Godey's Lady's Book 1852-01: Vol 44 Iss 1

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GODEY’S LADY'S BOOK. PHILADELPHIA, JANUARY, 1852. SONNETS ON THE PARABLES. BY REV. H. HASTINGS WELD (See Plate.) I.—THE TEN VIRGINS. IIIl.—_THE TWO MITES. Tre Bridegroom cometh! Hark, the midnight voice— Amrp the crowd of ostentatious men, Go forth, ye faithful, meet Him and rejoice! Proud of their gifts, and seeking vain applause, Vainly the thoughtless their neglect may sigh, Intent upon their own, not Heaven’s cause. Who, when awakened by the warning sound, A widow, poor and sad, drew near. And when In sad. dismay, all unprepared are found. Her offering in the treasury she had thrown, Grant us, good Lord, that unction from on high, Two scanty mites, her living and her all, By which, our lamps being filled with deeds of light, Then did the Saviour on His followers call j We may s0 justly walk, that all who see To mark her gift. That widow, sad and lone, ‘2 May glory give, O Father, unto Thee, Had, He declared, a richer offering made, 3 And we be found accepted in Thy sight! And more acceptable, than all beside : = Let us not hear the words, ‘‘ I know you not””— Thus is humility preferred o’er pride, . : But be our portion with the wise and blest And mild sincerity o’er vain parade. : To enter, with Thy Church, the heavenly rest, Men but perceive the tinsel outward part, = Nor, with the foolish, find the portal shut. While God discerns the treasure of the heart. 2 F Il.—THE SOWER. IV.—_THE, VINEYARD. Brno pn, the Sower goeth forth to sow: Wer stand ye waiting, idle, all the day ? | 4 Some seed are cast upon the beaten way, Enter the vineyard, and whate’er is right | Whence they are stolen by the birds of prey; The Master will His laborers requite, Some upon stony places sudden grow, Nor strictly search their poor deserts to weigh. =e. Bat fade as sudden, for the lack of earth; His grace the measure is, His love the meed, , And some are strangled, even from their birth, Else sad our fate, and helpless were our need. é By thorns and briars. Others in good ground At His decisions shall we dare repine ? Flourish and thrive, and in good frait abound. His right to give His own shall we deny, From wayside hearers Satan thus doth steal Or look upon His good with evil eye? 4 The unheeded word. Thus others but awhile Oh, let us rather thank the grace divine, Be Burn with a warm, but quickly fading zeal ; That, whether in the morn we heed His call, “The thorns, earth’s cares and riches, some beguile, Or at the ninth, or at the eleventh hour, @ To lose the treasure, which the honest hold, We own our duty and adore His power, 4 And bring with patience forth fruits many fold. He will alike be gracious unto all ! 7 z 34 oe ea eee Z OUR HOPES. = BY HETTIE HAREBELL. Lixe clouds upon the midday sky, So rise our brilliant, buoyant hopes Which float in snowy wreaths away, From fancy’s ever-busy cell, And as they slowly mount on high, And to their beauteous, fuiry shaves, In airy forms their light display, Bind our fond hearts as with a spell, Then, quickly fading one by one, | Till, like the clouds, their beauties fade, Dissolve, and while we gaze are gone: Leaving no joy their brightness made.

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THE HAPPY FAMILY BY ALICE B. NEAL. (See Plates.) We were talking of the Reformation, and how sadly a spirit of skepticism had of late crept into German, as well as French, philosophy. «But there is one thing,’’ said a gentleman of the party, who had himself been educated at one of their famous universities; “do not be afraid of the Germans; their domestic life is their safeguard. So long as we see such devoted fathers and wives, such dutiful children, such peaceful family circles, there is no fear for that nation !’’ And it is true, if we may believe travelers and writers. As a nation, they are distinguished for their household affinities ; while the French have no word even to answer to our home. To go back to the very period we were speaking of. Look at the life of Luther, “ the most German man of our his- tory,”’ as Henry Heine has called him. What at- tachment to his wife and children is evinced in those naive and pleasant letters which have been preserved to us! Always thinking of them in ab- sence, always wishing to be with them again; writ- ing to “Johnny Luther’ of the beautiful garden, where “ good little boys wore golden coats,’’ and shot with “little silver cross-bows;” and the affectionate messages to “ Lippus and Jost,’? who were to be admitted with Johnny to the children’s Paradise, if they learned and prayed diligently! Then, too, the very superscriptions to his wife, breathing a playful affection, very unlike the “ Dear Sarahs and Janes’’ of modern husbands :— “To my gracious Lady Katherine Luther, my sweetheart!” “To the rich lady at Zulsdorf, Lady Katherine Lutherin ; bodily resident at Wittenberg, and men- tally wandering at Zulsdorf—my beloved, to her own hands!” And yet again, “ My dear Housewife, Katherine Lautherin, doctoress, self-martyress. My Gracious Lady, for her own hands and feet !”” And now the peasant sits under the shadow of his own vine, or the scholar rests from his mental toil, in the warm, pleasant evenings, to watch the sunset streaming through the purple vineyards, with his wife nursing the “ wee todlin’ thing,” and watch- ing the play of the elder children. with a heart as full of love for them, and as thankful to the God who has thus bestowed on him “the best gift of his Providence,”’ as was the Reformer’s, when he yearned once more to see his “ friendly, dear Kate Luther,” and to bave Johnny and Jost climb upon his knee, begging for further particulars about the lovely garden, where children could help themselves 6 $ or reading the volumes he loved to discuss. to “cherries, plums—and what plums!’"’—at dis cretion! ‘ There is no fear forGermany.’’ Surely not, while the purer pleasures of life are preferred, and good principles descend from the fathers to the children “ unto the third and fourth generation.” Domestic happiness, so to speak, is a plant that thrives only by careful and tender cultivation. The seed of example is easily sown, for children are mi- nute and close observers. If the wife has her pro- per dignity and respect, the mother may be almost sure of it, as her children come to be intelligent companions. And yet how does it happen that so few ‘happy families’’ are seen? and that, when such a one is found, it becomes not only a beautiful picture, but a rare example to us? In our own country, and our own generation, we have not treme to be happy athome. The man of business remem- bers it as the resting-place of the past night, where he sat in a dressing-gown, with his feet upon the fender, and made __ntal calculations of the week’s loss and gain. He looks forward to it, for.it is quieter than his counting-house, and he can take his papers home this evening, and rectify the mistake in his cash account that has just annoyed him so much. If the children are clamorous, they must be sent off to bed; he has no time for stories of the lovely garden. Gold and silver have other uses in his eyes than for the manufacture of “ coats and cross- bows.’’ Whuat! sit an hour after dinner to watch the merriest game of romps that ever made the nursery ring with childish laughter! No, no! there is some one waiting at the store, or the northern mail is in; or, at the least, he will smoke his cigar in the counting-house, while he chats of the rise and fall of stocks with a neighbor. And the mother, thus left to be careful and anxious about many things—it would be a waste of the busy daylight to listen to the thousand and one questions which chil- dren ask, when their eager minds first begin to un- fold in the light of reason, and “ why ?”’ becomes the preface of every inquiry. But there is something before all this; some- thing that closed the avenues of mind and heart be- tween the husband and wife, before childish prattle and the patter of littie feet sounded through the house. There was plenty of time in their first days of court- ship. No lack of leisure to humor the whims of the pretty girl, who is now the faded wife. She could spend hours and days in practicing his favorite songs, or arranging the dresses he liked best to see, To be

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> LORD CHESTERFIELD. we nee rrr sure, there is far more now to occupy the time and attention of both; but the will, as well as the way, seems wanting. There is a saying, that “the wife ceases to be the divinity.” In many cases, it is too true; and there are two promineut “ wherefores”’ in the case. _III- considered and ill-assorted unions are said to be the natural result of the present phase of society among us. The glamour of romance and fancy melts away into the sharp outlines of a commonplace reality ** The idol is broken, the earth star fled.’’ But there 1s another evil too common in domestic life—the decline of those mutual delicate attentions that are the charm of all wooing between those whose tastes really assimilate, and whose charac- ters might be moulded into one harmonious whole by the daily attraction of home life. It is the greater evil, that its approaches are so natural, so gradual, and so unsuspected. It is a lingering torpor of affec- tion, not a sudden, distinctive blow ; and indifference is its sure result, quite as destructive to domestic peace as any grievous fault that might mar the cha- racter of either party, and bring open warfare for this unnatural calm. Sometimes the wife expects too much. She is not content with the natural transition from the lover’s unceasing study of her ~ 7 good will and pleasure, to the more quiet attentions of the husband. She is not contented with the change from “my own darling’? to the habitual “my dear.” She is inclined to grieve over it, to meet her husband reproachfully, and her tears too often fall “like vinegar upon nitre.’’ Hear, then, what an old German writer says, since we allow that his nation is most happy in its social relations ; one from whom we have before quoted, but whose charmingly good-tempered advice cannot be read too often :— ‘“« Try to appear cheerful and contented, and your husband will be so; and when you have made him happy, you will become so, not in appearance, but in reality. The skill required is not so great. No- thing flatters a man so much as the happiness of his wife ; he is always proud of himself as the source of it. As soon as you are cheerful, you will be lively and alert, and every moment will afford you an opportunity of letting fall an agreeable word. Gvod education is an immense advantage, and will greatly assist you, and your sensibility will become the noblest gift that nature has bestowed on you, when it shows itself in affectionate assiduity, and stamps on every action a soft, kind, and tender cha- racier, instead of wasting itself in secret repinings.”’ We should like to see the husband that could re- sist such household influences. LORD CHE BY HENRY T TueERE is an epithet of frequent occurrence in the writings of Chesterfield which suggests the nature of his philosophy of life; it is the word shining, which he applies to oratory, character, and manners with an obvious relish. We have the greatest faith in the significance of language—especially in regard to the habitual use of certain adjectives as illustra- tive of individual opinions, temperament, and dis- position. Brief sentences thickly interspersed with the first personal singular is a.style indicative of egotism ; dainty verbal quibbles of effeminacy, and a copious, prolonged, and emphatic combination of words, seem equally native to a full and earnest mind. It may be a fanciful idea, but this our ex- perience frequently confirms — that the constant use of the word designating a quality is an instinctive sign of its predominance in character. Chesterfield’s ideal of excellence was essentially superficial, for his praise of solid acquirement and genuine prin- ciples is always coupled with the assertion of their entire inutility if unaccompanied by grace, external polish, and an agreeable manifestation. He omits all consideration of their intrinsic worth and absolute dignity ; their value to the individual, according to him, is wholly proportioned to his skill in using them in a social form. It is seeming, not being, he extols ; rhetoric, in his view, far transcends reflect- Q ~~) ; | : : : TERFIELD. TUCKERMAN. ive power; manners have more to do with human welfare than sentiment, and tact achieves more satisfactory conquests than truth; it is not depth, elevation, or extent, the permanent qualities—but those of a temporary kind, that belong to the sur- face of life, upon which he relies. Accordingly, to shine in oratory, conversation, and behavior, is to realize the highest points both of nature and study; the casual scintillation of reflected light is more attractive to him, because more dazzling to the eyes of the world, than that which is evolved from primal and indestructible sources. The eulogy of his biographer has, therefore, a literal justice when he says that Chesterfield was one of the most shining characters of the age. Thus we might be content that it should pass in a mere gallery of tra- ditionary portraits. But the theory upon which it was based, the system according to which it was formed, have been elaborately unfolded by Chester- field himself with epistolary art; and, although he never designed publicly to advocate them, yet the fact that his letters have been not only for many years a manual of deportment, his name a synovym for attractive elegance, and his writings, within a short time, revised and edited by an English historian,* * Lord Mahon.

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MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. 8 GODEY’s —_— PALS is sufficient reason for applying to him, and the school he proverbially represents, the test of that impartial scrutiny, challenged by whatever practi- cally acts upon society, and exercises more or less prescriptive influence. Character may be divided into two great classes—the one based upon details, and the other upon general principle; and all history, as well as private experience, shows that elevated harmony and permanent influence belong only to the latter. And this is true of the various forms as well as the essential nature of character. The philosopher differs from the petit-maitre, and the poet from the dilettante, by virtue of the same law— the view of the one being comprehensive, and the other minute. In art, also, we recognize true effi- ciency only where general eGects are aptly seized and justly embodied—the artist of mere detail ranks only as a mechanician in form and color. But the most striking truth involved in these distinctions is that the greater includes the less; the man of reli- able general principles in literature, art, or life, is, im point of fact, master of all essential details; he combines them at a glance, or, rather, they insensi- bly arrange themselves at his will; he can afford to let them take care of themselves. The great sculp- tors and painters busied themselves only about the design and finish of their works, for intermediate details were wrought by their pupils; and if the overseer, whether of doméstic or public affairs, establish order and integrity as the principles of his establishment, he need not give his time or thoughts to the minutiee of finance. If we apply this principle to social life, the sphere which Chesterfield regarded as the most important, a similar result is obvious. No one, even in that artificial world called society, ever achieved a satisfactory triumph by exclusive mastery of details. All that is involved in the term manners, is demonstrative, symbolic—the sign or exponent of what lies behind, and is taken for granted ; and only when this outward manifestation springs from an inward source—only when it is a natural product, and not a graft—does it sustain any real significance. Hence the absurdity of the expe- riment of Chesterfield to inculcate a graceful address by maxims, and secure a winsome behavior by formal and minute directions, as if to learn how to enter a room, bow well, speak agreeably to a lady, dispose of unoccupied hands, and go inoffensively through the other external details of social inter- course, were to insure the realization of a gentleman. That character—as it was understood in chivalry by the old English dramatists, and according to the intelligent sentiment of mankind everywhere—is as much the product of nature as any other species of human development; art modifies only its technical details ; its spirit comes from blood more than breed- ing ; and its formula, attached by prescription to the body without analogous inspiration of the soul, is as awkward and inefficient as would be proficiency in military tactics to a coward, or vast philological acquisitions to an idiot. Yet Chesterfield, with the PLL ncn persisted in his faith in detail, would not recognize the law from which all genuine social power is, elaborated, and apparently lived and died in the belief that the art of pleasing was the great interest of life, and an absolute means of success and per- sonal happiness. All his views, habits, and career were impregnated with this artificial creed ; phreno+ logically speaking, he was an incarnation of appro- bativeness ; his zest of life came through this his predominant organ, and, judging from consciousness, he believed it to be the only one in others which could be universally appealed to. Unblinded by self-love, he had but to reflect upon his own expe- rience to realize the fallacy of his doctrine. Every- where and always he consulted explicitly the oracle of public opinion, and conformed to it with a fanati- cism unworthy his intelligence. He confesses to the very son whom he strove with such zeal to make the “glass of fashion,’’ that in college he was an absolute pedant, and thought great classical knowledge the test of all excellence ; that, emanci- pated from the atmosphere of learning and thrown among young men of fashion, he led a life of slavery by conforming to habits which were alien not only to his constitution and tastes, but even to his de- sires; and that, in mature years, the requisitions of the beau monde held him in equal vassalage ; while his old age, we are told, “‘ was cheerless and deso- late.”’ There are men who regard the artificial as a necessary evil in social life, while they repudiate it altogether elsewhere ; but, in the case of Chester- field, it was deliberately advocated as a general principle ; it influenced not only his theory of man- ners, but his literary taste, political opinions, and entire philosophy. Thus he laid aside the Anglo- Saxon direct and robust temper, and gave in so completely to French manners and superficiality, that, in Paris, he was considered one of themselves, and prides himself upon the distinction. In litera- ture, the only branch which he thoroughly appreci- ated was oratory, and that chiefly for the rhetorical artifice to which it gives scope. Not as a noble inspiration founded on loyalty to instructive senti- ment, or aimed at the cause of humanity, but as an elegant accomplishment whereby to exercise influ- ence and gain applause, did Chesterfield cultivate oratory. It seems perfectly natural that he should excel in its studied graces, and equally so that such a cold virtuoso as Horace Walpole should have preferred him to Pitt. It is, too, not less character- istic of such a man that he should choose diplomacy as a profession. Believing, as he did, only in ele- gance and cunning, in politic self-control, veiled with agreeableness, the “smooth barbarity of courts’’ was admirably fitted at once to employ his ingenuity and gratify his refined selfishness. Thus devoid of earnestness on the one hand, and wedded to artificial graces on the other, we cannot wonder that, in his view, Dante, the most intensely picturesque of poets, could not think clearly; and that Petrarch, the beautiful expositor of sentiment, would appear only obstinacy that belongs tothe artificial race of men, { a love-sick rhymer; nor can we reasonably feel

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LORD CHESTERFIELD. 9 surprise that he quoted Rochefoucault and Cardinal de Retz with emphatic respect, while he could be only facetious in his allusions to Milton and Tasso. Among the books he most cordially recommends his son are a treatise on the Art of Pleasing, and the “Spectacle du Nature’”’—the very titles of which reveal his dominant ideas—for the end of being, in his opinion, was to please, at whatever sacrifice of honesty, comfort, or truth; and nature to him was but a spectacle, as life itself was a melodrama. He distrusted the motives of Fenelon, and thought Bo- lingbroke admirable. Even in more highly-prized classical attainments, which we should imagine were endeared by personal taste, the same reference to external motive appears. He admires the study of Greek chiefly because it is a less common acqui- sition than Latin; and the translation of striking passages of eloquence as a means of forming style and storing the mind with desirable quotations. Inaeed, in his view, the process of culture, instead. of an end, was a means—not to perfect or enrich the individual character, but to obtain the requisites of social advancement. In accordance with his faith in the details of outward conduct, and obtuse- ness to the influence of the great natural laws of character in their social agency, Chesterfield advo- cated power over others as the lever by which to move away the impediments to personal success ; not that legitimate power decreed by original supe- riority, and as certain in the end to regulate society as gravitation the planets—but a studious, politic, and artificial empire wen by dissimulation and attractiveness. In urging this favorite theory upon his son, he seems to have been unconscious of the painful discipline involved in the process, the long and weary masquerade, and the incessant danger of losing, in a moment, the influence gained by months of sycophancy; neither does he take into view the wholly unsatisfactory and unreliable nature of the relations thus established ; and fails to see the inevitable result of the short-sighted policy of detail —in the temporary sway thus acquired; the per- manent is sacrificed to the immediate, and, by ad- dressing the most insatiable and capricious of human propensities, his system entails not an hour, but a life of social fawning. He recommends the study of character in order to discover the ruling passion, and then a skillful use of his key-note in order to play upon the whole for private benefit; forgetting that, as in the case of the indignant prince, a sus- picion of such base friendship will lead to scorn and rejection— Do you think I am easier to be played upon than a pipe ?”” To this watchful observation he would have united a power to conceal our own emotions in order to give no advantage to our com. panion, and a facility in appealing to self-love as the best means of throwing him off his guard. The temper, the opinions, the tastes, and even the most gentle and noble sentiments, are to be kept in uni- form abeyance ; self-possession and adroit flatfery are the two great requisites, in his view, for success in life; distrust of others the guarantée of personal safety ; and the art of pleasing the science of the world. History, philosophy, and the prevailing in- stincts of enlightened humanity teach another lesson. These maxims, so often quoted as sagacious, are, in fact, extremely shallow; instead of seeing more deeply into human nature, Chesterfield only saw its superficial action. If there were no sphere for character but promiscuously-filled elegant drawing- Tooms, no more stable law operating on society than fashion, and no method of acting on human affairs but that of diplomacy, such advice would have a higher degree of significance. It applies to but few of the actual exigencies of life, and has reference only to partial interests; all men should be social adven- turers, and all women aim exclusively at social distinction, to give any general utility to precepts like these. They are essentially temporary and occasional even when true, and utterly false when elevated into principles of action. Hence we deny Dr. Johnson’s assertion that, setting the immorality of Chesterfield’s letters aside, they form the best manual for gentlemen ; the character repudiates the term ; its elements are no more to be “ set in a note- book”’ than the spirit of honor or the inspiration of art. The views of Chesterfield, practically carried out, would make a pedantic courtier or a courteous pedant; they trench too much upon the absolute qualities of manhood to leave substance enough in character upon which to rear enduring graces ; they omit frankness and moral courage—two of the most attractive and commanding of human attributes— and substitute an elegant chicanery incompatible with self-respect, upon which the highest grace of manner rests; their logic is that of intrigue, not of reason; their charms are those of the dancing-mas- ter, not of the kmght. Their relation to a true philosophy of life is no more intimate than the con- cettt of the Italians to the highest poetry, or the scenery of a theatre to that of nature, for to cultivate grace of manners is not to supersede, but only to give expression to, nature in a certain way; it is not imitation from without, but development from within. “ For God's sake,’’ writes Chesterfield, “ sacrifice to the graces; keep out of all scrapes and quarrels ; know all ceremonies ; maintain a seeming frankness, but a real reserve ; have address enough to refuse without offending ; some people are to be reasoned, some flattered, some intimidated, and some teazed into a thing.”” By his own statement, this course secured him only a life of refined servitude and a desolate old age, for the official dignity he enjoyed was pettishly abandoned from disappointment as to its incidental benefits. It is not, however, in a moral, but in a philosophical view, as a question of enlightened self-interest, that we demur to the authenticity of his doctrine. Its real defect is nar- rowness, the exaggeration of certain principles of action, an inbarmonious view of the relation be- tween character and behavior, an undue importance attached to secondary interests—in a word, an arti- ficial system in absolute contradiction to prevalent

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10 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. natural laws ; and it is chiefly worthy of refutation, because, instead of being advanced as a judicious formula in specific instances, or details of conduct to be acquired once and babitually exercised after- wards, it is presented as a great jeading principle, and aregularsystem altogether expedient and universally applicable, which can be true of no theory either in literature, art, or life, which is based on mere dex- terity and address, for Jesuitism can no more per- manently adyance the interests of society than it can those of religion, science, or any real branch of human welfare. Chesterfield’s editor dwells upon his classical learning and his benevolent policy while Lord Lieutenant in Ireland, where his rule is declared to have been second only in its benign influence to that of Lord Ormond ; but neither of these graces seems to have originated in disinterested impulse. His acquisitions were chiefly valued as a means of dis- play, and sources of an efficient culture; and he advocated schools and villages to civilize the High- lands after the Rebellion, instead of more cruel measures, because, on the whole, clemency was the most politic course to pursue. It was this bar- renness of soul, this absence of manly enthusiasm— and fanatical reliance on the technical facilities of society—that deprived both the career and the pre- cepts of Chesterfield of all claim to cordial recogni- tion. A friend may have spoken of him with literal truth when he declared that he possessed “a head to contrive, a tongue to persuade, and a hand to exe- cute’ in masterly style what he attempted; but the beauty and desirableness of these endowments are much lessened when we perceive that the ex- quisite machinery was set in motion by motives so entirely selfish, and its action regulated by views destitute of intellectual scope and generous sym- pathies; when we hear the man thus gifted declare that “a never-failing desire to please’ is the great incentive of his mind, and that the finest mental and moral qualities cannot win his love to one awkward or deformed. Chesterfield, like all votaries of detail, repeats himself continually; he announces, with oracular emphasis in almost every letter, proverbs of worldly wisdom and economical shrewdness with an entire confidence in their sufficiency worthy of old Polo- nius, of which character he is but a refined proto- type. The essence of these precepts is only a timid foresight utterly alien to a noble spirit. What, for instance, can be more servile than the maxims— never to give the tone to conversation, but adopt it from the company, and that no business can be transacted without dissimulation? Conformity and adaptation were his avowed means of success—the alpha and omega of his creed ; both useful and some- limes necessary alternatives in social intercourse, but al ways inferior and secondary —never primal and enduring. When allowed to stipersede the loftier and more genuine instincts, they not only fail of their end, but are absolutely incompatible with the cha- racter of a gentleman. Not by such a course did : Sidney, Raleigh, Mackintosh, Robert Burns, or any one of nature’s nobility, impress and win their fellow-creatures, but rather by ingenuous self-asser- tion, mellowed and harmonized by kindly and sym- pathetic feelings, that gave a grace ‘“ beyond the reach of art’’ to their conversation and manners. But Chesterfield’s disloyalty to nature and devo- tion to artifice are more signally betrayed in his views of the two great sources of actual refinement in social life—music and women. The first may be considered as the natural language of the soul, the ¢ultivation of which is one of the most available means of ac- quiring that harmonious development and sense of. the beautiful which round her angles and elicit the gentle influences of human intercourse. Chester- field peremptorily forbade his son to cultivate music, at the same time that he strove to preach boorish- ness out of him by rules of breeding—a process which might have been vastly facilitated by the study of any one of the fine arts for which he had the least tendency. But even in gallantry—not to profane love by thus designating his idea of the re- lation of the sexes—even in that which owes its zest and utility to gratified sympathies, he leans on the broken reed of prescription and expediency, counseling his son to choose a fair companion, not as a being to inspire, through natural affinity, his sentiments and conduet, but as an approved model and guide in fashionable life. How little did this shrewd man of the world know of the benefit, even to the manners, of an intelligent youth, derivable from even one reality in his social relations! In- deed, from the affectionate disposition that appears to have belonged to Philip Stanhope—his good sense and general acquirements—the only chance for him to have realized his father’s hopes in point of ex- pression, bearing, costume, address, and all the externals of character, would seem to have been a genuine attachment. He was so organized as to be unable to attach that importance to the graces his father adored, which would lead him to court their favors; for this he needed the stimulus of a powerful motive, and such an one would have been naturally supplied by a real devotion to a fine wo- man; or the effect of such a feeling would have gradually softened and elevated his tone and air so that he would have become as insinuating as his elegant parent desired, and that, too, from instinct and not by rule. The great evil of teaching the details of behavior is that, even when acquired in all their perfection, there is a want of unity in the result; they are exercised without the crowning grace of all manner, from the rhetorician’s gesture to the courtier’s salutations — unconsciousness. There is no happy fusion between manhood and manner ; the one hangs objectively on the other like two parts of an ill-adjusted machine. Nature is apt to vindicate herself upon the ultra- conventional by entailing disappointment upon their deagest hopes. Her laws are as inexorable as they are benign. Chesterfield seems to have been more in earnest in the education of his son than m any

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LORD CHESTERFIELD. ~Y other object in life; but true parental affection had little to do with this assiduity; he constantly re- minds him that he has no weak attachment to his person, that his pecuniary supplies depend upon the respect paid to the instruction he receives, and that the estimation he will hereafter enjoy from his father will depend upon the degree in which he realizes the expectations formed of him. In ali this we see only a modification of self-love, but no trne parental feeling. The object of all this solici- tude well repaid the care lavished upon his mental cultivation, but he never became either elegant or fascinating ; his good qualities were solid, not shin- ing, and his advancement was owing to his father’s personal influence. The latter’s will is character- istic; he provides that, if his son ever engages in the vulgar amusement of horse-racing, he shall forfeit five thousand pounds to the Dean of West- minster, who is satirized in the compliment—for Chesterfield thought himself overcharged by hit in a pecuniary transaction, and wished to leave this evidence of his reliance upon his grasping disposi- lion. During his life, a high position and good sense enabled Chesterfield to reap* advantages from pol- shed and sagacious urbanity, which naturally led to an exaggerated estimate of }ts value under less auspicious circumstances. Having studied with marked success at Cambridge, through the influence of a relative he was appointed gentleman of the bedchamber to the Prince of Wales, and afterwards elected to Parliament by the borough of St. Germain in Cornwall. His first speech established a reputa- tion for oratory, and is described as quite as re- markable for able reasoning as for elegant diction. He seems to have retained the good opinion thus ac- quired while in the House of Lords; to his father’s seat in which assembly he duly sueceeded. His judicious management, while ambassador to Hol- land in 1728, saved Hanover from a war, and, for this service, he was made knight of the Garter. Subsequently he filled, with apparent success, the offices of lord steward of the household in George the Second’s reign, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and Secretary of State. Upon resigning the seals, he retired from public life, and deafvess soon confined him to books and a small circle of acquaintance. The prestige of official rank, and the allurements of an elegant address having passed away with his life, we must turn from the orator and statesman to the author for authentic evidence of his character. His fate in this regard is somewhat curious. The elaborate speeches and sketches of character which he gave to the public have, in a great measure, lost their significance. The style of writing has so much advanced since his time that we recognize in him no such claims to literary excellence as his cotemporaries awarded. His name is now almost exclusively associated with his letters to his natural son—letiers written in the most entire parental con- fidence, and with the vain hope of converting, by specific instructions, an awkward and apparently I! PPP PPP Pa la Pm Pa Pts honest-hearted and sensible fellow into an accom- plished, winsome, and shrewd man of the world. It has been said, in excuse for the absolute stress laid upon external qualities in these letters, that the youth to whom they were addressed was lament- ably deficient in these respects ; but there can be no doubt that they form the most genuine expression of Chesterfield’s mind—the more so that they were never intended for the public eye. By a not un- common fortune in literary ventures, these estrays and waifs of private correspondence alone keep alive the name and perpetuate the views of Chester- field. It would be unjust not to ascribe the worldly spirit and absence of natural enthusiasm in those epistles, in a degree, to the period that gave them birth. wit, rather than sentiment, was in vogue. was a league between letters and politics, based It was the age of Swift, It was an age when intrigue prospered, and There wholly on party interests. Pope, and Bolingbroke. George the Second, Lady Yarmouth the queen, and Chesterfield, for a time, Lady Yarmouth. Agreeable conversation, an insinuating manner, and subtlety of observation, were then very efficient High finish, point, verbal felicity, the The queen governed weapons. costume rather than the soul of literature, won the day. Neither the frankness and undisguised over- flow@f thought and feeling that mark the Shak- spearian era, nor the earnest utterance and return to truth ushered in by the first French Revolution, existed; but, on the contrary, that neutral ground between the two periods, whereon there was the requisite space, leisure, and absence of lofty pur- pose, to give full scope to the courtier, the wit, and the intriguante. It was, comparatively speaking, a timid, time-serving, pariisan, and showy epoch. The spirit of the times is caught up and transmitted in Horace Walpole’s letters, and quite as signifi- cantly embodied, in a less versatile manner, in those of Chesterfield. Instead, therefore, of regarding courteous manners as a mere necessary appendage to a man—a conve- nient and appropriate facility, like current coin, or the laws of the land—Chesterfield attempts to ele- vate them into the highest and most comprehensive practical significance. He would have manner overlay individuality, and goes so far as to declare that a soldier is a brute, a scholar a pedant, and a philosopher a cynic without good If, for the latter term, feeling were substituted, those be far more breeding. and similar broad inferences would correct. Some of the greatest brutes, cynics, and pedants we encounter in the world are perfectly well-bred ; they refuse an act of humanity with a graceful bow, smile good-naturedly while exposing the ignorance of a sensitive companion, and engross, with an affable and even respectful air, all the privi- leges at hand. It is common to see a Frenchman salute, in the most polite manner, those who enter a public conveyance, pass round his snuff-box, and entertain the company with agreeable remarks;

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12 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’s BOOK. — but, if it suits his pleasure, he will, at the same time, gormandize a reeking paté, put on his night- cap and snore, or refuse to yield his seat to an invalid, with a complacent egotism that would astonish an American back woodsman, who, without a particle of Monsieur’s external courtesy, obeys the laws of chivalric kindness from instinct and habit. ‘The understanding is the voiture of life,” says Chesterfield, and, apparently, he infers that it is to be put at random on any track, and to move at any speed which the will of the elegant majority dictate —an axiom wholly at variance with that indepead- ence which some one has nobly declared to be the positive sign of a gentleman. Absence of mind in company, so often the indication of superiority, he considered only as evidence of weakness; and so enervated was his taste that he preferred the cold proprieties of the artificial French stage to the vio- lated unities of robust English tragedy. It is characteristic of such a man to believe im-chance more than truth ; and his unconquerable love of play accords with the blind philosophy that controlled his life. His conceit of knowledge of human nature was based upon the most inadequate and one-sided observation; he associated chiefly with women of fashion and men of state, and, therefore, saw the calculating and vain, not the impulsive and uncon- scious play of character. For the game of conven- tional life, therefore, are the best of his maxims adapted. In that latent sphere of truth and ky familiar to more ingenuous and genial spirits, where candor, intelligent sympathy, and spontaneous taste luxuriate, they are as irrelevant as they are unna- tural. DUSK. BY EMILY HERRMANN. Tue dusk sweeps down from eastern hills That skirt our valley-land ; The wind, like a shivering beggar, steals Where wintry forests stand, Or plucks from the beech her fluttering robes, With a bandit’s ruthless hand. The kitten purrs by the kitchen hearth, Where red flames leap about, And above the sound of blazing wood Is the noise of fowls without; They ’re sheltering in our back-porch roof From racoon’s midnight rout. I sit me in quiet; the light is gone, The work falls from my knee, While the scratching sound of a pencil goes O’er the paper merrily ; Yet Anne has sought in a magazine For pleasanter company. Old pussy starts up with matronly grace, Her soft white ears she pricks ane PARAAAD , At a rumbling sound, that is followed soon By a time-piece striking six ; Then gravely on, like a human thing, It moves with even “ ticks,” The shadows creep over the ceiled wall, Where the muslin curtain ’s drawn, As a hymn steals on my quietness, Like spring-days’ freshening dawn ; And still the little Yankee clock Keeps sturdily ticking on ! The firelight, thrown o’er vacant chairs, Reveals the wintry gloom That shrouds the stars, and pleasant grass, And flowers, in one wide tomb— The while that summer-gladness dwells Within our household room ! Than dimness on the eastern hills I know of a sterner token ; Disease and death enclosed us round, Yet left our band unbroken ; Our Heavenly Father kept us safe— For this His praise be spoken! Praise for the light ip every eye, Through all the changing weather ; Praise for the love that nerves our hearts, And binds them close together ! ?Tis spoken for a sheltered home, Where we in peace may meet, And for our lighted winter hearth, Amid the driving sleet. We praise Him for our smiling land, Stern foe of rude disorder, Who greets the poor of every clime Within her own green border. Who, mid her ample forest-robes, A place and home provides them, Till states grow up, and call her blest Above all folk besides them. Praise for her free and fertile soil— So generous in the tilling— It fills each home with summer gifts Amid this tedious chilling. Praise for the dew on springing grass, Where merry insects leap, The reaper’s song, the rushing scythe, The corn-shocks on the steep. But most we bless Him for the word Of love to us that’s given, To span the dusk of human hearts With radiant hues of Heaven. This sunshine on the stormy clouds Of grief, or care, or crime, Causes to spring, in shadiest paths, Great light at evening-time.

