ladies of that city, generally, so beauti- ful and charming?*’ asked Cleomene. “ They have,”’ said the truthful Socrates, “‘ more personal beauty, and are more skilled in those arts which command admiration, than our own ladies

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ASPASIA AND CLEOMENE. 41 ee but the daughters of Athens are better wives and mothers ;’’ and the approving glance of his eye, as he said this, gave force to the expression. Cleomene felt and appreciated the compliment ; but she replied— ‘«T came here this evening at the request of my husband. it is long since I have met so many of our distinguished and learned men. The charms of one woman must be great todraw so many hither.’ “TI confess,” said Socrates, “the learning, the wit, and eloquence of our hostess are powerful. But the incessant homage paid to one whose virtue is questionable is almost an insult to our own ladies, and I have resolved that this shall be my last night at Aspasia’s.’’ Before Cleomene had time to reply, a knot ot young philosophers came toSocrates for the solution of a difficult question, and Cleomene was again left to mingle with the few ladies who graced that circle. Not once did she receive an affectionate glance or kind word from Pericles. But, as they rose to return home, he noticed, for the first time, the orna- ment in her hair. “No offence,’’ said he, as soon as they were to- gether, ‘I trust, to our hostess in the choice of your ornament to-night. It is, I believe, peculiar to our Athenian ladies.” “1 hoped that it would remind you of the earlier years of our married life,’? was the answer which trembled on her lips; but, suppressing her emotion, she merely said—“ It is a favorite jewel of mine, and was your earliest gift.” The mildness of the reply, and the gentle tones of her voice, caused a pang of remorse in the bosom of Pericles; but he stifled the thoughts which would have pleaded for his wife, and in his willing capti- vity to Aspasia bartered the peace of his own home. When Cleomene entered her own chamber, she found it occupied by Cleanth, her elder son. He was walking the room in quiet agitation. On see- ing his mother, he saluted her respectfully, and, as he did so, remarked her exceeding paleness, and her wearied, melancholy expression. “You suffer, my mother, and you have known all, and borne it im silence. You must have thought me an ungrateful son not to have sympathized more in your sorrow.” ‘What do you mean, my son?’’ said Cleomene, sinking into a chair, and gazing into his face with an expression of deep anguish. “ You cannot be ignorant, my mother, that your husband, my father, the once illustrious and re- nowned Pericles, is a byword and a jest in the mouth of every citizen. Yes, his love for Aspasia, and his neglect of you, are the common topics in the streets and public places. He took you to her house to-night to silence, if possible, common rumor. I came home, hoping to be here in time to prevent your going, but I was too late. I remained in your room, and fervently have I prayed the gods to avert this calamity from our household.” Cleomene was silent; no word of reproach | | against her husband escaped her lips, but her small hands were firmly clasped together, while the tears fell from her closed eyes. “And they say—’’ continued Cleanth ; but he looked at his mother, and paused. “Say what?’’ said Cleomene; “tell me all—I would know the worst.” «Pardon me if I give you pain, but I must tell you all: They say that the wife of Pericles is too tame and spiritless to resist, and patiently submits to insult and wrong. Two days since, at the feast of the Pantheon, I had an opportunity to show this artful woman that one, at least, in whose veins your blood runs, could despise and scorn her.” During this speech, the expression of gentleness which Cleomene usually wore passed away, and there was a fire in her eye, and a decision in the small, compressed mouth, which her son bad never seen before. “What you say is new to me, my son. True, I must confess, I had my fears and suspicions ; but I bore the coldness and reserve of my husband in silence, or returned it with inereased attention and kind words. 1 hoped to win back his early love. But prove to me that his love is another’s—that all my efforts are vain; and the wife of Pericles can act as well as suffer, and can preserve the dig- nity of an Athenian mother.” Cleanth cast upon his mother a look of pride and love; and, with words of mutual affection, they parted. It was at sunset, one mild evening, that Plato wended his way to the small and obscure house of Socrates. ‘And who,” say» a beautiful writer, “can describe the beauty of that hour in Athens, when violet lights of all various tints descend from heaven upon the mountains, red violet upon Hymet- tus, and blue violeton Parnes? A soft yellow light is spread along the plain, and rests on the front of the Acropolis, and kindles into a blaze upon the peak of Lycabetus; the sun, meanwhile, sinking slowly behind Treezene and Epidaurus, and the bright sur- face of the Saronic Gulf gleaming like a golden shield.” Plato surveyed the prospect with the eye of a poet and a philosopher, and, as he passed on amid this scene of natural beauty, heightened by those noble works of art which have made the age of Pericles immortal—the Pantheon, rising above the city like a crown of glory, with its magnificent colonnade ; the temple of Theseus, a model of archi- tectural beauty; with numerous other temples and statues, still beautiful in their decay—he felt the in- spiration of the hour, and, with his capacious spirit, drank in draughts of happiness, while the godlike stirred within him. In his humility he did not dream that his own name would descend to posterity as a no less noble specimen of moral grandeut than the works of Phidias and Praxiteles of physical beauty in the world of art. At the close of his long walk, as he stopped at ihe humble abode of the great philosopher, he heard voices within.

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42 GODEY’s MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. “T say, Socrates, my life is a burden to me; nothing but toil, toil, from morning till night. I have not only the whole care of the house, and providing for the table, but I must submit to all your blunders. It was only last night that you came near wearing my gown to the theatre for your own tunic; and when poor little Lamprocles asked for adrachm to buy dried grapes, you gave him, instead of the money, a long lecture on the bless- I'll tell you what it is, Socrates, I’ll bear with your ways no longer. All Athens knows I have borne my lot with patience. We are so poor that I haven’t decent clothes to wear, and yet you spend your time in the streets and market-places, and they say you do nothing but ask questions. 1 only wish you ’d ask me a few. I guess you ’d find it harder work to confound me than the young Sophists. J’d give you pretty straight answers, [ assure you.” At this moment Plato, calm and philosophical as he was, could not repress a smile at the down- east, self-accusing look of the great Socrates. There sat the good man, in a ragged tunic, by a small table on which lay some olives and dry bread, all the provision, as Xantippe said, which the house contained. The poor woman stood with her arms akimbo, trying to awe her unoflending spouse by the clouds upon her brow and the thun- der of her eloquence. She paused as soon as she saw Plato, and, chang- ing her tone from the major to the minor key, began ings of poverty. to make apologies for their meagre fare and untidy appearance. Socrates turned to his friend with a look of humility and self-reproach. ‘The truth is, dear Plato, I am not as faithful a husband as becomes an Athenian citizen. In my anxiety to reform the youth of the city, I have neglected my own family; and in my love of philosophy, I have not been so attentive to the wants of my wise and prudent wife, the good Xantippe, as becomes a husband and father.”’ «But your wife, no doubt, forgets these foibles in the high respect and reverence with which all Athens regards the wise Socrates.”’ Xantippe softened at once, assuring her guest that “not a wife in the city took more pride in her hus- band’s reputation. ‘hough poor,’’ she added, ‘‘ we have confidence in the love of each other.” «“ When I was in Egypt,’’ said Plato, “I found an ancient book which interested me much, and among its wise maxims I treasured the following: ‘Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith.’ ”’ « And that reminds me,”’ said Socrates, “of our fair friend Cleomene. How stand matters with her? If I judge rightly, she would give all her wealth and splendor could she win back the love of Pericles.’ “ Pericles is, [ fear, unworthy the love of such a woman. His attachment to the noted Aspasia is a dark spot on his otherwise illustrious character. werner RRL PREPARA ALARA PAPA PPP PPP To-day his wife leaves him forever, and returns to the home of her childhood. She has long borne with patience his neglect, and the arrogance of her rival. But that patience is exhausted, and that fond heart crushed. Her own dignity and self-respect require her to act with decision, and she returns to her father, a wife with a widowed heart.”’ Years passed. Time had whitened the locks and bowed the frame of the ambitious and renowned Pericles. The most illustrious among the great men of his age, he had climbed to the very “topmost round of the ladder of fame.’”? Scarcely a spot in the city but bore witness to the wisdom of his pro- jects, and the magnificence of his designs. But there was a want unsatisfied, a void unfilled. He had lived for many years a restless life, seeking pleasure, and finding satiety and disgust. His early passion for Aspasia had long since consumed itself; yet he remained bound to her by fetters which her own powerful will, and more powerful ambition, had forged for him. His two sons, in whom he had gar- nered so many fond hopes, were dead, and he now lay in a darkened chamber, himself drawing near the grave. Aspasia was not there. The sick room suited not the gay and bri liant, but debased, woman. Sad memories thronged around the dying man. He thought of the calm, quiet happiness of his former life—of his once loved and gentle wife. What would he not give could she stand by his bed and soothe his last moments? Could he but see her, and hear forgiveness from her lips, he would be happy. A sudden thought struck him. Calling a slave, who stood in a distant part of the room, he bade him bring his materials; then, with a trembling hand, he traced a few lines on a piece of papyrus. After binding it with a fillet of ribbon, and sealing with his signet ring, he dispatched it to Cleome ne. Not an hour elapsed before the forgiving wife stood by the bedside of her dying husband. Many years had passed since they had met: time, sickness, and sorrow had left their traces upon each. Most gently had they dealt with Cleomene : her quiet spi- rit had bowed in silence and submission when the storm had passed, and, like the dove, sought peace in retirement. Pericles, like the eagle, had bid it defiance, and he now lay with torn plumage and broken wing. There was little time left for the reunited, for Death was rapidly doing his work upon the invalid. But the fount of buried love was opened, and the healing waters gushed forth, healing to the bruised spirit of the wife, and like a cordial to the dying man. Words of love and forgiveness were spoken, one thought to their children in Elysium; then, as Cle- omene saw that life was ebbing, she raised the head of her husband, that it might rest upon her bosom, and with his hand clasped in hers, he breathed his last.

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MISS BY CAROLINE Jt’s all one to me, 1t ’s all one to me, Whether I’m a beggar, whether I ’ma king! If I um a king, I can spend the money ; If 1 am a beggar, I can leave the money: So it’s all one to me, all one to me, Whether I’m a beggar, whether I’m a king! *¢It ’s all one to me, it’s all one to me, Whether I am old or whether Iam young! If I am young, why I can go a dancing ; If I am old, why I can leave off dancing ! It ’s all one to me, all one to me, Whether I am old or whether I am young.”’ ProPLE cannot grow handsomer to all eternity! Alas! 1 know it! The fact is indisputable. Seraphina had reached the climax. The blush of beauty was gone; the flower was in full bloom. There was no deeper expression that those locks could assume; the eyes could not become more than colorless, nor the nose more of a pug: no final touch of grace was to be added to that form—to the stiff, uncompromising, right-angle and triangle gait. You would laugh at Miss Job? I will not suffer it. She was a philosopher, and I reverence the whole order. It is a fine thing to be a philosopher, it certainly 18; Seraphina had thus learned many of the noblest and hardest lessons. She was patient, and very humble; she had attained “ undue difficulties,” traordinary peace of mind, which really is the best thing a mortal can attain. For consider, if one is to worry and fret through this mortal existence, then is it nothing less than a dreadful bore. The frame of mind evinced by that foolish woman who was ‘troubled about many things,”’ is intolerable; and a dissatisfied, pining, ever-troubled, and troubling spirit, is an unmitigated nuisance! Now listen, O perverse generation of gold-diggers ! [ will tell you further of a mortal who lived above the world. ex- She was a transcendentalist, then? The bare thought is enough to make one smile. Seraphina Job was of the earth, earthy: she lived on common food—I care not who knows it; she walked and talked like a Christian; she was none of your “ high-flyers;”’ and if she had sounded the depths of all knowledge, she brought not up that trophy which the “ lions” do so often, * The sea-weed on a clam!”? In a little two-story frame building, which looked as though it might have been fashioned from some superfluous timbers gathered for the construction of the Ark of Noah, lived our heroine. Look within it. What a miserable state of things! Can you POPPA PPP AAA ee JOB CHESEBRO’. tell, reader, why good-natured peeple are forever imposed upon? The lodger up-stairs has sent ber children to play for a little in Miss Job’s room—-it rains so fast they cannot go out of doors: cannot, however, seems to be the careful parent’s suggestion rather than that of the children, if the wistful look of the little faces, as ever and anon they are pressed close against the window panes, 1s to be taken mto account. Around the table covered with their hostess’ work they romp and rave, until it seems as though Babel had transferred itself dodt/y. And now one has fallen and hit his head (a ‘‘/uchy hit,’’ so to speak) against Forthwith, with tears fountainous, and ” the table groans indescribable, the precious group make a simultaneous rush for mamma’s quarters. And then Miss Job sits down to collect her thoughts, and find out where she is. While this difficult thing is in process, let us look back and discover how Patience, and Meekness, and Resignation, came to write their names so boldly on that unhandsome face of hers. Let no one on the wide earth believe that she was a heartless, sense- less woman. It was in the hard school of sorrow she had graduated—in the class of the bereaved that she took her prize! Miss Job had had her disap- Bitter and grievous it was, and for the Here (in proof) is a letter pointment. time overwhelming. written by her a great many years before the time of life when Seraphina is brought before you, to win your admiring regard. “When we parted, Margaret, you remember I promised to write you from India on this day. I was to tell you of that great field of labor—was to have decided then whether J ought to say to you, ‘Come over and help us.’ Had I not, in constant prayer, in hearty endeavor to feel entire submission to the Divine will during the weary twelve months past, been in a measure successful, I would say now, ‘Come over and help me;’ for oh! my friend, it is a heavy wo, a dreadful chastisement the Heavenly Father has laid upon me. And at the first, when the news that Thomas was lost reached me, then I— oh! how I wished that you could be with me, for I was among strangers—was alone. I made no effort to bear the affliction, I bowed down in my woe, and gave way to sinful murmuring: I asked in my mad- ness, ‘Why hast thoutaken my hope, my friend, my only one, O God ?’ “Thomas! he was called away before the ship he Had I but gone with him, then at least should I have died with sailed in had reached its destination. You know that he denied me this—he would 43 him.