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AUNT TABITHA’S FIRESIDE. No. IV.—THE OLD CEDAR CHEST. BY EDITH WOODLEY. «“ May I come im, Aunt Tabitha?” said Paul, at the same time rapping with his knuckles against the door of a little back parlor. “Yes, child, if you want to. door.”” “ How snug and comfortable you look !”’ he said, as he entered. «Yes, I had a fire kindled here, ’cause I wanted to look over some things in the old cedar chist.”’ ‘‘ How lucky Iam! I have had a longing to get a peep into that chest ever since I was allowed to eat my meals without a bib? I have imagined it to contain all sorts of things, but I believe my ideal fell short of the real. If 1 were the owner of all it con- tains, I might set up for a virtuoso.”’ «I hope you ’Il al’ays try to be vartuous, whether you are the owner of it or not; but I can tell you that there is nothin’ in it of any great vally.” “I suppose that Lizzie and I may look at any- thing we please?” “To be sure you may.” Unconditional liberty being granted, the fingers ef Paul and Lizzie were at once wandering amid a chaos of dilapidated fans, some of them radiant in pictorial embellishments, others in all the glory of tiffany and spangles; broken plumes, which, having waved and nodded over the brow of their greatgrand- mother, afterward did the same piece of service for their spinster aunt; and satin slippers, with heels so high that the fair wearer, in order to maintain a true equilibrium, must have possessed the dexterity of a rope-dancer. Interspersed with these were well-burnished, worn-out thimbles, nat-pins with bead-like heads, silver and steel shoe buckles, and odd halves of scis- sors which, as they lay gleaming in the lamp-light, had a savage and ominous appearance, calling up associations widely diverse from the clipping of lawns, laces, and linens, the matching of the ends of silver-flowered ribbons, or the cutting off of a used- up needlefull of thread. But something Paul took to be a letter, which he found lying at the bottom of the chest, excited his curiosity much more than these relics of industry and finery of the days which were gone. It was folded in the form of a square, except that one of the angles was rather acute, into which the superscrip- tion was crowded, as if ashamed to be seen. He saw that it was his aunt’s name, and, holding it up to his view, he said— * You told us we might look at everything; may we also look into everything ?”’ —2 Lizzie, open the VoL. LYTY. - “Yes, I s’pose you may,” said his aunt, sharply eyeing the letter. All at once she recognized it. “If that ain’t funny!” said she. “I thought I burnt that ’ere letter at least twenty years ago.” “Who wrote it, aunt?’’ said Paul. “La! little Markey Beel, I s’pose. He was a harmless little soul as ever breathed the breath of life, but had a sofiish place in his head.” “He was one of your old beaux, was he not, aunt ?”’ asked Lizzie. “Get out with your nonsense, child. What do you expect that the sparks, or the beaux as you call ’em, ever wanted to write to me about?” “The same as they would to other handsome girls,’ said Paul. “I have often wondered why so handsome a woman as you are should have re- mained in single blessedness.”’ “TI can easily satisfy your curiosity on that score. Those that would have me I wouldn’t have, and those that 1 would have, wouldn’t have me.”’ «“ The reasons you give are certainly conclusive ; but I am afraid that you were rather too particu lar.”’ “T don’t think I was a bittoomuch so. The first suitor I ever had was little Markey Beel, that writ that ere letter you are holdin’ in your hand. I was only fifteen years old, and all the gals—I amongst the rest—thought he was dreadful handsome: and so he was arter a sartain fashion. His face was as delicate as a woman’s—clear red and white, for you see he was larnin’ the tailor’s trade, and so worked under kiver. There ’s no knowin’ but that I should ’ave had him if he had stayed where he was; but the man he was sarvin’ his time with went off down below, and Markey had to go with him. I wouldn’t engage myself to him ; but, arter a while, I consent- ed to correspond, though I told him that I sbouldn’t write him anything but friendly letters. It was full three weeks before I received a letter from him, arter he went away, which I begun to think was kind o’ strange, seein’ he was so airnest about writin’! Now brother John—that ’s your father, you know, Paul—was al’ays tormentin’ me about Markey, and, as I sat readin’ the letter, John stole up behind my chair, on tiptoe, and peeped over my shoulder. The first warnin’ I bad of his bein’ there was his burstin’ right out a laughin’. I knew in a minute what he was laughin’ at, for, though I didn’t pretend to any great larnin’ myself, I could spell a leetle better than Markey cou!d, for he never would study when he went to school.’ 13

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14 An Ane nnn nnn «* Do let Lizzie and I read it, aunt,’’ said Paul. “I don’t know as ’twould be raly right; but there—Markey has gone off to the Ohio country, and the last I heern tell of him he was called a good citizen, and was gettin’ along nicely. He married Sutiy Place—a purty, harmless little soul as ever uved. It isn’t likely that she would ever set a river afire, if she should undertake it; but that put her on an equal footin’ with Markey.” As this speech of Aunt Tabitha was considered an indirect consent to Paul’s request, he opened the letter, where, occupying one side of a half sheet of foolscap, was displayed the following, of which it may be premised the chirography was quite equal to the orthography :— « ASTEAMED FRinp, I dont no but whought yule think strainge I havent rit to you afore, but Ive ben sick with the slough fever, and it made my hed feel so week I darsent rite for fear twould make it feel weeker. Ive thot on you over and over agin, and tried to think to myself whought you were doin. Sumtimes it seamed to me that you wor rite afore my face and eyes spinnin linning close by the back winder, and then I thort to myself, if I had wings like an eagle, Ide fly in less than no time, and peerch rite down on the winder sill close by you. Then agin, jest at night, when I set kinder sollum-like, midita- tin, I seam to see you plain as day milkin the cows in the barn yard, and then I long to peerch myself rite on to the west eend of the ridge pole of the barn where I could look down on you. I hope and pray, my asteamed frind, that twill never be your fortin to have a slough fever, for nobody nose whought an ugly thing it is if they never experi- enced it. Rite soon, and let me no if you are en- joyin the great blessing of health, also if Sally Place nose yet if she is cummin down here to larn a mil- liners trade. I will now close with two lines of poetry rit by a poet. Ide walk three times round the market place, To get wun look of your sweet face. I remain your lovin frind and Yours to sarve, Mark Beet.”’ «“ Did you answer Mark’s letter?’’ inquired Liz- zie, when she and Paul had finished reading it, “Yes, [ writ him a line or two, jest to answer his question about Sally Place. If it hadn’t been for my word’s sake, I wouldn’t done even that, for brother John teazed and tormented me so about that terrible ‘ slough fever,’ that I wished Markey had been in Guinea afore I’d ever agreed to correspond with him.” “ Father was right in teazing you, I suspect,”’ said Paul ; “ for, as diseases are sometimes hereditary in a family, I should have considered it a sad affair to have had half a dozen cousins liable at any moment to be seized with such a terrible disease as the PPP OPP ; ; GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. ALDL LALLA AL PLL PARP ‘slough fever,’ especially if attended with such symptoms as a longing to sit on ridge-poles.”’ “Well, one thing is hereditary, sartain, and that 18 nonsense, for you are exactly as nonsensical as your father was when he was of your age.”’ “IT shouldn’t wish to take after a better man; but come, aunt, let us hear who was your next beau,” and, ashe spoke, he took up what appeared to be the ivory head of a cane. “If that ain’t curious !”” said Aunt Tabitha. ‘* What is curious?” “Why, that you should light upon that cane-head, jest as you asked who was my next beau. I had no more idee that it was in the land of the livin’ than I had that Markey’s letter was.”’ ‘« Whose cane did it belong to?”’ said Lizzie. ‘““Why, old Beau Benner’s, as folks call him. You and Paul have seen him many atime. He was a mighty spruce-lookin’ chap when he was young, al’ays walked with a cane, and wore his hair pow- dered and tied in a queue. And you'd sildom see him without a red waistcoat and white-topped boots. Well, you see he took kind of a fancy to me, and invited me to go with him to the gineral trainin’. There were as many as eight or ten couples of young folks goin’ from our place—brother John and his intended, Jim Pringle and his gal, Peter Barton and his sister Dolly, and a good many besides. The trainin’ was to be about a dozen miles off, so it gave a chance for a good ride. Well, you see that private houses were open to entertain people on sich a great occasion; and, as the trainin’ was to begin purty airly in the mornin’, we all concluded it would be best to go the night afore, for fear we shouldn’t be in season to see the sham fight. Moses Benner kind o’ took the lead in sich things, in them days, and he contrived it so that we al! met in one place, and, when we started, there was a nice long string of horses and shays, [ can tell you. Moses and I went in the first shay, brother John and his intended in the next, and the rest follered on arter in reg’lar order. We arrived at head quarters in grand good season, and we gals had a nice large room all to ourselves, where we could fix our ruffles and ribbons as much as we were a mind to. ** You see I was al’ays a mighty airly riser, and so were John’s intended, and Dolly and Esther Barton, who lodged in the same room with me, so that long afore sunrise we were all up and dressed out in style, so that all we should have to do, when ’twas time to go to see the trainin’, would be to clap on our bonnets and shawls. We sot ourselves down by the winders, but there wan’t a single soul stirrin’. lt wan’t a great while, however, afore we seed Moses Benner come out of the hotel, where he and some of the other sparks that calc’lated they were the tip-top, put up. You see it had jest begun to be the fashion for young men to wear tassels to their boots, and Moses, who al‘ays carried everything to extremes which belonged to dress, had a pair to bis as large agin as the common size, and with such long cords to ’em that they swung out, every time

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LIFE. he stepped, the matter of three or four inches. Well, there wasn’t a soul in sight, so I s’pose he thought he ’d practise a few of the airs and graces sich as he calc’lated on when the people were round so that they could see him. So he hild up his head so fur that it seemed as if he was lookin’ arter somethin’ in the sky, flourished his cane, and stepped short and quick so as to make his boot-tas- sels fly out. Once in a while he would look down to see if they flew out to his mind, but the major part of the time he kept his eyes turned up to the sky, and, take him all in all, he looked and acted more like a nateral fool than it’s ever been my lot to see a body in the whole course of my life. “ As ill. luck would have it, there was a nice, honest-lookin’ old cow layin’ on the side of the road, that hadn’t got her nap out, and as Moses was wulkin’ along, grand as if he thought the ground wasn’t good enough for him to step on, he came plump agin the poor old cow, as much to her sur- prise, I guess, as to his. Moses, of course, went down, while the innocent cause of his disaster made all haste to get up. He follered her example as soon as possible, and with his handkercher wiped off the mud and dirt from his buff-colored pantaloons and the sleeves of his coat as well as he could. The gals laughed some I guess, and I wan’t slow to jine ’em, [ can tell you. When he called to wait on me to the trainin’, Dolly Barton put on a mighty long face, and said to him, jest as grave and sober as if she had been a judge, ‘I hope, Mr. Benner,’ says she, ‘ that you were not seriously injured by your fall > The land, how red the critter turned, while he muttered over somethin’ to himself, what we couldn’t tell exactly, but it sounded as if he said that he wa’n’t much hurt.” ‘¢*T am glad to hear it,’ said Dolly, ‘and I hope the poor cow came off as well as you did; but [ don’t think you did right to disturb her mornin’ slumbers.’ ”’ ‘* By this time the curiosity of the young men in company with Moses was purty well roused up, so Dolly, lookin’ all the time as demure as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, went on to tell the whole story in sich a funny, queer way, pretendin’ all the time to pity Moses dreadfully, so as to set us all to laughin’ in spite of ourselves. If Moses hadn’t been a fool, he would ’ave j'ined us, but, instead of that, he looked as ’shamed as a dog. He didn’t hold his head dreadful high the rest of the day, I can tell you, which was a lucky circumstance, I thought ; for, if he had walked in the same kind o’ style as when he was practising his airs and graces airly in the mornin’, something worse might have happened than his stumblin’ over an old cow. Well, he wait- ed on me round to see the trainin’, and home to my father’s door, and that was the last of it.’’ “But how came you by this ivory cane-head?” said Paul. “Why you see when [ arrived home, afore he helped me out of the shay, he leaned his cane up agin the side of the house, and went off and forgot this mornin’. OP ne eee ~~ 15 LO (PPP PPI PP PAPI IPP eee it. It stood in the entry a long time, but he never called for it, and so arter your father was married, and you ’d got to be old enough to ride stick horses, you spied out the cane one day, and ever arter that it sarved you for a Morse. You used it purty rough I guess, for you soon got the head off; but how on airth it come to be iu the old cedar chist I never shall know.”’ ‘“« And were these two the only ones you wouldn’t have?” asked Paul. “La! no indeed. ’T would be a tedious undertakin’ to give you a list of ’em all. Among others there was Jabe Hardick, and when I tell you that he is full as handsome now as he was in his young days, you’ll have some idee of his looks.”’ “ He is certainly no Adonis now,”’ said Paul. «He was most dreadful hard favored, but he was well to do in the world, and I tried desp’rate hard to like him, and I begun to think I should succeed, when one day brother John said to me, ‘ Tabitha, says he, ‘if you marry Jabe, you must sow a good lot of saffron in your garden.’ ‘ Why?’ says I, jest as innocent as a lamb. ‘Cause,’ says he, ‘ you’ll have to give him a good dose of saffron-tea as often as once a day, sartain, to keep his ugly looks from strikin’ to his stomach.’ Well, if you'll believe me, I never could see poor Jabe arterward, but that the saffron tea popped right into my head, so that [ could hardly help laughin’ right out in his face. Well, he kept looking worse and worse to me, and afore long I gin him the mitten. It didn’t quite break his heart as he pretended it would, for in six weeks arterward he was married to Darcus Towner. There, I’ve told you enough about my old sparks for once, sc don’t ask me to say another word.” LIFE. BY HELEN C. LEWIS. On, ’tis a weary thing to live When the silver tide of youthful feeling Grows dim with the touch of sorrow’s tone, And the lonely heart can find no rest From the dreary storm of life! When the hopes that once so brightly shone, But linger in memory, and the flowers, That once on our pathway bloomed so sweet, Lie faded and scentless, and all are gone— Gone to return no more ! Oh, ’tis a blissfal thing to die When the soul is sick of this empty show, And the spirit is longing to be at rest, Where care comes never, and all is peace, In that far-off land of love! Is it a sin to long for death When the music of life has lost its charm ? When all that we love to Heaven have gone, Can it be sinful then to say, { would I were with them there

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* THE EMIGRANT FAMILY; OR, THE SECRET OF SUCCESS. BY MARY 5. B. Ir was just about the hour of noon, on a clear winter’s day, when a stanch vessel, which had weathered several severe Atlantic storms, ap- proached, with all sails set, the noble harbor of Charleston, South Carolina. The ship was crowd- ed with passengers, young and old, rich and poor, joyful and sad; a heterogeneous mass of human beings. Upon the quarter-deck stood many a mer- ry group, who, having just thrown aside their mot- ley sea attire, and dressed themselves in clean and wholesome shore equipments, could scarcely re- strain the buoyancy of spirits called forth by the occasion. Many, after a longer or shorter sojourn in foreign lands, were now returning home to greet their numerous friends, while others were eagerly anticipating the pleasure of a speedy introduction to novel scenes and new and valuable acquaintances. The pilot, who was to conduct the vessel over the somewhat dangerous bar at the entrance of the harbor, had jumped aboard from his little craft about an hour before, and was now strutting to and fro with a consequential air, in all the pride of abso- lute authority, and giving his incessant orders with a voice so stentorian that it might almost have been mistaken for the thunder of great Jupiter himself. But neither with the passengers of the quarter- deck, nor with the consequential, round-bodied little pilot, has this veracious history anything to do; and, therefore, turning our backs as civilly as may be upon de bon ton of the vessel, we will straight- way introduce ourselves into the steerage, and look about us as well as the darkness will allow. We do not propose to favor our reacers with any speci- mens of “high life below stairs,” “romance in humble life,’’ or the like, but intend to deliver “a plain, unvarnished tale,”’ and relate circumstances none the less interesting for being natural and un- embellished. In the gloomy recesses of the steerage, a scene of the same nature with that which had already been enacted in the cabin was now going forward, only in an aggravated form. There was scrubbing and scolding, there was combing and cursing, there was dressing and drubbing. Obstreperous little ones, who evidently did not understand the charac- ter of the times upon which they had fallen, nor comprehend the reasons why they should not still be allowed to enjoy their liberty, and revel in their accustomed filth, gave loud and hearty tokens of their wounded sensibilities, and danced, and kicked, and screamed with continually increasing vigor, battling manfully for their hitherto-accorded rights, and heroically disputing every inch of ground. 16 SHINDLER (LATE MRS. DANA). Yet, amid this scene of dire confusion, there were some calm hearts, and composed, though care- worn, countenances. There was one family, con- sisting of seven persons, which a discriminating observer would immediately have singled out from all the rest. Amid the general turmoil, their quiet demeanor, and the look of lofty resignation which sat upon their faces, could not fail to attract, nay, even to rivet, the attention of the bystander. We shall, for the sake of convenience, bestow upon them the fictitious name of Clarke. There were, as I have said, seven persons, the father and mo- ther, one daughter of seventeen, and four boys, of the ages of nine, seven, four, and two years re- spectively. They were an Irish family, possessing all the lofty enthusiasm of their countrymen, to- gether with more than a common share of quiet, unostentatious fortitude. The mother was one of a thousand; for, though the father was by no means destitute of a strong and lofty tone of character, she it was especially, who, like a ministering angel, comforted them in sorrow, strengthened them in weakness, and aroused them from despondency. Possessing, naturally, a superior mind, she had se- cured for herself a remarkably solid education, and thus appeared far above the humble station in which she was now moving. She was indisputably the main-stay of the family, their unyielding bulwark. We shall hereafter learn the secret of her strength. Among the passengers, there was yet another of a somewhat different stamp; but our history includes him likewise. Patrick Mulligan was a free-hearted, open-handed, high-souled young man; a genuine Irishman, unsuspecting and improvident, possessing far more heart than head, far more heartiness than heedfulness. You could not help liking Patrick, as you looked upon his open, ruddy Irish face; and, especially, as you gazed into his round, clear Irish eye—that peculiar eye, so characteristic of the na- tion—the heart of the spectator, if he had a heart, would unconsciously go forth to greet him. In his own country, he had been a neighbor of the Clarkes; and now, both father and mother being dead, he had joined their fortunes, and was cared for by Mrs. Clarke as if he had been her own dear son. She found him wild and wayward, it is true; but what cannot judicious simdness eccomplish ? {t was Mrs. Clarke’s fervent belief that nothing could stand before it ; that no heart, however wick- edly disposed, condd resist its constant influence. Now, this Patrick Mulligan was the undeclared lover of Bridget Clarke. So now behold the vessel arrived; all her pas-

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THE EMIGRANT FAMILY. 17 sengers ashore; all quietness where, so late, con- fusion reigned supreme. The Clarke family, with young Mulligan, had domesticated themselves in obscure lodgings in that portion of the city called “the Neck.’’ Nor were they without their suffer- ings. A succession of misfortunes had befallen them, both before and since they left their country : bad crops; long sicknesses, and corresponding doc- tor’s bills; deaths, funeral expenses ; and, finally, a shipwreck, with its terrible losses—all these had come upon them, so that now they found them- selves in a strange land, destitute of even the neces- saries of life. But they lost no time, and wasted no strength in complaining : this would have been madness, nay, suicide ; and, so far from helping them out of their troubles, would have been an infinite aggravation to them. If work was anywhere to be had, they were determined to find it; and, when they had found it, faithfully and cheerfully to do it. But where were they to procure employment? To whom were they to apply? It was not the case in Charleston, as in the northern cities, that the poor, in their extremity, could wend their way to intelli- gence offices, and perchance find employment. So they knew not what steps to take; but, “at any rate,’’ they said among themselves, “‘ we can but try.” “The man who f¢ries,’’ said Mrs. Clarke, « has already more than half succeeded.’’ Accord- ingly, one morning, after a poor and scanty break- fast, Mr. Clarke and Patrick sallied forth together in search of work. Meanwhile, the mother took her seat upon a log by the empty fireplace—for chair or fire had they not—and patiently darned and patched the whole long morning through; occasionally raising her eyes to give a look of encouragement to Bridget and the boys, who were poring over a few tattered books, and trying their best to teach and to be taught. By and by, the allotted taxks being over, the boys threw aside their books, and tried, for their mother’s sake, to get up one of their merry plays. Still, the morning wore heavily away. The sensation of hunger is no very pleasant one; and this, considering what they had eaten for the three preceding days, they could not help feeling. Yet Hope whispered to them all, “‘ By and by, our ab- sent ones will return; and who kaows what good tidings they may bring ?”” Twelve o’clock arrived —they could plainly hear the strokes of a neighbor- ing clock—one, two, three o’clock had come, and they had not returned. Mrs. Clarke looked pale and exhausted, but calmly resolute. No human eye could discern the conflict in her soul, the obsti- nately intruding anxieties, the frightful imaginings, nor the strong resolving, the eurnest petitioning. She pressed her pale lips closely together, and strove to smile. At length, at nightfall, came the wanderers home ; but they brought nothing with them ; nothing, not even hope; and Mrs. Clarke was obliged, as usual, to console and encourage them all. ‘‘ Never mind,”’ said she, “let us go supperless to bed; we may get something to do to-morrow.” *« Always to-morrow! always to-morrow !”’ said her husband, quite impatiently, as he sat on one end of the log, and buried his face in his hands. “To-morrow will not help us to live to-day.”’ The children, poor little creatures, controlled their emotions manfully for a time; but, hearing now their father’s complaining tones, they all began to cry, though silently, and without uny ostenta- tion. ** You had better go to the baker’s at the corner, father,”’ said Mrs. Clarke, addressing her husband ; ‘tell him frankly our sufferings, and entreat him, for the love of Heaven, to let us have a loaf to keep the children from starving. Tell him we ’ll be sure to pay him some time or other; for God has not utterly forsaken us, and we ’ll come out of our trouble yet.” ‘* Mother, I cannot !’’ replied the husband. “ The dark hour is on me now, and I haven’t the heart to speak to a human being.” ** Well, 1 have, father,” said Mrs. Clarke, sooth- ingly, and yet decidedly. ‘I’ll go to the baker’s myself. Sit you there, honey, and do what you can to keep the children warm. Don’t cry, dar- lings ; mother ’Il come back soon, and, maybe, fetch a loaf of bread with her.’’ So saying, she departed, wrapping, ere she went, an old, faded blanket-shaw! around the two youngest children, as they sat huddled together on the floor. Many prayers went with her; for, as I said before, she was the ministering angel of the family, and always inspired them with strength for the present, and hope for the future. It was Saturday night, and there was a crowd of people in the baker’s shop; but she resolutely entered, and took her stand to wait her turn for being served. There was that about her, however, which, at first sight, inspired respect; and so the shopman soon ad- dressed her with— *¢ Well, madam, what will you have?” I would have bread for my starving children,” replied the woman; “but, sir, I have no money. Let me have some bread,”’ she continued, her voice beginning to falter—‘‘let me have some bread, for the love of Heaven, and I’m sure we ’!! be able to pay you hereafter. If not, God will reward those who help the needy.” The shopman looked at her sternly, and shook his head ; but he quailed before the agonized glance of her searching eye. “ No,” he said, at length; ‘I work hard to sup- port my own family, and I have nothing to give to beggars.” Mrs. Clarke drew herself up to her full height, and replied, firmly, though without the slightest appearance of resentment— “Tam no beggar, sir. I ask you for bread, with the promise of future payment, if not from me, from Heaven.” She spoke with alt the eloquence of unmitigated

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18 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. agony, and her eye kindled as she raised her thin, pale hand toHeaven. The crowd had unconscious- ly gathered round her, and were watching the scene with the most intense interest; for there is some- thing in genuine feeling which at once finds its way to the universal humaa heart. The baker seemed to waver in his stern resolu- tion, and laid his hand upon a loaf of bread which was upon the shelf; but his evil genius was soon again at work. «I cannot do it,” at length he said. “I’ve been imposed upon so many times that I have been obliged to make a rule not to give to people whom I do not know. I would not be doing justice to my family, if I gave a loaf of bread to everybody who chose to ask for it.” Mrs. Clarke said nothing for a moment; but, at length, she replied— “ Oh, sir! may you never know what it is to ask for a morsel in God’s name, and be refused! But, sir,’’? she continued, “I cannot even now believe that you are in earnest; I cannot think that you will let us starve! For the love of God, sir, do not send me empty away!” She had conquered! The baker took three large loaves from his shelf and handed them to her, while she, with her eyes now full of tears, could only articulate, “God bless you, sir!”’ Heaven helps those who help themselves. As Mrs. Clarke turned to leave the shop, more than one kind hand was stretched forth with its offering. Some offered money, and some offered bread. Hav- ing enough for present necessities, however, she declined these offerings with many thanks. “ But,’ added she, “‘ we are strangers, and do not know where to get employment. If you can help us to get work, we will thank and bless you.”’ And then, having given information where they could be found, in case any one had work to give them— such work as could be done by men, women, or children—she bowed kindly to all around her, and quickly sought her home. Over the short space between the baker’s shop and ber humble dwelling, she rather flew than walked. Oh, what relief and joy was she carrying to her household! How quickly the cnildren dried their tears, and ran to ease her of her precious bur- den ! ‘God is always with you. mother,’ said her husband. “ What is the reason you never fail in that which you set out to do?” “ Because, father,’’ she replied, “ [ endeavor to be always sure that I am doing what is right; and that assurance gives me courage. I nearly came home to-night, though, without any bread.” ‘*But you put your truat in God, mother,’’ said ww the husband, “and made another trial. Wasn't that the way ?”” : “ Yes, I have strong faith in God, and in man, too,” replied the wife. ‘It is because we do not expect to find goodness in our fellow-men, and do not encourage its development, that we no oftener find it. In more senses than one, I believe that ‘ he that seeketh findeth.’ Ifa man seeks for evil in his fellow-men, he is sure to find it; and, on the other hand, if he seeks and expects goodness, that finds he likewise. I would not lose my faith in human nature for the world; it has carried me through many a discouraging encounter. But I never yet have found the heart that had not some soft, tender spot about it, which could be reached by judicious means.”’ “ You never gave me up, Mrs. Clarke,”’ chimed in Patrick Malligan, munching, meanwhile, a crust of bread. ‘ You never gave me up, though every- body else did. If it had not been for your unwearied patience, your kindness, your trust in me when there seemed little ground for trust, where would I be now? What would I be? Och, Pat, my dar- lin’! ye owe ivrything to Mrs. Clarke!” “TI begin to think you are right, mother,” said Mr. Clarke, “in thinking better of men than I do. I begin to think your philosophy is a sounder one than mine; at all events, it brings forth better fruits. [ have some faith in God, but very little, I confess, in men.” ** Now, father,” said Mrs. Clarke, “I ’ll tell you how I reason about it. Man was originally made in the image of his Creator, and it becomes us to do all we can to restore that lost or hidden likeness. Now, 1 am constantly on the watch for it; I be- lieve it is there, though so unquestionably dimmed, nay, almost effaced. By continually addressing myself to the principle of goodness, if there is the smallest remnant of it left, I am sure to find it. We are now in a strange land ; but, I tell you, we shall find friends, and rise yet out of this g!oomy abyss into which we seem to have fallen. I am sure of it. Even this night I have seen indications of it ; and, depend upon it, on Monday morning some of those kind persons I saw in the baker’s shop will core to offer us employment and the means of liv- ing. Ah, my children !”’ she continued, turning to the little group, who, having satisfied their appe- tites, were gazing earnestly into their mother’s speaking countenance—“ ah, my children, the secret of all the success [ have ever had in life has been my faith in God and in my fellow-men ; and just so far as I have lost this compound, though not in- harmonious, faith, has my evil star been in the ascendent.”’ Notz.—I am happy to be able to state that the above cheering prediction was abundantly verified.

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CISSITUDE Vi a] mL tT OF FORTUNE. A FRAGMENT FROM A TRUE HISTORY. TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN Axoysivs, Count of G***, was the son of a citizen of rank, engaged in * * *ish service. The germs of his happy genius were unfolded, at an early age, bya liberal education. While still very young, but with a mind furnished with substantial attain- ments, he entered into military service with the sovereign of his land. Being a young man of high merit and of still higher expectation, it was only for a short time that he remained unknown to his mas- ter. G*** was in the full ardor of youth; the sovereign was also young: G*** was enthusi- astic and enterprising; the sovereign, who was likewise so, loved such characters. Endowed with a rich vein of wit, and possessed of a copious fund of knowledge, G*** had the happy faculty of giving animation to his conversation, and of bright- ening up, by an always equable jovialty, every cir- cle in which he mingled. He enjoyed the rare felicity of being always able to infuse a charm and life into every subject which presented itself to his consideration. The sovereign knew well how to appreciate in another excellent qualities which he possessed in a high degree in his own character. Everything that he undertook, his pastimes even, had an air of greatness. Though obstacles arose to umpede his progress, they did not intimidate his spirit; and, though disappointments beset his path, never were they known to overcome his perse- verance. The worth of these qualities was height- ened by a commanding figure; his full form was a living pieture of blooming health and Herculean strength, animated, as it was, by the lively play of an active spirit. In his features, gait, and bearing, there was apparent a natural majesty, which was finely softened by a noble look of intelligence. If the prince had reason to be charmed by the spirit of his young companion, it is no wonder that his susceptibility was captivated irresistibly by such an alluring exterior. Similarity of age, and har- mony in their pursuits and characters, in a short time established a relation between them which possessed all the strength of friendship and all the fervor of impassioned love. G*** advanced with the utmost rapidity from one post of honor to an- other; yet these outward marks of regard seemed to fall far short of expressing the position which he really occupied in the heart of his sovereign. With astonishing rapidity and luxuriant growth, his good fortune continued to advance and mature, while tbe creator of it was his adorer, his ardent friend. Not yet two-and twenty years of age, he found himself elevated to a height at which those individuals even $ OF SCHILLER who have elsewhere experienced the greatest pros- perity usually terminate their career, But his act- ive spirit could not long rest in the dalliance of indolent inanity; he could not long continue to be satisfied with the glittering pageantry of a follower after the shadow of greatness, while he felt that he had sufficient courage and power to gain and enjoy it in its substance. While the sovereign was eagerly following the rounds of pleasure, the young favorite literally buried himself beneath statutes and books, and devoted himself with untiring application to the duties of his station. He finally became so expert and skillful in business, that every transaction, even though not of the highest importance, if it required prudence and care, passed through his hands. From being a companion of his amusements and pleasures, he soon became first counsellor and minister, and finally master, of his sovereign. His power soon became so great that the only access to the prince was through his favor. He conferred all offices and honors; all rewards were received from his hands. G***’s prosperity came in too early youth; he had advanced to such a height of honor by too rapid strides to enjoy it with moderation. His success gave predominance to his love of honor; from con- templating himself at such an elevation, his ambition became giddy and headstrong. No sooner had he reached the last summit of his wishes than his usual discretion deserted him. He became infatu- ated, by observing the humble deference which was paid him by the first of the land, by all those even whom birth, consideration, and the gifts of fortune had rendered so very much his superiors. The condescension which even gray heads showed to him, so young a man, intoxicated his pride; while the unlimited power which he had gained soon caused a certain harshness to become apparent in his bearing. This want of mildness had been a characteristic in him always before, and it continued to cling to him, even through all the vicissitudes of his fortune. There was no labor which he would not undertake for the sake of gratifying his friends; no service, which he could render, was too great for them to claim of him. His enemies, however, must fear and tremble at his power. As he far overstepped the ordinary bounds of benevolence on the one hand, so #e fell very far short of due mode- ration in his revenge. He made little use of his influence to enrich himself; he preferred to make many prosperous who, out of gratitude, would be bound to pay homage to himself as the creator of their fortunes. It was caprice, however—not a sense 19

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20 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK eae of justice—which directed him in the choice of the subjects of his favor. By a haughty, imperious bearing he estranged from himself the hearts of those whom he had most obliged; while he, at the same time, had the misfortune to tramsform his rivals and secret enviers into just so many implacable enemies. Among those who watched every movement that he made with eyes of jealeusy und envy, and al- ready were preparing in secret the instruments with which to effect his overthrow, was a certain Pied- montian count, Joseph Martinengo, one of the sov- ereign’s suit. G***, regarding this individual as a creature wholly inoffensive and entirely devoted to his interest, had advanced him by his own influ- ence to this station, which he allowed him to hold at the pleasure of his master. In exchange for this position, which he had occupied previously himself, and of which he now began to grow tired, he with too great willingness accepted an office whose cha- racter was higher and more substantial, whose duties were more onerous and engrossing. He was wont to regard this man as a work of his own hand, which he could degrade again to the nothingness from which he had raised it, at any moment when he should deem it proper. He was consequently living in the firm assurance that the count would serve him as well out of gratitude as from fear. This caused him to fall into an error precisely similar to the one which Richelieu committed when he al- lowed the young /e grand to be the pluyfellow of Louis the XIII. But, without being able to correct this error with Richelieu’s spirit, he was doomed to contend with a more artful enemy than the one which the French minister had encountered. In- stead of appearing elated at his prosperity, and al- lowing his benefactor to feel that he must now spare him, whether he would or not, Martinengo daily became more cautious and circumspect in his de- portment. He strove to maintain the appearance of dependence, and, by pretending to be thus submis- sive and humble, he was constantly becoming more closely united to the creator of his fortune. At the same time, he did not neglect to use, to their full ex- tent, the opportunities which his position afforded him of being ofien in the company of the sovereign ; indeed, he allowed no occasion of gradually advanc- ing himself in favor, and of making himself necessary and indispensable to him, to pass unimproved. Ina short time he was intimately acquainted with the mind of bis master: he had spied out every ap- proach to his confidence, and unobserved had in- sinuated himself into his good graces. The Italian was putting in practice all those arts and subter- fuges which the minister, from a noble pride and natural elevation of soul, had learned to despise. Indeed, in order to the attainment of bis end, he did not scorn to make use of the vety lowest means. It soon became apparent to him that the man with whom he was dealing nowhere needed a guide and an assistant so much as in the road to vice. He was, at the same time, well aware that nothing more effectually contributes to a bold, unshrinking confi- dence between individuals, than a mutual knowledge of the secret weaknesses in each other’s character. Aceordingly, he set himself to work to awaken pas- sions in the prince which, until then, slumbered in his bosom in silence. At such a crisis, he would urge himself upon him, in order that he might be- come by this means his confidant and abettor. He allured him to such places of debauchery as afford- ed the fewest witnesses, and where he would be least likely to meet with associates who would become privy to his excesses. By this means he led him imperceptibly to repose secrets in himself, a third of which he took care to reject. He thus succeeded finally in establishing the infamous plan of making his fortune on the moral debasement of the sovereign; and that, too, while the secret was an essential means to its success. He thus gained the heart of the sovereign, before G*** allowed himself even so much as to suspect that he shared his master’s confidence with another. It is a matter well calculated to excite surprise that a change of such momentous importance should have escaped the usually penetrating eye of G* **. He was, however, tov conscious of his own worth to regard, even so much as in imagination only, such a man as Martinengo as his rival; while the latter was too cautious, too much on his guard, to draw his opponent from his proud security by any want of discretion in himself. The very same error that had caused thousands before him to slip on the smooth surface of a sovereign’s favor, also precipitated G*#** from his dazzling height—an overweening confidence in himself. The secret al- liance between Martinengo and his master caused in him no disquiet. It was with feelings of pleasure that he bestowed on a man just coming into notice a fortune which, at heart, he despised himself, and which had never been the aim of his exertions. The friendship of the sovereign had possessed a charm for him only so long as that alone could ad- vance him in the way to the highest power, and his guide had no sooner enabled him to reach the long- wished-for eminence than he carelessly allowed him to fall behind. Martinengo was not the man to be satisfied with a position of so subordinate a character. At every advancement which he made in the favor of his master, his aims became bolder and his wishes more extended, until his ambition finally began to aspire afier a position of a more substantial and satisfying nature. The artful character of assumed subordi- nation, which he had always until now maintained towards his benefactor, was constantly becoming more burdensome to him in proportion as the i- crease of his consideration more fully awakened his pride. The bearing of the minister towards him did not become refined in a degree corresponding to the rapid advancement which he was making in the favor of the sovereign ; indeed, it often seemed ap- parent enough that his opponent so regulated his behavior as to humble his rising pride by a salutary reference to his origin. Consequently, this relation, —

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VICISSITUDES OF FORTUNE. ALPDPAAPD PDD which was such a restraint upon his actions and so contradictory to his feelings, fiually became so irk- some to him that he went to work in earnest and devised a plan to end his uneasiness at once by the overthrow of his rival. Under the impenetrable veil of dissimulation, he brooded over this plan until he had brought it to full maturity. Not yet, how- ever, had he the assurance to venture to measure himself with his rival in open conflict. Though the first bloom of the favor which G* ** had enjoyed was past, for all this his influence was very for- midable. It dated its origin too far back, and had planted its roots too deeply in the affections of the young sovereign, to be so readily eradicated from his bosom. The least circumstance, even the most trivial incident, would be enough to restore it to its original freshness and strength. Such being the case, Martinengo was well aware that the blow which be was to inflict must be an annihilating blow. What G*** had lost perhaps in his sovereign’s love he had gained in his reverence: the more the latter withdrew himself from the affairs of govern- ment, the less readily could he dispense with the services of the man who took care of his interests, even those connected with the finances of the coun- try, with the most faithful devotion and conscientious exactness. Thus in former days he had been dear to the prince as a friend, but now he was important to him as a minister. What the particular means were by which the ltalian succeeded in his design has remained a se- cret known to but few: the only persons privy to it were they who experienced the blow, and they by whom it was inflicted. It is supposed by some that he laid before the sovereign the original of a secret and very suspicious correspondence which G*** had maintained unquestionably, as it would appear, with a neighboring court. Whether these docu- ments were genuine or counterfeit is a point on which there is a diversity of opinion. But, as there was a possibility of his having been really engaged in such a correspondence, the courtier reached his _end by taking a step of such a fearful nature. G * * * appeared in the eyes of his sovereign the most un- grateful of creatures, the blackest of traitors ; and his crime was regarded as so free from all doubt, that he believed himself authorized to proceed immediately against him, without further investigation. Every- thing was discussed and arranged between Martin- engo and his master with the deepest secrecy: so quietly was everything conducted, that G * * *, not even once from a distance, observed the thunder- storm that was gathering over his head. He re- mained in this fatal security until the awful moment in which, from an object of universal reverence and envy, he was doomed to sink to an object of the deepest pity and of universal compassion. When the decisive day had come, G** * re- paired, as was his wont, to the place of parade. From an ensign-bearer he had risen, during the course of a few years, to the rank of colonel. Even this elevated position was but a modest name for VOL. LXIv.—3 5 2 : $ ¢ 4 3 ; ; $ $ 2 2 : 2 2 ; 21 the dignity of the ministerial office, with which he was in fact invested, and which elevated him above the first in the land. The parade-ground was the place where his pride received universal homage, where in one brief hour he enjoyed a greatness and pre-eminence in comparison with which the remain- der of the day seemed a burden. On these occa- sions, the first in rank approached him with timidity, nay, almost with reverence, and those who were not absolutely certain of his good will, with anxiety and trembling. Whenever the sovereign himself happened to be on the ground, he always found him- self beneath his vizier in consideration. The power of the latter was very considerable; it was so dan- gerous to incur his displeasure that not even the friendship of the former proved availing. This very place, where he had been wont heretofore to be honored us a god, was now chosen as the stage for the awful exhibition of bis humiliation. With a careless air he entered the well-known circle which, as ignorant of what was to happen as himself, opened before him this day, as usual, with every mark of respect, waiting his orders. It was not long before Martinengo appeared, accompanied by several adjutants; he was no longer the pliant courtier, full of low bows and smiles. Impudent, and with the pride of a clown, he resembled a lackey who had just become his own master. He stalked towards him with a proud, haughty step, and, with his head covered, stopped in front of him, demand- ing his sword in the name of the sovereign. It was handed to him with a look of silent consternation. Seizing it, and resting the end of the bare blade upon the ground, he broke it in two by a single tread, and let the pieces fall at the feet of G*#**, The signal was no sooner given than the adjutants both fell upon him; one hastened to cut the cross of the order from his bosom, while the other pulled off both epau- lets as well as the rest of the uniform, and tore the cord and plume from his hat. During the whole of this frightful performance, which proceeded with incredible rapidity, there was not to be heard, in an assembly of more than five hundred men who stood about in a dense mass, a single utterance, a single respiration. With pale countenances, with swelling hearts, and in a deathlike stupor, the multitude stood in a circle around him; while he, in this awful situ- ation—a strange sight, combining the grotesque and the territic—endured for a time what no one can experience except at the place thousand others, situated as he been stretched senseless on the ground by the force of the first fright; his more powerful nervous system and his strong soul enabled him to endure the dread- ful sensations of this frightful state to the end, and to exhaust all its terrors. Searcely was this operation ended when they conducted him through the midst of innumerable spectators to the outer extremity of the parade- ground, where a covered carriage stood in readiness He was ordered in silence, by a of execution. A was, would have to receive him. gesture, to mount the vehicle ; an escort of hussars

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22 GODEY'S MAGAZINE AND LADY'S BOOE. attended him. The rumor of this proceeding mean- time had spread through the whole town; every win- dow flew open, every street was filled with the inqui- sitive. They rent the air with their shouts, as they followed him with their eyes; his name was repeat- ed amid the alternate exclamations of ridicule, of ill- concealed joy, and still more of heartfelt compassion and sympathetic grief for his misfortune. He finally found himself in the country, freed from the gaze of impertinent curiosity: but here a new cause of alarm awaited him. They soon turned the carriage from the main road into an unfrequented path, long since deserted by men; it was the way to the place of execution, towards which they conducted him slowly, as they had been expressly commanded by the sovereign. After causing him to feel on this road all the anguish of the tortures of death, they again changed their course and sought a public road. In the scorching heat of the sun, without refresh- ments, without exchanging a word with a fellow- being, he passed seven dismal hours in that carriage, which finally stopped just as the sun was disappear- ing in the west. They had reached the fortress, the place of his destination, which was to be his future abode. A fast of twelve hours and parching thirst had finaily overpowered his gigantic nature. Bereft of consciousness, he was lying in a state in- termediate between life and death. They drew him from the vehicle while he was entirely insensible of the whole transaction, and lowered him into a frightful pit beneath the ground. The first object that presents itself to his view, upon his again open- ing his eyes to a new life, is the gray wall of a dis- ma! prison. He can scarcely distinguish surround- ing objects, as his abode is but faintly lighted by a few straggling beams from the moon, which, pene- trating a few narrow fissures, full upon him to the depth of nineteen fathoms. By his side he discovers some miserable bread, as well as a water-cruse, and near by a bundle of straw for his bed. He remained in this situation until the following mid-day, whena shutter at length opened and two hands became visi- ble. From this opening there is let down to him in a suspending basket a fresh supply of the same kind of food that he found here on the preceding day. During the whole of this terrible change in his for- tune, pain and anxious solicitude now, for the first time, wrung from him a few questions: “How came I here? What crime have I committed?” But no answer came from above ; the hands disappeared, and again the shutter closed. Not allowed to see the face of a fellow-being, not even to hear a human voice, without any explanation in reference to this dreadful change in his condition, in equal fear and uncertainty as regards both the future and the past, revived by no warm rays of light, refreshed by no wholesome air, beyond the reach of all assistance, and, what is the most painful of all, unremembered in the general sympathy of mankind, in this place of condemnation he counts four hundred and ninety days of woe by means of that detestable bread, which was let down to him one mid-day after an- other in mournful uniformity. But a discovery which he makes on the very first day of his being in prison fills his cup of misery to the full. He recognizes this place. He was himself the one who, under the influence of feelings of low revenge, had it repaired but a few months before, in order that he might punish a deserving citizen, by throwing him into it and leaving him there to languish. The object of his resentment was a worthy officer, who had been so unfortunate as to draw upon himself his displea- sure. By his own inventive cruelty he had furnished himself the means of rendering his stay in this prison a period of horror and anguish, It was not long before this that he made a journey to this place to inspect the building and hasten its completion. To increase his misery to the utmost, the very officer, an old colonel of high worth, for whom this prison was intended, is appointed successor in office to the lately deceased commander of the fortress, and thus from being the victim of the minister’s revenge, he be- comes the master of his fate. He was thus deprived of the last sorrowful consolation, the ability to pity himself; and such was his situation now that, how- ever roughly fortune might handle him, he could never accuse her of injustice. Tothe poignant feel- ing of his misery was added a raging contempt of self, and, what always proves the bitterest pain to proud hearts, the mortification of depending upon the generosity of an enemy to whom he had not shown the least kindness. But that upright man was too noble to indulge in a low revenge. The severity which his instruc- tions nade it necessary for him to exercise towards his prisoner cost his philanthropic heart innumer- able pangs; but as an old soldier, accustomed to follow the letter of his order with blind fidelity, he could do no more than pity him. The unfortunate individual found a zealous assistant in the person of the preacher for the garrison at the fortress. Moved to pity by the misery of the man so strangely confined, an account of which he had but lately learned through vague and unconnected rumors, he resolutely resolved to attempt something for his benefit. This estimable ecclesiast, whose name I unwillingly suppress, believed that his pastoral la- bors could be more serviceably employed in no way than in being made subservient to the good of an unfortunate man, who could be assisted by no other means. When he found that he could not prevail upon the commander of the fortress to relax his severity to- wards the prisoner, he hastened to proceed to the capital himself, that he might there in his own per- son urge his petition upon the sovereign without intervention. He prostrated himself before him, and besought his compassion for the unfortunate man ; he urged that he was now in prison, languishing without hope, perhaps already near despair, and deprived of the benefits of Christianity, from which not even a criminal can be debarred, though guilty of the most monstrous crimes. He claimed a free access to the prison with all the intrepidity and

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VICISSITUDES OF FORTUNE. 23 dignity imparted by the consciousness of fulfilling one’s duty: he said that the prisoner would listen to him as a penitent, and that he felt responsible to Heaven fur the salvation of his soul. The good cause for which he pleaded made him eloquent; time also had already broken, in a measure, the first indignation of the sovereign. He granted his request to be permitted to gladden the prisoner with a spiritual visit. The first human countenance that the unfortunate G * * * beheld after a period of sixteen months was the face of his friendly helper. In his pitiable state of wretchedness, he thanked the only friend who lived for him in the world; from the days of his prosperity not one remained to cheer him in advers- ity. The visit of the preacher was to him like the appearance of an angel. I cannot describe his emo- tions. He became more calm, and his tears flowed more gently, when he saw a human being weep over his condition. Horror seized the spiritual functionary as he en- tered this pit of murder. His eyes sought a man— and a hideous form, awakening in the beholder a sensation of terror, crept out of a corner towards him at his approach. The place bore more resem- blance to the lair of a wild beast than to the abode of a human creature. A pale form, a mere skeleton, bearing the image of death, stood before him; all color of life had fled trom his face, on which grief and despair had ploughed their deepest furrows. His beard and nails had, through so long a neglect, grown to an enormous length ; his apparel too, from his wearing it so long, was half decayed; while the air, in consequence of an entire want of purification, had become infected. Thus he found this favorite of fortune involved in miseries, all of which the health of his iron frame had withstood. Rendered still more determined by this spectacle, the preacher hastened to the governor of the fortress to obtain for this poor unfortunate being still another favor, with- out which even the first would have been granted in vain. When this officer again excused himself on the ground of the explicit terms of his instructions, the benevolent philanthropist magnanimously resolved upon a second journey to the residence of the sov- ereign, in order to claim his benevolence once again. He explained to him how he should be obliged to violate the dignity of the sacrament (which he could never do), if he administered any holy ordinance to his prisoner before he was restored to the condition and privileges of a man. This was also granted, and from that day he first began to live again like a human being. G*** spent many years more in that fortress but in a condition far more endurable after the brief summer of the new favorite’s influence was past, and other ministers had succeeded him in office, who treated the prisoner humanely, or at any rate had no feelings of a revengeful nature to satisfy upon him. After an imprisonment of ten years, the day of his deliverance finally came: but there was no legal in- ~ ~ eee vestigation, no formal acquittal. He felt his freedom as a free gift from the hands of benevolence; and at the same time that he was liberated he was com- manded to leave the land forever. The information which I have been able to collect, and that was only through oral reports, fails me at this point of his life ; I consequently find myself ob- liged to pass over a period of twenty years in silence. During this time, G * * * engaged in foreign military service, and began his career anew ; fortune finally conducted him again, even among strangers, to the same dazzling summit from which he had fallen in so frightful a manner in his fatherland. Time, that sure friend of the unfortunate, which works a slow but always unerring justice, finally took up his case also. The years of impulse and passion were already past in the sovereign; and humanity now began to ac- quire gradually a worth, and to possess an interest for him as his hairs whitened. While just on the verge of the grave, there was awakened in him an ardent longing for the favorite of his youth. In order to compensate the gray hairs of the old man, as much as he could, for the grievances which he had heaped upon the prime of his manhood, he kind- ly invited the exile back to the home of his younger days. It is not strange that even in G * * *’s heart too there had returned long since a silent yearning for his native land. Their meeting was affecting; their greetings were as if they had parted but yes- terday for the first time; they were warm, and yet full of disappointed hopes. gazed with a reflecting look upon that countenance, The sovereign stood and with whose lineamenis he was so familiar, and which for all that appeared so strange. It seemed as though he counted the furrows which he had dug himself upon the face of his early friend. With a searching, scrutinizing look, he sought to find once more in the countenance of the old man the beloved features of the youth; but what he sought, he could They soon forced themselves into Shame and fear had A sight which con- no longer find. a cold and formal intimacy. severed their hearts forever. stantly recalled his own gross act of hasty indis- crimination could never more prove pleasing to the sovereign ; and G * ** himself could no longer love the author of his misfortune. For all that this was the case, he was consoled and calm, and looked upon the offence as one rejoices over an unpleasant dream that is past. It was not long before G * * * was seen again in possession of all his former honors; the sovereign, moreover, restrained his secret aversion, in order to render him a brilliant requital for the past. But could he indeed give his heart again to him who had destroyed it forever for all the enjoyments of life? Could he restore to the decrepit old man years of hope and promise? for him a fortune which would in any wise requite the robbery which he had committed upon his youth? For nineteen years more, he enjoyed this serene Neither misfortune nor years Or could he devise evening of his life. had been able to quench in him the ardor of his

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24 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. ——eeeEeEeoeOeOO youthful feelings, nor wholly to obscure the jovialty } that he would have exercised towards them a kind of bis spirit. When in the seventieth year of his { ness and moderation whose worth he ought to have age, be still continued to grasp after the shadow of learned to value from a dearly-bought experience. a good which be hud full possession of at twenty. } It is strange to say, however, that he treated them He finally died. He was still commander of that harshly and peevishly, and that it was an ebullition ; of anger against one of them that finally brought him to his end in the eightieth year of his age. same fortress ****, where the state’s prisoners were usually confined. It is but natural to suppose PLEASING THE PARISH; OR, THE MINISTER’S WIFE. BY THE AUTHOR OF “‘ MISS BREMER’S VISIT TO’'COOPER’S LANDING,’ ‘‘ GETTING INTO SOCIETY,’’ “sIGNS OF GENTILITY,”’ *‘ BOARDING-HUUSE POLITICS,’’ ETC. ETC. Tue congregation of St. John’s Church had been { president, and Mrs. Skimpton secretary, that “ it for some months without a rector. Many had ap- was no more than she had been expecting for some plied, it is true, for the vacant situation ; for it was time.’’ And finally, the vestry were goaded into one of the most wealthy and influential in the dio- politely requesting “their late beloved rector’’ to cese, and the salary was three thousand a year. resign. rn Add to this Christmas presents, and marriage fees ‘ But now the pulpit was no longer vacant. The (there was a vast proportion of young people, anda } bishop was not to be invited for the future to mar- Washington or Saratoga campaign always resulted { ry the wealthy members of the congregation, or in three or four engagements at the very least), and § the city missionary to bury its dead pensioners. you had as comfortable a josition as a clergyman, { The choir were once more in full practice of Ros- who had renounced “ the pomps and vanities of this sini, the organist of Mendelssohn ; and a new sopra- wicked world,” could desire. no had been engaged at four hundred a year—a The church itself was an expensive building, in sum greater, be it remarked, than many a faithful the very extremity of the florid Gothic. The long and zealous country clergyman receives in his labo- windows were filled with stained glass of many co- rious vocation. lors, giving every shade and tone to the faces of the The new rector was drawing crowded congrega- congregation in the different hours of the day. tions. It was music to hear him read the church Thus the sharp features of Mrs. Skimpton—wife of service, one declared. Another had never listened one of the most influential vestrymen, who had a to more eloquent speaking than his sermons. Visit- pew in the very front ranks of the middle aisle, that ors from St. Peter’s, St. James’s, and Epiphany her devotion might be known of all men—were crowded the aisles in the afternoon, and a great in- tinged with ruby red in the morning, saffron color quiry had been made for vacant pews by families during sermon time, and presented a livid blue recently removed to the city. Every family in the aspect in the aflernoon service’ The organ was congregation were ready to welcome Dr. Stone un- new and powerful, the choir the best that could be der their roof until his household should arrive, and trained, the pulpit almost dazzled your eyes with twenty-seven urgent invitations to dinner were de- gilding and crimson velvet, and the chandeliers clined in one day. The great wonder was, how he flashed with an incessant glitter. Therefore the should have cultivated such grace and elegance of vestry of St. John’s Church were as cautious as manner in the country; for this was his first advent their position required, in selecting a new rector to in city life. He had been a professor in a theologi- take the place of the Rev. Dr. Naylor. It was a cal seminary for several years past; but his literary tastes and triumphs had drawn him from this com- parative obscurity. Henceforth he was not to blush great pity, some were inclined to say, that he had been suffered to leave at all—he was so excellent a rhetorician, so graceful an orator, such a charm- ing guest at a dinner-party, always quoting Timo- thy’s example as he took his sherry wine, and was Juror he was creating. He was much more inte- very complimentary to the hostess over Burguudy. rested in the arrival of his young wife to her new ? | unseen. But St. John’s Church prided itself on resisting the home than in any proffered attention to himself. é ; To tell the truth, he had very little idea of the He thought more of the souls than the establish- ments of his congregation, strange as it may seem, and cared for the effect of the truth upon them, rather than the eloquent periods which unfolded it, the natural language of his pen. He Lad felt some scruples in declining one great charge to accept of another equally important, but had decided upon innovations of Oxford, and Dr. Naylor was long suspected of inclining thereunto. Finally, to the horror of half the congregation, he appeared in the pulpit with his surplice, an indication not to be trifled with. Miss Little declared that “ it gave her a perfect chill,” and ‘she couldn’t tell, for her part, where it would end.”” Mrs. Tuttle remarked, at a meeting of the Dorcas Society, of which she was { city life, influenced not a little by the predilections