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GODEY’S MAGAZIN 41 ee ~. conquer some of the difficulties of the way first, taa* the path might be easier to my feet—he wouid pre- pare a home for me, and accustom himself to a life in that land before I should go thither! “T have been long in submitting myself to God’s decree. Oh, may you never learn how hard a thnr it is to have crushed out from human natur~ @d/ worldly hopes and loves such as mine were! Bu? at last, dear friend, I feel that I am beginning to find peace. If it were not so, I could never have written this letter to you. Since that day, I have spoken but rarely, have written not at all on this subject; it is sacred to me. I am learning now how small is even my overpowering grief in comparison with that which another, one Infinitely good, endured for us. The cry ‘Why hast thou forsaken me?’ has been often on my lips; but at last I remember how He who uttered it suffered and endured sorrows of which no mortal can conceive; and therefore I dare pot utter the words again. «“ Yesterday was my birthday. I am twenty-two. It seems as though a century had elapsed since I parted with my mother, and went out to service to maintain her and myself. You know how shortly afier that time she died; before the bright prospects which afterwards opened upon me had dawned. You have heard how it was that my eyes early turned towards the heathen lands—how it was early in my life impressed on my mind that my duty was to be performed there; that I, a Christian child, ought to go into that great field, and labor for the Master. You know how, when I made this hope and desire of my heart known, a way at once opened itself before me: how the good and the generous took me under their charge and educated me: how in those days I met him whose heart glowed with the same holy hope: how it was our intention to be all of earth to each other—to be the life-long con- solation, and support, and joy to each other. You know of this. I told it all to you when we parted. May God preserve you from ever understanding the sorrow, the struggle, and the deep despair which have since been my portion! When I heard that [ stood alone in this world, my first impulse was to go out alone to India. The weight of my indebted- ness to others pressed heavily upon me: they had expended time and money in my education; I was bound to go: though the way which seemed once so beautiful, so easy, revealed itself now a lonely, dreary way, I would press on in it. «“] strove then to put down, to conquer my own feelings. duties. I prayed incessantly ; but my heart’s supplications I went about accustomed were poured forth more in frenzy than in faith. I was so weak, Margaret, to combat with a lion! Since that time I have been very ill ; my life went nearly from me. I have recovered—but cannot go to India. They tell me that I could not survive the voyage ; therefore will I labor here It is good to labor—it is great to be patient. Can I not thus, in &@ measure, repay those who have dealt so kindly with the doubly orphaned? There is a school re- BJ) AND LADY’S BOOK. g cently established for the instruction of those in foreign lands ; there I can instruct; and, at the same time, support myself by my needle. For the pre- sent, while I can, I will devote what little energy I have in aiding others to follow that plough from whic!, my hand has fallen. I have already made the arrangements necessary. My life, my time, is all, all I have to offer. Would to God it were a worthier sacrifice ! “ His love be with you.” For a few years Miss Job continued to labor in this »ccupation, self-imposed by her deep sense of obligation. But the strivings of her spirit, the con- stant depression, the unutterable weariness and heart-heaviness which attended these labors among Strangers, were too much for her: she could not bear them. It was a trial beyond her strength of en- durance which was thus put upon her: she could never become perfectly reconciled to her lot, while the cheerful, the young, the happy, were about her, preparing themselves for departure to those scenes, to that new home, on which all the hopes of her own heart were fixed. She left the school then, and in retirement and meditation, in labor and in prayer, sought for “the peace of God.’? And it came: it fell upon her heart lixe the soft, refreshing dew, in the perform- ance of lonely tasks, in mercy to the poor, in an ever-gushing fount of charity, in giving of her poverty, in loving much, 1n trusting much, in feel- ing much, in doing much : thus did that “ peace” evidence itself. Thus passing through Gethsemane, she stood upon the mountain—her earthly nature crucified; and the love of the Father was with her there—looking upward, the wail of agony found no more utterance, but the voice of calmness which could say—‘ Thy will be done, my Saviour.”’ Now look again upon her—ah, we must needs be interrupted! If you have not, reader, caught that peculiar and indescribable expression of her coun- tenance, it is not for me to promise that you ever WILL on any succeeding interview, not being pos sessed, unfortunately, of so much of the spirit of accommodation as the country people were after the recent eruption of Vesuvius; they promised the disappointed stranger who “ came too late,”’ that they would get up another scene on his special account! Obligingness is a moral impossiblity in our case. Our intruder is evidently not considered as such by Miss Job. He is a gentleman—her senior by a great many years—a well-dressed, stalwart, gray- haired old man. His name is Townsend, Jedediah Townsend, the respectable owner of a wholesale and retail] all-sort-of clothing establishment, quite well off in the world, quite agreeable, quite—bene- volent? Wait a little. « Ahem—Miss Job, good morning.” «Good morning, I’m glad to see you, Mr. Townsend. Will you be seated ?”

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“FT “Thank you—thank you. Quite a rainy spell of weather, Miss Job—a good deal of mud abroad.”’ “ Yes ; the roads must be very bad. It’s plea- sant to work in the house such weather. I can always work faster in such weather; there ’s nothing to divert one’s eyes then. Black cloth is as pleasant to look on as black clouds.”’ ‘« Exactly so; true to the letter. You are fond of the needle, Miss Job ?”’ ‘Yes; it is my true friend—it brings me all man- ner of comfortable things, and helps me to help others; a trusty servant is my needle.” «« Don’t you ever tire Out ?—don’t you ever get lonely, living here by yourself so ?”’ . “« Never—I can say it truly. I walk when I am tired of sitting within doors; if it is cold and stormy out of doors, then I read : that rests me too. I never am lonely.” ‘‘T wonder what ’s the reason seamstresses com- plain so much, and why, every once in a while, folks get up such a ‘hurrah, boys!’ talking about their wrongs, and so forth ?”’ ‘“« Ah, that’s about the poor young things who are a thousand times worse off thanI. J am rich to them, Mr. Townsend! Poor things! the Lord have mercy upon them! When you have dealings with any of those pale, tired-looking, worn-out young creatures, who appear as though they were standing at death’s door, deal kindly by them—they are human, and very unfortunate.”’ ‘‘ You ’ve a kind heart, Miss Job; do you take pity on everybody ?” ‘‘T always try to bear in mind that we are sinful, very sinful beings; that the differences in people come by accident, for, as the great man—what ’s his name ?—said, ‘ We are all the accidents of an ac- cident.’ We are very apt to be too harsh in our judgments, and too—too cold-hearted.’’ ‘¢ What is it, Miss Job, that you mean by cha- rity? It’s important I should know the definition you give the word, ma’am.” The woman thus appealed to paused a moment before she replied, as though in wonderment as to the necessity of the case (perhaps she was think- ing a proper answer) ; then she said, fixing those two colorless eyes clearly and steadfastly upon him— ‘“‘If a person in great want came to your door, and you gave him something you needed, which could not well be spared, but which you could do without at a pinch, I should say you had done a charitable thing. If you would not believe your neighbor guilty of a crime he stood accused of, till it was proved beyond doubting, I should say you had acted charitably ; and if you gave yourself up, and all you had, to serve another who needed your service, who deserved it, I should think you had fully interpreted the word—that you had proved ‘ charity to be greatest of all things.’’ “Tt is just to the point—are you so charitable ? Iam alone in my old age, Miss Job! It’s lonely over in my house—you must be lonely here. 1 VOL. XLIII.—5 ~ NINN NEN NEEL EEE EEE EEE EEE EEE PEO OOOO eer 45 know you are. I want some one to live with me besides the rats—will you ?” She looked up at him in wonder, and seeing that the old man was really in earnest, said, kindly and meekly— “T cannot—I do not wish to marry.” “You are getting along in years as well as I. Dear madam, who is going to take care of you when your eyes fail,ggd you are too old to work ?”’ “T feel that I chaff not live to be very old. If I serve God faithfully in my life, He will care for me.” *¢ Oh, but it’s poor charity you have,’’ said the old man, wiping his eyes.’ His voice failed him for a moment; recovering himself, he continued— ‘Miss Job, it’s nearly thirty-six years since my wife died; I never have loved any woman since— My Joseph was a comfort to me—he was my comfort, my never have asked any to marry me. stay—the house was full and merry when he was in it. I shall not see him any more. will put an end to my life at once, it’s so desperate lonely. Madam_ I do not swear I love you, and throw myself on my knees to take the oath. You ’ve got too much sense to want me to make a fool of myself; but I’ll promise you that I’ll be a good husband—I can *t hold on many years longer—you shall not have to work after [ am gone !”’ Alas! for that cherished dream of single blessed- Now you know that he is dead and gone— Sometimes I think I ness, kept Win memory of the dead !’’ Alas, for that sweet dream of being laid quietly to rest, after sail- ing peacefully and alone along the shores of Time! Philosophy and charity conspired to demolish all such visions. Seraphina could not resist their at- tack, united with the tears the lonely old gentleman -ame to weep every day in her humble little par- lor : in due time she was vanquished entirely. She gave her word she would become the wife of Mr. Townsend, his housekeeper, waiting-maid, nurse. So, in compliance with that promise, stood she, one day, leaning on the arm of that respectable per- sonage, past middle age; and Miss Job took all the vows upon herself, feeling in duty bound; and faithfully and rigidly she kept them. Oh, heavens! yes—but do you know all that such a union as she made signifies? Bear in mind, the bride was no gay, young creature—a honey- suckle wedded to an old oak. Then had the bees come humming round her, with their soft, musical voices, gossipping away the bright summer days. She was no giddy girl, who, in the lightness of her heart, could fling off the load of oppressive thought at any moment; her life was no April day, whose ' Such unions have been that proved peaceable —nay, happy. But could you kmow the slave that Sera- phina Job was for ten long years to that old hea- then! When, at the end of that time, she was once more free, a widow, she might have told a horrider story than any galley slave or Siberian smiles and whose tears are alike irresistible. exile could conjure up.

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46 GODEY’S MAGAZIN E ND LADY’S BOOK. ‘** Gray hairs are honorable,” I know ; yet is there no more distressful sight on this earth than a wicked old man! There is hope for the youthful offender : if his heart be cold, love may yet tho- roughly and effectually warm it; if he be without reverence, without kindness, without charity, re- generation is possible. But if the heart of the veteran in years be hopelegsly, naturally chilled, and dead ; if he is cross, * turbulent, exacting, selfish, tyrannical, and withoft mental power, then may all the saints unite to guard and defend the woman who is bound to him !—for of all mortals is she most wretched. It was all the worse for Miss Job that she was kind and forgiving, and watchful and careful—all the worse for her that she had so much respect for age—the worse for her that boldness did not set up its throne on her tongue, and issue its laws as plainly as the tyrant’s were spoken! If she had married the man because he was rich, in the expec- tation that he would, ere long, go the way of all the earth, it would have all been very well that matters took the turn they did: if she had bound herself to Mr. Townsend in order that she might secure a home, the home she thereby gained would have been just such as she deserved. But, reader, it was only in the spirit of self-sacrifice, in the spirit of charity, that she wedded '—because, feeling her- self of no use in the world, when appealed to to make the comfort of the last days of @e who had for years been a sort of benefactor, supplying ber with work from his shop, and paying her mode- rately well therefor, she felt that her duty was to give her consent. A mistaken sense of duty she had, alas! But Miss Job herself would have avowed it as her firm belief, if questioned, to err on the right side was best. Besides laboring incessantly with her needle on the black cloth, as aforetime, which her miserly husband commanded, there was such a constant, watchful attendance on all the man’s whims and wishes exacted—exacted, too, in a “ black dog, do your duty,” sort of way—that, had not Miss Job become nearly perfected in the furnace of affliction and trial, her human nature would have indignantly rebelled : she would have sought, and forced from all intelligent jurymen under the sun, a right to « dissolve the union.” Ten yeagg of martyrdom !—it is no trifling thing, reader; and then to think he left her a beggar after all !—giving his very considerable property to peo- ple who would not have lifted a hand to help him at any time. Oh, it was a grievous wrong he did that woman ! ‘Her wrongs shall cling around his neck, to hinder him rising with the just: For his last, most solemn act, hath linked his name with liar, And the crime of Ananias is branded on his brow.”’ Yet, mark what followed! The little, old, two- story frame building, her former habitation, was eee standing yet : to it the widoW’s eyes at once di- rected when strangers came to occupy her some- time abode. And, one day, above the narrow door a little ancient sign, ‘* Miss Job, tailoress and dress- maker,’’ again reared its head. Yes! she had taken her old name again, and by that was she addressed—for people who respected her, and these were many, thought it an unneces- sary insult to apply to her any longer that dead man’s cognomen. Many were the tea-ing “ indig- nation meetings’ held in those days in the village, on account of that outrageous will of Mr. Town- send ; and though the resolutions, on such occasions unanimously adopted, were never presented to the widow in due form, yet were they betrayed in the increase of work given her, and in the increase of the whole neighborhood’s kindness. Never would Miss Job suffer any, in her hearing, in the height of their zeal, to rail out against the departed : if, in their enthusiasm, friends ventured on such ground, they were speedily silenced with a gentle ‘“‘ Hush, he is dead ! you shouldn’t talk against the dead.”’ Miss Job never went into mourning : in this case she felt it would be a mockery. There was no grief in her heart for the old man’s death, save that of the Christian sorrow over the lost sinner. She wept at his funeral, true—and they were not “ cro- codile tears” she shed; because it was an awful thought to her that a fellow-mortal, who had seen the threescore and ten allotted years, should have gone into the pure and Holy Father’s presence, without having assumed the garments of the re- deemed. She wept, because he was an immortal, and, therefore, in remembrance of his past, feared for him! Miss Job had grown very old in those ten years of bondage. Ah, she had looked upon such fearful Egyptian darkness! She had trodden in such wearying haste through that mighty Red Sea, pur- sued by the demons of a vile, malicious, selfish heart! She had grown very old, and yet was there strength in her limbs and strength in her heart. And what a sunbeam of peace was that which lighted her face with genial light! Oh, it is sucha comfort that years make little impress on the coun- tenance whose attractiveness is not dependent on youthful bloom and freshness! Red locks grow seldom gray, light eyes wot not of fading, and the expression of a face, linked to a heart like Seraphina Job’s, must needs grow “ brighter and brighter unto the perfect day.”’ Still by the little window of the tiny house she sat and sewed. Still on the Sabbath, and on Wed- nesday evening, went she, hymnbook and Bible in hand, to the sanctuary, withholding never the out- ward service, whereby, as well as in her inner life, she confessed her Master before men. Still was* her trembling hand (for it always trembled at such times) raised to give the half of every week’s earn- ings to the poor fund. Still on deeds of active charity her little bent form went forth. Still thought she, and not always without tears, upon the lover