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PLEASING THE PARISH. of his wife; though he would have been shocked had any opegroved to him that he had listened to such an earthly consideration. All his friends wondered when the quiet, unob- trusive Dr. Stone had married the daughter of one of the most influential men in the country, scarcely two years before. But Mary Elliot was intellec- tual as well as beautiful, and found no other conge- nial society in her native village. So, in the process of time, the reverend doctor’s eyes were opened to the fact that *¢ Their friendship turned out To be love in disguise ;*’ and they were married. Thus Mary Elliot, the petted, flattered, only daughter, became the wife of a grave theological professor, and was now to enter on a new sphere of city life. The house in —— Place was selected by Mrs. Tuttle. tocratic and a quiet neighborhood. for a clergyman,” said Mrs. Tuttle. in the midst of such fashionable society, and only Dr. Stone looked on vague- Every one knows that it is at once an aris- « Just the thing “So central, eight hundred a year.” ly, and seemed to consider what Mary, himself, and Etta, the baby, were to do with all those large rooms, and why the “fashionable society’? was deemed important to a clergyman. However, he candidly confessed to Mrs. Tuttle, at whose house he then was, that he knew nothing about such mat- ters, and left housekeeping entirely to Mary. Mrs. Skimpton lived directly opposite. That was plea- sant, for Mary had never been away from her mo- ther before, and Mrs. S. had paid him a great deal of motherly attention. As for upholstery, Mary must settle that, too, with Mrs. Tuttle’s advice, and so he locked the new house, put the key in his pocket, and felt a great deal more settled than he had done in the morning. Miss Little was ushered into the drawing-room of No. — —— Street, at a very early hour. So early, that a glimpse of the breakfast-table, still standing, had been caught in passing through the first floor. It was a dismal, stormy November day, and Miss Little was attired accordingly. She was one of the sisterhood so peculiar to large congrega- tions, who seem at once the keepers of the rector’s conscience, and the principal patrons of the parish They are always aw fait to the scarlet ean tell you school. fever from which the children suffer ; where the rector’s wife intends to pass the sum- mer; and have the bishop’s appointments at their fingers’ ends. They are usually in mourning for a distant relative, and take decided views on all points of church controversy. Miss Little, in distinction to her name, was tall, and somewhat masculine. She carried a bag with a steel clasp, which shut with a very decided snap, and had served in its day to emphasize many of its owner’s remarks. What- ever dissent Miss Little tolerated, there must be none from the views which she advanced. 3 25 On this particular morning, she was evidently disturbed at being kept in waiting. At first, she seated herself in the centre of the apartment, and cast her eyes up to the cornice, as if in profound meditation. one appearing, she commenced an active reconnoi- tre of the apartment, turning over every book on the centre-table, inspecting jealously the folds of the curtains, tracing the pattern of the wall paper, and feeling the embossed cover of the piano forte, as if inwardly deciding upon its price. This ended, she relapsed into a quick meditative walk, But five, ten minutes passed, and, no survey bounded by the mirrors at either end of the room, treading on every alternate crimson flower of the carpet, and carefully avoiding the blue leaves, as if some hidden danger lurked beneath. At length the door opened, and Miss Angelica Tuttle appeared in her mamma’s stead. “Mamma begged to be excused for a few moments; the chil- dren were such a bore. All children were,’’ said Miss Angelica, with a languid shrug of her fair shoulders. Miss Little’s assent was given with a corresponding pantomimic movement. “I wanted to see you, too, though, my dear. You know how much we depend on you when there is any charitable movement. I suppose you have heard we have concluded on a fair for the Dorcas Society, to be held the week before Christ- mas. What post shall I put youdownto? There's the cake table now—Goodfellow has promised to furnish it at cost. It would be quite suggestive, you know; cake and rings, and all that sort of thing. Of course, we shall have ring cakes ; it is always a good speculation.’”” « The cake table !”’ said Miss Angelica, musingly. “Or the post-office. You can write charmingly, I know. letters from Cape May last season in the Drawing- Room Journal Think what a sen- sation you could make through that paper win- ” Now you needn’t blush, and deny those were yours. dow ; and you may choose your own clerks. The post-office appointment seemed likely to be accepted ; but, at the same time, the word “ sensa- > seemed to call out a burst of latent enthusiasm, tion’ which quite dispelled the languid manner Miss Angelica, the eldest of eight children, thought pro- per to affect. “Oh, Miss Little, ded you see our new rector’s wife last Sunday? Isn’t she sweet? She stayed two days with us, while the upholsterer was getting the house ready. I would have sent you word; but she particularly requested no one should call, she was so fatigued.” “ Lovely !”’ responded Miss Little. “ J came on in the boat with her, and had the pleasure of being the first member of the congregation introduced. She will be a great acquisition to our Dorcas So- ciety.” ‘ «“ And the Female Auxiliary, Tuttle, who had just emerged from the nursery, as might be gathered from the stains on her not very ” chimed in Mrs. orderly morning-dress. It was finely printed with

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26 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. a kind of palm pattern (the fingers being, in some instances, included), in molasses and gravy toast. “I shall depend upon her taking an active part in the Female Auxiliary Society, for the evangeliza- tion of Southern Italy.”’ *« Her bonnet was very becoming,” added Miss Angelica. “It was one of Lawson’s, too. She bought it on her way through New York. I was glad of it; for I do like a variety of bonnets in church. Now, last winter there were eleven in the middle aisle from Miss Wharton’s—I can always tell a bonnet—five from Miss M’Connels, and four from Mrs. Burke’s. One gets so tired of the same style.” «She seems a devoted mother,’ Mrs. Tuttle found space to throw in. ‘“ And her little girl was quite a model to my young people.” “Such curls !’’ said Miss Angelica. “ Such eyes and color !’’ said Miss Little. «A lovely Maria Louise blue—the bonnet, not the curls.” *« And plays, I’m told,” said Miss Little. ‘She will give such a tone to society! Quite another thing from poor Mrs. Naylor, who scarcely dared to venture an opinion in her husband’s presence. His ‘my dear!’ was the most chilling thing I ever listened to.” «And her rude, unmainerly boys,” added Mrs. Tuttle. “As bad as my own, every bit of it. No- body knows what a trial she must have had.” «“[ should think you could judge,” dutifully sug- gested her eldest born. But the aside was los!, as both the elder ladies rashed forward to welcome Mrs. Skimpton, who was announced just at that moment. The new ar- rival was informed that “ she was just the person wanted ;” “her visit would save a call in Place ;”’ “ now she could decide at once who should be invited from St. Paul’s.’’ “Mrs. Tuttle was al- ways glad to welcome her, but particularly so just then.”’ Mrs. Skimpton was to take charge of the refresh- ment table. For fairs immemorial this had teen Mrs. Skimpton’s post. Her “eternal vigilance” had saved many an extravagant waste, in the shape She could make change to half a cent ; always furnished the hams from Mr. Skimpton’s own grocer, at cost price ; therefore no one ever thought of questioning her undoubted right to so important an appoint- ment. And then Mrs. Stone was reverted to; and Mrs. Skimpton, whose chamber overlooked Dr. Stone’s study windows, gave testimony that they were the of heaped-up plutes and cream at discretion. most devoted people she had ever known ; and she, in particular, had such a pleasing way of asking ad- vice. It was she—Mrs. Skimpton—who had sug- gested a damask Venetian pattern for the stair car- pet, and blinds instead of curtains. ‘Curtains were always in the way somehow.” “ Of neighbors, certainly,” added Miss Angelica, innocently. , ‘So much depends on a rector’s wife!’ said Mrs. Skimpton. " ‘“‘ Yes, indeed,”’ responded Miss Little. “She ought to be—well—in some degree, amia- ble, I may say,” added Mrs. Tuttle. “And willing to be advised,” remarked Mrs Skimpton. «« Not too old, or too dowdy,”’ said Miss Angelica, with a glance at her own stylish dressing-gown in the opposite mirror. ‘“*Now Mrs. Stone is all this,’’ continued Mrs. Skimpton ; “and I, for one, have taken her by the hand. I shall suggest that she puts an oil cloth, in- stead of a carpet, upon the dining-room floor.” “T wonder if she has a soprano, and who was her teacher. She will appreciate the choir so en- tirely. Poor Mrs. Naylor never did. To think of her saying she preferred ‘Old Hundred’ to the ‘Hymn from Zampa!’” Miss Angelica was mu- sical. Fortunate Mrs. Stone! As this was the recep- tion among strangers she had so much dreaded Every tongue was loud in her praise. Visitors poured in from every circle in the congregation The second Saturday evening, she was obliged to empty the two card-baskets for the third time. Tae calls already amounted to two hundred! Many a motherly lady had resolved, with Mrs. Skimpton, to ‘“‘take her by the hand.” Miss Angelica was not the only young person who intended to patronize her. She had already been solicited to join eleven chari- table associations, and had been elected a manager of the “ Union Benevolent.” It is a fact, which many congregations never take into account, that a minister’s wife, in common with the humblest parishioner, may have individual pre- ferences, founded on her taste and cultivation, or the associations to which she has been accustomed. Moreover, she finds no more time in the twenty- four hours, neither is she in any degree exempt from the infirmities of our nature, in the shape of colds, toothache, or neuralgia. A call from a fash ionable congregation does not provide an infallible housekeeper, warranted to procure and manage good servants; and tradespeople do not become a miracle of promptness in a parsonage, sooner than when surrounded by the atmosphere of an ordinary dwelling. Mrs. Stone’s first offence was sending word that she was “‘engaged,”’ to some eleven o’clock visit ors. Mrs. Skimpton waylaid them at a preliminary meeting of the Dorcas fair, and informed them Mrs. Stone was all the while only standing in the doc- tor’s study, talking as unconcernedly as possible. Mrs. Clarke, who happened to be among the minor families, and, of course, very tenacious of her posi- tion in church society, considered it a direct and positive insult. Miss Allen, who had accompanied her, curled her lips with the remark that, “ if they had only been carriage people, they ’d have seen where the engagement was!”’ Both ladies imme- diately became bitter and open opponents of the

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PLEASING THE PARISH. 27 numerous party ever sounding the praises of the rector’s wife, and the story, with alterations and additions, was told at every subsequent gathering, thus bearing that leaven of uncharitableness against which the beloved apostle so eloquently warns his “little children.”? There is, unfortunately, a culmi- nation to all popularity, and the decade soon com- mences. The magnificent Victoria Regia is the noblest of all blossoms, but a day finishes its short- lived glory, though hundreds flock to see and to admire. Mrs. Stone wondered, in gentle humility, when the sound of her husband’s praises and her own was echoed in her ear by her new acquaintances and friends; and her husband wrote a most eloquent and fervent discourse upon Christian fellowship. It was the outpouring of a full and grateful heart; no one could doubt it, as they looked inte his beaming face. The choir sang the well-known chant, “ Be- hold how good and how pleasant a thing it is for brethren to dwell together in unity.”’ It was quite a little jubilee, and the pure voice of the rector’s wife was heard joining, with deep feeling, in the joyful chorus. Surely, if peace and love are the highest points of the Delectable Mountains, nearest unto the Hea- ven towards which they ever rise, it is a strange thing that we do not oftener seek to stand in the calm, clear atmosphere that bathes their summits! Fairs, for church objects, are very good things, no doubt. They awaken an incredible amount of latent industry in the young ladies of the congrega- tion. They give an increase of trade to the trim- ming stores where materials are purchased, and afford a great many people an opportunity to be charitable, and, at the same time, to obtain under- sleeves, cuffs, night-caps, children’s socks, and aprons, the products of the aforesaid industry, at a very low consideration, much cheaper than they could be furnished at the small shops kept by indus- trious widows, who depend upon the sale of these very articles for the maintenance and education of their children. Then, if their reduced custom obliges the petty shopkeeper to seek open charity, the Dorcas Society is sure to send, after much solicitation, the half ton of coal, and the scanty gar- ments made and provided for such contingencies. Of course, they have no reason to complain. They are not supposed to be sensitive on the subject of receiving alms, or to make any internal reflections upon the wisdom, not to say justice, of the course pursued. The poor, God help them! are far too busy to allow time for moralizing. It was unpardonable in Mrs. Stone to reason for them. Mrs. Skimpton listened to her with ill-dis- guised horror. She had called, expecting a zealous co-operation. She read the by-laws of the fair that was to be, the annual report of the society, in- cluding the disposal of soup tickets, and, though it was understood as a mere matter of form, of course, came for the sanction of the rector and the approval of his lady. Mrs. Naylor, despite her shortcom- $ ings, had always been active on these occasions. Mrs. Stone, with her leisure and her winning ad- dress, could, no doubt, do wonders. Of course, she was not expected to sew, explained Mrs. Skimpton ; only to be present at the various meetings, and make herself and the movement generally popular. “ For there were some ladies in the church so obsti- nate and so narrow-minded as to object to fairs!” Therefore they especially counted on her counte- nance. Mrs. Stone had seen but little of city life, she said, but was already made sorrowful by the amount of want and misfortune she could not relieve. There was something to her very sad in the sight of those little shops, in which fancy articles were sold. They seemed to tell of a last effort to keep a litle family undivided. It made her very heart ache to pass them at night. ‘The solitary lamp in the window shedding such a feeble light over the dingy muslins and cheap ornaments displayed there, and then the tired-looking woman behind the coun- ter, stitching away as rapidly as her fingers could fly, and looking up with such an eager, craving look, if the jingle of the little bell announced a cus- tomer. She had heard of the Dorcas Society, and somehow, though she could not pretend to judge for others, it seemed as if its members would make a happier arrangement if they contributed money in- stead of time, and employed poor women to make the garments they distributed to those who could not, for ill health or care, assist themselves at all. ‘ But,”’ urged Mrs. Skimpton, blandly, “ there are many young ladies now—your young friend, Miss Tuttle, for instance—who have no purse of their own, and can still give time.” “Do they not choose their own wardrobes?” asked Mrs. Stone, quietly. ‘And one expensive dress or ornament less might furnish the means.” Mrs. Skimpton’s thin features grew sharper still by extension. What heresies! and from such a source! She could scarcely refrain from an instant explosion ; but she still hoped, by Miss Little’s as- sistance, to overcome Mrs. Stone’s scruples. Un- fortunately, as she was obliged to confess it, many would be influenced by the expression of opinions more than one already held. But Miss Little’s visit proved equally unsuccess- ful—Mrs. Stone remaining firm, though gentle, in her resolution to avoid taking an active part in the proposed charity. The very next day, the steel clasp was shut with an undeniable negative snap when some young ladies looked up from the myste- ries of embroidering bronze toilet slippers, to pro- pose dving a pair for Mrs. Stone, and making a new set of bands for the doctor. ‘ They might as well work for Queen Victoria at once, for all the thanks they would get,”’ she said. ‘* Mrs, Stone preferred to pay for all she wore ; and it was well her husband had a large salary, the way she managed affairs !”’ It was an undoubted dash of vinegar upon the fire of enthusiasm Mrs. Stone bad kindled. Meek little

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28 GODEY’S MAGAZINE withal, was the youngest of the Sunday School teachers at St. John’s, bent over her sewing with flushed cheeks and a mist before her eyes, which interfered not a little with the accuracy of her stitches. Miss Angelica Tuttle was also observed to have changed her phrases of adulation to a minor key, to say the least. Mrs. Clarke plainly declared that she never did like her from the first; and ‘poor, dear Mrs. Naylor’s’’ forgotten virtues were paraded once more in open day, as the “ sainted Maria” of some recently-married widower is held up for the correction and edification of her unfortu- nate successor. Two hundred visits are not to be returned in two months, unless the whole of one’s time is devoted to that specific object. It may answer for a young bride, who has a Honiton veil, an India shawl, and a new equipage to display; but for the wife of a clergyman, with a recently organized household, fond of her nursery, and obliged to entertain visitors at all hours, and on the slightest notice, it is a task in which even the most social would fail. Mrs. Stone, with a natural shrinking from new faces, and a round of pleasant household occupa- tions, did her best; but still the formidable list diminished slowly, and, when the fair actually opened, there were many of her visitors that she knew only by name. As her declining to act in the matter had not extended to opposition, she conclud- ed, by Dr. Stone’s suggestion, to visit the hall in which it was in progress, thinking it would be an excellent opportunity to apologize to some, and re- new her acquaintance with others. She had not been blind to the apparent coldness of many ladies of the congregation, for some weeks past, and her letters home, which before were filled with grateful expressions for the undeserved love and kindness she had received, avoided instinctively the mention of her social experience. It is a very humiliating confession to make, that of declining popularity ; one we do not care to whisper even to ourselves ; and Mrs. Stone silenced any such suggestions by condemning herself as over-sensitive and exacting. No taste or expense had been spared to make the grand saloon attractive. filled with stalls containing every variety of articles that are ever congregated on such an occasion. The toy tables, the cake, the trinkets made it a children’s paradise, and their eager little faces were clouded with their first lesson, perhaps, in the value of money, finding themselves unable to purchase everything with “three fips anda levy.” Greedy little speculators they were, debating between the attractions of mintstick and the more lasting plea- sure of “food for the mind,” as presented in the with colored veritable history of “Simple Simon,” plates. There were young ladies, accustomed to from themselves, bargaining and wheedling the sale of a giant doll, or a cambric and lace toilet table. Mrs Jenkins, who treated her servants with PRPPPL PPL LL ~ As Miss Brown, who had made the proposal, and who, It was richly draped, and 3 ; ; $ ; consider “ shop girls’? as of another order of beings | AND LADY’S BOOK. — —_— ——_— less consideration than her carriage horses, was most obsequious in her attentions to the merest “ fip customer,”’ as she dished up the ice cream, or made change with an insinuating smile. It was a beautiful lesson of democracy—Walnut Street, as it were, walking hand in hand with Kensington, and Washington Square growing affable to Second and South. Miss Angelica Tuttle was the first to recognize the presence of Mrs. Stone, who had entered quiet- ly, unattended by her husband, who was to join her at nightfall. She had quitted her exclusive domain, the post-office, the mails having been detained, that is, at present being *‘made up”’ by her assistants, and was making a tour of the room to see who was likely to call for letters in the course of the evening. A journey of leisure with business purposes. “You have a very beautiful room,” said Mrs. Stone, admiringly. ‘I hope you make out well.’? Miss Angelica vouchsafed a half stare, and an- swered, very pointedly, “they had used both time and money, and hoped Mrs. Stone did not consider it an unpardonable waste of either.’’ This was but the first shot of a constant harassing fire, to which the rector’s wife was subjected in her progress through the room. Miss Little, at the book table, pretended not to see her, and devoured the index of the last church magazine with praise- worthy industry. Mrs. Clarke wondered how she could find time to visit fairs, as she had none for seeing visitors. * Or returning calls,” added Mrs. Jenkins, whose name stood conspicuously near the head of the un- fortunate list. It was quite a relief, at this moment, when quiet Miss Brown came with a glass of jelly, and a re- quest that she would come behind her table and eat it. Miss Brown established her visitor very plea- santly in a recess, and returned to the vending of needle-books, The uncomfortable drusqueness of Mesdames Clarke and Jenkins was, in a measure, forgotten, as Mrs. Stone watched the scene be- fore her; nor did she, at first, notice a lady who came from a neighboring table and took pos- session of the other vacant seat a few moments after. Fairs are great innovators upon formality, and the unknown lady bowed and smiled when she saw she had a neighbor. * Quite an animated scene,’’ was the common- place with which the conversation began. « Very,”’ returned Mrs. Stone, pleasantly. «“ T don’t belong to St. John’s parish,’’ continued the sociable little woman ; “ but I always go where I think I can do good. To tell the truth, though, I’m more than half inclined to leave. I never heard so many uacharitable things said in my life, as they manage to talk over about their rector and his wife.” Mrs. Stone gave a slight start of astonishment. « ] don’t think it looks well—do you? Just now, , Miss Angelica Tuttle came to my table and said I should like to get a Mrs. Stone was in the room.

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PLEASING THE PARISH. 29 glance at her. Miss Angelica says, ‘ any one that dresses as she does, to talk about her extrava- gance!’ And Mrs. Clarke says she’s a perfect aristocrat, and visits only the carriage people in the church. Then that Mrs. Skimpton, with her whining way—‘ Oh, my dear, you should set Aer a lesson of charity! 1’m sure she needs it, con- demning those older and wiser than herself, as she does, wholesale !’ ”’ The lively speaker managed to imitate Mrs. Skimpton’s solemn tones most admirably, and Mrs. Stone, kept silent by surprise, and, it must be con- fessed, a momentary feeling of anger at the injustice thus displayed, rose to leave the sofa. «Well, I declare, [’m as careless as ever,”’ said the lady. “You may be Mrs. Skimpton’s most in- timate friend, for all I know. But I can’t help it. I came away because I was boiling over with indig- nation; for, though I never saw poor Mrs. Stone, and never expect to, I can’t bear backbiting, and I told them so. How would she feel towards them, and they working for charity! To tell the truth, that ’s my only objection to fairs. In the morning, before people come, and at meal-times, they have nothing else to do but get together and talk over their neighbors. You ought to have heard the way they went on about the Stones when they first came. Nobody was half so good, or charming, or elegant. As for Dr. Stone, they sainted him at once, and were for getting his life insured, for fear he ’d be translated !” «“ Excuse me,’’ began her listener, still moving towards the outer saloon. “Ohno. I see you ’re offended. Excuse me, I ought to say; but really I can't help it. My heart always runs away with my tongue; and to hear that doll of an Angelica Tuttle go on so!” It was an unexpected relief to find Dr. Stone looking for her as she passed the screen. She longed to get home and think it all over, and com- fort herself with the recollection that she had never intended an offence. But, in ignorance of what she had suffered, he wished to make a tour of the room, and she was obliged to accompany him. Then he had an engagement to meet the vestry, and it was no time to broach so uncomfortable a subject; and so she took little Etta upon her knee, and passed a cheerless, miserable evening, that had left its traces upon her fuce when her husband returned. It was a new ground to him. He had lived apart from detraction so long, that he did not know how to meet it. “I don’t think they can intend to be unkind,”’ he said. But he prayed more earnestly that night for a forgiving and patient spirit. The clouds still cast a heavy shadow when the morning came, and, jaded by the impertinent neg- lect of a servant she would not discharge, because she knew her to be homeless and friendless, Mrs. Stone shrunk, with almost a nervous dread, when a visitor was announced, and a card, with a name she did not recognize, was placed in her hands. She could not decline the visit; and she was glad she had not done so, when she saw the gentle face of her visitor, an elderly lady, with all the grace, if not the animation, of youth. She enfolded the hand Mrs. Stone extended in both her own, and drew her to the sofa beside her. “ You must not look on me as a stranger,’’ she said, “for I am one of your husband’s parishion- ers; though we pass very little time in the city. The quiet of our country house suits me best, at my age; and last Sunday was the first time I have had the pleasure of listening to Dr. Stone. I came to see you this morning, my dear,”’ continued Mrs. Lovel, the name upon the card Mrs. Stone was still nervously bending. “I happened to overhear a conversation last evening that I knew would fret you; and I should have introduced myself then, only I thought it better tosee you alone. You must excuse Mrs. Dale. She had not the least idea whom she was speaking to.”’ Mrs. Stone’s face flushed with the recollection. * Don’t think me meddlesome. But I ’m some- what older than you, recollect, and I have daugh- ters of my own among strangers; and, in fact, I felt so sorry for you, I could have taken you to my heart there.” In spite of her attempt at composure, the rector’s wife felt her lips tremble, as she listened to these kind words. “ You are very good, Mr's. Lovel, I’m sure,’’ she said. “I?ve seen the rise and fall of a great deal of church popularity in my day, my child. I know about what you have gone through with as well as you can tell me. So I’ve come to offer my friend- ship and advice—not about carpets or furniture, though,”’ she added, smiling. ‘So, to begin as a mentor, let me tell you there ’s only one safe course. Act yourself, and don’t defer to any one’s opinion in matters that only concern yourself. If you be- gin to arrange your house by Mrs. Skimpton’s card, Mrs. Jenkins may take exceptions, and if you pa- tronize Miss Tuttle’s dress-maker, Miss Allen will consider you a fright. If you give to Mrs. Tuttle’s benevolent societies and not to Miss Little’s, one of the ladies will be certain to consider you mean ; and it will be an unpardonable offence, should you choose to pass an evening with a friend out of the parish, if you have declined an invitation within its limits. You must not care about these matters. Be courteous to eyery one, but let them understand you consider that you have still a right to your own opinion. If your aunt presents you with a hat from Lawson’s, and you choose to wear it, do so, even if comments are made. You see I’ve inquired out your capital offences.’’ “Oh, how contemptible in them!’ exclaimed Mrs. Stone. «“ That ’s very much like anger, I ’m afraid,” said Mrs. “uovel; ‘“‘ though I grant you have cause to be provoked. Now I don’t counsel insubordina- tion, remember, or actual rebellion. I only assert that the rector’s wife is not church property, and

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GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. people have no more right to manage her family than she has to interfere with theirs. You have the ordeal to go through; but, if you ’re not obsti- nate and haughty on the one side, or weakly and timorous on the other, it won’t do you any harm. By and by, you will begin to make valuable friends, and then you will have a real hume among us; and be happy, I hope.’’ “ You are very kind, Mrs. Lovel,” was all Mrs. Stone could say. Her visitor’s manner was so like that of her own mother. She could have begged her to stay when she rose to take leave. “You will always have a true friend in me, my child; and you must come and pass a quiet Christ- mas week with Mr. Lovel and myself, at Elmwood —that is, if you like old people—and we will talk these matters over more leisurely. Meantime, I’d keep my blinds down when Mrs. Skimpton’s are up, and not exert myself too much to entertain Miss Tuttle. She catalogued your wardrobe the day you were so good as to show her your bridal dress. I know she begged to see it. Good by, good by; don’t come into the air with that cold.”” And good Mrs. Lovel was gone, leaving a conviction of her sincerity in kind-heartedness with the sorely-tried wife of the rector. PERSONS AND PICTURES FROM THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND. ELIZABETH TUDOR AND MARY STUART. BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, AUTHOR OF ‘‘ THE ROMAN TRAITOR,” “‘ MARMADUKE WYVIL,’’ *‘ CROMWELL,”’ “THE BROTHERS,’’ &c. &c. Tue greatest and most fortunate of queens—the loveliest and most hapless of women. They might have been friends and sisters, as they were sister queens of one fair island, then, for the last time, divided; fortune and fate, and that worst curse of sovereigns as of nations, religious dissension, ren- dered them enemies; and, as in such case ever must be, the weaker of the two was shipwrecked in the strife. They were, moreover, nearly akin; and this, which should have been a source of amity and good will, was, on the contrary, the cause of rival- ry, hostility, suspicion, and finally of the death of one, and of a dark blot on the escutcheon of the other. Elizabeth, the second daughter of the most arbi- trary and absolute king who ever sat upon tha throne of England, Henry VIII., and of his favorite wife, who was the people’s favorite also, ascended the throne of England—after the successive deaths of her brother Edward VI., a weak minor, and her elder sister Mary, a hard-hearted bigot, whose memory 1s to this day a reproach to England and accursed of her people—amidst the general accla- mations and sincere delight of all classes. Her ac- cession had been long looked forward to as the oil that was to assuage the troubled sea of contending factions, the sweet balm that was to heal the wounds of persecution. She found a people nearly, if not absolutely, united; for the barbarities of Mary, while they had but increased the zeal, and added the prestige of martyrdom to the cause, of the Pro- testants, had alienated the moderate Catholics; and, indeed, disgusted all classes of Englishmen, with whom religious toleration, and even indifference, has been a more usual phase of the public senti- ment than anything leaning towards cruelty or coercion. Thus, both religious parties greeted her advent to the throne, and that sincerely; for the ‘ Catholics apprehended, as a body, no severe retalia- tion from the hands of a princess known to be mo- derate and politic, rather than splenetic and rash; and the Protestants were too happy at obtaining quict, peace, and toleration, to desire in their turn to become persecutors. Compassion, moreover, was a further sentiment in her favor; for she had conducted herself with rare prudence during her sister’s reign; and the imminent and instant peril in which she lived until Mary’s death had rendered her an object of general sympathy, even among the Catholic party. She came to the throne at the age of twenty-six years, the whole of which time she had passed in a subordinate, always humiliating, and often danger- ous, position. No adulation of courtiers, no loud lip-loyalty of shouting thousands, had fostered her youthful mind’s worst passions. as illegitimate, imperiled as heretic, she had lived with her studies, had communed with herself and the world of the mighty dead, more than with modern men or manners. Her tutor had been the famous Roger Ascham; and, although the educa- tion which he bestowed upon her was, of a surety, what we should now deem better suited for the male than for the female sex, it cannot be denied that it was such as befitted one who was to fill the place of a king in England, and to contend against the greatest powers and princes of Europe for her own crown and her country’s liberties. Already, when she climbed the steps of that proud throne, had she learned one mighty lesson, had proved herself capable of one grand triumph: major adversis® she had shown herself already ; the harder task lay yet behind, to exhibit herself, as so few have done of mortals, par secundis.t Neglected, scorned t Equal to prosperity, * Superior to adversity.