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Ee) W aN G. 47

of her youth. Still laid she that Divine consolation to her heart, ‘In heaven we shall know even as we are known.” “ Heigh-ho! it 1s a rainy day, Miss Job; so lay aside your work. If the clouds are black as the vests you manufacture, do lift your eyes to them.” But no; with her sweet voice humming still, ‘¢ From Greenland’s icy mountains,”’ she plods away for dear life—for dear mercy’s sake, rather, because this day’s earnings are devoted in her own mind to a peculiar purpose. Oh, reader, what a pleasant thing is a romance, if it be not too sorrowful! But hold now; why should that gentleman with the spectacles look up with such curiosity at the little old sign, “ Miss Job, tailoress and dress- maker ?’’ Perhaps he is an antiquarian; he looks one, Iam sure. Yet that respectable quality gives him no right to peer into the window of the house with so much curiosity. May be he is in search of lodgings. Yes, he must be, for he knocks, and, at the gentle ‘‘ Come in,’”’ shuts his umbrella and en- ters boldly. Pshaw! nothing but a tract agent. In the name of all things forlorn, reader, ‘will not this be a pretty ending of our story, the mere re- cording of a conversation that followed the entrance of this man? “IT have books to sell, ma’am. All sorts of books in my line: tracts, missionary periodicals, Life of Mrs. Judson—of Joth of them—Memoir of Harriet Newell, and so forth. Shall I hope to find a purchaser here ?”’ The stranger spoke in a very subdued, patient way. Miss Job looked at him, and thought pe must have traveled a long distance, and been un- successful in his sales, and, in the kindliness of her good spirit, she said at once— ‘‘ Yes, certainly. I like to read the lives of mis- sionaries. Let me look at them. Is it Fanny Fo- rester’s Life of Mrs. Judson you have? She is such a sweet writer! What a noble woman she must be !”’ “Tt ds her work. You ’ll like 1t very much, | venture to say. I have sold a greatemany copies of the book. People, generally, have a great admi- ration for the present Mrs. Judson.” He opened the package of books; and, while Miss Job examined them, the stranger fixed his eyes upon her, conning the features of her face to his heart’s content, musing thus, as he did so, “Great God, it is certainly she! How old she ,0oks! Poor girl, she has seen troubled and hard simes, I fear! God have mercy on us!” Selecting three of the volumes, the woman said— ‘<T will take these.” “Thank you. Here isanother work; it may not have attracted your notice in the great flood of books printed now-a-days. It is a work I wrote myself; for 1 have been a missionary.” Miss Job became quite excited as she heard this.

PPA ALLL LLLP PPP PAPO

She remembered one other who would fain have been a missionary. She could not speak; but reaching forth her hand, eagerly grasped the book. ‘The India Mission-Ground,’’ was lettered, in gilt, on the neat black cover. She looked sadly on the title for a moment, then opened the volume. “By Thomas Rich Muir.’’ Those light eyes! they lacked not expression then. And what a glow was that overspreading the pale thin face of Miss Job, as she looked and looked at the book and at the man! She stood up then—the volumes fell from her hands—and oh, what a “ world of hope and fear’’ was in that cry— “In the name of the great Lord, who are you? I knew a Thomas Muir!” Ah, curiosity! why does that girl in the street stop short, unmindful of the rain, to look in through the window of that little parlor of ‘‘ Miss Job, tai- loress?’? Why does that wandering boy vouchsafe to pause in his vagrancy to peer over the girl’s shoulder, and, in his emotion, exclaim against the frantic embrace of that strange man, and “ horrid homely old Miss Job ?”’ Desperate is the curiosity of a street audience! Ye fighting terriers and runaway steeds, testify ! Haste we to draw the curtain. Ladies and gentle- men, we appeal to you; retire, disperse, and leave those reunited ones alone. I beseech you, go; and when Miss Job informs me of the story of her true, living love’s adventures, you shall have them, free and full. Poor, dear Seraphina! we will, meantime, re- joice with her, now that her time of rejoicing has really and truly come. We will, moreover, lay a little of consolation to our own hearts, as we re- member that “virtue has its own reward,’ and never fails of finding it, in one place or another. SONG. BY BEATA. “ Ah,” said Lucy, ‘‘ he stays so long!” Din ye see my love in that fair countrie, Far over the sounding main? Red gold and bright fame to seek went he, But he comes not back again ; He went, when the leaves from the trees fell fast, Away to that far countrie; But a long twelvemonth and more has past, And he comes not back to me! If ye see my love in that fair countrie, Tell him to hasten away ; From the breath of home, ’mid wild hills free, How can he longer stay! He may win bright fame, he may win red gold, Away in that far countrie ; But better the heart which ne’er grows cold Then bid him return to me.

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BY MRS. True independence of character does not consist in uttering unpalatable truths indifferently, or in car- rying uncouth-looking bundles through public pro- menades; for true politeness never unnecessarily wounds the sensitiveness of, any one, and a refined self-respect will prevent our elaborately displaying a necessity to labor. I do not deny that there is virtue in performing either of these duties when they are duties. But to seek them in order to establish a reputation for inde- pendence, is a weakness; and that such a character is often thus established, at least to the owner’s sa- tisfacticn, is a proof on what slight grounds self-love can assume to itself a virtue. There 1s no more sublime virtue than moral independence. It is more comprehensive than may at first be supposed. It enables one to adhere to the path of duty, though he walk alone; to follow truth, lead where it may; to resist the most alluring temptations to integrity and veracity. It presupposes the highest self-respect and esteem, and this can only be founded on rea! worth. For, however muc |: the individual may de- ceive others, he does not deceive himself. He does not really respect himself for any good that is not in him. We have glanced at the manifestations of this vir- tue; let us consider the mode of cultivating it. Each individual character is a unit—a perfect whole—no link in a chain—a complete work of the Creator. Mankind, taken ‘ex masse,’’ may be called a step in creation—the connecting link between the lower ani- mals and higher intelligences. But individuals must not be so considered. Each character has impulses, powers, desires, which must be guided, cultivated, repressed, but not violently wrested from their natu- ral course, nor wholly disregarded. Parents should regard, and, as much as they innocently can, con- form to any marked characteristic of a child. This may be manifested in trivial ways, about its dress or amusements; but it should not be violently thwart- ed or carelessly neglected. I once heard a parent lamenting the defection of one of his two sons. ‘I have always managed them exactly alike,” said he; “they always pursued the same studies, enjoyed the same pleasures, and even in my careful impartiality, dressed alike. And, oh! they are as different as light and darkness.’’ I would not add to the parent’s grief by showing his error; but it would be very easy for a disinterested person to trace the effect to his “careful impartiality.” We often observe in neglected children a decision of character, and.general vigor of mind, wanting in more favored classes. This is because they are allowed to act out what is in them. Their freedom is favorable to development, an instance of the glo- 48 INDEPENDENCE CHARLOTTE HOVEY. rious principle of compensation. And can we not obtain this great desideratum without the accompa- nying evils of neglect? With adults there are re- strictions quite as numerous and powerful as with children. Fashion, rules of society, public opin:on, are often fetters and chains to the mind. It & me- lancholy to see humanity, as it were, always run into the same mould, repeating itself; to see multitudes of people seeking to dress, and look, and talk like some model. God protests powerfully against such conformity in the diversity of features and inclina- tions he has given us, and thus saves us from a perfect monotony. Outward restraints produce but outward virtue. All restrictions should come from within—from strict principle, refined imagination, and a heart warmed by love to God and man. Thanks, to the irrepressible vigor of the nature we have received, it cannot be wholly enslaved by any “powers that be.’? And the conservative is often shocked by the erratic course of certain minds. Every one who steps out of a beaten path to pro- mulgate what he believes true has the germ of a great principle within him. He is doing just what he ought to do—following out his own peculiar ideas; and this 1s the way the whole race of minds is bene- fited. In this way has the mass of human thought been gathered. Sir Isaac Newton was absorbed in pifilosophy and mathematics, and the results have blessed the world. Some minds have employed all their energy in the contemplation of the history of nations, of the principles of governments, and hence have arisen systems of politics. Others have been wrapped in music, and the first outpourings of hu- man feeling have been resolved into a science. Each has some vocation—let him follow it out to perfec- tion. “He who seeks to imitate another despoils himself of his own beauty to come short of another man’s.’’ We should strive to render ourselves as much as possible independent of others, and of cir- cumstances—to multiply resources of happiness within ourselves. It is pitiable to see one cast down by a rainy day, or a slight disappointment, or even sickness or deprivation. A love of reading will rob solitude of its wearisomeness, and disarm mightier evils of their power. A mind stored with know- ledge will never want interesting topics of thought to beguile arduous or monotonous duties. A love of poetry and beauty is a powerful assistant in at- tracting the mind to what is pleasant and profitable in one’s lot. There are ample means of happiness in the*cultivation of our higher faculties: these are never failing, constantly increasing, and common to all. And if, by being true to this trust, we have within our own minds the source of our happiness and improvement, we are sufficiently independent.

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nD PAINTING ON GLASS. — THE A DANO I RON WITH THE TEN HANDS. A LEGEND OF THE MIDDLE AGES. TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY MISS ANNE T. WILBUR. Tue real name of this Baron has not reached us, only his surname of Baron with the Ten Hands, which seems to promise some monstrous secret ; but it was simply a figurative expression by which the clowns around this personage designated his surprising skill in the various mechanica! arts, which he managed with such extraordinary dex- terity and ingenuity that it might well be said he had ten hands at his service. He was, neverthe- less, not born to be a nobleman; he was never seen in holiday garb, never bestrided a horse, or donned a suit of armor; the chase and gaming were en- tirely unknown to him; in fine, he had only a live- ly taste, we might say a passion, for the trades and occupations which were then most popular among the common people. The old ruined chateau, which his fathers had bequeathed to him, had be- held the construction, in the Midst of its dismantled walls, of a group of laboratories and studies con- stantly resounding with the noise of his labors. He employed many workmen in his curious as weil as useful occupations. His first experiments had been the construction of that beautiful Gothic furniture wrought in oak more durable than iron: his chisel and his pencil ornamented the wood with admirable taste and skill; the figures of his saints were as gracefully draped as the finest pictures in the cathe- drals ; he also wrought the most grotesque heads, masks, and fantastic monsters ; his foliage was like beautiful tufted branches, yet light and airy; and he executed, in this hard material, lace-work which the inimitable Arachne might have envied. We ought to say that he had lived in Italy two years, and studied painting under two celebrated masters. Very soon, he had established a glass manufactory. From a sculptor he became a painter on glass, dis- covered the secret of the richest colors, and ac- quired, for the halos of his saints and angels, a beautiful golden yellow, which 1s to be found only in a corner of the robe of the rising sun. From a painter on glass he became a skillful painter in wa- ter colors, profiting by what he already mew. In the beds, stools, and trunks which he made, he dis- played wonderful ingenuity; he almost_ invented locks and keys; 1m fine, no material passed through his hands without being greatly enhanced in value by his tasteful and ingenious workmanship. He also attempted the manufacture of china; and the drinking-cups, ewers, vases, and pitchers of the Baron were models, in form and beauty, of blue, red, and green colors, glistening very agreeably to the eye. But, alas! the devouring activity of his mind hurried it on to alchemy. He at first manu- 5* factured powder ; then, like others, attempted to make gold. The philosopher’s stone caused him many deep meditations and long reveries; and, in a few years, all the silver and gold of our Baron had gvaporated from the interior of his burning crucible. But his ingenuity contrived a thousand methods of introducing each day into his dwelling enough of the precious metal to prevent his expe- riencing the trials of poverty. Certainly this laborious existence was not with- out its merits; but these merits did not suffice to keep his soul in the right way. On the contrary, his labors threatened to lead him astray from it; for his thoughts were always upon them, without leaving him a single moment to spend in his Christ- ian duties. The Baron was not an infidel; but he regarded sacred things with an indifference almost to entire forgetfulness. He took off his hat before across; but his chapel was seldom troubled with his presence, unless he went there to adorn it with some painting on glass—some sparkling ornament. So, one day, wanting some gold for his opera- tions, he did not scruple to use a beautiful golden cross which had been for two centuries nailed in the chamber of his ancestors, and in which was in- crusted a bit of the true cross. This relic was not larger than the point of a pin. ‘ Oh,” said the Ba- ron, “ I will incrust this in another cross of silver ;”’ and he began, with the delicate point of a tool, to remove the little bit of the true cross, which, slip- ping between the fingers of sacrilege, fell among the dust of the pavement. Kneeling down, he em- ployed all the delicacy of his eye and the skill of his ten hands to discover thesholy relic, but passed three whole hours in an unavailing search. “ Alas!’’ said he, “I can do nothing. Heaven will take care of the matter, if necessary. To my furnace.”’ And, without troubling himself farther, or giving himself any more uneasiness about the accident, he ascended to his laboratory and threw the golden cross into his crucible, after having broken it to pieces. ‘ Well,”’ said he, “what is this scarlet cloud which rises before my eyes? It must be the heat of the furnace which causes this. The bottom of my crucible is as red as blood.”” He hastened to turn his eyes upon some other object, to assure himself that his blood, over-heated, as sometimes happens, had not covered his sight with a purple veil; but everything around him, upon his shelves and his furnace, retained its natural color. Sudden fright chilled the blood in his veins. Vengeance had already commenced upon the sacrilegious 49

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50 GODEY’S MAGAZIN wretch. He felt himself, at the same time, burning and freezing with an unknown cold, a nameless fear ; his teeth chattered between his livid lips, his hair rose with terror, his forehead was bathed in perspiration, and his chin fell despairingly upon his hands. He immediately quitted his laboratory, and summoned his six workmen, who were astonished to see him seize their hands, conjuring them not to leave him. But, a moment afterwards recovering himself, he said— «¢Oh, it is onlya fever! I will retire to rest, and to-morrow I shall see more clearly.’’ But, even in his sleep, his brain was filled with gloomy visions. On awaking, he perceived a re- splendent light, which formed a radiant circle above his head, in the midst of which knelt an angel, whose celestial eyes were veiled with long eye- lashes. This spirit had four large wings; two, whiter than snow, were inclining towards the earth, panting; two others, more glowing than the sun in his robe of fiery purple, were extended, mo- tionless, in a horizontal line, like those of a huge eagle hovering in a tempest amid lightnings. The angel let fail upon his knees two alabaster hands, whose interlaced fingers supported a little casket, ornamented with four golden wings of veiled cheru- bim. Suddenly, the white wings trembled more violently, and, unfolding, united themselves above, suspending their point above the casket, into which the sacrilegious man saw descend a cross more bright than the pearly opal of the dawn, and this cross bore in its heart the bit of the true cross. The celestial vision vanished. The Baron trembled ; for, as it took its flight, the spirit of light cast on him a look of fire, and waved its burning locks. The second night, the man with the ten hands awoke again out of his sleep, and found himself bathed in blood from head to foot. It was no illu- sion : he had burst ‘a blood-vessel. He uttered a cry of distress; but no one heard him; and the flame of his lamp died away. An instant after- wards—was it imagination?—he heard footsteps near him, a frightful burning odor stifled him, and he saw rise by his bedside a monstrous goat’s head, armed with long horns, glaring upon him with green and fiery eyes, and felt his forehead licked by the animal. Horror! before his bed was fixed a Venetian glass, which he himself had placed there, and he perceived on his forehead a tongue of flame. “ Lost! lost!” cried he, writhing his arms above his head. The next day, a priest was summoned by the Baron, who confessed to him all that had happened. The holy man said— ‘«« That you may avoid eternal fires, you have but one method to pursue, which is to make to your- self a hell upon earth, to suffer, to pray, to keep always before your eyes that terrible word, for- ever |” The Baron, saved, as by a miracle, from his frightful malady, clothed himself in hair-cloth, AND LADY’S BOOK. ata eeaaaee > ) studded with iron points ; he put a linen robe above it, walked barefoot, shaved his head, and allowed his gray beard to grow. Three times a day he scourged himself. Meanwhile, he set himself stu- diously to find, in the arts of which he was master, all the images of the dreadful fate which he wished to escape. Four times each night he went to his door, which opened only from without, and struck his head against its inscription. The funereal bed where he reposed was constructed with a combi- nation of iron springs so wonderful, that the weight of a man’s body resting upon it sufficed to put in play its system of mechanism, which, every half hour, produced one of those lugubrious episodes ot which the night of Dungal afforded a specimen ; for, besides the spectres and the serpents, there were three or four fantastic monsters concealed about this couch, and playing their part in the per- secution ; but these last had at last slept in the rust of years. The Baron allowed himself only three hours of sleep. During the first two, he was awakened four times, at regular intervals, by one of the gloomy mementos which his industrious hands had created: the last hour he could enjoy tranquilly, but must rise before its expiration, for, at that moment, the unhappy sleeper was, by a movement of the bed» thrown out upon the floor. When that happened to the Baron, he was pro- foundly sad, not from the hard fall he experienced, but for that weakness of nature, sleep, which he regarded as one of the most formidable obstacles to his salvation, for he then forgot the hell he had made for himself. The laboratory of the penitent was near his chamber. In the wall which separated the two rooms, and opposite his bed, he had made an open- ing, forming a grotesque framework, bristling with those ornaments, imitating flames, which bear the name of the flamboyant gothic. There he had placed this terrible and enormous painting on glass, wherein were portrayed the terrors of the lost. As his chamber was very dark, and the painting could not be lighted from the laboratory, which was darker still, he took care each evening to kindle in the laboratory a flame, which illuminated the paint- ing, lending it all the strange and extravagant illu- sions of phantasmagoria. Thus, though Dungual the Incendiary had been, indeed, punished by Hea- ven, yet in the details of these works of the Baron ‘we may find an explanation of the mysteries of his night. The torch which the captain had trampled under foot in the laboratory was, undoubtedly, not extinguished, and had thus set fire to a thousand in- flammablé substances, among others a vase filled with powder, the horrible explosion of which broke the glass and gave a passage to the flames, which were thus unchained from their prison. As for the Baron with the Ten Hands, his end had been as strange as terrible. Worn out, harassed by his thousand labors and penances, he offered to slumber limbs so well prepared to receive it, that he often fell asleep on the pavement after he had

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PAINTING been thrown to the ground from his bed. What then did he? Having constructed a system of me- chanism six times more powerful, he was found, one morning, dead: he had been dashed against the wall. Having returned the manuscript to his pocket, M. de Guerrande again asserted his belief that the famous painting, signed with a cross between a B and an O, was in the same style with that of the haunted chamber ; that it certainly came from some recess of the old Chateau d’Ard, of which no trace remains, and whose location even cannot be identi- fied.. And in this discovery our amateur greatly prided himself. Voligni departed, and a year elapsed before his return to the estate of Guerrande ; but an animated correspondence was kept up during the period be- tween himself and his future father-in-law. To the beautiful Magdeleine might be ascribed the principal part of this zeal. Then our artist forwarded to his old friend the three immense paintings which he had ordered. Business might not longer occupy Voligni, for the time appointed for his marriage drew near. He repaired to the éstate of Guerrande. After a repose of two hours, spent in conversa- tion, M. de Guerrande and Voligni directed their steps towards the church and the chapel, whose ornaments were now entirely completed. What was the surprise of the noble painter not to per- ceive a single one of his works in the church, and to behold, in the windows which they were to have occupied, two paintings of the fifteenth cen- tury! ‘«T see you are looking for your paintings. They are elsewhere,”’ said M. de Guerrande with a smile, in which there was some embarrassment, pointing out at the same time to his future son-in-law the wealth of art and profusion of luxury which deco- rated this beautiful church. Voligni had a cloud over his eyes and a weight upon his heart. After an hour of happiness to the one and suffer- ing to the other—‘‘Come,”’ said M. de Guerrande, ‘‘to the little chapel, and judge of the effect of your angel. I will tell you that I have planned the hour of our visit; the sun is just setting, and, whatever you may say, my friend, the sun adds magnificently to the effect of the grand portal ; whilé your painting, at the opposite point, will be aided in its luminous transparency by the pearly blue of the heavens.’’ They entered. The artist could judge df the grandeur of the work attributed to the Baron; yet he turned his eyes with pleasure upon his own paint- ing, sparkling with celestial grace. ‘Your picture is very well,’’ said M. de Guer- rande, ‘“‘but—’’ “But?” said the artist, mastering his emotion. “Tt is a little too coquettish, thus to speak; the devotional, the religious sentiments are—”’ Voligni could not remain; they left the chapel. 51 ON GLASS. «« My friend,” said M. de Guerrande, taking the arm of the artist, who allowed him to do so, “I see, I feel that you are a little troubled at not having found your paintings in the church; but you shall see them in a place where you will be at least as much flattered to find them. I remember your tirade last year upon the lost secret which you deny, and meanwhile I maintain that it is as secret and as lost as possible. I do not wish to see you longer with that air of constraint, which seems to accuse me of having wounded your self-love: far from it. Tell me, do you not rate a picture above a simple paint- ing on glass? Yes, undoubtedly. Well; thosé you sent me were pictures! Yes, the methods of pro- cedure of the old glass painters are not lost, but their simple and profound sentiment of the true end of painting on glass is. In our days, the great object is the arrangement of groups, the dramatic effect of positions and figures. Our old painters sought, above all, to combine in a sparkling harmony a thou- sand brilliant hues, as of precious stones, in such a manner as to color the light with a rich and mystic tint, which, pervading the house of God, should impart to prayer a mild ecstasy, and solemnize the hearts of the faithful. To-day the eye, instead of being captivated by the mysterious charm of which I have spoken, dwells upon the details of the pic- ture. But, I repeat it, a good picture is above a mere painting on glass. Hold, my friend, one word more. Your future wife, our dear Magdeleine, mn two instances has expressed a judgment more deci- sive than all the arguments I can bring in support of my opinion.—One evening, at sunset, I surprised her kneeling in the space where the veiled and co- lored light falls through the roses upon your picture. I waited without for her. When she came out, she had a tear in her eye, and was sighing. «“«¢ Whence come you, my daughter?’ inquired I. «¢T come from prayer,’ replied she, in a voice trembling with holy agitation. «“ Another evening I surprised her kneeling be- tween the two windows where your paintings had been temporarily placed. On coming out of the church, I made the same inquiry as before, and she replied, in a deep and touching tone, ‘Papa, how beautiful and how finely adorned are the two saints in M. de Voligni’s pictures! How worthy of admi- ration are their companion angels!’ ”’ The artist maintained a profound silence. ‘Come, be consoled,’ said M. de Guerrande. “You will soon thank me when you learn that your two paintings—one word more, however: we have done wrong in not having had a mutual understand- ing on these subjects. You have chosen the legend of the Holy Princess of Hungary, and another of the same kind. Then, you have painted them on a ground of white glass, when you had that beautiful golden yellow, so delicate, which you obtain from some oxide. However, take your consolation; your two paintings ornament the arches of the windows in your nuptial chamber.”

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52 GODEYS MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. Vohgni replied not a word. At this moment a domestic hastily approached, bearing a letter. ‘I must depart immediately,’’ cried Voligni, pre- tending a sudden summons. “Let my horses be made ready.”’ Evasive and embarrassed replies were all which M. and M’me de Guerrande could obtain, and they were much disturbed by this hasty and mysterious departure. “I will write, I will write,’ said Voligni, as he sprang into the carriage. But a silence of two months explained to M. de Guerrande that the affrighted haste of his friend had been but a farce, and that the jealousy of the artist had overcome a long and devoted attachment, and the prospect of an immense fortune. Three letters remained unanswered, and the beautiful Megdeleine sighed every time her eyes rested upon the holy queens of the pictures in her chamber, with the roses in their alabaster fingers, and on their robes of azure. But eight months afterwards, a young count, whose qualities equaled those of Voligni, received the hand of Magdeleine, bringing to her a devoted affection, free from that jealous rival, the spirit of art. KNITTING FOR THE A KNITTED WALKING DRESS FOR A YOUNG LADY FROM SIX TO NINE YEARS OLD. (An entirely new and original design.) Six ounces and a half of claret, and one ounce and a half of white Berlin wool, with No. 7 pins, will be required for a dress measuring in length twenty-one inches. Eighteen stitches are required for a pattern ; but in order to keep the edges straight, twenty-four stitches will be required extra at the commencement, and seven at the end of the row. The pattern consists of the eighteen stitches with- m the marks. Cast on seven hundred and thirty- three stitches with claret wool, knit one plain row, and proceed as follows :— First Row.— With White.—Edge, knit seven, make one, knit seven, knit three together, knit se- ven,{ make one, knit one, make one, knit seven, knit three together, knit seven,{ repeat until seven re- main, then make one, knit seven. Seconp Row.—Purled. These two rows form the pattern; work them again with white, which will make a stripe of four rows. With Claret.— Work the pattern seven times, which will be fourteen rows. With White.—Four rows as at first. With Claret.—Twelve rows instead of fourteen. With White.—Four rows as at first. With Claret.—Ten rows instead of twelve. With White.—F our rows as at first. With Claret.—Continue the pattern and purled rows until the skirt is the length required; that the dress may be made suitable to any age and size three patterns may be allowed for each quarter of a yard. The width given for this is three yards and a half; to make it up it should be sewn on a cambric bedice, fastened before; small bows in claret, and white ribbon being placed in distances down the front. A velvet or satin spencer, of the same color, will complete this very becoming and elegant cos- tume. NURSERY A FIRST SIZE INFANT’S DRESS CROCHET SLIPPER. A pair of cork soles, six skeins of violet Berlin wool, two of white, and of black, will be required. WITH THE VIOLET.WOOL. Make a chain of eleven loops, and work one row of double crochet. The remaining part of the shoe is worked in ribbed crochet, which is done by al- ways taking the row of loops the farthest from you. First Row.—Work the eleven loops in ribbed crochet, increasing one stitch at each edge, in addi- tion to the chain stitch always made in working crochet backwards and forwards. Seconp Row.—Without increase. Repeat these two rows until you have eight raised ridges. Then, for the sides, work eight stitches backwards and forwards, until you have sufficient to reach round the sole; join them to- gether. ‘WITH THE WHITE WOOL. Now, with the wrong side of the shoe next you, with white, work three rows in double crochet, increasing two stitches at each corner of the instep, the increase to be made in each row. Turn your edge down, and run it neatly with white wool. WITH THE BLACK WOOL. To make the spots of ermine, work with black Berlin wool (or black crochet silk, which is prefer- able) three long stitches, one on the top of the other, and fasten off. Repeat this in distances of one inch each, placing one in the centre and one in each corner of the instep. Having done this, sew your shoe to the sole on the wrong side, and turn it afier- wards. FOR THE STRAP. For the strap round the ankle, make a chain the length required in the violet wool, and work it round with white, leaving three chain stitches at one end for the button-hole. Sew it to the back, and your shoe is complete.