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ELIZABETH TUDOR AND MARY STUART. 31 In person she was tall, well formed, and majestic rather than graceful in carriage and demeanor ; her features, which it were impossible to call handsome, were stiil striking from the great intelligence and power of mind which they evinced; and, although her hair was, in truth, of that hue which men call red, there were not wanting poets—according to Homer, they should have been gods—to celebrate it in immortal verse as golden. To conclude, it may be said that Elizabeth, even as a private woman, would probably, in any society, have attracted at- tention by the graces of her person only ; although, assuredly, no one in his senses would have dreamed of calling her beautiful, or of choosing her as his wife for her personal or mental loveliness. Her character is a strange one; and one, especially, that cannot be summed up ina sentence. In order to attempt to do so, [ must be paradoxical, and assert that, in her virtues, she was purely masculine, and feminine only in her vices. Of male virtues she lacked not one; of female virtues she scarce pos- sessed any. She had courage, fortitude, patience, shrewdness, sagacity, was not without a sort of lion-like generosity, and would not have deserted a friend, or betrayed her country, to be the winner of eternal empire. Gentleness, sofiness, tender- ness, compassion, mercy, sympathy—of these words she scarce seems to have known the meaning. Dependence, trust, reliance, save in herself and her own matchless powers, she knew not. Yet, of the smaller feminine vices, she had full measure and overflowing. Vain as the silliest coquette that flirts and languishes her hour in any modern ball- room; capricious as the moon, and yet more changeful ; irascible as the dead sea; jealous, ex- acting, amorous at once and cold, fawning with the cat’s velvet touch, and enon scathing with the tiger’s unsheathed talons. Her passions were her armory ; fatal to others, powerless against herself. Her love of power was her ruling masculine propensity. To it, manlike, she sacrificed affection, the love of progeny, the delights of home; yet, womanlike, she pined for them, even while she sacrificed them; and, dou- bly womanlike, she hated all those who adopted and enjoyed them; and avenged, upon more than one of her best servants, his entering on the, to her forbidden, pleasures of the married life, with a malignity and spite that, on any other grounds, are inexplicable. As a man she had been, per- haps, the greatest who ever trod the earth; for, as I have said, all her vices, all her crimes, arose from the natural strugglings and eruptions of a femi- nine nature, smothered beneath the iron will, and conquered by the indomitable ambition, of a mascu- line mind. Yet that feminine nature was ineradi- cable still, and was only the more distorted and depraved as it was wrested the further from its true and legitimate direction. As a woman, in private life, had she closely re- sembled what she was in public, she had been sim- ply hatefal, odious, and contemptible ; but probably 5 Q she had not been such. As it is, the fairest way of judging her appears to be, as Hume has observed with his usual shrewdness, to consider her simply as a person of strong common sense, placed in au- thority over a great nation in very dangerous times, and doing her duty to that nation manfully always, and, in the main, honestly and truly ; but, by the very vts and vigor with which she devoted herself to pub- lie, unfitting herself for private, life ; and therefore, in her private relations, unamiable, imperious, cruel, false, capricious, and a tyrant unto death. Nursed, from her cradle to her womanhood, in the rough arms of adversity, she was thenceforth to her death the child of authority and fortune. Yet did she live, did she die happy ? Her rival, Mary, was in all respects nearly her opposite. Her father, James V. of Scotland, was the son of that unhappy James IV. who fell at Flod- den, and Margaret, the eldest sister of Henry VIIL., and therefore was the first cousin of Elizabeth. He espoused the Duchess of Longueville, the sister of the great Duc de Guise, and the others of that pow- erful and almost regal house, which, during so many reigns, in truth held the reins of the French govern- ment; and, after a disturbed and unhappy reign, being defeated, through the disaffection of his no- bles, at the battle of Solway, by a mere handful of English spears, fell into a hopeless languor and de- cline, so that his life was despaired of. At this sad juncture, news was brought to him, he then having no living issue, that his queen was safely delivered ; whereon he asked, was it a male or a female child? and, being informed that it was the latter, he turned his face to the wall, exclaiming, as it is said, “« The crown cam’ wi’ a lassie, and it will awa’ wi’ a las- sie ;”’ and, in a few days, expired, leaving those last prophetic words as a sad legacy to his infant heiress. No sooner was James dead than, precisely as he expected, Henry determined on annexing Scotland to the English crown as an appanage, by means of a marriage between his young son Edward and the infant princess; and, at first, fortune seemed com- pletely to favor his plans. By means of the Scottish nobles, many of whom, and of high rank, had fallen into his hands at the disastrous rout of Solway, he succeeded in negotiating this marriage. The Car- dinal Primate of Scotland, Beaton, who had, it is said, forged a will in the name of the late king, ap- pointing himself regent, with three other nobles, during Queen Mary’s minority, was overpowered and committed to the custody of Lord Seton; while James Hamilton, Earl of Arran, was declared go- vernor. It was thereafter agreed that the queen should remain in Scotland until she should reach the age of ten, when she should be sent to England to be educated and betrothed to the Prince of Wales. Six hostages were to be delivered to Hen- ry for the faithful performance of this contract, and it was stipulated that Scotland, notwithstanding its union with Eng!and, should retain all its own laws and privileges. Well had it been for the young princess, well for

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$2 GODEY’sS PPL PLP PLL RPPRLPA LLL POLL her native land, well for the world at large, had that contract held good! Long years of intestine strife, the curse of religious factions rabidly warring amid the feuds of hostile houses, the savage bickerings of rival clans, the fierce and persecuting zeal of ignorant and intolerant preachers, had been spared to Scotland ; nay, even to England, it may be, the miseries and civil wars, induced by the accession of the hapless and imbecile House of Stuart, in its most odious and imbecile member, might have passed over; and, assuredly, that infant queen had escaped a life of misery, a death of horror. Scotland was, however, at this time altogether Catholic; the reformation, which soon afterwards outstripped with rampant strides its progress in the neighboring kingdom, taking the hard, stern rule of Calvin, instead of the mild form of Lutheran dis- sent, had scarcely drawn as yet to any head. Na- tura'iy, therefore, the Pope and the whole of Catholic Europe, fearful of the spread of Henry’s recent heresy, were willing to go every length to preserve Scotland to the discipline of the true church. Beaton escaped from custody; the eccle- siastics lent him all their power; the hereditary jealousy of England was revived among the martial Scottish nobles; the hostages were denied; al- though the captive nobles had been suffered to go free on their parole of honor, which they all broke, with one honorable exception, Kennedy, Earl of Cassilis, who, true to his word, returned and sur- rendered himself to Henry—an honorable action, honorably rewarded by that monarch, who at once set him free without condition. Enraged beyond all bounds of moderation by this duplicity, Henry threw himself into the arms of the emperor, de- clared war at once on Francis and on Scotland, and waged it unremittingly, but with varied success, during the remainder of his life. After Henry’s decease, and the accession of Ed- ward, the Protector Somerset prosecuted the Scot- tish war with such ability and success that, after the victory of Pinkie Cleugh, one of the most disas- trous to the Scottish ever fought on the soil of Scot- land, it was perceived at once, by the queen dow- ager and the French party, that the only safety for their cause lay in transporting the young queen to France. Even the rival faction was brought to accede to this plan, by the consideration that the presence of the queen was the real cause of the English war, and by the natural animosity created, among the warlike and high-spirited nobles, by the devastating and cruel war which raged incessantly on the frontiers. When little more than six years old, then, the queen was conveyed by Villegaignon, with four galleys under his command, to France, where she was at once betrothed to the dauphin, son of Henry II., of France, and Catharine de Medi- cis, afterwards, for a short space, Francis IT. This was the commencement—this, in truth, the cause, of all her subsequent misfortunes, of all her crimes, of all her sorrows, of her long imprison- A queen of ment, and of her mi-erable death. eannanne Ne enn nnn nnn nnn MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK, Scotland, she was brought up from her earliest childhood, to all intents and purposes, a French woman. Queen of a country which, ere she re- turned to dwell in it, and nominally to rule it, had become obstinately, bigotedly, zealously, I might almost say fiercely, Calvinistic, she was brought up, from her earliest childhood, an ultra Catholic— a Catholic of the school and house most detested by the Protestants throughout Europe, “ the bloody stock,’’? as the Covenanters termed it, ‘of the ac- cursed Guises.’’ Queen of a country whuse inhabit- ants were, by their physical nature, grave, stern, solemn, precise, and whom the new tenets rendered surly and morose, she was brought up, from her earliest childhood, a queen, as it were, of love and beauty, a creature of levity and mirth, a being to whom music and minstrelsy, the dance, the pa- geant, the carousal, and the tournament—things abominable and rank in the nostrils of her puritanic lieges—were as the breath of life. Last, and not least, queen of a country the most rigidly moral in Europe, except in tne article of feudal homicide and vengeful bloodshedding, she was brought uf in a land where to love par amours was scarcely held dishonorable to either sex; where poisoning, in the most artful and diabolical methods, was an everyday occurrence ; where, in a word, adultery and murder were the rule=, and not the exceptions of society. On this period I have been compelled to dwell, to the detriment, I am aware, of the picturesqueness of my narrative; for it is, if I mistake not, the clue and the key to all that follows. On the accession of Elizabeth to the crown of England, Mary, then but sixteen years of age, was already married to Francis, the dauphin of France ; and, failing Elizabeth and her issue, was next in true line of blood, as granddaughter of Margaret, Henry VIII.’s eldest sister; although that wilful and capricious monarch had passed their house in his testament, and settled the succession on his se- cond sister’s posterity. And here it must be re- membered that, in one of his wicked freaks, Henry had caused Elizabeth to be declared, by act of Par- liament, illegitimate, and, in his unaccountable caprice, though he afterwards caused the succes- sion to be entailed on her after Edward and Mary, he never would permit the repeal of the act of ille- gitimacy. Consequently, Elizabeth being illegitimate, Mary was, by the strict letter, de yeere, Queen of England. And on this pretext, Henry II., at the instigation of the Guises, forced his son and Mary, nothing loth, to assume both the arms and title of King and Queen of England. A woman so jealous, and a sovereign so shrewd, as Elizabeth, was not to be misled or deluded as to the object of such a mea- sure. She knew that this pretension was intended, on opportunity, to be converted into a challenge of her legitimacy, and title to her crown. From that moment she was seized with the keen- est jealousy wgainst Mary ; the jealousy of a queen, and of a woman, wronged in the tenderest point, m

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ELIZABETH TUDOR AND MARY STUART. 33 either quality, her crown disputed, and her honor- able birth denied. To this were also added the true small woman’s jealousy and spite against a woman fairer, more beloved, more graceful. For Mary was, indeed, lovely beyond the poet’s, paint- er’s, sculptor’s dream of loveliness; the perfect symmetry of form and stature, the swanlike curve of the long slender neck, the inimitable features— and yet, by Hans Holbem, how admirably imitated ! —the smooth expanse of the bland forehead, the pen- ciled curve of the dark brows, the melting lustre of the deep hazel eyes, the luxuriance of the rich au- burn tresses, are as familiar to us all, of this distant day, as though we had ourselves beheld them ; and, to this hour, at the mere name of Mary Stuart, not a man’s heart, who has a touch of romance or chi- valry within him, but beats something quicker, as if he were in the very presence, and breathing the very atmosphere, of superhuman beauty. And these glorious gifts, these, too, were Mary’s ene- mies—in the end were, perhaps, her judges, execu- tioners. But my limits warn me that [ must not linger by the way. Henry II. fell, in a tournament, by a chance thrust of the splintered truncheon of a lance in the hand of Montgomery ; and Francis II was, for a little space, the King of France, and Mary was his queen, and, for that little space, the happiest of the happy. But still, alas! for her, she quartered the three English Lions with the Fleurs de Lis of F’rance—still adhered to the fatal style of Queen of France and England! In proportion as the Scottish character, when left in repose, is calm, grave, resolute, and thoughtful, so is it, when agitated by persecution, or iashed into anger, vehement, enthusiastic, bigoted, savage, in its And such it had now become on both sides. The rage was terrible, the hatred in- sutiable, the strife incessant; and, as is usual in equally balanced civil or religious factions, each looked abroad for aid—the Catholics to France, the Protestants to England. And, on the instant, discerning her peril while it was yet far aloof, sa- gacious, prompt, and possessing the advantage— immense in warfare—of proximity, Elizabeth lent aid so prompt, so powerful, and so effectual, that the French auxiliaries were compelled to evacuate Scotland, never to return thither in force ; and that the reformers gained such an ascendency that they Were never again, for any considerable period, overawed by the Catholic party, which thenceforth waned in Scotland daily. By these most wise and politic steps, Elizabeth not only secured the safety of her own realm against the peril of a joint French and Scottish war, brought to bear on her only assailable point, the northern marches, and her own title against the claims of Mary, but she created for herself a powerful party in the heart of the sister kingdom, by which she was regarded—as, indeed, she was in Switzerland, Holland, Germany, nay, in the Huguenot provinces VOL. LxIv.—4 mood. ann een of France herself—as the friend and protectress of the Protestant religion. Her conquering fleet and army compelled the treaty of Edinburgh, in which it was stipulated, among other provisions highly favorable to England, ‘ that the King and Queen of France should thence- forth abstain from bearing the arms of England, or assuming the title of that kingdom.” At this critical moment, Francis II. died of a sud- den disorder, and Mary was left a lovely, youthful widow of nineteen. She desisted, it is true, after the death of Francis, from bearing the arms of Eng- land; yet, with inconceivable obstinacy and pride, she refused to ratify the treaty of Edinburgh, there- by giving mortal and personal offence to the power- ful and most unforgiving of queens or women. Shortly after this event, her residence in France being rendered unpleasant by the demeanor of the queen mother, who hated her, she determined to return home, and asked, through D’Oisel, the French ambassador, a safe conduct through Eng- land to her own dominions. This Elizabeth very naturally refused until she should ratify the treaty of Edinburgh, and so demonstrate that she had re- linquished her injurious pretensions to the crown of England. Stung to the quick, high spirited, and full of youthful fire, Mary delivered a reply to Throckmor- ton. the English ambassador, which, though mingled with courteous expressions, savored too much of a defiance to have any effect but that of increasing the animosity and indignation of Elizabeth, who at once equipped a fleet, with the avowed intent of putting down piracy in the chanael, but, doubtless, with the real purpose of intercepting Mary on her homeward voyage. Phrase it as they might, the kinswomen were now rival queens, rival beanties ; for Elizabeth, too, fancied herself a beauty. The eousins were thence- forth—until death, that great disseverer of friend- ships, that sole conciliator of feuds, should separate them—mortal enemies. A fog favored her evasion ; and the galley which bore her sailed unchallenged through the centre of the English fleet. It is said that she was affected with a strange melancholy, a dim foreboding of future woe, as she sailed from Calais. She gazed on the land which had, in truth, been her country, until its outlines were lost in the haze of falling night ; and then, ordering her couch to be spread on the deck al fresco, commanded the pilot to awaken her should the coast be in sight at daybreak. The night was calm and breezeless, and the ship had made so little way that the first sunbeams fell upon the sand hills nigh to Calai¢. Her parting words are yet remembered with which she bade farewell to the land in which alone she knew one hour of happiness: “ Adtex, belle France ; adieu, France, bien chérie! .Tamats, jamais, ne te je reverrai plus!” Her sad forebodings were but too fatally con-

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34 firmed; the sullen, mutinous brutality of the Cal- vinistic rabble, the fierce and atrocious insolence of John Knox, the rnde and unknightly ferocity of the reforming nobles rendered her court a very dun- geon. Although she made no effort to restore the ancient religion, or arrest the march of reformation, her own profession of the Romish creed condemned her in the eyes of those stern religionists ; and her very graces and accomplishments, her youthful gayety and natural love of innocent pleasures, caused the ranting preachers of the Calvinistic Charch to denounce her, to her face, as a *‘ painted >a “daughter of Belial ;” and it is, doubtless, to their unprovoked Jezabel,”’? a ‘dancing Herodias,’ , , insolence and unchristian fury that must be ascribed her after errors, indiscretions, vices, and—the word must be written, for it is history, not fiction, that { am now writing—crimes. Who knows not the dreadful provocations she received—the crue] and ungrateful neglect of the stupid and unworthy Darnley—the base and bloody butchery, before her eyes, of the “ Italian minion,”’ Rizzio—when, to the woman’s natural weakness, was added the debility of one about to be a mother ? Who knows not the horrible catastrophe of the Kirk of Field, and Darnley’s miserable murder, by that black-hearted wretch, Bothwell, thereafler Duke of Orkney ? contrived, unquestionably, Who knows not the sad and guilty tale, how the confederate Jords first called on her to punish, then recommended her, under their written signatures— at least, as could such of them write—to marry, that same Bothwell? How he abdacted her by force, and then set her free unscathed? How she espoused him, and Was then dethroned, and impri- soned in the dreary fortress of Lochlurn, by the very lords who had counseled her to wed him; by ner own base-born brother, the wise, but wicked, regent Murray? [low she escaped thence by the devotion of George Douglas, fought the disastrous battle of Langside, only to see her last friends fail around her, battling to the last in vain for Mary and the Church, for “ God and the Queen,” their chi- valrous, their loyal, and their solemn war-ery ? She fled to Elizabeth, who had shown sympathy thus far, -hown even generosity, England. to in her behalf, and interpoved her offices to deliver her from imprisonment; though she had hesitated to declare war on the regent, fearing, as she avow- ed, lest open war should drive him to extremity. For it suited not her policy to allow the spectacle of subjects de- throning a lawfual to come before the eyes of the world. In this I believe she spoke truly. sovereign When once, however, she kad the hapless Mary in her power, all generosity, all sympathy, all seru- ples vanished. Elizabeth was no longer the sister No; if not yet the embittered and jealous woman, the enemy deter- mined on her victim’s death, she was, at least, sim- ply and solely, the Queen of England; the resolute, hard-minded, politic, ambitious queen, with her queen, the cousin, and the ally. GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. country’s interests pre-eminent, above all things, at her heart ; the woman, who—to use her own noble words delivered to her troops at Tilbury, when the vast arms of the Invincible Armada were out- stretched to encircle her England, and the uncon- quered infantry of Castile were reveling already, in anticipation, in the beauty and the wealth of Lon- don—if she were a woman, “ had yet the heart of a man within her, and that man a King of England.” In the first instance, it is probable that, in per- suading Mary to undergo the degradation of stand- ing trial for the assassination of her husband, against her own rebellious subjects, her object was solely to gain the eminent position of being selected arbi- tress between a sovereign realm and its dethroned and fugitive princess ; and that she had, as yet, de- cided nothing of her future movements. Mary’s grand error, or rather the grand error of her counselors, was the submitting to the trial, un- As to the trial itself, it seems to have been conducted fairly, so far as we der any show or pretext. can judge; and, as it was broken off by Mary's own action, we must admit that it was going unfa- vorably for her. Yet it is difficult not to doubt, not almost to believe, that the letters, produced so late in the day by the regent, were, as they are always alleged by Mary's defenders to have been, for- geries. In this state of the case, the trial being broken off by Mary’s own refusal to proceed. Elizabeth dismissed the regent, pronouncing no judgment on the cause, refused to see Mary, or receive her asa queen ; and subsequently committed her, first, to honorable free custody, then to close custody, and, lastly, to strict and absolute imprisonment. What could she do? What should done? She could have received her in her court asa she have sister, an honored and invited guest. Against this was the plea that she could not extend the hand of friendship to one suspected, and a!most convicted, of petty treason in the assassination of a husband. She could, perhaps, have reinstated her wt et armis in her own seat of power. Against this was the plea that she could not, in common policy, beat down a Protestant power for the benefit of a Catho- lie power, a friendly Scottish power for the benefit of a hostile French power. She could have dismissed her, as she claimed to be dismissed, and suffered her to return to her loved, her almost native, France. Against this was the plea that she could not, in justice to herself, to England, permit a princess almost French to re- turn to hostile France, in order to set forth anew —as undoubtedly she would have set forth—her title to the English crown; and to enforce it, per- haps, by a united crusade of France and Spain, now closely allied, against the liberties, against the reli- gion, of England. What should she have done? Alas! what should she? Had they been both private persons, the question is answered without a

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THE FIRST _—_—_—_——— > thought: she should have been generous, and dis- missed her. But have kings—ithey to whom the eharge of the life, the happiness, of millions is in- trusted—have kings the right to indulge in the lux- ury of generosity, when that generosity must needs entail destruction on thousands alive and happy? 1 answer confidently, they have mot the right. But Elizabeth was not generous. She imprisoned her fallen rival, cruelly, for long and weary years; un- justly, in accordance with right and law—justly, in accordance with true policy, and the welfare of her own country and the world at large. The question of the execution is less doubtful. That Mary was privy to Norfolk’s, to Babington’s plot is, I fear, proved beyond a doubt. It was a question of life and death between the two, and THE FIRST AND AND SEC SECO OND MARRIAGE. 35 ~~ oes The and we cannot, I think, regret the catastrophe, however much we may deplore the fate of the lovely, the miserable, the deeply-injured Mary—however much we may condemn the perfi- diousness, the cold-blooded duplicity, the bitter ma- lignity, the hard-hearted policy of Elizabeth. Yet she, too, was avenged. nothing but the axe or the knife could end it. axe ended it; For who can doubt that the death of Elizabeth—agonized by secret re- morse, refusing sustenance or aid of medicine, groaning her soul away in undiscovered sorrow for ten whole nights and days of unknown anguish, perishing like a gaunt, old, famished lioness, in de- spair at the deeds herself had done—was more tre- mendous fiftyfold, and fifiyfold less pitied, than that of her discrowned rival ? ND MARRIAGE. BY F. E. F.. AUTHOR OF ‘‘A MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE," ETC. CHAPTER I. ‘ Vanity—all is vanity, saith the preacher.’’—Ecct. «“ You ll do it for me, then?” asked, or rather said, Clara Heywood to her cousin Frank; for it was spoken in a tone that showed that she was ac- customed to have her slightest wish attended to. ‘I'll do mon possible,’ replied the young man, gayly. “ Your ‘ possible !” acceat of scorn, turning her full bright eyes him. “ Any man can do that.” And who can do more?”’ he inquired, laugh- ? she exclaimed, with a slight upon ingly. «« George Herbert would be glad of the opportunity “So, when and I ‘ve only » do the tmpossible,” she replied. your ‘ possible’ fails, let me know; to call upon him.’ It was spoken both proud!y and carelessly, as one who knew her power where, at the same time, she cared little to please. «“ Take care, Clara,’’ said Frank, earnestly. “Take care of what?’ she asked, somewhat haughtily * You know what I mean,” he replied in the same tone. ‘“ You know your power over Herbert, and it ’s cruel to encourage him.”’ “I encourage him!” she replied, turning her flashing eyes upon her cousin. “I thought you knew me better, Frank.” «“ Surely, if to walk with a man, and talk to him, sing to him, play chess with him, accept his flowers, and praise his poetry—in short, receive devotions breathed in the very spirit of homage—is not encou- ragement, [ do not know what is,’’ replied Hey- wood. “Indeed, Clara, I’ve known you to keep mon of greater pretensions at a greater distance. In fact, I’ve sometimes almost doubted what you did mean. And if, Clara, 1, who, as you say, know you so well, have at times looked on in surprise, you should not wonder if Herbert himself should be misled ; and, I repeat it, if you mean nothing, it ’s cruel in you to trifle with him thus. ‘You surely do not mean,’’ she replied, “that Mr. Herbert presumes upon my kindness. I have treated him, as you say, with a degree of civility ”? that | certainly should not have accorded to one otf higher claims; but he has no pretensions to pre- sume upon, consequently I concluded I could not be misunderstood.” “Possibly he does not rate his claim so low,”’ replied Frank. ‘ He is a man of talents, and knows it, for modesty and merit are not always hand in hand ; and, by your grace and beauty, besides, dazzled and entranced as he is it is asking almost too much of any man to expect hun to see the line— which, after all, broad and strong as you think it, is yet an imaginary one—that separates you. You ” talk to him with interest and animation “ Certainly,’ ed talents. consequently he interests and amures me ; ’ she interrupted ; “ for he has decid- I know no man who converses so well but, be- cause I talk to him with pleasure, it does not follow that I can forget, for a moment, what is due to my- selt.”’ “Then it’s a pity,”’ said ber cousin, ‘that you could not, at the same time, remember what is duc to him.” “Due to him! Why, how strangely you talk, Frank!” she replied. A young man without family, or fortune, or position, what can he expect? A who, I suppose, scarcely knew what a lady born and bred was be- fore he knew me. Really, if it were not that we are situated just as we are in the country for a few weeks, I should not even take the notice of him that I do. But, after we leave here, I shall proba- “ Pray what is due to him ’ man

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we ms GODEY’s 36 bly never see him again; and, if I have derived sume pleasure from his society, and he has ren- dered my stay here more endurable than it would otherwise have been, I consider the obligation as more than repaid. I have given him some glimpses of another world of which he bad no knowledge before, some tastes and views’’- “ Which Clara,’’ interrupted Frank. he bad much better been without, “ You have, ia short, tired his heart and turned his head—no small mis- chief to any man; but when it comes to a man of genius, of susceptible temperament, the evil is in- With an ordinary man, hope being de- 3ut calculable. stroyed, love dies away and leaves no vestige. when the impression is as vivid in the brain as the heart, when the idol has been idealized, the traces left are indelible, stamped in burning bitter- ness, or graven in deep melancholy, according to the temper of the man. And thus to embitter, per- haps exhaust, the best feelings of a man’s nature is surely to do him a great wrong. That you are the first high-bred, finished woman Herbert has ever met on an intimate footing makes the impression all the fresher, keener. His tastes are all instinct- The torch was ready, You away and forget him, or only remember with a ively refined and elegant. and you have applied the light. may pass smile the enthusiastic homage rendered to your powers by a son of genius; but not so will it be with him. He will not readily comprebend that vou have thus drawn upon his better nature and sported with his affections, merely pour passer le temps, till Mrs. Rutledge could join you. And, if { mistake not, the knowledge, when it does come, will make a most unhappy impression on him.”’ « Oh, nonsense !”’ she answered, laughing. “ Men don’t break their hearts and die of love. He ’ll sur- vive it.” “ He will,” Frank replied. him a beau idéal he will probably never be able to ‘*« But you have given attain ; while, at the same time, you will have de- stroyed his faith in woman. With a quickened imagination and a chilled heart, 1 very much doubt whether Herbert will ever be as happy a man as he was before he knew you. You have crossed his path like a vision, to leave him cold and fastidious.” * Well,” she replied, quietly, «that will only prevent his marrying some common woman, as most men of talents do. I like to see a man critical. If { have given Herbert elevated and refined views of woman, I think he is greatly indebted to me.” ‘+ Refined are very different from elevated views,”’ replied Frank. “One of your distinctions without a difference,’ she replied, a little impatiently. « The difference of the moral from the intellec- ’ ? tual,”’ he rejoined; ‘and none can be greater.’ “Ah!” she exclaimed, suddenly interrupting him, “is that the sound of wheels? I hope it’s Mary. It is!” she continued, joyfully, as she threw up the window. And, m fact, it was Mrs. Rutledge, the sister, GAZINE AND LADY'S BOOK. whose delay upon the road, owing to the illness of a child, bad detained Miss Heywood at the pretty village of C——, where, with some friends, she awaited her arrival, to continue their northern tour Thus accident had thrown her in the way of George Herbert, who was residing there as a student 2 law. Inthe impatience and lassitude of this suddea pause in her journey, Clara Heywood would have hailed almost anything or anybody as a godsend that served to beguile the time that hung so heavily on her hands ; consequently, it is not surprising that, discerning, With the quick discrimination of ove used to society, the superior gifts of young Herbert, she graciously accorded him much of ber time, careless and thoughtless of consequences to him. Highly cultivated herself, his conversation really interested her; and accustomed as she had been to admiration, and cold as she was by nature, and worldly by education, she was yet woman encugh to be pleased and flattered by the homage of the young student. For he was a man of genius, and his admiration had the freshness, the glow of poetry as well as passion, to which she had not been ac- customed among the men of the world by whom she had been surrounded. That she, beautiful and high- bred, should at once become his “ life’s star,’’ the realization of his visions, the actual of his ideal, the spirit of his dreams, followed as a matter of course. Impressionable as all men of genius are to externals, he absolutely knelt in spirit before the shrine of her beauty ; and, proud of his mental superiority, he would readily have bowed before one less brilliant, who drew forth and appreciated his intellectual gifts. Thus she excited his imagination and stimu- lated his vanity, and, in the ardor of passion, he gave himself up to his feelings, unchecked by fear or thought. Modesty formed no part of his charac- ter, and he was too ignorant of the world to be diffi- dent. No doubts therefore clouded his present, and no thought dimmed his future; for, had he paused to think, he must have known that hope itself was hopeless, as, could he even have won his idol, he had no shrine wherein to place it, no niche, how- ever small,-for his statue. Poor student as he was, he had scarce enough to maintain him-elf during his studies ; for the reputation he so ciearly saw in the distance, and the fortune he was so confident of making, were yet ‘‘ to be’’ won and “ to be made.’’ He little knew the ambitious, high-spirited nature of the beautiful being he idealized, if be supposed that, even with fairer prospects and a more smiling present, he would have stocd any better chanve than he did under existing circumstances. Clara Heywood was as haughty as she was high-bred. Pride of birth and piace was more powerful with her than pride of talent or beauty. No glories of a setting sun could have made her forget the mists of a cloudy rising. She was a proud woman; but her pride was of the * earth, earthy,’”’ and touched, as the darker edges of her mind were, with the light of a bright imagination, it was only to illumine, not elevate, her character.

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THE FIRST AND SECOND MARRIAGH. Herbert had now, however, an opportunity of seeing some of those shades of feeling which cir- cumstances had hitherto thrown in the background ; for, with Mrs. Rutledge, arrived a party from the South, among whom there were one or two men of the position and stamp Clara valued. The change in her manner was marked. She not only turned at once from Herbert to address herself to them, but the tone was different. There was a reténw of manner which she had never thought worth while to show to a poor student, but which she instinctive- ly assumed in coming in contact with those whose station commanded her respect. But with her re- serve there was more of excitement; little things marked the change. She dressed, not more, for her taste was perfect, but differently. The colored morning dress gave place to the finest white xeg/?- gée, edged with delicate lace, and the gossamer breakfast-cap was replaced at dinner by a water- lily; in short, it was evident that now there was some one worth dressing for, and Herbert saw that the easy friendliness with which she had treated him, and which had so captivated him, was any- thing but flattering to his pride. Mr. Ashfield, the principal person in the group, and the one to whom Clara chiefly addressed herself, was a distinguished- looking man, one who had traveled much, and bore the stamp of being one of “ fortune’s favorites.’ A fair portion of understanding, with a good educa- tion, and much knowledge of the world, rendered him, upon the whole, agreeable. Not that powers of conversation could be at all compared to Herbert’s, for his mind was originally of a much in- ferior tone. and his acquirements superficial in the extreme. But he was az fait to all the fashionable gossip of the day, had heard Jenny Lind, and could talk of the last new opera, knew the styles of the different composers and artists ; and su Clara turned carelessly from Herbert, or listened half listlessly, half impatiently, to the poetical and literary disqui- sition that had before interested her, as from themes for which she had now no time. He was stung to the quick, not more, however, by her manner to himself than by her manner to Ashfield, for it let in a flood of light upon his mind that inflicted anguish almost intolerable to his irritable and excited tem- perament. He felt, for the first time, the power of position. Talents without the stamp of fame he saw were, with these worldlings, valueless, and the mortifications of a quick and sensitive vanity were not the least among his sufferings. He some- times foolishly thought to lower Ashfield in Clara’s eyes by attacking some of his assertions, and expos- ing the fallacy of his arguments ; but, whenever he did so, she quickly turned the scales by throwing her brilliant powers of ridicule or wit on Ashfield’s side, covering his deficiencies, and often even bringing him off victorious. Herbert became irritable, and often Jost his temper on these occasions, when Mr. Ashfield would look at him in calm surprise, as if he thought him a very ill-bred young man, and then, turning away, address him no more. In all discus- 4* his 37 P?P PAP ALDR DA PRAPALD PAA PLP PAP APP ~~ sions on fashionable topics, Herbert was, of course, left out; and this quietly passing him by as one out of the clique, not belonging to the same sphere, hurt him perhaps more than all the rest. The gay world at once assumed an importance in his eyes it had never had before. What was fame in futurity with only poetry for the present, when coolly looked down upon and distanced by a mere man of fashion, and slighted by the bright, but scornful, eyes of beauty ? His gods were dashed to the ground, and inferior idols raised in their place. Mrs. Rutledge’s child recovered, and the party resumed their journey; and Clara passed on, un- conscious and careless of the misery she had in- flicted, and the mischief she had done. CHAPTER II. ** And this, too, is vanity.’’—Ecct. ’ ‘Don’? forget, Fanny,” said Miss Hastings to her sister, “to send a card for this Mr. Herbert with the Harpers’ invitations.” **Oh, I am glad you put me in mind of it,” re- plied her sister. ‘“ Mary introduced him to me the other night, and it would have been a slight, I ‘sup- pose, to omit him.” «As the Harpers have announced the engage- ment, and are introducing him to all their friends, of course, they would be hurt by any want of atten- tion to him; and it certainly would be rude not to include him when inviting them.”’ I am glad you mentioned it, or 1 Who is he? “ Of course. should have forgotten all about him. Do you know?” «No; only what Mrs. Bolton told me, that he is a young lawyer, and that the family like him very much.” « Where did they pick him up?” continued Miss Hastings. “I never heard of him before.” “J don’t think he has been here long,’’ replied her sister. “Tom Harper happened to meet him somewhere, and was pleased with him, and intro- duced him to his family.” «“ What sort of a match is it for her?” pursued Miss Hastings. “T don’t know. Mrs. Bolton did not seem to think much of it. He is poor, just starting in his profession.” ‘« What made the Harpers take him up so, I won- der ?”’ returned the other, “ They say he is very clever, quite remarkable, indeed. Mr. Harper thinks he has more talent than any young man he knows now at the bar.”’ ‘¢ What in the world, then, made him fall in love with Mary Harper, I should like to know?” ex- claimed Miss Hastings, in a tone of surprise. ‘ She is as plain and unattractive a girl as [ know. How odd that she should have captivated a man of ts- lents !”’