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COLORED EMBROIDERY. COLLAR AND CUFFS EMBROIDERED IN COLORS ON. MUSLIN. Materials.—The finest Book Muslin, and Evans’ Ingrain Embroidery Cotton, No. 80, brown or scarlet. Fig. 1. The cotton with which our specimens were work- ed is a rich dark brown, the ribbon which accom- panies them being blue and brown. Scarlet looks well only with a black dress; with that it certainly contrasts admirably. Diagram 1 gives the insertion for the collar, the full size required.” It consists of a very simple spray of leaves and flowers, worked in satin-stitch, with a large button-hole on each side followed by a plain space, and then two other button- holes. The ribbon is to be passed through the but- ton-holes, so as to line the embroidery, and cover the plain spaces. Five sprays, and six plain spaces will be found sufficient for a collar, as the frill is somewhat deep. A line of button-hole stitch at one side and both ends of the insertion is necessary. Fig. 2. Zs SS Fig. 2 represents one scollop of the frill; eighteen are required for the collar, and nine for each cuff. Fig. 3. Fig. 3 is the insertion for the cuff, being the full size required. The frill is to fall back over a full * sleeve. Ribbon of the proper width is to be inserted in the band, and bows of two colors, with floating ends, should be placed so as to fall over the hand. Figs. 4 and 5 represent these novelties in lingerie as they appear completed. Fig. 4. The pattern may be traced from these figures by laying on them a bit of tracing paper and drawing the outlines with a pencil. These outlines must be inked with a pen. Then lay the muslin on the pa- per and mark it with a fine sable brush dipped m a mixture of indigo with sugar. The lines so drawn should be very fine, but clear. Tack the muslin on paper and work it. Fig. 5. The scollop pattern being so fashionable, just now, for the borders of handkerchiefs, the edges of frills, &c., the diagram given will, doubtless, be found use- ful for many purposes besides the one for which it was especially prepared. 53

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Figs. 3 and 4.—Dressing-glasses. Fig. 1.—Sofa, in the Gothic style. } Fig. 2.—Tent bedstead, with curtains, complete.

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ry O SONNET. BY MARY SPENSER PEASE. Ox! o’er and o’er again, and still again, I ’d tell thee how my heart goes forth to thee ; I'd tell thee how all joy thou art to me; I'd tell thee how, like Spring’s life-giving rain, My spirit poureth out in fast, warm drops, Quickening thy being’s depths—till sweet heart- crops, From out its moisture springing, bless my sight : I ’d tell thee how, down to the very roots Of those up-branching, tender-speared love-shoots, My heart, in penetrating floods of light, Like Spring’s life-giving sunshine, pours life out Till thine can yield no room for tares of doubt: But, ah! warmth, light, all life I give to thee Are but reflected from the love thou givest me. “I CULLED A FLOWER.” BY HELEN C. LEWIS. - I cuLLED a flower— A fragile, fading, short-lived flower ; ’T was bright and lovely for an hour, Then faded quite away. For one short summer’s day It cheered me in my solitade, Then left me o’er its loss to brood, And seek some other. I loved another, A gentle shrinking child of earth; But to the Heaven that gave her birth Her wings were turned. And while yet burned ‘ The lamp of life’s uncertain ray, She beckoned me to come away , To bliss forever. Oh! could I sever From one I loved, nor shed a tear? Oh, no! at eve I miss her here, I loved her only. And very lonely Is life’s rough path, without her smile To gladden lonely hours awhile, That else have been, Full hard, I ween, For one alone to meekly bear; This world is fall of every care— But give me love, My strength to-prove ; Without it even Hope has fled: And lonely is the path I tread If ’tis not here. 4 J + < Ks RARARARAAR AE PADD ~

A PRAYER FOR LIFE. BY MARY A. FAY. Is it thy voice, my Father, which I hear, In accents low, unheard by other ear— Which bids me rise and gird me for the strife Through which I fain must pass, to endless life ? This sinking frame, this feeble breath, Are these the heralds of thy coming, Death ? Has thy cold finger touched this mortal clay, And stamped it with the signet of decay ? Father, I fain would live, for life is sweet, Its fresh young roses cluster at my feet ; Hope paints the future with her rainbow hues, Her sunlight gleams through falling dews. What have I not to live for! Friendship pure Is mine—so true it must for aye endure ; And Love, so fond, so warm, no broken reed, To fail me in the hour of greatest need. Oh! let me live for those that love me! Those for whom it is a constant joy to see My presence in their daily paths, my smile To soothe their grief, and every care beguile But if it may not be, my Father and my Friend, To raise this sinking soul, thy gracious presence lend, And guide me safely through the shadowy vale, Where human strength and human love must fail. And when as fade the scenes of earth away, Do’ Thou unclose the portals of immortal day. And bid my strength, my hope, my joy increase, And to my trembling spirit whisper, peace. Father, I trust in thee; I know that thou wilt deal Wisely and kindly by thine erring child, and heal The grief of those who mourn the parted friend, And for one blessing gone, far richer blessings send. TO SUSAN. BY BLANCHE BENNAIRDE. Mar youth with thee be one unclouded morn, Like those in charming May, when singing birds And opening flowers come forth and earth adorn, Bidding the heart o’erflow with joyful words ; And may thy life be like one summer’s day, When cheering sunbeams pour their gentle light Upon the tender flowers and blossoms bright; And balmy zephyrs their rich off ring bring, While Nature doth rejoice and sweetly sing, As ’twere, in one rich mellow roundelay ! Then mayst thou gather store of fruit most rare, When Autumn doth appear, with ample spread, That, when Age steals along with wintery air, Thou mayst rejoice, though birds and flowers are dead 55

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GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. PPL ALAA LPDLLRL LLP PLP PPL LLP ,. WEEPING, WEEPING LITTLE INFANT. BY ADALIZA CUTTER. Among the Orientals, the baptismal service is a beautiful and touching one: “ Little infant, thow enteredst the world weeping, while all around thee smiled; strive so to live that thou mayst leave the world smiling, while all around thee weep.” WEEPING, weeping little infant, Thou didst come to earth— Was it some sad, strange revealing ‘Of life’s sorrow o’er thee stealing, Gem of priceless worth, That did cause that low, sad wailing, And those tear-drops unavailing, Loved one, at thy birth? Wherefore weeping, little infant, Didst thou come fo earth? Smilings, smilings, little infant, Welcomed thee to earth: Yes, with holy love and pleasure Thou wert clasped, dear little treasure, Soul of priceless worth, To the bosom of thy mother, To the warm heart of one other, Joyous at thy birth. Smilings, smilings, little infant, Welcomed thee to earth. Strive to live, oh, little infant, Strive to live on earth, So that when around thee, weeping, Friends their solemn vigils keeping, Wait thy heavenly birth, While their hearts are overflowing, And their eyes with tear-drops glowing, That such priceless worth Must, their prayers of love unheeding, Pass away from earth: Smiling, smiling, happy spirit, Glide away from earth; Plume with joy thy angel pinions, Soar away to God’s dominions, Soul of priceless worth ! Go, the angel bands attending, Go, thy voice with seraphs blending, To thy heavenly birth— Smiling, smiling, happy spirit, Glide away from earth. “LITTLE EMILY.” BY ABBY ALLIN. ‘* Sleep gives her to my arms again.”’ 1 sxx thee in my dreams, baby, In visions of the night; Thy blue eye, full of blessedness, Is glancing on my sight: Again upon my heart, baby, Thy little hand is prest ; Again thy little nestling head Is pillowed on my breast. Again the music of thy breath Falls softly on my ear, In those dear old accustomed tones I loved so well to hear! Guace more my lips are murmuring Low words of love and prayer ; I strive to draw thee closer yet, But clasp the vacant air! And then, I wake to weep, baby, Rememb’ring thou art dead ; And nevermore can my poor heart Pillow thy little head! I cannot hear thy voice, baby ; I cannot see thy face; Nor watch thy growing charms, baby, Nor welcome thine embrace ! I miss thee trom my arms, baby ; I miss thee everywhere! Yet thou art better cared for now Than even by my care: For angels have thee in their charge, Lofty and pure of heart! For the gentle Shepherd loves His lambs, And one of them thou art! THERE IS NO SORROW IN MY HEART BY MARIE ROSEAU. Tuenrx is no sorrow in my heart, No cloud upon my brow— A thousand glad and happy thoughts Are thronging round me now: Like flowers—like bright and fragrant flowers, Of summer’s earliest bloom— They rise in beauty round my May, And breathe their soft perfume. What though ’tis but a winter’s day, And clouds are in the sky, And damp and chilling are the winds So rudely passing by ? Bright flowers are blooming in my heart, Are twining sweetly there, In fragrant and unfading wreaths Of beauty rich and rare, Glad thoughts in tuneful harmony, Like strains of merry birds, Are pouring forth in joyous tones The music of their words. Not one discordant thought is there To mar those gentle notes, But with enchanting melody Each merry cadence floats. There is no winter in my heart, No blighted flowers are there; Sweet buds of bright, unchignging hopes Are blooming everywhere. No damp and chilling winds are there, But zephyrs bland and still Play gently o’er Eolian chords, And draw sweet sounds at will.

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EBITGRS’ ** HeaLTH AND Beavty,”’ one and indivisible, should be inscribed on the heart of every woman; and, next after the performance of her moral duties, comes that of preserving, for herself and those under her care, the inestimable blessing of good health, which invariably adds to comeliness of person in every stage of life. Those who have been in the habit of reading the ‘‘ La- dy’s Book’? know how constantly we have kept this subject of health before our readers. Besides those general observations introduced in stories and essays, and our own table-talks with our friends, we gave a series of chapters and illustrations on ‘‘ Health and Beauty,’? commencing in 1847, and running through that and the two following years. Whoever will refer to these dissertations may see, at a glance, how im- portant the influence of our work has been in awaken- ing the attention, not only of our own sex, but that of good men also, to this subject of preserving health. And how can it be done unless women are instructed in the necessary knowledge ? unless they know their own structure, their own nature, the laws of health, and the penalties of transgression ? We are glad to report the progress of our own ideas; we rejoice that the good work of instructing women how to take care of themselves, of each other, and of their children, is now going rapidly on. One of our old contributors, who wrote under the nom de plume of Mary Orne ,* is now assisting her husband in a large establishment for the healing of the sick. The water cure has, for many complaints, been found highly effi- cacious, and women will surely make the best physi- cians for their own sex when resorting to this mode of treatment. An angel from heaven took charge of the pool of Bethesda; the angels of earth ought to have charge of the pools for water cure. But we hope few of our friends will need to resort to any curative process; even this of water, which Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer found so pleasant and effica- cious, cannot be quite so desirable as that state of hap- py health which keeps us independent of doctors of every degree; so we will add a few illustrations on what we shall call exercise of the arms. Everybody knows—or such as live in the cities do—the difficulty of finding out a suitable and pleasant mode of exercis- ing the arms. Walking and carriage-riding are of no use as respects these limbs; nor do the usual pursuits of needlework, &c. offer sufficient motion. There are needed movements which will call every muscle into exercise, and move the neck, throw back the shoul- ders, and expand the chest, so as to create a free circu- lation of the blood to every part. This is done by * Mrs. Gove-Nichols, wife of Dr. T. L. Nichols, M.D.,a regularly educated Allopathic physician in the city of New York. Mrs. Gove-Nichols is the auther of several popular works, published by the Harpers, among which are, * Lectures to Ladies on Anatomy and Physiolegy,’? a work every lady should read; ‘Agnes Norris, or the Heroine of Domestic Life ;’’ and “‘ Uncie John; or, It is Too Much Trouble.”’ VOL. XLUI.—6 TRBLE. THE SCEPTRE EXERCISE. These sceptres, rods with handles, are of brass or steel, to be held in the hand pendent on each side (Fig 1). Begin by swinging them slowly backwards and forwards; then the one in the right hand is carried over the head and left shoulder until it hangs perpendicu- larly on the right side of the spine (Fig. 2); that in the Fig. 1. Fig. 2. left hand is carried over the former, in exactly the op- posite direction (see the same figure), until it hangs on the opposite side. Holding both sceptres stil] pendent, the hands are raised somewhat higher than the head ; with the sceptres in the same position, both arms are extended outward and backward. They are lastly dropped into the first position. All this is done slowly We shall revert to this subject and give further illus- trations in our next number. Now we have a few words to say to one who has been our champion, true and loyal asa Knight of the Round Table, serving three times seven years to win the favor of American wo- men. He deserves a compliment. Dear Mr. Gopry: As the ‘ Lady’s Book’’ has reached, with this number, its full majority of twenty- one years, it seems proper to mark the period by a me- morial. When the heir comes of age, he is entitled to congratulations. When the man has won hisown way to the goal, he should be cheered. If the maxim of La Rochefoucauld be true, that ‘* J? faut de plus grandes vertus pour soutenir la bonne for- tune que le mauvaise,’’ then you deserve much esteem. Your career has been singularly fortunate; yet you have never relaxed your efforts to improve, nor swerved from the path of integrity, industry, and a high moral aim in the pursuit on which you entered with no patri- mony but hope, health, and resolution. There are many fallacies in the form of old sayings and pretensions to experience current in the world. One is that the age is degenerating. How often we hear people mourning over this downward tendency of 57

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58 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. ~~ things, as though all light would be extinguished when their candle was put under a bushel, and all goodness go out of the world with themselves. You, sir, can easily demonstrate their error. Lay before these poor, hopeless persons the first and last volume of the “‘ La- dy's Book!’ Show them the progress you have made; they will despair no more. Women have been stigmatized as “‘ fickle,’’ ** incon- stant,’’ ‘‘ unreasonable,’’ ‘* And variable as the shade By the light quivering aspen made.’’ Have you found these sayings true? I hear your in- dignant ‘* NO!’ Preparing your work especially and entirely for the female sex, you have relied on the pa- tronage of WoMAN and her FRIENDs, and have never been disappointed. Every year has added new names, while the old ones remain stereotyped on your list, till the cir- cuit of the world has been made; and from Philadelphia to the Celestial Empire, and round by the Sandwich Islands to California and South America, the ‘‘ Lady’s Book’’ goes on its pleasant mission to the homes and hearts of its multitude of friends. Is there an instance where American men have thus steadfastly supported a literary journal ? Notone. Therefore bear witness, Mr. Godey, that the ladies are not fickle when the object of their first admiration continues to merit their favor. And that the “ Lady’s Book’? may move onward and upward for three times seven years longer, under its present publisher, proving the realities of moral pro- gress by the increasing esteem its pure pages meet with, is, I am sure, the wish of its present readers. Should your life be spared thus long, you will then have at- tained about the age of wisdom, when our greatest men are considered best fitted to guide the nation. And, should the ladies reach that political privilege some of your sex are urging them to contend fur, there would be little doubt who would be their choice for President of these United States in 1872. However, as we have settled that the ‘‘ Lady’s Book,’’ while under our care, shall never advocate this system of encroachment on woman’s right of sending the male portion of her household to the polls, while she may read quietly at home, it is not likely you will consent to become a candidate for the ‘‘ White House.’’ We protest utterly against this notion of female vot- ing, fearing the next will be to impose military fines, and then firemen’s duties, on women. A pretty sight it would be to see our lovely ladies parading at beat of drum, or ranning after the fireengines! Such a catas- trophe will never occur while the ‘* Lady’s Book’’ has its present efficient and honorable conductor, to whom, on behalf of its lady friends, I now offer sincere con- gratulations that he has enjoyed twenty-one years of uninterrupted success. Saran J. Hae. To CorresponpEents.—The following articles are accepted: “ To one who dislikes Flowers,’ ‘‘ I think on Thee,’ “Song of the Spirit of Life,’ “I Love Thee, Quiet Night,’’ “‘ Narrative of a Shipwreck,”’ ‘* Palermo,”’ and “* Crossing the Obion, an Incident of Western Late.’ Several poems, of much merit, we must decline for want of room; and many articles on hand we have been wnable to examine. Our friends must keep on their armor of patience. eee PLD AAAAAPAAAARAANI IY Literary Notices. THE CHURCH REVIEW AND ECCLESIASTI- CAL REGISTER, published at New Haven, Connecti- cut, has an exceedingly interesting article in its April number. The title of the essay, ‘‘ Loyalty to the Ame- rican Constitution,’’ will indicate its character; but its vigor and justness of thought, and beauty of style, can only be understood by those who read it. We hope it will be studicd. Ladies should read it, and learn their duties to their country. From Harper & Brotuers, New York, through Linpsay & Buiaxkiston, Philadelphia :— NATURE AND BLESSEDNESS OF CHRISTIAN PURITY. By Rev.R.S. Foster. With an introduc- tion by Edmund 8. Janes, D.D., one of the Bishops of the Methodist Episcopal Church. This work, on ac- count of its piety and able Christian arguments and illustrations, will be a valuable acquisition to the theology of the church of which the author isa member. THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND MEMOIRS OF CAPTAIN OBADIAH CONGAR, for Fifty Years Mariner and Shipmaster from the Port of New York. By Rev. Henry F. Cheever, author of ‘‘ The Island World of the Pacific,’’ and ‘‘ The Whale and his Cap- tors.’’ Inthe hope that this volume may prove a use- ful gift to the merchant service and marine of England and America, the author has dedicated it to the Sea- man’s Fund Societies of the two great commercial na- tions of England and America. A GREEK GRAMMAR FOR THE USE OF HIGH SCHOOLS AND UNIVERSITIES. By Philip Butt- mann. Revised and enlarged by his son, Alexander Buttmann. Translated from the eighteenth German edition by Edward Robinson. This is a valuable con- tribution to the scholastic and classical literature of the country. LOUISIANA: its Colonial History and Romance By Charles Gayarre. This is the most spirited and entertaining American work that has come under our notice for some time past. The author has truly shown, as he said he was prepared to do, that “‘ the history of Louisiana is full of poetry of the highest order, and of the most varied nature.’’ BEACHNUT, AND OTHER STORIES. By Jacob Abbott, author of the “Rollo Stories.”” We confess our indebtedness to this author for his series of Fran- conian stories, feeling, as we do, that they will be pro- ductive of great good to the youth of our country. From A. Hart (late Carey & Hart), Philadelphia :— THE FRUIT, FLOWER, AND KITCHEN GAR- DEN. By Patrick Neill, LL.D., F.R.S.E., Secre- tary of the Royal Caledonian Horticultural Society. Adapted to the United States. From the fourth edition, revised and improved by the author. This will prove a very valuable publication in the hands of all persons interested in horticulture and fruit culture, as well as for those who desire to produce the earliest vegetables. Every one who makes a business of furnishing the markets with the richest and rarest fruits and flowers, including grapes of the finest flavor, should possess himself of this volume ; and especially will it be found of the greatest value to those who desire to amuse and gratify themselves, by cultivating a taste for the beau ties and excellencies of nature.

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LITERARY NOTICES 59 From Cuartes Scrisner, New York, through A. Harr, Philadelphia :— HURRY-GRAPHS ; or, Sketches of Scenery, Cele- brities, and Society, taken from Life. By N. Parker Willis. These sketches, &c. have appeared from time to time in the ‘“* Home Journal,’’ and are now published in a volume as they came warm from the imagination and pen of their author. As a writer, Mr. Willis has many admirers, to whom, no doubt, the selections in this volume will be highly acceptable. THE FRUIT GARDEN. A treatise intended to ex- plain and illustrate the physiology of fruit trees, the theory and practice of all operations connected with the propagation, translation, pruning, and training of orchard and garden trees, as standards, dwarfs, pyra- mids, etc.; the laying out and arrangement of dif- ferent kinds of orchards and gardens, the selection of suitable varieties for different purposes and locali- ties, gathering and preserving fruits, treatment of dis- eases, destruction of insects, descriptions and uses of implements, etc. Illustrated with upwards of one hun- dred and fifty figures, representing different parts of trees, all practical operations, forms of trees, designs for plantations, implements, etc. By D. P. Barry, of the Mount Hope Nursery, Rochester, New York. This full and complete title of a valuable work relieves us from any further remark than that of according to it all the merit that is therein set forth. From Fowter & We tts, New York, through W. B. ZiEBER, Philadelphia :— BULWER AND FORBES ON THE WATER TREATMENT : a Compilation of Papers on the Sub- ject of Hygiene and Rational Hydropathy. Edited, with additional matter, by Roland S. Houghton, A. M., M.D. New and revised edition, stereotyped, with ad- ditions and improvements. Were we to give way to our feelings, after the perusal of this volume, we should certainly pronvunce the question settled, as far as we re concerned, in favor of the water treatment. But when we reflect that very many astonishing cures have been made under all systems, and that many persons, not absolutely worn out, often get well by merely changing their habits, we are fain to leave the book to the judgment and discrimination of the reader. We can say, however, that the arrangement, the contents, and the style of the book are such as cannot fail to in- terest and enlighten the reader in regard to the origin of diseases and the virtues of temperance. From Lippincott, Gramso & Co. (successors to Grigg, Elliot & Co.), 14 North Fourth Street, Phila- delphia :— POEMS. By Mrs.E.li.Evans. With a preface by her brother, T. H. Stockton. There are many credit- able and, we might justly say, beautiful poems in this volume, which will arrest the attention and deserve the encomiums of the reader. The opening Apology at once claims the sympathy of the heart, and will be very apt to secure its regards for the gentle and thought- ful author to the close of her volume. From FE. H. Butter & Co., Philadelphia :— THE COMPLETE WORKS OF MARTIN F. TUPPER, D.C.L., F.R.S. In four volumes. Au- thentic edition. Vol.1. ‘' The Crock of Gold,” ‘‘ The Twins,”’ and ‘‘ Heart.’’ The American public is so generally familiar with the poetry, and with the prose writings of this author, that we feel under no necessity to make any special recommendation of them in an- nouncing the appearance of this volume, the first of a series now in the course of publication in this country, under Mr. Tupper’s immediate supervision. The edi- tion is presented with the following graceful dedica- tion, which will certainly not be lost upon the sensitive American reader: ‘* To the American People, in token of respect and good wili, this authorized edition of my writings hitherto is gratefully inscribed by the author. Philadelphia, April 21, 1851."’ From T. B. Peterson, 98 Chestnut Street, Phila- delphia :— THE COMPLETE FLORIST, OR FLOWER GARDEN. This isa very cheap, and yet a very valu- able compilation from an English work, and will no doubt have a tendency to increase the taste, and to en- large the knowledge of our people in the culture and management of ornamental flowers and shrubs. THE COMPLETE KITCHEN AND FRUIT GAR- DENER. For popular and general use. This work contains a great amount of practical instruction in re- gard to the cultivation of all kinds of culinary herbs, and also for the best way of rearing the orchard and the fruit garden, including every description of informa- tion, in a brief form, that may be required in the suc- cessful management of gardens. From Rosert E. Peterson, N. W. corner of Fifth and Arch Streets, Philadelphia :— THE PATRIARCHAL AGE; OR, THE STORY OF JOSEPH. Originally prepared for the pupils in the primary department of the Girard College for Or- phans, and now published for the use of other young persons. We are assured by the author that it was his desire to impart to his youthful charge as great a va- riety of instruction, suitable to their age and condition, as was practicable under the circumstances, and that the work is now published with the hope that it may be found useful beyond the circle for which it was ori- ginally intended. It is familiarly written, and contains an amount of instructive matter which may be found of great interest to a higher and an older class of read- ers than those for whose capacities it was at first prepared, by the addition of many explanatory notes. From Strrincer & Townsenp, New York :— ANNE GREY. A Novel. By the author of ‘‘ Gran- by,’’ “* Jane Shore,"’ ete. A very interesting and su- perior work of fiction, the incidents and moral! of which will be appreciated as above those of the ordinary no- vels of the day. Sertats, Pampuiets, &c.—‘‘ London Labor and the London Poor.’’? Parts 3 and 4. With Daguerreotype engravings by Henry Mayhew. Harper & Brothers, New York; Lindsay & Blakiston, Philadelphia. ‘¢ The Commissioner; or, De Lunatico Inquirendo.”’ By G. P. R. James, Estj., author of ‘‘ Henry Smeaton,’’ etc. Same publishers.——‘‘ Rebels and Tories; or, the Blood of the Mohawk.’’ A Revolutionary Legend. By Lawrence Labree, Esq. New York: Dewitt & Davenport, Tribune Buildings. Price 50 cents.—— **Knowlson’s Complete Cow and Cattle Doctor.’’ Philadelphia: T. B. Peterson, 98 Chestnut Street. Price 25 cents.——*‘ Shakspeare’s Dramatic Works.’’ Boston edition. No. 36. Containing ‘‘ Romeo and Juliet,’ with a very fine engraving of the latter. Pe- terson, agent, Philadelphia. From the same publishers