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3s GODEY’S MAGAZINE ~eeeneeens ks 00008080000 eee “ Oh no, nothing is odd in the way of matrimovuy,”’ replied her sister, laughing ; “ particularly if a man of talent is one of the parties. Did you ever see one that did not make an extraordinary match? They all marry little, commonplace dowdies.”’ “So they do. But still I cannot understand it,”’ pursued Miss Hastings. « No,” continued her sister, in the same tone of banter; “it’s one of those mysteries not to be penetrated in this world.” “Are they to be married soon?” asked the elder sister. “ Not for a year, I understood. she has nothing, you know. Here, give me the card, and let me inclose it, and then there ‘Il be no He ‘s poor, avd mistake about it.”’ This conversation took place some eight months or a year after we last saw George Herbert in C lies in the great metropolis of New York, where Herbert had established himself soon afier he passed Accident had made him acquaint- The Hastings were one of the gayest fatni- his examination. ed with young Harper, who had introduced him to his family. The position of the Harpers was such as to make their acquaintance very gratifying to Herbert. Their fashion was unquestioned, and their name among the best, and, though there was no particular interest attached to any one individual of the family, yet Herbert sought their society with eagerness. Plain and unattractive as Mary Harper had been pronounced to be, she was yet not devoid of sensi- bility, and she soon became captivated with the brilliant powers of the young lawyer. Herbert, still chafing under the keen mortification of Clara Hey- wood, was not insensible to the charm of being treated with so much attention by such a family as the Harpers’. A connection with them would at once open the gates of that paradise, the fashionable world, that he had lately learned to prize so highly. He offered himself, and was accepted. Hence the “ mystery” that puzzled Miss Hastings so much. She knew not that men of genius have the same weaknesses that fall to the lot of more obtuse mor- tals. And when they do, the very fierceness of their organization makes them the more susceptible to external influences. Herbert’s was not a vigorous, manly mind. It took too much the impress of his character, which was weak. He knew himself superior to those whose admiration he coveted, and yet he coveted it not the less. He was not in love with Mary Harper; but he was prond of his engagement. He was happy in his gratified vanity ; though, had she been a Mary Brown, he would hardly have helped her across the gutter. Mr. Harper liked the young man; and, though he would have been glad if he had had some money, yet he knew enough of the world to know that, with such talents, he could not tail to make his way in his profession, and would probably, ia the end, prove an excellent match for his daughter. His consent was therefore given, PAPDPAPDR DPA AAAAL PL ttl fim nl dine nm to AND LADY’S BOOK. oO with only the stipulation of a year’s delay before the marriage. Mary was as happy as the purest and most per- fect love could make her. Need we add more? The engagement being announced, Herbert was introduced and invited wherever the Harpers visit- ed; and, in the course of a few weeks, he found himself as freely launched in “good society” as if he had been a born and bred member of the “charmed circle.” The diffidence with which he entered, arising from a remembrance of Clara Hey- wood and Mr. Ashfield, soon yielded to the animat- ing influence of flattery. He was not only received, but well received. His reputation for talents, and his powers of conversation, procured him respect and attention. He was going to marry Mary Har- per, and no one cared whether he was poor or rich. He was brilliant, and that was enough for those who guve parties and wanted agreeable men. He looked round him, and soon felt his value, and thought, like Mr. Bumble, that he had “gone cheap.” Clara Heywood had, as her cousin had prophesied, crossed him like a vision, to leave him cold and fastidious. And worse than that, she had destroyed his fuith inthose about him. He believed them all as cold and worldly as she, whom he looked upon as a type of her class, and his was not that earnest nature that keeps itself above the ordi- nary level. Here, indeed, he fell short of it; for, in looking upon others as heartless, he had become so himself. There is a sort of poetical justice that Nature ex- acts from those who undervalue her claims. What the individual is not willing to render to the mass, he is before long geuverally found wanting himself. Of the worldly crowd whom he gazed on with con- tempt, there were few as worldly as himself. But this very fastidious coldness gave him self-posses- sion and suecess. His fine sense of the beautiful made him at once critical and enthusiastic. He paid little attention but to those pre-eminent for something—wit, beauty, music; some claim, and that decided, they must have, to win his notice. But, when the gift was marked, no homage could be more enthusiastic and delightful than that he rendered. Peop'e quoted, and beauties couried him. Mary Harper was proud of her young lover. She was too generous to harbor a thought of jealousy, and she gloried in his rising reputation. But ere many morths had passed by, even her confiding na- ture could not but feel uneasy pungs. In fact, Her- bert was growing careless. He had never loved her ; and now, as he saw how easy a thing it was to win that which he had coveted, a position in so- ” ciety, he regretted the sacrifice he had made. Not that he valued the thing less ; only the price he had paid for it. He felt his engagement irksome. He regretted it; and, regretting, relaxed in his atten- tions to Mary, which, in the blindness of a devoted, but not sensitive, affection, she did not see. From inattentive, he became positively careless. Still, she could not eredit the truth. There was such

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THE FIRST AND SECOND MARRIAGE. ~ on anguish in the thought that she could not bring her- self to look it steadily in the face. The year elapsed, and Herbert let the anniver- sary ofhis engagement pass in cold silence, trust- ing that Mary would be roused to break the tie that bound him. But she did not. She explained it to herself on the ground of prudence. Herbert could not afford to marry yet, and was too proud to own it. She clung to the engagement. From not loving her, he grew almost to hate her. He dared not openly break himself. Her family and position were such that he was unwilling to incur the odium he must draw upon himself in the cligue by taking such a step. Besides, though a cold, he prided himself upon being an honorable man. If she insisted on it, he would marry her, though love her he would not pretend to. And valuing himself on such a code of honor, he rather looked upon himself as a victim to his high-toned, gentlemanly feelings, to which poor Mary’s happiness—of which he never thought—was to be the sacrifice. Little as the attention was with which he treated Mary, still he was obliged to give her some, and with that little she was resolved to be content. Had she been a spirited girl, she would not have borne it, nor ought she. But she shut her eyes, and sealed her own deom. Herbert could no longer postpone the evil day. Mary would not break the engagement, and he could not. His last effort was when he appealed to her to name the day. He spoke of his poverty, of the hard lot that awaited one bred, as she had been, in lux- ury, as his wife. But, coldly as it was said, she trusted that it was only proudly felt. rosity was touched when her spirit should have been roused. In short, she was wanting in that dignity of character for which nothing feminine can atone. She could not acknowledge his indifference, and would not see his coldness. She said the fate that awaited her was her own choice. In a better spirit, Herbert prepared for his mar- nage. A very small house, suited to his means, and large enough, had love been there, was taken, and Mr. Harper furnished it. The wedding took place amidst festivity and fa>hion. Her gene- The bridegroom was remarked as being careless and looking cold; the bride as seeming anxious, but still happy. There were clouds upon his brow, but she would chase them away. She trusted to love and time to make him all she would have him. And then what she would not or could not understand in the way- wardness of his temper, she put down, womanlike, to the “ peculiarities of genius.’’ CHAPTER III. ‘That which is crooked cannot be made straight. And that which is wanting cannot be numbered.’’— Eccu. As a married man, Herbert continued very much the same.as before in society. What time was not one ee 39 eee given to his profession was spent chigfly in the gay circle of which he was a favorite and brilliant orna- ment. He was very little at home, as little as he could help. He was naturally luxurious, hated small rooms, low ceilings, and shabby furniture. Hated being waited on by a female servant—in short, hated all the details of small means. He had been used to them always, certainly ; but that does not reconcile people any the more to what they don't like, though those who know nothing of the matter suppose it does. The houses of the rich were open to him always, and there were club rooms, spacious and free, and pleasant avenues, to escape the perpetual remembrance of a limited in- come, Which his own house forced upon him. His wife did her utmost to win him to love and home ; but she failed. She had married him against bis will, and he re- sented it. She was gentle, and loving, and kind; but she did not gratify his vanity, and he did not love her the better for the privations they were compelled to endure together. She had no beauty nor mental superiority to supply the place of ex- ternal charms, and he took no pains to cultivate her tastes, though he felt himself sacrificed, because Cold and careless from the first, he grew irritable, and often even rude. Heart-stricken and mortified, she tried, poor thing! every device that affection could sug- gest to make home attractive. There was no sacri- fice that ingenuity could invent, to make their lit- they had no sympathies in common. tle income embrace some of the luxuries as well as His lit- tle household was in the neatest order, and his.able necessaries of life, that she did not make, was supplied with delicacies that nothing but her personal exertion could have secured with their small means. In short, his tastes and comforts were studied with the most sedulous care, only to make him more selfish and exacting. Had she known her own rights, and turned upon him with spirit, the effect would have been better. But that an inward consciousness prevented. Hum- bled by the conviction, which was forced upon her at last, that her husband did not love, she bitter'y acknowledged to herself that she should have ad- mitted the fact before. She could not conceal from herself now that she had married him in spite of his own wishes; that he had tried to break off, and she would not. But for that, an outraged love might have roused to another course. She would have felt indignant as well as aggrieved, and re- membered what she, as Mary Harper, had sacrificed in becoming Mrs. Herbert. The deep conscious- ness, however, that her husband would gladly have spared her the sacrifice of becoming his wife, quenched ‘every spark of womanly spirit. She scarcely felt herself his equal, and made herself his drudge. A fatal error. Brilliant as he was in so- ciety, many pitied him for having such a little dowdy wife. Indeed, he pitied himself. He was eloquent on the subject of “ imperfect sympathies,” and talked sadly and beautifully of a life that was

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40 A AAAAAA AAA AAR «“ aimless gThere were never any personal allu- sions in his remarks, and perhaps he even did not mean others to apply them; for he talked from the abundance of a poetical imagination and discontent- ed mind, which he mistook for the sadness of a heart that knew no resting-place. He had no sense of duty, no sense of anything that required sacrifice ; only a deep sense of his own gifts, and that, some- how, his destiny had not been fulfilled. Such merits as his wife possessed he did not ap- preciate—her patience, her gentleness, her exer- tions. How she would sew! What rows and rows of stitching she would put upon his linen, and how beautifully she did it! And, if he noticed at all what she was doing, he only thought she liked it! Better would it have been for him, a thousand times, and infinitely better for her, if his wife had been a different woman. Such qualities as she had were worse than thrown away upon him, for they only spoilt him. Had she played the harp and sung, though she never touched a needle and neg- lected his comforts, he might have been sometimes cross, but he would never have despised her. Had he married Clara Heywood, he would have been a better man; for, in admiring her, he would have known what was her due. Had he been proud of his wife, he would have exerted himself more cheerfully in the path of duty ; and even his small home would have borne a differ- ent aspect, had the wife who presided there been one whom others admired. But he was growing absolutely ashamed of Mary, as the consciousness of not pleasing rendered her diffident, and conse- quertly awkward, and the little air she had had as Miss Harper she now lost from her want of inter- course with society. Nothing tells sooner on a wo- man’s appearance than a too close application to domestic duties; and, when you add to that a poor and common wardrobe, a woman must be elegant, indeed, who still retains her air of superiority. The grace that rises superior to a calico frock and the kitchen is truly grace of the rarest and finest quali- ty. What then was poor Mary’s hope of looking anything but the spiritless, over-served little drudge that she was? The birth of a daughter was a vent at last for the mother’s overcharged heart. She loved the child almost to idolatry. But to the father she brought no addition of love or happiness. He turned away almost in disgust from the little red thing that squalled so. A girl, too! and he hated girls. Had it been a boy, he might have felt some tenderness for the mother, while he indulged in pride in his child. But a poor, puny, crying little girl took no hold on his heart. «How you cough, Mary!”’ said her’ husband to her. ‘«« Yes,’’ she replied. ‘I have taken cold.” Can’t “Do take something, then, and stop it. you?” It was spoken in impatience, for the sound jarred upon his ear. There was no tenderness in the GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S $ : ? ‘ ; 5 BOOK. RRP P AAPA ALLS ae yeaa tones, no kindness for his wife’s suffering that sug- gested the remark. The child was delicate, and night after night Mary paced the nursery with it in her arme, trying to soothe its pains, and still the cry she feared might reach its father’s ears. And thus the cold, instead of growing better, settled in a little hacking cough, that irritated Mr. Herbert’s nerves, while it wore out his wife’s lungs. She grew daily paler and thinner ; but she uttered no sound of complaint, and only when she thought of her baby her pale lips quivered, and the mother’s heart rose within her. But she felt that her doom was written down, and she had no spirit to struggle against it. Her father’s family she knew would receive her child, and to a sister’s love she felt she could confide it. Her constitution and heart were alike broken, and Herbert knew it not. The physician was the first that called his atten- tion to the fact of his wife’s failing health. He was both startled aud shocked ; for there is something in the near approach of death that appals the most heartless, unloved though the object may be. Her- bert was attentive and kind now, and would have done all in his power to save her. But it was too late. Fortunately, his sensibilities were not taxed long, or he might have felt, with Mr. Dubster, that she was a “tedious time dying.’’ But he had scarce time to rally from the first shock he received on learning her situation, ere her rapidly sinking frame told him the sad story was near its close. Some- thing like remorse was mingled with the horror he felt in the final separation of himself and wife. He had taken her “ to love and cherish till death do us part.”” And how had he fulfilled his vow? He hung over her in anguish, and she smiled gratefully, while breath was ebbing fast ; and relying on bigher promises and brighter hopes than earth could have afforded her, “after this painful life ended,” her spirit passed in peace. Those who had voted Mrs. Herbert a dowdy during her life, pitied her now she was dead. Some even said her husband had been unkind to her, which others, again, indignantly denied. ‘«T don’t suppose he beat her, Fanny, when [ say he was unkind,’’ said Charles Hastings to his sis- ter; ‘“‘but, if to neglect a woman is not to be un- kind, I don’t know what you call it.” ‘“‘How do you know that Herbert neglected his wife?”’ warmly rejoined the young lady. “He never was at home,”’ replied the brother. “He was forever at clubs, or in society, and she never was with him.” ‘« Well, perhaps she did not want to go,”’ returned Fanny. ‘ What pleasure could she find in society ? A dull, ugly, little thing.” « Your plain, little people like society as well as others,’ remarked Hastings. ‘ Because they give no pleasure, it does not follow they receive none. Society is to them a kind of spectacle ; they like to

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THE FIRST AND SECOND MARRIAGE.

41

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~~ ~~ see how people dress, and what they are doing. They don’t go to talk, but to look.” “ But think what a bore to be taking such a per- son with one,’’ urged Miss Hastings. ‘< If such a person happens to be one’s wile,”’ an- swered Charles, “I think she has a right to go in society if she likes it.” «“ But he was ashamed of her,” continued Fanny. «“ Ashamed of her !”’ exclaimed Hastings. ‘“ And what right had he to be ashamed of her? He was

not obliged to marry her, and-if he chose’’ “But there, Charles,” interrupted his sister, “I think you are mistaken. I believe Herbert did his best to get rid of his engagement; but Mary Har- per would not let him off.” ‘** That ’s bad,”’ said the young man, emphatically. ‘« That makes a difference.” “T believe it was nothing but a sense of honor that made him marry her,’’ continued Fanny. “It’s a pity his sense of honor could not have carried him a liitle farther, and made him treat ber well after he had married her. Commend me to the honor that marries a Woman to make her un- happy afterwards!” “T always pitied him,” pursued Miss Hastings. “ He is such an agreeable man.”’ ‘* Oh, he ’s agreeable enough,”’ said her brother, dryly. You don’t seem to like him, Charles ?” ‘‘No,”’ he replied; “ he ’s a cold, selfish fellow.” Cold!” she repeated. “Why, Charles, he is one of the most enthusiastic men, I know.”’ ** Eathusiastic! Yes,’’ replied Hastings. ‘He 1s in ecstasies, I grant you, with exquisite music ; but a man may be a cold, selfish fellow for all that. And, if he leaves a poor little wife stitching at home, while he is indulging his elegant tastes abroad, I think he is.’’ ‘IT never heard Herbert express a sentiment that was not noble and beautiful,’’ continued Miss Hast- ings, warinly. “He talks well, no doubt of that,’’ said her bro- ther. ‘“ He has talent enough.”’ “Depend upon it,’’ persisted his sister, “ that, if he had nade a more congenial marriage, he would have been a different, and perhaps a better, man.’’ “I ve no doubt of that,” replied her brother. ‘* He always gave me the impression of a man that had met some early disappointment. If that be so, and he has been forced to marry against his inclina- tions, there ’s some apology for the man. Not to get the woman one wants, and be obliged to take one you don’t want, must put a gentleman’s temper to rather an unpleasant trial, certainly. I wonder whom he ’I] marry now,”’ he pursued. ‘Oh, don’t begin to talk already of his marrying again,’ said Miss Hastings, quite shocked. ‘I met him yesterday with such a weeper on his hat, in the deepest black from his head to his boots, look- ing as sad and widowerlike as possible.” “He ’ll be more interesting than ever,’’ said her brother, a little sarcastically, ———— — — Eee mes,

“ But he really looked sad.”’ “TI dare say,” replied Hastings. “Herbert is just the maa to have his imagination strongly affected by death. 1 should not be surprised if, by this time, he fancied he had been very much at- tached to his wife, and the most devoted of hus- bunds. Besides, decency prevents his going in so- ciety at present. He cannot even show himself at the clubs, and no doubt he finds it dull enough in that little house of his by himself.” And this was pretty much the truth. was eminently a social man, and, cut off at once Herbert from all the pleasures he had been accustomed to, he found his lonely home gloomy and sad, indeed, when he returned to it after the business of the day. The intense silence and solitude where Death had so lately reigned impressed him with a sense of desolation that was almost intolerable. He suffered, and thought that he mourned. If he deceived others, he deceived himself. But it was his imagi- nation that was in affliction, his fancy in mourning, not his heart; for, in his saddest moments even, he never yearned for his child. CHAPTER 1V. ‘¢] said, in mine heart, ‘ Go te, now! I will prove thee with mirth, therefore enjoy pleasure.’ And, be- hold, this also is vanity.’’—Ecct. “ Wuom do you think I met at Stanhopes last might, Fanny ?” asked Charles Hastings. *“ Whom ?” ** Herbert !” “ Herbert ! soon!” «Bless you, do you think a man is never to show his face again, because he happens to lore his wife ?” “But she has been dead so short a time! plied the sister. “It’s a year, or near it,’’ returned her brother. ‘©Oh, he has done very well—behaved himself bet- What, is he out again? Oh, how ” re- ter than I expected.” Miss Hastings still looked dissatisfied, for women do not easily reconcile themselves to these changes ; but so it was, Herbert had entered into society again, and with a zest that was new to him. The dull year he had passed in comparative solitude had sent him back to the gay world with a freshness and animation of feeling not so rare in widow- ers as one would wish. He had always been sin- gularly under the influence of society for one of his superior endowments. He had been sensitive to its opinion, and anxious for its applause. he had not been early used to it, and consequently always overvalued it. He had entered it a young and unknown man, introduced throughthe influence of the Harpers; then as a married man, with the drawback of a wife, who embarrassed him; and now, free and flattered, his society courted, toe In short,

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42 GODEY'S world all before him where to choose. In the effer- vescence of the first excitement, he believed he had but to throw his handkerchief and « bless con- tending beauties.”’ The man’s head was turned, which was the truth: no doubt a delightful state of being, though He meant to marry again, and this He looked about him to find a woman who combined everything in one Youth, beauty, music, were es- very absurd. time to gratify his tastes. beautiful whole. sential; grace and elegance not to be di=pensed with; added to which he must have family and fashion. He flirted with several, and, though nearly caught once or twice by the force of flattery, fortunately for both parties, he somehow escaped, after having given rise to hopes which, as the fancy passed, he did not feel himse!f at all bound to follow up. “Who is that?” asked Herbert, one night, eager- ly, as the youngest daughter of Mr. Howard entered a ball-room where he was. “A daughter of Howard’s,’’ answered the person “ Handsome, I think, and decidedly Shows her blood.”’ he addressed. stylish. Herbert followed with his eyes the statuelike- looking young creature who passed by him. She was rather pale, with delicate and finely-chiseled featurex, a weli-formed head, and beautifully set upon her shoulders. The throat and shoulders were exquisite, and the whole air was thoroughly aristo- The marble was evidently Parian, and the Most persons cratic. workmanship of the highest finish. thought her too cold, some said she was inexpres- sive, and Herbert turned from them in impatience, as if thought and feeling would have disturbed the calm exclusive air he admired so much. He solicited an introduction, and was presented. The young beauty received him in the same distant manner she received others, and evidently knew no difference between Mr. Herbert and the group of fashionable idlers who gathered quickly round her. He took a seat upon the ottoman beside her, and tasked his But on “ the She smiled He asked her to dance, and she declined. powers to the utmost to amuse her. impassive ice the lightnings played.” sometimes, but never thawed. A manner so new and unexpected piqued him. He effurts, changed his style, passed from wit to poe- try, touching many subjects as he glanced along redoubled his with a rapidity and brilliancy that delighted those about him; he seemed, Prometheus-like, to have stolen fire from Heaven to animate his statue ; but with very little effect. Once or twice she raised her eyes with an expression, a faint louk, of something lighting up within, but it died away again ; and, before long, she said to some one— «“ Will you tell papa I am ready to go when he is?” Presently Mr. Howard came up and said— « Do you wish to go, Florence ?”’ «“ Yes,”’ she replied, languidly, and as if quite un- conscious of the presence of those before her, “I MAGAZINE AND LADY'S BOOK. —————$———— — OEE am very tired."’ And, rising, put her arm in her father’s, and, bowing slightly to the group who sur- rounded her, left them, without an idea that she had been guilty of any rudeness. Had she told Herbert that she was weary of him, the thing could not have been more decided. But, though he was piqued and mortified, he was not angry. It was evident she meant no rudeness. There was no shade of scorn in her manner, but merely a perfect oblivion, or rather an utter uncon- sciousness of other people’s feelings, or even pre- sence. “Who is that Mr. Herbert, papa?” she asked. « Considered, 1 am Did you find “A lawyer,’”’ he replied. told, the most rising man of the day. him agreeable ?”’ ‘‘He talks so much,” she replied, wearily, as if the quantity had oppressed her. ‘“« But very well, they say,’’ continued her father. She did not answer. She was fatigued. Her- bert had kept her attention on the stretch, and she did not like being excited; she was not used to it. And when her father told her Herbert was a law- yer, she supposed talking so must be professional, and thought it, consequently, in bad taste. She was as new to Herbert as he was to her; but with this difference, that she caught his imagi- nation, and she had none to be caught. She was quite different from the deau tdéal he had created for himself. She had no talents. On the contrary, she seemed to despise them. It was the business of artistes, people who were paid, to When ladies and gentlemen wanted She ap- sing and play. music, they should go for it to the opera. peared to think conversation a condescension, and that no lady talked much, or with animation, with- She smiled only occa- And this decided dis- inclination to entertain anybody only gave her, in out compromising herself. sionaliy, and never laughed. Herbert’s eyes, an air of exclusive refinement that accorded perfectly with her delicate and alabaster beauty. He felt that she was to be placed on a pedestal, and he willingly did homage at her shrine. Cold as she was, however, she was not alto- gether insensible to his powers. She was as much flattered as it was in her nature to be by his admira- tion, for she saw that others thought it a matter of pride to win his notice. But when she first heard their names associated together in the fashionabie gossip of the day, she started almost indignantly, and asked herself at once, ‘‘ Could a Howard marry a self-made man without family?” and her spirit promptly answered, “ No!” for the Howards were a race that prided themselves on their name. Why, few could have told; for they had little else to be proud of. There had been two or three genera- tions of them, weak, well bred, and handsome, with some money and no talent: but, somehow, they fancied that the name was a patent of nobility. When the first shock was over, however, and she became accustomed to the idea, Herbert’s intimacy with them seemed insensibly to ennoble him, too

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THE FIRST AND SECOND MARRIAGE. we eae a ena Her cold pride was gratified by the distinction that attached to her lover, and her father, knowing he was a very rising man, encouraged his attentions. The difficulty of the pursuit enhanced, to Herbert, Florence’s value ; aud, besides, he was weak enough to prize the name they so much valued themselves upon. He liked the idea of entering a connection so large and influential. His vanity, as well as his imagination, was excited, and he threw all he had of heart ‘and soul in the pursuit. It is not a woman’s nature, however cold she may be, to turn insensible from the flattery that falls from the lips of genius, and Florence listened, and sometimes smiled, and sometimes sighed, for her feelings were in a strange state of contradiction to She liked him, and yet he was not the She was proud each other. kind of man that suited her taste. of him, and yet felt that it would be a condescen- sion to marry him. She imagined that she would be losing caste. She preferred a gentleman to a man of genias, and she was not quite sure that Her- bert could be the former, as he had not been born in the frozen circle of which she was one of the most delicate icicles. Could she only, like an English dame of rank, have kept her separate title, or even, like a Frenchwoman, retained the née Howard, it would not have been so hard. Hloward in the Herbert, was a trial she felt keenly. But to merge all the But still she could not make up her mind to refuse She could not dispense with attentions so distinguished, nor dismiss flattery so delightful, and, him. when the offer came, it was accepted. ed as a young girl should accept her lover, with her whole heart and soul, but with doubts and draw- Not accept- backs that were not quite forgotten even in his pre- sence. The marriage took place in the course of a few months, in all “the pomp, the triumph, and the re- velry” that the Howards delighted in. Brilliant entertainments, recherché dinners, and exclusive matinécs were given from one end of the connec- The fair bride, shaded in delicate lace, which looked like a frost- work suited to the frozen spirit it shrouded, received these attentions in silent, but perfect satisfaction. Proud of his beautiful bride, and gratified by the manner in which be was received by her family, Herbert was brilliant with happiness. His imagi- nation, always impressible to externals, threw a charm over fétes which, in themselves, if stripped of ornament and fashion, he would bave found dull in the extreme. Family parties, composed of insi- pid, cold, silent people, who have no ideas to com- municate, would have been deemed by him an in- tolerable infliction but for the refinement of air, the elegance of dress, the brilliancy of light, and the glitter of fashion and style. The most fashionable bride and bridegroom, how- ever, must soon fall into the quiet routine of every- day life, and then the true qualities of heart and mina begin to develop themselves. Herbert's se- cona establishment was very different from his first. tion to the other, on the occasion. 43 — ww When he had married Mary Harper, he was just starting in his profession, but now he was more than half way up the ladder, and, though far from rich, yet making a good income. But his present house, though a palace to the one that Mary had thought large enough for every imaginable happi- ness, was yet very inferior to the one Florence had been accustomed to under her father’s roof. Mr. Howard, though a man of fortune, had not more in- come than he wanted—for rich people have so many wants—and, therefore, when his daughters married, they only brought expensive tastes and helpless ha- bits as their dower. Florence had no idea of mo- ney; but she was accustomed to every elegance of wealth, and now looked around her in cold surprise at the absence of the superfluities she had deemed things of course. Herbert was mortified to see how strongly she felt the contrast, for she had no idea of concealing her sentiments, and ‘the childlike unconscious- ness,’’ as he had termed her utter regardlessness of other people’s feelings, and which had rather been a grace before, was anythiag but pleasant now to a man of his keen and sensitive temperament, when turned upon himself in domestic life. And, if she missed many things she had been accustomed to, he began to feel the loss of others he had hardly been aware of while he had them. Mary had taught him unconsciously to depend upon her affection, though at the time he had not valued it; but now he missed the love that had anticipated every want, and ministered to every whim. He had been the first, zlmost, it may be said, the only person in the family. His inclinations and his comforts had been studied with anxious care; and he missed, in Flo- rence, not only the thousand and one little comforts his self-indulgent nature required, but the love that had prompted them. Florence loved him as much as it was in her cold nature to love any one ; but it was not in her nature to wait on anybody. She did not know what it was to make sacrifices, and she never consulted any human being’s feelings in her life before her own. If he wanted to go to the opera when she felt in- clined to stay at home, she quietly refused, periect- ly unconscious of the unpleasant surprise she occa- sioned to one who had been accustomed to have his slightest invitations accepted with a gratitude that was almost humiliating. If he complained of any deficiency at table, it was calmly deemed the cook’s affair, in which she had no lot or part. If the but- tons were absent from his wristbands, she heard the announcement of the fact in the same spirit that she might if he had complained of the absence of a wit- ness in a cause; and, when he asked her to mend a glove, she told him her work-box was up stairs. Herbert was hasty and irritable, and sometimes spoke quickly ; and, when he did, he was not so quickly forgiven. If he had temper, so had Flo- rence. But his was the kind that vented itself in words; while bers took refuge in silence. And this always conquers the other.