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60 GODEY’S MAGAZINE and agent, ‘‘ Hamlet,’’ with a characteristic portrait of Ophelia.——“ Indiana.’’ By George Sand. Together with the life of the author. T.B. Peterson, publisher, Philadelphia. ——“‘ The Temple.’’ The first number of a monthly magazine, devoted to masonry, literature, and science. Edited by B. Parke and C. E. Blamen- thal. Harrisburg: J.J. Clyde & Co., Printers. This number, which is for the month of May, contains a well-executed portrait of Hon. Joseph R. Chandler, in the ‘‘ regalia’? of the order.——‘‘ Wild Sports of the West.’’? By William H. Maxwell, author of “ Stories of Waterloo,’’ ‘‘ Hector O’Halloran,’’ ete. This has been pronounced ‘‘ a good book’’ by the best critics in England and in the United States.——“‘ The Pictorial AND LADY’S BOOK. Field Book of the Revolution.”” No. 13. From Har- per & Brothers, New York, through Lindsay & Blakis- ton, Philadelphia. This work continues its deep inte- rest to the American reader.——‘‘ The Banker’s Wife.”’ By T.S.Arthur. An excellent novel. Price 25 cents. Mvusic.—‘‘ The National Union.’”?> Words and musie by Charles Collins, Jr., and respectfully dedicated, with permission, to the Hon. Henry Clay, whose opinion we adopt when we say that the sentiments, the poetry, and the music are highly creditable to the talents and the patriotism of the author. Lee & Wal- ker, music publishers, Philadelphia. THE PUBLISHER’S DREAM. In the very midst of their most serious toils, trou- bles, and disappointments, editors and publishers, as well as their readers and correspondents, are occasion- ally visited and consoled by pleasant and encouraging dreams. Of this character was a magnificent vision which shed its golden and beneficent influences over our heart a few evenings since Overpowered by the mtense labors of the day, and the pressure of those pe- ealiar feelings of anxiety which editors alone can ex- perience, we sat down, in a pensive mood, to rest, and to reflect for a few moments in the solitude and silence of our sanctum. We had scarcely composed our weary limbs within the friendly embraces of our venerable and faithful companion—the old arm-chair—and rested our aching head in the palin of our right hand, our elbow resting on a table, over which were scattered nume- reus letters from every quarter of this wide-spread Re- public, when we became suddenly unconscious of the world and of all its troubles and all its disappointments. How long we remained in this oblivious state it is impossible for us to tell; but when we again became susceptible of mental emotions, of thought and reflec- tion, it was to revel in one of the most glorious, one of the most consoling and beautiful fancies that ever descended from the brilliant regions of imagination to soothe, invigorate, and bless the mind and the labors of a weary mortal. We thought that all at once there appeared before us a great crowd, more than our office could contain, of our old subscribers, whose names have been legibly inscribed upon our books from twen- ty down to the past two years, but with few or no credits attached to them. They all appeared to have their purses open, their countenances beaming with conscious integrity, and radiant with the inward plea- sure which they seemed to experience in the perform- ance of a just, honest, and virtuous action. While we were conjecturing what all this could mean, one gen- tleman, of whose person we had a somewhat indistinct recollection—time and contact with the world having greatly subdued his once fashionable and careless de- meanor into a modest, thoughtful, and benevolent as- pect—pressed near to us. in front of the crowd, and addressed us in the following ‘‘ thrilling speech’? :— ‘“* Mr. Eprror—It having been ascertained that I am the oldest and largest debtor in this great throng of delinquent subscribers to your incomparable Lapy’s Book, I have been deputed to address you on this me- morable occasion. Permit me then, dear sir, in the { first place, to congratulate you on the magnificently { benevolent scheme which you have charitably devised for the future comfort, independence, and happiness of an unfortunate class of public benefactors. We have heard, sir, that it is your intention, should you be successful in collecting the inconceivable amount of money which has accumulated on your books for the last twenty years, to erect a most splendid home for all such heart-broken or superannuated editors, pub- lishers, and writers as have it in their power to show that they owe their disappointments in life, and their present misfortunes, to the negligence—not to use a more expressive word—of individuals like ourselves. We come, therefore, repenting of our past delinquen- cies, and prepared to wipe out the stains so long at- tached to our names, and, in view of your great and charitable enterprise, consoling ourselves with the re- flection that ‘ it is never too late to do good.’ *¢ But, Mr. Editor, independent of our actual indebt- edness for amounts of subscription, we, in unison with our countrymen, beg leave to congratulate you on the great impetus which your ‘ Book’ has given to our na- tional literature, and to the development and encourage- ment of the fine arts, including your beautiful ‘ mode. cottages.’ Writers, designers, engravers, and builders have all experienced the benefits of the example which you were the first to set for the encouragement of Ame- rican genius, and for the establishment of a correct standard of Amtrican taste. When, sir, we reflect upon all these admirable efforts on your part, and the numerous body of persons to whom your enterprising spirit has given employment and a liberal competency ; when we reflect also that you have on your books somo forty or fifty thousand dollars, and that the vast crowd before you are, on an average, indebted to you six dollars each—we once more repeat our hearty regrets, and prove our sorrow by planking down the amounts we individually owe you.”’ When the eloquent speaker closed his address, a ra- diant smile lighted up his countenance, though not so youthful as it once was, and, without asking for a bill, he tendered an amount which we had no time to exa- mine, his example being followed on the instant by the vast crowd of conscientious persons in attendance, who no longer required to be reminded of the amount of their indebtedness, so mysterious were the promptings *of each one’s conscience. But, alas! honest reader, such a vision as this be-

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PUBLISHER’S DEPARTMENT. 61 came too exciting to last long. The ringing of the full, round, silver dollars ; the chinking and clinking of the gold pieces; the grateful acknowledgments, and the clear hearty laugh of the ‘‘ absolved penitents,”’ as they went their way rejoicing, was too much for “‘ visionary purposes,’’ and we awoke with a full conviction that we could boast of nothing more than the enjoyment of a very pleasant and agreeable dream, which may, ne- vertheless, at no distant day, through the attention of our friends, be in some measure verified ; for, chimerical as the proposition may seem, we could, and probably would, make a grand effort to establish sueh an asylum as was here suggested to our mind in a most delightful and consoling vision. Let such of our friends as know that they should be numbered among the multitude who thus attended us in our dream, come forward and real- ize the truth and the beauty of the scene presented to our imagination, and they shall find us ready and pre- pared to fulfil our part of the contract by the applica- tion of funds to the contemplated alleviation of a most worthy class of public benefactors, who have them- selves fallen into penury in consequence of their efforts to amuse and enlighten the public mind, and to build up and sustain the honor and literary reputation of their beloved country, as the orator’s address has beautifully demonstrated. Publisher's Department, PuBLISHER’s CORRESPONDENCE.—Among Our nume- rous business letters, we occasionally have the pleasure to find one from an old and honored friend, or perhapsa memorial from some well-remembered companion and school-fellow of our youth. These memorials, brief and hurriedly sketched as they are in letters professed- ly on business, are nevertheless among the brightest gems in the varied correspondence of a publisher, often awakening in the wearied heart a glow of feeling far more precious and valuable than the pecuniary con- siderations with which they are in some measure blended. Not the least welcome or interesting among such business letters as we have here alluded to, was one which we received a few days since from a school- fellow and companion of our youth, dated ‘* Owasco Lake.’ Many a year has come and gone since we had the satisfaction to take him by the hand; and we are therefore highly gratified with our “ natural wear and tear’’ when he tells us, in allusion to a certain article, that he should have no difficulty in recognizing us, not- withstanding time has been somewhat busy, and has turned us off with quite a venerable appearance! Well, after all, that is not an unpleasant compliment to come from an old schoolmate, although it certainly does sound somewhat queer, and does, indeed, contain a warning which is calculated to awaken many serious reflections. But we must pass them over here. There would be nothing new in our reflections to our venera- ble readers, and it is quite likely that our youthful readers are willing to bide their time, and become venerable in appearance and in reflection, when they shall be ‘ turned off’ as we have heen. Meantime, we assure our friend Mac of the Lake that we ofte® sympathize in his reminiscence in regard to the city of our nativity, and almost mourn over the de- parture of those ‘‘ venerable appearances’’ so familiar in the joyous days of our boyhood. Nevertheless, we heartily congratulate him that his career has been ho- norable and prosperous, and that he has nothing more important among the list of his regrets than the changes which time has wrought upon his early friends and the home of infancy. Our Auburn (California correspondent) has paid the ** Lady’s Book’ a distinguished and most grateful com- pliment. If there is any earthly object which we have sincerely at heart, it is that of rendering our work a soothing and hopeful messenger to the bruised and de- sponding spirits of the unfortunate the wide world over. We assure our friend that we felt a deep interest in the graphic sketch of the romantic incidents of his tife with which he favored us, and are happy to know that he discovered so much to admire in the story and the en- graving of the ‘‘ Constant’’—so much, as he tells us, that was similar to his own case—and so much to inte- rest and arouse al] his generous and manly energies in the retrievement of his fortune. His statement that, in his distant region, the ‘‘ Lady’s Book’? commands a higher price by nearly one-half than any other work containing the same amount of reading, and that all are highly pleased with the artistic skill displayed in its different departments, comes home to us with searcely loss interest than would the joyful tidings to a father’s heart that his eldest born was an honored, prosperous, and useful man in a far-off land of strangers. And that such may be the fate of our good friend F. A. H., after a speedy and happy reunion with his affectionate and * constant’? wife, is the sincere prayer of the publisher of the ‘* Lady’s Book.”’ Ovr Scriptvrat PLates.—We regret to observe that some of the religious exchanges take exceptions to the beautiful Scriptural engravings published, from time to time, in the ‘‘ Lady’s Book.’? We had no inten- tion, neither had we the least apprehension of becoming amenable to the charge of sectarianism ; for in nothing that we have published did we, in the simplicity of our heart, imagine there was anything but a representation of the ‘‘ beauty of holiness,’”? which we believe to be the charitable and exalted aim and characteristic of every denomination of Christians. These designs, it is true, were prepared for the ‘‘ Lady’s Book,’’ but with- out any design to give pre-eminence to one sect more than to another, and certainly without any design of disrespect to any denomination whatever Our object was to present to the reader representations of such truths and ceremonies connected with, or dependent upon, Scriptural teachings, as would be the most effect- ive, without exciting the disfavor of any class of our Christian friends. This explanation, we hope, will be satisfactory to all. Our Move. Cortaces.—We refer to this particular and universally-admired feature of the ‘‘ Lady’s Book”? at this time, to answer an objection made to them by one of our country exchanges, who thinks, as a general thing, that our model cottages are ‘‘ too expensive to be of any benefit to many wishing to build.”” There can be no “ fault,’’ as our friend intimates there is. in our cottages on account of the expense of building. The price of labor, and the price of materiels, in the different sections of country, come not under our regu- lations. Still, however, these models, if prepared on a scale too expensive, can very easily be adapted to the circumstances and the means of a family who wish to economize. They need not ‘follow the copy”? lite- rally or exactly ; the area may be reduced, the number of rooms may be reduced, the ornamental work may not

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62 be so expensively adhered to, and still the projector on one of our plans will find himself the possessor of a tasty, convenient, and cheap dwelling. Our intention has been to present the ideal, the plan of such dwell- ings, as summer or permanent residences, leaving the expense of them to the discretion of those who should think proper to adopt them. Ovr subscribers will please notice that, with the August number, the cheap postage system wi!l com- mence—two cents for five hundred miles, and four cents for fifteen hundred miles, if three months postage is paid in advance As the “‘ Lady's Book’’ is stereo- typed, new subscrivers can procure the numbers from the commencement of the year, and, if sent after the 30th of June, they will be received at the reduced rate of postage. Tue Avruor or “Miss Bremer’s Visit To Coop- gr’s Lanpine.’’—In the August number, we will pub- lish another story by this celebrated writer—‘‘ Board- ing-House Politics.’’ The lady author of these stories has taken at once the highest position as a humorous and satirical writer. Her stories are copied into one half of the papers in this country. Tue beautiful engraving on the cover of this number is the leading illustration in the ‘‘ London Arts Union Journal” for March. Fasnion Prates.—There seems to be a strange no- tion on the part of our cotemporaries upon the sub- ject of fashions. Some of them are in the habit of giving the winter fashions in the spring, spring in the summer, and so on. They possess no discrimination, giving them to the public because they were the fash- ions at the time in Paris. They have yet to learn that the seasons are entirely different. Our caterer for the ladies, acknowledged to be the most celebrated modiste in this city, understands this matter better. Our sub- scribers may rely upon this, that the ‘“‘ Lady’s Book’? fashions may be depended upon. Dempster, the celebrated vocalist, has returned to this city. We advise all who admire the pure ballad atyle of singing to go and hear him. Jenny Linp has returned to the north, after one of the most successful and triumphant tours ever made by a professional person. Tae Acapemy or Fine Arts.—The collection of paintings and statuary displayed at this institution during the past spring was highly flattering to our na- tive artists, and evinced a “‘ spirit of progress’’ in pub- lic sentiment, in favor of the fine arts, highly honorable to our citizens. The exhibition was attended by crowds of ladies and gentlemen, including artists, ama- teurs, and connoisseurs, who generally expressed them- selves pleased and gratified with the efforts presented. Mr. Robb, of New Orleans, had forwarded his fine collection of paintings for the use of the Academy dur- ing the exhibition, and, consequently, greater interest was given to the display than could otherwise have been anticipated. By this act of courtesy, Mr. R. has given another strong evidence of his liberality in secur- ing to our country an elevated and honorable standing among those nations whose Tenown has been perpetu- wae GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. ated more by the arts and sciences than by any other policy they could have pursued. Bioop’s Dispatcn.—We have received from the proprietor of this safe and convenient mode of distri- buting city letters, a package of envelops, which, be- sides being of firm texture and very neatly manufac- tured, have the following stamp: ‘‘ Blood’s Dispatch. Pre-paid. One cent.’? Can we do less, under the cir- cumstance, than commend these self-sealing, always prepared, and pre-paid envelops to the patronage of our city readers? We think not; and we, moreover, hope that it will not have been made in vain. The proprie- tor is generally known as an enterprising and respect- able citizen. New Exuisition.—We recently had the pleasure of attending a new and interesting exhibition at the rooms of the Brothers Langenheim, in Chestnut Street above Fifth. By a new and ingenious process, to which these gentlemen have given the name of the ‘“‘ Physi- orama,’’ they are enabled to transfer the most beautiful views, taken directly from nature, to the canvass, at the same time retaining their minutest effects in bright- ness of coloring and softness of shade. Among the re- presentations thus made, were a number of familiar subjects taken from the vicinity of our own city, and which, for their unsurpassed fidelity, were received by the intelligent audience present with the warmest ap- probation and applause. Portrait oF Mr. Grice.—We have been presented with a finely engraved portrait of a worthy and pros- perous citizen of Philadelphia, who has been well known throughout the country for many years past as an extensive and enterprising publisher and bookseller, in connection with the firm of Grigg, Elliot & Co. A short time since, Mr. G. retired from business with an ample fortune, accompanied with a reputation still more valuable, that of a prudent, honest, and benevo- lent man. We hope he may live long in the enjoyment of health, and of the means which he has so honorably accumulated, and which he knows so well how to dis- pense for the benefit of others—a characteristic trait which was peculiarly his own in all his business trans- actions. The portrait is by T. B. Welch, who is cer- tainly the very best engraver of portraits in the coun- try, and who, in this instance, has been eminently successful in presenting the life-like expression of the original. We may as well say here that the firm of Grigg, Elliot & Co. has been succeeded by that of Lip- pincott, Grambo & Co., who evince, in all their exten- sive business relations, the same enterprising, liberal, and accommodating spirit which so greatly distin- guished their predecessors. Home Batiaps. By Assy Atiin.—In the March number of the ‘‘ Book,’’ we briefly noticed a volume of poems, under the above title, from the publishing house of James Munroe & Co., Boston. We have since availed ourselves of an opportunity to examine more critically these productions of ap amiable and gifted writer. We only wonder, however, that one so truthful in her sentiments, if not always methodi- cally correct in the construction of her poetfy, should have so long been concealed from that meed of public admiration to which her talents so justly entitle her It was but the other day that we learned, from one of our contributors, that herself and ‘‘ Nilla,’’ the nom de

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FASHIONS. 63 Plume of Miss Allin, commenced their literary careers at the same period. This lady has long been a favorite ; and, perhaps, under similar circumstances, ‘‘ Nilla’’ would not have failed to be, by this time, as well ap- preciated as “‘ Alice.”’ Artuur’s Home Gazette.—We agree with an in- telligent cotemporary, ‘‘It belongs to that class of newspapers which can never be read too much, and of which there is no fear of there ever being too many published.’’ [tis gratifying to see the warm welcome with which the appearance of the ‘‘ Home Gazette’? is greeted in all quarters. The subscription list has al- ready swelled up to a number far beyond what the pub- lisher anticipated in so short a time, and the increase continues as it began. Thisisagood sign. The paper is one of the most healthy, chaste, high-toned, and inte- resting in the country, and every father who regards the moral well-being of his children should secure for them the weekly visit of ‘‘ T. S. Arthur’s Home Gazette.”’ Tue ancients were accustomed to class all sprouts of vegetables under the general name of asparagus, and our plant takes its name from a Greek word signifying a young shoot before it unfolds its leaves, and first came into use with the Romans about two hundred years before Christ, in the time of the elder Cato, who wrote upon its culture. Pliny mentions its cultivation at Ravenna, where it was so large that three heads would weigh a pound. The plant still grows in Asia Minor, and on the borders of the Euphrates, to an ex- traordinary size. We have often heard asked, What are the virginals upon which Queen Elizabeth played so well ? We annex a description: The musical instrument called the vir- ginal was the first rade idea our ancestors had formed of a piano; it was a miniature-keyec instrument, con- tained in a box about four feet long, with an ivory or boxwood finger-board, limited to two or three octaves, and was, when wanted, placed on a table before the performer. VARIOUS USEFUL RECEIPTS, &c., OF OUR OWN GATHERING. To Dye Brown.—A decoction of oak bark dyes wool a fast brown of various shades, according to the quantity employed ; an infusion of walnut-peels will also dye brown. The wool should be previously dipped in a solation of alum and water, which brightens the color. For red dye: boil in a bath of madder, previously rinsing the goods in alum; or, if you wish for purple, employ, instead of alum, a bath of acetate of iron. Red dyes are also given by archil, cochineal, Brazil- wood, &c. For blue dye: boil in a bath of logwood, to which a small quantity of blue vitriol has been added, using the alum bath as in the other cases. Macaront.—To eat macaroni in perfection, let it be boiled in milk, and when quite tender drain off the li- quid; place the macaroni upon, the dish you intend to send to table, put it before the fire while you rub fresh butter over the top, and then cover the surface with grated Parmesan cheese about a quarter of an inch thick. Put it in a Dutch oven for ten minutes before sent to table. Another way is, after boiling in veal broth, to cover the macaroni with grated cheese, and cover this with bread crumbs ; warm some butter with- out oiling, pour it through an earthen colander over the crumbs, and brown in a Dutch oven. The yolk of an egg beaten up with milk and butter is an improvement. An E.recant Cement may be made from rice-flour, which is at present used for that purpose in China and Japan. It is only necessary to mix the rice-flour inti- mately with cold water, and gently simmer it over a fire, when it readily forms a delicute and durable ce- ment, not only answering all the purposes of common paste, but admirably adapted for joining together pa- per, cards, &c., in forming the various beautiful and tasteful ornaments which afford much employment and amusement to the ladies. When made of the consist- ence of plaster clay, models, busts, bas relievos, &c. may be formed of it, and the articles, when dry, are susceptible of high polish and very durable. Sat VotatTiLte or HartsHorn will restore color taken out by acids. It may be dropped on the silk without doing any injury. Guiass VEssELs, in a cylindrical form, may be cut in two by tying round them a worsted thread thoroughly wetted with spirits of turpentine, and then setting fire to the thread. WHeEn plain tortoise-shell combs are defaced, the polish may be renewed by rubbing them with pulver- ized rotten-stone and oil. The rotten-stone should be sifted through muslin. Then polish with jeweler’s rouge, or with sifted magnesia. Guazep Ports are the most suitable for plants kept in balconies, where they are much exposed to the air, as they do not admit of transpiration from the sides, and consequently the earth contained in them does not so soon become dry. In whatever soil the crocus may be planted, the leaves should never be cut off till they begin to wither, as without their assistance the plant cannot accumu- late matter to form its new corona for the ensuing season. Fashions. DESCRIPTION OF STEEL FASHION PLATE. Equestrian Hasit.—A skirt and basquine of Thibet cloth, of the rich brown so fashionable for dresses the past season. Theekirt is ornamented by fourteen rows of narrow black velvet, set on plain, each row fastened by a button of the cloth. The basquine, or jockey, is also edged with the velvet ribbon, and may be closed by a row of the buttons. It is more stylish to let it be thrown open, disclosing a vest of straw-colored cash- mere, with double-gilt buttons. A broad linen collar and blue neck-tie complete this elegant, but somewhat fanciful, costume. The hat is black beaver, with a broad leaf, or front, and ornamented by a single heavy plume, gracefully disposed. DESCRIPTION OF WOOD-CUT. Fig. 1st.—New and elegant style of morning-dress. It is composed of white lawn, and ornamented with a

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64 bordering of richly-embroidered insertion. Three rows of this, with a narrow edge to correspond, descend from the waist to the bottom of the skirt, which hasa deep border of the same. The sacque fits closely to the figure, is of the same material, and trimmed in precise- ly the same manner; a chemisette being inserted, and finished by a small collar at the throat. The wide un- dersleeves have a deep ruffie in keeping with the dress, which is in very good taste as part of a trousseau. The knots of ribbon may be of any color to suit the fancy or taste of the wearer ; and the ribbon in the cap, which is composed of India muslin, should correspond. Cuitpren’s Dressts.—Fig. 24.— Walking-dress for a little girl. A dress and sacque of pearl-colored glacé silk, the sacque bound with a thicker silk of some bright shade. Full undersleeves. The bonnet isa light shell, fancy straw, of pure white, with pearl-colored bows and strings. Mode-colored gaiters, and very short pantalettes, edged with rich embroidery. Pig. 34.—Walking-dress of a child. Dress and sacque * of dark cashmere, trimmed with narrow embossed vel- vet ribbon. Full white sleeves showing beneath the sacque, white stockings, and pantalettes like those in Fig. 2d, which is the style of the spring. Black gaiters. Black beaver hat, the brim rolled, with a band of broad satin ribbon, a knot and long cords. CHIT-CHAT UPON PHILADELPHIA FASHIONS FOR JULY. There is little or no fashion to be seen in Philadel- phia this burning, sultry month, as the last of our in- habitants who lay claim to that mysterious distinction have finally quitted the city. Some have become actual “« birds of passage’’ in the Collins’ line of steamers, and will no doubt bring home their own fashions from ‘‘ The World’s Fair.’’ Others are haunting Newport or the Springs, as for years past; and a few sensible people have gone quietly to their own country houses, where they have space to turn and time to breathe, without the daily fatigues of promenades, dining in full dress, and boarding-house hops. There are, of course, a few scattered items of changes in les modes to glean, and we have selected those of most general interest for our readers. First, there are hints suggested by the fashion plate, with its graceful, but too fanciful, costume. A riding habit, to be in perfect taste, should have as little of ornament as possible. This is obvious from the simple rule of reason. It is a toilet, not for the parlor or the street, but for the woods and fields. It may set off the figure to the best advantage, but it must also allow room for the full play of every limb and muscle. White, or light colors, should be avoided, for they are easily soiled, and then there is nothing more dismal. Re- dundant trimming of any kind might chance to cause the arrest of the fair lady, by those Robin Hoods of the forest, boughs and brambles. The hat given in the plate isa new and fashionable style abroad, but has not, as yet, been introduced among our lady equestrians. Genin’s hat for the sea- son differs little from the Jenny Lind, described last autumn, except that it 1s of a beautiful shade of pearl, or drab, with plume to match. Oakford’'s differs very little. While merinoes, and, better still, cloths, are the only proper materials for a spring and autumn ha- bit, they are aimost too heavy for midsummer twilight rides, and the plain, or mixed, cashmere de baize will ow GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. _—~ be found much more comfortable. It is generally of a neat and most serviceable color, moreover. Linen lustres, of all kinds, rumple too easily, and, as we have said before, the perfection of an elegant riding costume is neatness. Brvad-leaved straw hats should be sub- stituted for beaver until October. They are quite as becoming when trimmed with a black or dark green Mantua ribbon. Fancy colors, or thin gaudy textures, would not be in keeping. Small collars and deep cuffs, of some white linen, add to the neatness before spoken of, and the neck-tie, arranged ina careless knot, should be of some dark or any light color; it is best to suit the hat ribbons. Muslin, or embroidery of any kind, would be sadly out of place; though, if the lady prefers the open, or cadet corsage, a plaited linen chemisette has a beautiful effect. Most of our ladies wear gauntlets, or buff leather riding-gloves; they protect the wrists; but the reins are quite as well managed in ordinary gloves, which should not fit too tightly. A French twist is the best arrangement of the hair for a riding hat, as it suits the shape of the head, and is not easily discom- posed. Curls, unless natural, are soon blown into most disconsolute negligée by the rapid motion of the horse. A thick quilted silk or muslin skirt, beneath the habit, is of great advantage ; and gaiters are indispensable, as a slipper could not bear the strain of the foot in the stirrup, or are liable to be ‘‘ cast’’ by the wayside by the breaking of a very slender string. To go from riding to home costume. White dresses of every description are in especial favor this season. Swiss or ‘‘ see-through’’ muslins for a dinner and even- ing-dress, or jaconets, barred muslins, linen lawns for the morning. Rows of wide insertion are used in the skirt, alternating with the same width of muslin. Some are three, four, and even eight deep. Many ladies will remember this as an old, but elegant, fashion revived. Flowing sleeves are finished with an edging to corre- spond, and a close ruffle, or rather collar, of the same about the throat. Plain corsage buttoned with dia- mond cut buttons, of blue, crimson, or green, which can be taken out, as vest buttons are, by the laundress. Papier maché buttons are also worn, some of very light and pretty styles. Mantillas have given place to small capes, fitting close to the shoulders and coming half way to the waist, about as deep as the old style berthé, but com- mencing at the throat. They are much more suitable for midsummer. Mantillas, if worn, are very small, open, and reach a little below the waist in a point. Bonnets of light fancy straws have the now univer- sal cap crowns, and are lined throughout with some pretty-hued silk. Crape and black Ince bonnets are made in the same shape, with a few light flowers, im- bedded in tu/le, inside the brim, and small bouquets of the same on the outside. The hair has undergone a decided change. Puffs are no longer things seen in old magazine pictures, but meet you every day on the promenade, filling the brims of ladies’ bonnets, standing one above the other. Few people have ventured on more than two or three, at the most, as yet. Of course, they are becoming, since they are the fashion; but we would recommend, as a more simple and girlish coiffure, the arrangement in the equestrian fashion plate, the braids having a pic- turesque effect. Parasols are lined with thin white silk, have no fringe, and the mountings are of ivory or pearl. The favorite colors are light green, Mazarine blue, and brown. FasHion.

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