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4 WAAAAAAARAARARAAR AAA RPL The same distinetion characterized all their faults His were active, hers passive. He was excitable, easily influenced. Heaven and earth could not have moved her. Had she been a woman of high-toned feelings and strong sensibility, she might have done much to redeem him; for his im- agination and taste were of that fine order that im- pelled him to respond to the beautiful in the moral The very poetry of his nature would have secured Florence his affection, if her character had been in keeping with her beau- ty ; and, selfixh as he was, love would have elevat- True, earnest feeling had and failings. as in the physical world. ed and purified him. been the great quality in which he had been defi- cient; but Florence was not the person to gain in- fluence over him. He grew somewhat afraid of her, it is true, for the cold temper, as we have said, always masters the irritable one; but, beautiful, high bred, and refined as she looked, the undercur- rent of her character was commonplace in the ex- treme. There was not a generous touch in her; and, in her way, she was as exacting as Herbert. She took no pains to keep his affection, and she re- sented losing it. She never made an effort to make home agreeable; but still she was indignant if he spent an evening at the club. She took no interest in the subjects that interested him, nor made an at- tempt to understand the public afairs in which he frequently took a large share. And yet nothing vexed her more deeply than to have him address any conversation on such topics to other women. Not that she was jealous, for Herbert was no flirt, and she knew it. But he talked well, and was na- turally fond of society, and was very apt to enter with spirit in conversation with any one, man or woman, who could understand him. But woe be it to him if it happened to be a woman, for his wife searcely spoke to him for a week after! And many an uncomfortable day he passed, in the early days of their married life, in consequence of a pleasant hour passed at an evening party. If Florence did not improve her husband, she at least conquered him; and those Who had known him during his first marriage looked on in surprise to see bim, then so irritable and exacting, now go- verned by the dropping of an eyelid, or the com- pression of the lips, or some little movement almost imperceptible to bystanders, but yet most expressive in their silence to one who understood them. Flo- rence’s eyes never flashed, nor her voice altered, but, from the tip of her shoulder to the motion of her fairy foot, her whole being was eloquent with cold displeasure. , Herbert could not love her; but he watched her lightest movement, for he still loved his own quiet and peace. Could Mary Harper have believed that this man was the same who was once her husband? If spi- rits return wrath, how would hers have been ap- paased could it have seen his punishment now ? And yet we wrong you, Mary Harper, even in the GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. ran supposition! Your gentle, unoffending heart never roused to anger even here, when clogged with earth! The mortal did not need to put on immor- tality to forgive. But who, ‘‘unwhipped of jus- tice,’’? can wrong such a spirit? Is there not a re- tribution even here for the selfish soul that asks all and gives nothing? Was Herbert happy? If the first wife wept, the second avenged her. THE MORNING OF THE HEART. > BY W. WALLACE SHAW. “ Soft as a bride the rosy dawn From dewy sleep doth rise, And, bathed in blushes, hath withdrawn The mantle from her eyes ; And, with her orbs dissolved in dew, Bends, like an angel, softly through The blue-pavillioned skies.”’ Ame tia B. WEtByY. Ser! above yon mountain’s brow The roseate hue Of early morning tinges now The ether blue, And stars that shone so purely bright Upon the calmness of the night, Now, slowly fading, leave their light Upon the dew. See! the lark is soaring high Above the hills. And, like bright threads of silver, lie The mountain rills Benenth the light of dawning day. Through forest glades they wind away, While all the air the linnet’s lay With music fills. Op’ning rosebuds lend the breeze Their odors rare, That gently whispers ’mong the trees, ‘* Away with care!”’ How calmly beautiful the dawn Comes stealing o’er the dewy lawn, While nature’s minstrels pour sweet song Upon the air! Blushing brightly now, sweet flowers Unfold their leaves, The mountain sprite, for morning hours, A garland weaves. *‘ Blest power of sunshine, genial day, What balm, what life is in thy ray! A warmth comes with thy transient stay That ne’er deceives. Now there ’s music thrilling sweet Within my heart, While hope and peace there seem to meet, No more to part; And now, within my inmost soul, A joy, new-born, hath found a goal, And waves of sanlight o’er me roll, *Tis now the morning of the heart!

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COSTUMES OF ALL NATIONS.—THIRD SERIES THE TOILETTE IN TURKEY. CHAPTER Il. LET us transport our readers to the shores of the East—the land of the Sultan—the far-famed city of Stamboul. Here, within the closely-guarded cham- bers of the harem, mid the perfume of thousands of flowers. the soft rippling of fountains, and the sweet melody of voices, “ Fashion’’ still holds undisputed sway. Within the gorgeous chamber, secluded from the gaze of all but her immediate attendants, sits the Eastern beauty, the Rose of the Garden, the Pearl of the Ocean. Paintings and gildings adorn the walls; carpets of the richest dyes are laid over the floors ; silken sofas and couches, whose softness invites repose, are scattered around; and near them lie cushions, glittering in satin, velvet, brocade, and embroidery, and tassels and fringes of gold and sil- ver. To describe her beauty, and the dress of Eastern ladies, let me borrow the gifted pen of Lady Wortley Montague. *¢ On a sofa, raised three steps, and covered with Persian carpets, sat the kihaya’s lady, leaning on cushions of white satin embroidered; and at her feet sat two young girls about twelve years old, lovely as angels, dressed perfectly rich, and almost covered with jewels. But they were hardly seen near the fair Fatima, so much her beauty effaced everything I have ever seen; nay, all that has been called lovely in England or Germany. She was dressed in a caftan* of gold brocade, flowered with silver, very well fitted to her shape, and showing to admiration the beauty of her bosom, only shaded by the thin gauze of her shift. Her drawers were pale pink, her waistcoat green and silver, her slip- pers white satin, finely embroidered, her lovely arms adorned with bracelets of diamonds, and her broad girdle set with diamonds. Upon her head a rich Turkish handkerchief of pink and silver, her own fine black hair hanging a great length, in vari- ous tresses, and on one side of her head some bod- kins of jewels.” Such was the dress of the lady of the deputy to the grand vizier, above one hundred years since, and such is still the dress of the Eastern women ; for, though fashion frequently changes the color of their garments, and the materials of which they are composed—now bidding the fair recluse array her- self in pale blue silk, now in deep crimson, then again in white muslin, fine as the spider’s web, pure as the untrodden snow, still the form of the gar- ments never changes, and has been the same for hundreds of years * A kind of vest. VOL. LXIv.—d Lady Wortley Montague, who, while residing in the East, adopted the costume of the country, thus describes her own dress in a letter to her sister, then in England :— « The first part of my dress is a pair of drawers, very full, that reach to my shoes, and conceal the legs more modestly than your petticoats; they are of a thin rose-colored damask, brocaded with silver My shoes are of white kid leather, em- Over this hangs my smock, flowers. broidered with gold. of a fine white silk gauze, edged with embroidery This smock has wide sleeves, hanging half way down the arm, and is closed at the neck with a dia- mond button. The antery is a waistcoat, made close to the shape, of white and gold damask, with very long sleeves falling back, and fringed with deep gold fringe, and should have diamond or pear! buttons. My caftan, of the same stuff as my drawers, is a robe exactly fitted to my shape, and reaching to my feet, with very long, straight, fall- ing sleeves. Over this is my girdle, of about four incls broad, which all that can afford it have en- tirely of diamonds or other precious stones ; it must be fastened before with a clasp of diamonds. The curdee is a loose robe they throw off or put on, ac- cording to the weather, being of a rich brocade (mine is green and gold), either lined with sable or ermine; the sleeves reach very little below the shoulders. The head-dress is composed of a cap called talpack, which in winter is of fine velvet, embroidered with pearls and diamonds, and in sum- mer of a light silver stuff; this is fixed on one side of the head, hanging a little way down, with a gold tassel, and bound on either with a circle of dia- monds (as I have seen several) or a rich embroi- dered handkerchief. On the other side of the head the hair is flat, and here the ladies are at liberty to show their fancies; some putting flowers, others a plume of heron’s feathers, and, in short, what they please. But the most general fashion is a large bouquet of jewels, made like natural flowers; that is, the buds of pearl, the roses of different colored rubies, the jessamines of diamonds, the jonquil of topazes, &c., and so well set and enamelled ‘tis hard to imagine anything of that kind so beautiful. The hair hangs at full length behind, divided into tresses braided with pearl and ribbon, which is always in great quantity.” The above is considered a perfect description of the indoor costume of an Eastern lady of quality ; but, when they go abroad, they are all obliged to wear two dresses, called murlins; these form a complete dixguise, one covering all the face, except 45

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46 GODEY’S MAGAZINE the eyes, the other quite concealing the head-dress. Besides these, a ferigee is worn to hide the figure ; it has straight sleeves, reaching to the ends of the fingers, and, wrapping round them, perfectlycon- ceals the dress and shape. All Eastern women, whether of high or low de- gree, wear drawers: indeed, the poorer classes only wear these and a shirt. Yet, though half naked, no one is ever seen without a veil; which, even from the time of Rebecca, has been considered a necessary part of female dress; and all but the ry poorest contrive to possess some jewels, for ear-rings, bracelets, and necklaces. Although there is a chapter in the Koran which strictly prohibits adorning of the person with gold, silver, and jewels, silks, and costly robes, the Turks dv not seem to pay the slightest attention to the ad- monition ; for men, as well as women, only esteem their attire in proportion to the expense lavished upon it. The fair imprisoned inmate of the harem, whose life glides away in all the dull monotony of seclu- sion, whose only means of cheating the lagging hours is by employing them in embroidery, or in watching the graceful movements of the dancing girls, may be pardoned for devoting so much time to the amusements of the toilette. In Bulgaria the women wear on their heads a cap somewhat resembling a mitre, ornamented with pieces of money; it covers the forehead, and the hair, plaited with shells, hangs down the back. The robe is long, and fastened round the waist by a girdle; the surcoat, which closes tightly round the throat, with a Bow of ribbon in front, is curiously embroidered, and often adorned with jewels. Over this garment is worn a loose robe, not unlike a great coat; it is shorter than the under vest, and has long sleeves, which, though wide at the top, become tight below the elbow to the wrist: this garment is open underneath the arms as far as the bottom, and the sides are united with large bows of ribbon, placed at distances from each other. The slippers are very low in the quarters, and made high upon the instep. In Wallachia the women of high rank wear splen- did silk or satin robes, often embroidered or bro- caded in gold and silver. The upper garment is full and long, with long tight sleeves: it is not con- fined at the waist, but hangs quite loose; it is open at the bosom, and shows a splendid jeweled sto- macher, and is generally trimmed all round with fur. Beneath it is an embroidered vest, with a coi- lar of precious stones and velvet encircling the

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MYRA BELL. throat. On the head is a cap of fur, made some- tung in the shape of a turban. PPAP PAP PARADA AARALAARALRAAAL. nates “ PPP LLLP LLP LLLP PPP PPP PPP 47 The young girls wear their hair flat on the tem- ples, and twisted in a broad plait behind, inier- spersed with flowers. The silk jupe reaches to the feet ; the bodice is sufficiently open to show an orna- mented stomacher; tne sleeves are tight to the hands, and a colored scarf, after circling the waist, falls to the feet. As stays are unknown in these countries, a slim waist isgiever seen, and a French é/égante would be shocked at the clumsy tournure of a Wallachian belle. In Lady Craven’s “ Journal,’? we have an ac- count of her reception at the Wallachian court. She says, ‘“‘In the corner sat the prince, dressed and at- tended a la Turque ; over his head were ranged the horses’ tails, the great helmet and feather, the mag- nificent sabre, and other arms with which I had seen him parade the streets at Constantinople. * * * #* JT was then summoned to an audience with the princess: she was sitting @ da Turque, with three of her daughters by her." There were twenty ladies in the room, one of whom, instead of a turban, had a high cap of sable put behind her hair, that was combed up straight over a kind of roll: this head-dress was fargfrom being ugly or unbecoming. The princess told me that it was a lady of Wallachia, and that the cap was the head- dress of the country.” —~~we0eer CHAPTER I. ‘ And this I learned, too, from the dove— To die, and know no second love !”’ «“ Tuey tell me, Kate,’’ said Charles Calvert to his beautiful cousin, as they strolled through the flower garden at Oak Lawn, one bright morning in June—‘ they tell me that young Harry Layton is attentive to Myra Bell.” “ Yes, and I certainly wish him success ; for my sweet little Myra deserves a good match, and Har- ry is said, with more reason than is usual in such cases, to be the paragon of the neighborhood.” “You surely do not think such a thing as their engagement possible ?”’ ‘And why not, cousin mine? Have you any previous claims to urge upon her heart ?” “By no means. But Myra is a girl, I imagine, who would marry only for love; and, alas! she has no heart to bestow.” “Oh, you allude to her affair with Rupert De Lancey ?” “ To be sure I do.” “And do you hold that, because a woman has been jilted by a heartless knave, she may not love a true man?” “i ry KT oom YY VU IN D LOVE. BRYCE. ‘¢T hold, fair cousin, that, in a sincere bosom, the affections, once blighted and crushed, are not so easily renewed. Nor would an honorable mind like Myra’s exchange a broken heart for a loyal and true one.” «TI deny your premises, to wit, that Myra’s affec- tions are blighted, or that her heart is broken.” «“ Why, surely she loved De Lancey ?”’ «Yes; while she found him all that her fancy had painted.” «And would you have her love again, ere one brief year has thrown oblivion over her ill-fated passion? Is such the constancy of woman’s heart ?” «« Come, no slander upon woman’s constancy, or I shall launch forth in full tide of invective against man’s treachery. I mean that, because Myra found her idol of clay, it is no reason why the sentiment of devotion, which is one of the holiest instincts of our nature, should be destroyed forever in her breast.’” ‘« Then you believe in second love?” “Your question is not altogether a fair one. 1 am certainly an advocate of constancy ; and there is something very sacred to me even in the me- mory of a pure and holy affection, which has bright-

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GODEY’S 48 MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. ened our happier days, and, long cherished, has entwined itself with our every sympathy, until it grew and became a part of us. The shrine of such a love, once erected in our heart of hearts, may well be dedicated to one only object.” “ Then you would have success the criterion of constancy. Why, Kate, you would spoil the pret- tiest romances that were ever written or acted, by such a cold, calculating sentiment.” * ‘«« And those.same romances have spoiled the hap- piness of many an honest heart capable of blessing others, and enjoying itself the choicest blessings of life, in its appointed sphere of conjugal and domes- tic affections. Out upon that false sentiment which condemns a pure and noble heart, with its untold treasures of rich affections and sympathies, to pine in sickly dalliance with despair, because an error of judgment, or a freak of fancy, has sent its devo- tions to an unworthy object! Must a heart that was made for love wither, in its spring-time of fresh- ness and bloom, from treachery or disappointment ? Forbid it, every principle of rational happiness, of true and purified enjoyment !"’ « But does not your doctrine, fair cousin, tend to impair that faith in, the constancy of love which gives it ideal charms, and elevates it into a wor- ship ?”’ “On the contrary, it rather vindicates the senti- ment as too pure and holy to suffer from treachery and deceit; of too divine and immaculate a nature to perish, when baffled, like baser passions.” «“ You argue well, Kate; but yet there is a charm in changeless love that still holds the imagination captive.” «“ And did I speak of true love as changeable, Charles? I only contended against the despotic rule of what I think a false sentiment. The con- stancy of mutual love is beautiful and holy in my eyes; and where our affections have met a full re- sponse in the sympathies of a congenial heart, and especially where we have been blessed with its long companionship, I hold a second love as great a sacrilege as yourself, though [ will not deny that it may exist.” « Well, well, my sweet cousin, you and I will not quarrel about love ; nor pretty Myra Bell either, for whom I wish a bright and happy fate. But see, John has brought the horses round. Shall we take our gallop as usual? I promise not to cast one wistful glance at Myra Bell’s handsome cottage as we pass,’’ said Charles, with a playful emphasis. « Qut upon you, Mr. Impudence !’’ replied his cousin, blushing slightly, and tapping him with her whip, for she was equipped for the ride. “ What wonderful magic, think you, there hes in your glances ?” Leaving the cousins to their morning ride, and to renew their edifying discussion, if they pleased, we will look into as lovely a little cottage as was ever the abode of innocence, peace, and happiness. In a neatly furnished apartment, from which, through the latticed casement, you might look out on the prettiest imaginable little flower garden, were two persons. The one a man advanced in years, of mild, calm, and dignified appearance, whose broad, inteliectual brow was unwrinkled, save by the lines of thought, and the lustre of whose dark eye was undimmed, though the snows of winter were fast covering his fine classic head. Adam Bell was a scholar, and somewhat of a dreamer, yet, withal, a very deep philosopher. The vanities of earth he despised, while he cherished, with assiduous care, those gentle sentiments, true feelings, and noble sympathies which minister to the peace and happiness of the heart far more sure- ly than the false excitement of pleasure and ambi- tion. In early life he had married happily, pros- pered in the world, and enjoyed those flattering promises of the future with which Fortune so often tempts us to essay the perilous “heights where Fame’s proud temple lies ;”” but reverses and disap- pointments soun taught him their lesson. The loss of fortune, and the ill health of his beloved compa- nion, induced him to retire, not a soured misan- thrope, but a sobered philosopher, from the pomps and vanities of the world. Husbanding his remain- ing resources, he purchased the quiet cottage where he now resided, and where he had enjoyed years of supreme bliss with his adored wife, who faded gently and quietly from his side, like a cherished flower, exhaling the fragrance of her long and de- voted love to surround him in the gentle affections of an only and most beautiful daughter. In such a death there was no shock; and the sad- ness caused by his bereavement was so sweetly mingled with the hope of a reunion hereafter, as to rob his grief of half its poignancy. in Myra he beheld—each lineament and feature complete—the counterpart of her whose memory he adored; and, for his daughter, he was content to live on, that he might guard and shield her youth from care, and pluck, as far as might be, the thorns of disappoint- ment and sorrow from her future pathway. And now, as he sat at the open casement, through which the fresh morning air came, apparently in- tent on his book, his eye wandered, ever and anon, from the bright flowers without to the brighter being within, who glided noiselessly about the room, occupied with her domestic affairs, and un- conscious of the thoughtful attention which was bestowed upon her. It was not without uneasiness that Adam Bell noticed an air of preoccupation, and almost sadness, in his sweet daughter, and a keen pang shot through his heart as he heard the half- smothered sigh which escaped her. «Come here, Myra,”’ said he, “and see how your favorite rose tree has revived from last night’s shower.”’ Awakening from the rather unpleasant reverie which had been gradually stealing over her, with scarce an effort, Myra dispelled the shadows from her brow, and, her face beaming with affection placed herself on a low stool at her father’s feet. “Oh, how beautiful!’ she exclaimed. “I did

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MYRA BELL. _— APPA A PPP LAD PP pot think my poor rose-bush would bloom again this summer.” « Blight or bloom upon the flower, or the human heart, are His, who ever deals gently with the ten- derest,’’ said the old man, reverently. “TIT feel it, my father,’ answered his daughter, gazing fondly in his face with tearful eyes, blue as the violet whose perfume they enjoyed. “And yet, Myra, you gre sad. Are you sure there is no drop of bitterness left in that young heart to rankle hereafter ?”’ ** Quite sure, dear father ; although some sadness is natural to the heart which finds its ideal de- stroyed. And yet I think no more of him.” «Say not its ideal destroyed, but its idol a false one, my child. That mental standard of perfection which we set up as the model of all that is worthy and noble in human character, and which we call our ideal, is formed rather by our own sentiments and feelings than from any experience or example of human nature which is before us; yet it is the very foundation of a#l our respect or admiration for our fellow-beings, the key to love and friendship, and spd is the heart whose ideal is destroyed! But, my dear Myra,” continued the fond parent, some- what more playfully, “if not of him—the base, the worthless—of whom was my daughter thinking so pensively, almost sadly ?”’ There was perfect confidence between the father and daughter; yet the eyes of Myra drooped an in- stant, and the rich color suffused her face, such is the sensibility of a pure young heart to the exposure of its feelings, even to the eye of affection. * Nay, [ did not mean to startle or grieve you; but you cannot suppose, my own darling, that, in aught which touches your happiness, my eyes slumber. There, that blush has answered me; and I may give Harry Layton a favorable answer,” said Adam Bell, bending to caress the beautiful head that rested on his lap. At this moment the sound of horses’ feet was heard in the avenue that led from the high road, and the bark of Myra’s little spaniel, who was bask- ing in the sunshine on the front verandah, announced early visitors. « Come, my love, there is your friend Kate. I saw her pass, in company with her cousin, half an hour since, and doubtless she is coming to pay you a morning call. Hie to your chamber, and smooth down those troubled thoughts, while I receive them.” It was, indeed, Kate and Charles, the former hav- ing remembered, during their ride, that she had not yet invited Myra to a féte which was to be given the next week on the occasion of her birthday. She therefore insisted upon her cousin accompanying her, “even at the risk,” she said, in playful badi- nage, “of exposing poor little Myra to the danger- ous glances of such a wonderful lady-killer.” They were received with a dignified courtesy and kind welcome by Adam Bell, which Charles after- wards declared to exhibit the most distinguished o* : 49 AAA AAAARAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAABAAAAAAAAAABAABAAAAAAAAAAAAA ARRAY demeanor he ever met with ; and, in a few minutes, Myra appeared, blooming as one of her own beauti- ful roses, to greet her friend, and to receive Charles, without the slightest embarrassment. The invitation was given, and, after a glance at her father, who signified his approval, accepted by Myra; and, after spending an hour very pleasanily, the cousins took their departure. In the evening Harry Layton came, conferred a few moments with Adam Bell in his library, and then, in company with him, joined Myra in the par- lor the happiest of men. The old man. with his book, soon drew off to his corner, and left the young lovers to that elysium which they, who have once felt it, know beggars all description. CHAPTER II. Rvurert De Lancey was a young’ man of good birth, ample fortune, and considerable intellect. Though proud and ambitious, he possessed cour- teous and affable manners, which won him more regard than his character really deserved, and made him, where no occasion forced the display of his real nature, a universal favorite. His person was even more attractive than his demeanor, for he pos- sessed the highest order of masculine beauty. A broad and prominent forehead, somewhat narrower, however, at the temples than was consistent with perfect symmetry, around which curled, in short, natural ringlets, his rich and glossy brown hair; dark blue eyes, of sparkling brilliancy, in which only the practiced regard of a physiognomist could have detected the wavering, vacillating glance which denoted fickleness of purpose ; a mouth in- dicative of firmness, as well as great sensibility, but the character of which also expressed great volup- tuousness, especially in connection with his rather fleshy and projecting chin; and a nose slightly aquiline, with finely-curved nostrils, made up a face unusually prepossessing. De Lancey had been educated with high sentiments of honor, and would have reprobated deceit and treachery as soon as any one; but, with many a great and noble quality, he was beset with the weaknesses of pride and vanity, and their almost inseparable concomitant, change- ableness of purpose; for, where they demand a sacrifice, strong must be the mind, and firm the heart, which refuses it. Such was he who won the first regards of Myra Bell. Upon the guileless nature of her father, who, with all his experience, could never learn suspicion, the frank, free manners, and pleasing exterior of the youth had early made an impression, which paved the way to unrestrained social intercourse, and thus gave him the opportunity of enjoying much of. Myra’s society. It was not vanity alone which made Rupert her admirer, or induced him to seek her heart, no one, with a touch of gentle feeling at his heart, could have witnessed unmoved her ex-

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50 panding beauties of mind and person. Nor was it the mere fascination of the eye, nor the graceful flatteries of his constant homage, which charmed Myra; her esteem was won through her father’s incautious And, although no formal en- gagement existed between them, yet their future praise. union was looked on as a matter of course, not only by Myra’s father, but by friends and acquaintances, and even the relations of Rupert, who, though not altogether satisfied with the match, offered no op- position. The awakening of Myra Bell from her first dream of love was sad and bitter, indeed ; but less painful and enduring was the blight that fell upon her heart under the strengthening influence of her father’s wise, Christian philosophy, and gentle, soothing The desertion of Rupert De Lancey, like his wooing, was not so pointed as to leave him without a plausible defence of his conduct, and would not have afforded even the watchful father counsels, an excuse to t€x him with his treachery, but for the occasion of some light raillery on the part of his gay companions, to which, in a fit of pique and vanity, he replied, scornfully— “ What, the old bookworm's rustic daughter ! She is no bride for Rupert De Lancey !” It is true. he was ashamed of such unbecoming language almost as soon as he uttered it; but, if he repented, he could not forego the treacherous pur- pose at his heart. Another passion had taken pos- session of his soul. His vanity and his ambition had both been excited, and he was ready to sacrifice faith, and truth, and love, such as he was capable of feeling, upon their altar, even though he crushed the life out of that gentle heart which had trusted its happiness to his keeping. And what was the cause of this change? The arrival of Kate Wel- den, a beauty, an heiress, and a distinguished dedle, at the mansion of her uncle, Colone! Warren, of Oak Lawn. Kate was an orphan, and had resided, since the death of her parents, with her guardian in the city ; but, on the occasion of that gentleman and his fami- ly taking a foreign tour, she accepted the invitation of her uncle, Colonel Warren, to make his house her home, as she did not wish to accompany them. She was just of age, and there were, of course, no objections on the part of the former guardian, and, turning over to her the immense estate he had managed honorably and well, and of which she ap- pointed her uncle her agent, he resigned his charge. Fame heralded the advent of the heiress, and among the most eager to lay his homage at her feet was Rupert De Lancey. His vanity had always led him to wish to be first among his companions, and he could not bear the thought that so brilliant a prize should fall to another. Perhaps even his ad- miration for Myra was not free from this governing sentiment, for she was certainly the delle of the neighborhood before Kate Welden came, and many still thought her title to that distinction unimpaired. The two young ladies, however, instead of experi- ; ; $ ; ; ; | GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. encing feelings of rivalship, became fast and affec- tionate friends. From the time when Rupert made the ungenerous and ungentlemanly speech about Myra, as if con- scious that his own baseness was known to her, he ceased his usual visits; and, the remark coming to the ears of Adam Bell, the old man sought an inter- view, from which De Lancey would fain have shrunk, if he dared. The conduct of the father on that painful occasion was calm, dignified, and open, while that of the recreant lover was full of prevari- cation and shuffling, though his language was plausible and respectful. ‘Young man, you say there was no positive en- gagement between yourself and my daughter. This, perhaps, is true; but when you tell me you never sought her affections under the guise of love, that you never taught her to look upon you in any other light than that of a very dear friend, you utter a falsehood which your own conscience condemns.”’ «« Most happy would I be, sir, to make any sacri- fice which would convince yourof my truth, or con- tribute to your daughter’s peace of mind, which I regret that one so worthless as I should have in- jured, however unintentionally,” said Rupert, in a slight tone of mockery. ‘ And, as for the idle words I uttered” “ Peace, sir! there is no sacrifice that would be accepted. My daughter would scorn your hand now as I do your character. And, for myself, I would sooner lay her young head in the grave than consign her to the arms of a villain whose smooth brow and oily tongue conceal so base and lying a heart!” « Sir!’ exclaimed De Lancey, in fierce passion, for the taunt stung him to the quick. ‘“ But for your age”’ “ Peace, again I say, fool! It is not my age, but conscious guilt, that paralyzes your heart. Yet go! [ would not forget that I am a Christian as well as a father. Adam Bell despises and forgives you, and his daughter will do the same.”’ Rupert De Lancey did not linger; and, for a long time, the bitterness of that interview, to which were truly added the pangs of conscience, wrung his heart. Poor Myra! the cloud which obscured the fair horizon of her hopes was dark indeed, and the night of her despair, if brief, was full of agony; but, thanks to him who educated her heart in a truer school of philosophy than is taught by idle romance, and to Him who “ tempers the wind to the shorn Jamb,” the cup of bitterness passed from her, and the false light she had worshiped faded from her vision, which became calmer and clearer from the storm that had broken over her. It was at this period that she met Harry Layton, and the mysteri- ous growth of true love sprung at once in her heart, whose best affections seemed of late blighted and withered. It was long before Myra would acknow- ledge to herself the interest he inspired, and she trembled at her own emotions as she asked herself

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MYRA BELL. 51 RAARAAAAAAAARAASAAAAAA AAAS AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAS the nature of that interest. Notwithstanding the precepts of her father, she shrunk from what almost appeared the sacrilege of second love, and that so soon afier the deep disappomtment of her first choice. But all her doubts were soon resolved ; and when Harry poured forth, in the genuine elo- quence of true feeling, the story of his devotion, how different seemed his language, how much more sincere and manly, than the strained compliments and sugared flatteries with which Rupert De Lan- cey had amused her young fancy ! And, with the thought of him, came a sinking of the heart she had never before felt. “ Would Harry Layton, so good and noble himself, be content to take her affections second-hand from such a source ?”’ “No, no, Harry!’’ she said, and tears almost choked her utterance. “ You could not value a heart that had already loved and been scorned.” «« Never, Myra, did you truly love that base, un- manly wretch! Fearnot; I knowall. It was only your fancy which his facile address captivated ; your heart was untouched, save with devotion for its own ideal, which for a moment he seemed to fill. Fear not, dear Myra; be but mine, and you shall soon learn of me that you never truly loved him.” The lesson was a pleasant one both to master and pupil, fulfilling the former’s promise indeed. And how sped the wooing of Rupert De Lancey ? How prospered his suit to the fair Kate? Unfortu- nately for him, the citadel of her heart had long since yielded to her cousin, Charles Calvert, to whom, with the full .approbetion of their uncle, whose favorite and heir he was, she was already betrothed; and, still more unfortunately, even had she been “ fancy free,”’ with that knowledge which experience alone can give, and that nice sagacity which characterizes the female perception, she had measured the depths of his character, and appre- ciated him accordingly. Moreover, his treachery te Myra was not unknown to her. Kate Welden was a girl of bold and daring spirit, although her heart was full of tender sensibilities ; and, while she was true and steadfast in her affec- tions, her conduct sometimes suffered in the estima- tion of those who look not beneath the surface for one’s intentions. Thus she not unfrequently sub- jected herself to the imputation of coquetry, when she had only resolved to punish some vain and pre- sumptuous coxcomb who had victimized one of her sex. This same determination she had taken in re- gard to De Lancey, and, though Charles Calvert did not altogether approve of her intention, he was by no means jealous, but only sought to dissuade her from motives of prudence in regard to her own reputation. “Go along, @ousin Charles, and flirt with every pretty face in the county, if you please ; but let me alone to punish this knave, which I am determined to do.” “Ts there not some vanity in that, fair cousin mine ?”’ “ By no means, my gentle mentor. It is net my poor beauty, but my rich estate which captivates him. And, as for the damage to my reputation by coquetry, whieh you are so kind as to hint at, why you must e’en marry me the sooner, and take it undér your own charge, if you are apprehensive about it.” “ That is certainly an irresistible bribe to let you play the madeap once more,’’ said Charles, gallant- ly. ‘So it must be as you choose.” Thus stood matters on the evening of the féte at Colonel Warren’s, save that Kate had received se- veral calls from De Lancey very graciously, and, without exactly encouraging him, certainly allowed him to go off with a very self-satisfied notion of his probable success. CHAPTER III. Tue féte at Colonel Warren’s was a splendid and brilliant one, indeed. The spacious halls of his large, elegant mansion were beautifully decorated, and lighted to perfection. The exquisite gardens were hung with colored lamps, and, with the gra- veled walks and commodious summer-houses, af- forded a pleasant retreat from the heat and glare of the rooms to those who were fatigued with danc- ing, or desirous of a quiet téte-d-téte. A gay and happy assemblage of bright and cheerful faces did honor to the birthday of the fair Kate Welden ; and, with music and dance, and innocent revelry, the joyous hours sped rapidly on. Many a charming face was there, and many a graceful form glided through the mazes of waltz or cotillion ; but peerless above all others were the two friends, Kate Welden and Myra Bell. Each was the type of a different style of beauty, and almost faultless was the model. Dark as the raven’s wing was the glossy hair braided over the full intellectual brow of Kate; while the auburn tresses of Myra fell in luxuriant ringlets from her small, beautiful head. Black eyes, that flashed with fire, or melted in languor, and a rich olive com- plexion, through which the mantling blood showed like the blush on the sunny side of a ripe peach, characterized the splendid beauty of the one; while the blended lily and rose tints, with orbs of calm and heavenly blue, distinguished the soft and win- ning loveliness of the other. The former was tall and stately as Juno, the latter light and graceful as Hebe Many a tribute of admiration did they elicit, and much difference of opinion did their appearance ex- cite as to the respective merit of their different styles. No one, perhaps, viewed them with more indescribable emotion than Rupert De Lancey—not even Charles Calvert or Harry Layton, who had become friends and confidants. A strange and mixed feeling of hope and regret stole over him. “ After all,’’ mused he, “ if I am disappointed of the heiress, what a prize have I lost! The more lovely, far the more lovely, of the two. True, the

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52 other is a splendid creature ; but there is something too fierce and haughty in her beauty: while my own Myra is an angel, if there ever was one on earth. I wonder if there is anything in that young Layton’s attentions? Pshaw! No! She cannot have forgotten me so soon; though I do not half like her manner to-night—it is too calm and self- possessed. There is neither love nor the sense of injury in her cool eye when it encounters mine ; yet on Layton she bestows the same look of quiet con- fidence that once was mine. By Heaven, I could not brook that fellow’s rivalry! Yet, what claim have 1? Tome she is lost forever! Nay, not so; if the heiress jilts me, which I half wish she would, and half think she may, from certain indications to- night, I will recaut my errors, and throw myself at Myra’s feet for forgiveness, and be happy in her dear love, which I never knew till now had so deep a hold on my heart.’’ And, in this uncertain mood, De Lancey sought the side of Kate Welden, from whom a gracious re- ception awaited him. To his proposal that they should seek the cool air of the gardens, she yielded a flattering assent; and, when they had reached a remote arbor, she seated herself, and, without speaking to her companion, turned her large eyes, full of soft languor, upwards, to gaze at that peer- less orb which poets delight to apostrophize, and lovers to look on. «“ A lovely night !”’ said De Lancey, breaking the silence, in a low, musical voice. “ And a night for love!’’ responded Kate, half soliloquizing. “ Then, brightest and most beautiful, accept its sincere homage from your most devoted admirer !”” breathed Rupert, passionately, as he sank gracefully to his knee. “Sir! Mr. De Lancey!” cried Kate, starting back. “ Nay, dearest Kate, hear me! I love, I adore you! From the first moment your glorious beauty burst upon my sight, I have been your captive! Yet not the captive of your beauty alone, but equal- ly enamored of the bright intellect which beams from those eloquent eyes !”’ *“ You make love well, Mr. De Lancey,” said Kate, dryly. « Nay, cruel girl, would you mock me? Are you, indeed, the heartless coquette fame speaks of, who can sport in the agony of a true heart?” “Of a true heart, never! Its lightest sorrow, caused through conduct of mine, would grieve me deeply.” “ Then, why this derision of my love? Why thus scorn the proffer of an honorable passion from me?” ‘‘ Because yours is not a true heart! Myra Bell !”” “Ah! is it that idle story which stands be- tween me and my hopes? Believe me, I never » wronged her. A mere child, with whom I had been in daily intercourse for years, who conceived Think of GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S ? > BOOK. a foolish attachment for me, which I was the first to undeceive her of. Nay, dearest Kate,’’ continued he, seeing she had relaxed somewhat of her stern- ness; “it was I, not she, who suffered from the contretemps. Credit no word of it; but believe me that never—no, never—was my heart touched by love till by the magic of your loveliness! Be mine, beautiful creature, and the ardent devotion of a life shall repay the rich boon you grant! If there be anything worthy or noble in my soul, as I have dreamed there is, be it yours to call it forth and di- rect it to great objects; and to you, my inspiration and my hope, shall be dedicated all the triumphs of my future career!” He paused, and, perceiving his fair listener drooped, as if with suppressed emotion, believed he had conquered. With rapture, he caught her hand, and was about to pour forth his thanks, when it was promptly snatched away, and, with a wild, gay laugh, Kate sprung up from her seat. ‘‘Ha! ha! Mr. De Lancey, now I understand you! It is only a private rehearsal you are treating me to. Pray, sir, when do you make your first ap- pearance? [I shall certainly attend; for you give great promise of success. What is to be your cha- racter, Claude Melnotte or the Apostate ?”’ “ Enough, lady !” said Rupert, rising, in ill-con- cealed rage and disappointment. “Crush me no more with your scorn! Believe it was a mere play of gallantry, if you will.” There was a depth of anguish in his voice which made Kate half repent her conduct, and she turned to speak with some purpose of softening the blow ; but he was gone. When she again met him in the hall, the almost kindly glance of her eye, in answer to his deprecating look—for Kate felt some remorse at the part she had played—reassured him; and Rupert De Lancey became once more the bright and fascinating cavalier, who, it would scarcely be thought, would plead in vain to beauty. There are some hearts upon which no salutary lesson can be impressed, when vanity and selfish- ness urge them on, and moral principle is wanting to control their desires. Such was Rupert’s. The failure of his designs upon the hand of Kate Welden, and the mortifying exposure he had endured, did not deter him, the moment he believed her silence secure, from pursuing purposes in regard to Myra, in the event of his ill success with the heiress. It was the first time they had met since the un- handsome conduct of Rupert, and, if he expected any weakness on the part of Myra, he was greatly mistaken. Her reception of him—for she did not pretend to avoid him—was calm, quiet, and lady- like. No emotion betrayed itself in cheek or glance ; and, as he expressed it to himself, there was ‘neither love nor the sense gginjury in ber cool eye, when it encountered his.’’ Yet the vanity of Rupert De Lancey would not be convinced that he could be so soon forgotten. When he agamn approached Myra, she was talking to Charles Cal vert.

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MYRA BELL. 53 AAA AAAAAARAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAA AAA AAA AAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAASAAA “ Will Miss Bell favor me with her hand for a cotillion ?’’ he asked, in his blandest tongs. “If you wish it,’’ she replied, quietly. “Can you doubt it?’’ And he bent a meaning glance upon her, as he offered his arm. “Not the present set,’’ said Myra, carelessly, without replying either to look or word; “1 am engaged to Mr. Calvert. The one after, if you choose.” With eager and animated regards, Rupert watched her through the dance; and, when he claimed her hand at the close of the set, he thought she never looked half so beautiful. But few moments were allowed for conversation ere the music again struck up, and the requisitions of the dance, with the unwillingness of his partner to listen to anything of the past, gave De Lancey but little chance to urge his suit. When the cotil- lion had finished, however, he proposed to get an ice for her, and Myra, having really no other en- gagement, and seeing no familiar face near her, could not well refuse. Fate favored De Lancey, for the door near which they stood opened on a small vine-covered portico, with convenient seats, and they had scarcely placed themselves, before a movement in the crowd left that part of the room vacant, and they were once more alone. To say that Myra Bell felt perfectly at her ease would be too much, for she had already perceived, og the part of her companion, a purpose to enter into some explanation, which she would gladly have avoided. It is true, she thoroughly despised him now; but there are memories of love which, even when the passion has faded, and the object is scorned, cannot be altogether destroyed. Poor Myra, however, had no choice, and could only nerve her heart for the trial she would fain have been spared. « Myra,”’ said Rupert, in his dulcet voice, when he perceived they would be uninterrupted. “« Sir,”’ with calm dignity, “to other than my near friends, J am Miss Beli.”’ ‘«¢ And are we enemies, Myra ?” «It needs not a distinction, sir, which would argue more importance in the feelings between us than I am disposed to admit. We are strangers, sir, or, if you please, mere acquaintances.” “Strangers, Myra! Can it be that such a wide guif is between hearts once so fondly knit to- gether ?” «And who made it, sir?’’ demanded she, with rising scorn. “The rash, intemperate passion of your father, and perhaps my own foolish pride,” replied he, with bold hypocrisy. “Tis false! Your own base, fickle nature alone was to blame,’’ said she, rising with dignified mien and flashing eye, her slight form swelling into heroic proportions. ‘‘ But cease these insulting importunities. Let me pass !”’ ; | : : ; AAPA P ADP “Nay, Myra, you must hear me; though for the last time,”’ said he, with subdued and touch- ing pathos, respectfully and gently detaining her. ® Think you that a rash word, or a hasty action, should destroy forever the brightest hopes of the human heart—the first dream of pure, unchanging love? Is that exalted and divine passion _» weak that it cannot withstand a moment’s anger—just anger at a grievous fault, perhaps—against the ob- ject of its devotion? Has forgiveness no part in its principles? Must a single error doom the heart that has loved truly and fondly for years to misery and despair? Nay, hear me!’’ continued he, pas- sionately, for she made an impatient movement to be gone. “I love you! Ihave always loved you! In bitterness and anguish have I repented my fault. In wretchedness must I pass the brief period of my life, if you will not listen to and forgive me. My own, my adored Myra! hear, and answer me!”’ And, as she strove to pass him, he sank on his knees and caught her hand to detain her. “Do hear the gentleman out, my love,” said a clear, silvery voice near them at this moment. ‘“« But you need not trouble yourself to answer him ; for it is only some private theatricals he has gotten He has already gone through the self-same scene with And Kate Welden up to assist my poor entertainment to-night. me in the garden to-night !’’ stepped forward. Who can picture the debasement of feeling that overwhelmed Rupert De Lancey at this interrup- tion? Releasing the hand he had taken, he bowed his head in shame and humiliation, while Myra, glad of escape, took refuge at the side of her friend. ‘Come, dear,’’ said the gay girl, leading her *« Let us leave him to stady some more in- ” away. teresting character; his present one is somewhat ‘stale and unprofitable.’ ”’ And, when they bad gone, Rupert De Lancey rushed madly from the house, his brain on fire and his heart like ice. Whether the lessons he received have corrected the faults of his character we do not know, for he shortly left the neighborhood, as it was said, on ‘a foreign tour.’’ We scarcely think the school a good one; and, perhaps, when he returns, he will only add another to the empty-headed fops who ape the follies, not the virtues, of European society, and are American in nothing but their birth, which they affect to despise. The same day saw Kate Welden and Myra Bell united to those they had chosen both from love and esteem. Kate passed much of her time in the great city, where she was still acknowledged as an orna- ment to the society in which she moved ; but ever the bright summer hours found her again at Oak Lawn, or the favorite guest of the “ dear little cot- tage,”’ where her “sweet Myra” lived, in the un- broken and unregretting happiness of Seconp Love.

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PART 1. Ir was a mild day in the latter part 8f November —a day which properly belonged to Indian Summer: for some reason it was not forthcoming at that season; so it claimed and received a place just as autumn was about to hand over his books to the ‘ruler of the inverted year.” «“ Mr. Gulic,’”’ said Mrs. Jones, standing in the kitchen doorway, and looking towards the hired man who was taking up the last cabbage in the gar- den, “Mr. Gulic,’’? said Mrs. Jones, elevating her voice so that it might overcome the obstacle pre- sented by eight rods intervening space, ‘I want you to do an errand for me this morning ; | want you to go to Mr. Hall’s for me.”’ Mr. Gulic gave intimation by a nod that he com- prehended the nature of her wants, and proceeded to finish his work, saying— «I knew something out of the common line was wanting as soon as [ heard the Mister. It is Ben, at other times. I have no objection to going over to Hall’s—none whatever, especially since Becky He accordingly went to Mrs. Jones is at home.” and received his instructions. This said Mr. Benjamin Franklin Gulic was a tall, heavy-built Yankee, about twenty years old, who had made good use of his eyes as well as his teeth during the greater part of that period. He worked by the year for Mr. Jones. He was the ad- viser, and, to a great extent, director of his employ- er, who had not the enterprise, self-reliance, and talent for command which characterize most of those whose republican liberties with the king’s English mark them as belonging to New England. Mr. Gulic did not move his feet rapidly—on the principle that large bodies move slowly—but he moved them a good distance at each step, and, con- sequently, he was ere long at Mr. Hall’s door. The door was open to receive the rays of the morning sun. On the threshold lay a dog, dreaming with his eyes half open or half shut, as the reader may pre- fer ; opposite the door, in a Windsor arm-chair tilted against the wall, sat Mr. Hall, a stout, oak-faced, gray-headed man, reading his newspaper, which he held out before him at arm’s length, his spectacles being about twenty years too young for him. Mr. Gulie paused for a moment, and cast a contempla- tive look at the dog—perhaps he was comparing his condition with that of a hired man—then applied the knuckle of his middle finger to the door-post, pro- ducing a sound somewhat louder than that produced by the carpet hammer of the housewife, at the blow 54 BY NOADIAH BUCKTHORN, M.D. subsequent to that bestowed upon her left tnumb instead of the nail head. “Walk,” said Mr. Hall, very skillfully combining a growl with an articulate sound. “ Which way ?’’ asked Ben. ** Which way you will,” said the old man, still not taking his eyes from the paper. Ben walked in, and, having waited in vain for an invitation to be seated, he concluded to take a seat without an invitation. The chair which he selected as the instrument for carrying his conclu- sion into effect gave way under the pressure of the “too solid flesh,” pand the law of gravitation, operating with democratic impartiality, drew him towards the centre of the earth till the strong maple floor arrested his progress. The crash and the ca- tastrophe did not divert the old man’s attention from his paper. Ben amused himself by putting the parts of the demolished chair in place, or, to use his own expression, “ by setting the trap for somebody else.”’ He had ample time for this, and also for tracing the journey of a wasp on the wall, before Mr. Hall folded his paper, raised his spectacles on his fore- head, and uttered, in a slightly interrogative tone, the words— “ Folks well?” “They was well when I came here: I should think it likely that they are sick by this time.’’ A slight movement about the corners of Mr. Hall’s mouth showed that a smile was hovering in the vicinity. It came as near lighting on his lips as he usually permitted one to come. ‘* Miss Jones sent me to borrow some things for the apple-bee.”’ ** What is an apple-bee ?”’ “It is somewhere about half way between a honey-bee and a bumble-bee.”’ Mr. Hall was accustomed to affect great igno- rance of all things pertaining to youthful sports and merry-makings : veritable tradition, however, relat- ed that he was famous in his young days for exploits in that line; hence Mr. Gulic thought he gave him ‘such an answer as he deserved.”’ Probably he thought so himself; for another smile made signals, but did not fairly heave in sight. « T s’pose I can have the things ?”’ said Ben. “ What things?” “ All your empty tin pans.”’ “ They’ve got milk in them.” “T should like to see one of your empty tin pans with milk in. It would be about as curious as your way of welcoming a neighbor.” “Who is going to be there ?”’

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KEZIAH JONES’ “Everybody and some others, and I shouldn’t wonder if Mr. Hall were to be there: but give me the pans, or they ’Il have a coroner’s jury together on my account.” Mr. Hall went to the stairs leading to the cellar, and said, ‘“*‘ Mamma, you ’re wanted.” “T can’t leave the kettle; who wants me ?” « Miss Jones wants to borrow your tin pans ” «She can have them.” ‘«Where are they?” ‘| know where they are,”’ said Ben ; “ they stand leaning against the south side of the house like a So saying, he proceeded line of opposition suns.”’ at once to the locality, and, gathering upthe shining utensils, he was moving towards home, when a slight hem from behind a sheet hung on a clothes- line, caused him to stop. Behind said sheet stood Miss Rebecca Sabina Hall, usually called Becky. She appeared to be busy with the clothes-pins, which, however, did not seem to need any attention. That she was standing there for the express pur- pose of exchanging words with Ben, we would by no means affirm; but the fact was she did exchange certain words with him, as will appear perfectly evident when we proceed with the narrative. «“ Did you wash all these clothes?” said Ben, pointing to the array of shirts, sheets, and various articles mentionable and unmentionable which hung on the lines extending from tree to tree, and from post to post, and from fence to fence. * «T did,’’ was the calm reply of the capable female. ‘‘ They are done first rate—come over early, won’t you?” ‘Who are coming ?”’ ‘“« Everybody.” “Did Miss Ogden say she would come ?”’ “ Yes.” « Are Mr. Green’s folks coming?” « They are gone away, you know.” «“ O, yes, so they are. I don’t like to go where there are so many.” ‘The more the All the young folks will be there; Foster is going to shut up store and come.” “It is no matter whether he comes or not. I suppose I must come or give offence.’’ « Don’t forget to come early.” He then went his way, saying to himself, “ You will be fierce enough to go, now that you know that the white-fingered merchant is to be there—he is not a merchant; nothing butaclerk. If I do work out by the year, I ’ll have more money at the end of the year than he will have. Take him, if you want him. I ask no favors of you.” Now Mr. Benjamin Franklin Gulie was a man of truth and veracity in all his statements made to others: his statements made to himself, especially when they related to Becky, could not be depended upon; in fact, they were often the very reverse of truth; they were so in the present case. He did ask most earnestly the favor of her affections, and a life-interest in her person. How it was that he merrier. : ) 5 APPLE BEE. 55 AAAAA PP LPP LPP LPP PLD LD PPD APA APPL PA APL PPA could speak the truth so conscientiously to others, and lie so egregiously to himself, we shall not at- tempt to explain. It is our business, as historians, to furnish facts for the philosophers to work up into systems, We will now give some account of preparations strictly appertaining to the home department. Mrs. Jones was in favor of having the Bee in the kitchen, and brought forward many weighty argu- ments in support of her position. But the result proves that there is no arguing against facts. The fact was that Miss Ellen Ogden—who had spent several months in an incorporated city, and had thus become the arbitress of gentility to the village— had, at the last gathering at her house, not only oc- cupied the “ front room,” but actually fastened the door leading from said front room to the kitchen. It was not opened even to admit the bearer of sun- He was, Ona his way there, bearing a large waiter heavily laden dries for the refreshment of the visitors. therefore, obliged to go round to the front door. with crockery, glass, cake, and sweetmeats, he walked into an external cellar-way, making a de- scent of about six feet in a single step. There was a crash of crockery, and a loud utterance of some very unnecessary and inharmonious expletives, and a still louder peal of laughter from old Mr. Ogden, The old gentleman was no friend to genteel innovations. who sat in the kitchen chimney corner. Miss Ellen Ogden’s example was, therefore, con- clusive against having the young folks in the kitchen. the “front room.””> The room prepared ; and, as the evening cool, it was necessary to have They must occupy must, therefore, be would doubtless be a fire lighted there. The fire was lighted about the middle of the after- noon ; but the smoke manifested a very unaccommo- dating, and in fact quite a rebellious, spirit. Instead of ascending the chimney, it pursued an opposite course. It most irreverently took possession of all parts of the room, and rolled itself up in folds near the ceiling, as if to get out of Keziah’s reach. Some very combustible materials were then pro- cured, and a blaze was produced, in the hope that it would prove more tractable. Alas! it caught the spirit and followed the example of the smoke, and with increased energy and insolence. Its first act was to fly into Keziah’s face, as she was kneeling on the hearth kindly fanning it into existence. It then reached its forky tongue almost to the middle of the room, and then curled it over the mantel-piece to the great peril of a curiously-wrought paper bas- ket, the visible proof of Keziah’s attendance at a select school. It then seemed smitten with a sud- den impulse to examine the chimney; whereypon the chimney took fire, to the infinite terror of Mrs. Jones, who was sure the house would be burnt, with all things animate and inanimate thereunto appertaining. To make sure of saving something, she seized a heavy iron kettle filled with water, and carried it so far from the house that it would not be likely to be set on fire by the falling sparks

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GODEY’S 56 ————orrrrroOem As soon as the chimney was fairly on fire, both the flame and the smoke seemed to think all the fun lay in that direction. They accordingly went up the chimney as steadily as if they had never gone anywhere else. The smoke in the room, receiving no reinforcement, stole quietly out of the open door, and disappeared as quickly as possible. The room was then put in order; a table was placed in the centre, and all the chairs in the house, except one for Mr. Jones, were ranged close to each other around the walls of the room. By “early candle-light’”’ about twenty girls were assembled. They were as talkative as it may be supposed twenty girls, in a room without their mo- thers or men, would be. “Why don’t the gentle- men come ?’’ was asked mentally by more than one. At length footsteps were heard approaching. The girls who happened to be standing took their seats. All the chairs on the side of the room opposite the door were, in a moment, filled with maidens as de- mure, for the time being, as the most precise could desire. Suddenly there was a loud stamping on the door-step, a very energetic mode of divesting one’s boots of snow or dust, preparatory to an entrance. The stamping, and the faint knock which succeeded, were followed within by a most profound silence, which was broken only by the suspirations of one whose ideal beauty of form was manifestly either the hour-glass or the wasp. Keziah opened the door, and the young gentlemen found themselves in full view of an unbroken line of silent beauty, in the face of which they were expected to advance. They faltered—each pressed his neighbor to go forward. No little confusion was apparent. Among other truths then and there illustrated, was the important one that geometry cannot claim a monopoly of angles. After some delay, an entrance was effected. The chairs opposite the girls were secured. The door was left open. No one seemed disposed to risk the loss of his post by rising to close it. Some of the ladies wore short sleeves, that is, had bare arms—the alabaster smoothness of which was seriously affected by the ingress of the cold evening air. A daring fellow at length arose and closed the door. Along the lines thus formed there was a silence as deep and almost as expressive as that which sometimes precedes a battle. Afler a while, there were some whisperings on the part of the girls, and a suppressed giggle; but the young men preserved a profound silence and a most praiseworthy gravity. The seats seemed somewhat harder than those to monumental which they had been accustomed; and it was pretty plain that most of them wished they had left their hands at home. A rap, as with a walking-stick, was heard at the door. “ That is Mr. Foster,” whispered one. Miss Becky blushed at the sound either of the knock or the name. Keziah opened the door, and Mr. Ben- jamin F. Gulic stood before her, dressed in his best. He walked in with as much dignity as if he had come from California instead of the chamber over DADRA PPR PDD PDP PALA D LA RP MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. wm PPO Onna Wr rrr the kitchen. He sat down, and, for a moment, imi- tated the gravity of his peers. He then turned to the most solemn one present, and asked him what No answer was was the state of the moonshine. given ; but the question greatly lightened the pres sure of the constraint under which all present labor- ed. Conversation began, at first, indeed, in whis- pers, but soon several spoke out loud. ‘‘ | was under the impression,”’ said Mr. G., “that this was to be an Apple-Bee, but I don’t see the ap- ples.” ‘* Bring them on,” said one of the boldest; “let us have something to do.” Ben and Keziah then brought a corn basket full of apples, which were placed on the table. A tin pan was given to each damsel. The young men then distributed the apples, and the work of paring began. As there were no pans for the gentlemen, it was ne- cessary for each one to sit beside a lady, and drop his parings into the pan, which held a place of greater or less security upon her lap. A better con- trivance for a téte-d-téts was never devised. PART II. Mr. Benjamin Gulic had managed to secure a seat by the side of Miss Rebecca Sabina Hall, and was paring with great skill and rapidity, letting the parings fall into the pan, which was in or rather on the fair one’s lap. This of course rendered it ne- cessary that he should sit very near her. «“ When are Mr. Foster’s folks coming home ?” said Becky. *« Can’t say,’’ was Benjamin’s laconic reply. “ Do they trade a good deal at their store ?” “ Can’t say.” “JT should not think it would do to shut up the store.”’ Mr. Benjamin Gulic did not see fit to intimate whether he did or did not agree with her in opinion. He saw that her mind was running on Mr. Foster, the popular clerk; that she was speculating on the probabilities of his coming to the Bee. «How thick you pare your apples!’’ exclaimed Becky. “Keziah, Mr. Gulic is paring your apples all away !” Keziah was too much occupied with her partner to heed the remark. “Get somebody to pare with you who can suit you better,”’ said Ben, in a low voice. and left the room, under the pretence of procuring a fresh supply of apples. He walked forth and took a survey of the stars, though not usually given to « That girl,” said he to himself confidentially, ‘that girl,’’ He then rose astronomical speculations. we do not quote his words accurately, for we wish to make them a little more complimentary to the lady than they really were, “ wants to know why that soft-handed and sofi-headed clerk isn’t here. She may have him, and see if tape and molasses will keep her m as good ease as the northern farm would.”

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KEZIAH JONES'S APPLE BEE. 5?

~~ The northern farm was expected to come into Mr. Benjamin F, Gulic’s possession in the spring. Like a sensible man, he was desirous of finding some one whom it might be made over to with him *< jointly.” “1 ll let her alone,’ said Benjamin to himself; and, fearing lest his ear should fail to catch the re- mark, he repeated it several times with great dis- tinctness. Having thus finished his communications to himself, he seized a basket of apples, and returned to the scene of operations. In placing it on the table, which we have already said was in the centre of the room, the table was overthrown. This caused the overthrow of several girls with tin pans full of ap- ples in their laps. Table, pans, girls, and apples were thus mingled in sweet confusion on the floor, while shrieks of affected terror and shouts of un- affected laughter filled the house, and brought Mr. Jones to the door of the apartment. A grim smile was upon his lips as he surveyed the scene, and a profound silence followed his appearance. Ben picked up the table, the young men picked up the girls, and the girls picked up the pans, and the girls and young men together picked up the apples, during which operation many heads were accidentally brought in contact, and, what was very remarkable, it was invariably a male and female head that came in contact. It must have been something in the combs. A more definite and satisfactory account of the cause of the overthrow of the table can be given. During Mr. Gulic’s absence, Mr. Foster entered and seated himself in the chair left vacant by the side of Miss Becky. The sight of him in that place had no tendency to compose Mr. Gulic’s nerves and to increase his physical strength, while it had a tend- ency to increase both the gravity of the apples and of his countenance. Accordingly, when the basket was set on the table, it overthrew it. When order was restored, paring was resumed. Mr. Foster retained his seat by Miss Becky, and, with a silver knife, daintily proceeded in the work ; he was evidently afraid of soiling his hands. Benja- min took his place by the side of a very quiet girl who was always behind somebody. It was plain that he was not pleased with the exchange of seats and of partners. He did not sit so near Miss Miils as he did to Miss Becky. He pared slowly, silently, and thickly. But, however great may have been his loss, it was counterbalanced by Miss Becky’s gain. She was manifestly delighted with the exchange. She talked and laughed very loudly, though her partner’s ideas of gentility led him to speak in a tone little elevated above a whisper. This was both pleasant and painful to Miss Becky. It was pleasant as in- dicative of confidential communications: painful, as it made his complimentary remarks inaudible to the company She was driven to the necessity of ask- ing him, in a tone adapted to set ears a listening, «« What did you say ?” and again to repeat some of his remarks with a large exclamation point after VOL. LxIv.—6

them. By this means she managed to convey to Ben and*to others “what was going on between them.” Ben at length determined, as a means of self-de- fence, or of retaliation, to appear to enjoy his posi- tion. Asa preliminary, he brought his chair nearer to that of Miss Mills, and leaned over further, so that his parings might fall nearer the centre of the pan. He put forth his best skill in paring, and made a few general observations, which were replied to in a very sweet tone of voice. Ere long they found themselves talking sense, as he afterwards said—a fact that evidently throws the date of our history somewhat into the past. He began to feel better satisfied with the exchange he had made, and was stimulated to carry on two somewhat distinct trair.s of thought—the one necessary to the conversation with Miss Mills, the other relating to a comparison of her qualities, personal, mental, and social, with those of Miss Becky. The latter led himself occa- sionally to make irrelevant replies to Miss Mills’ remarks. By ten o’clock, so busily had both male and fe- male fingers been employed, the apples were finished and set aside, the table restored to its usual place, and it was proposed to proceed to play—not cards, city reader, but several exceedingly exciting and in- nocent games which you know nothing about. Sev- eral were proposed, but they were all objected to by Miss Sophia Stebbins, who had been one quarter at a boarding-school, for which (extras included) her father had paid $25 50, as not sufficiently intellect- ual. This threw quite a shade over the prospect; for the Yankee, as is well known, is a logical animal, and it is more than suspected that the intellectual and the logical are nearly allied. If a thing is not intellectual, it is not logical, and if it is not logical 1t is not to be done. The Yankee prefers the logical to everything—except money. Miss Sophia was asked to name a play. She remarked, in reply, that her taste was no rule for others—she was peculiar. Miss Benson (the mis- tress of the boarding-school) thought her remark- ably peculiar. She must confess she should prefer some literary conversation to anything else. “So should I,” said Mr. Gulic, gravely. “If I knew where to find it, I would go and get a basket full.’’ This remark made Miss Sophia’s face very red, and all the rest of the company very good natured. It was followed by an explosion of laughter, which was followed by sundry plays in which the intellect- ual young lady gradually became more and more interested. Finally it was voted nem. con. to have a game of hide-and-seek. The hiding and the hunt- ing were in couples. Miss Becky and Mr. Foster were together, and so were Miss Mills and Mr. Gu- lic. Mr. Gulic had two things to attend to. One was to secure a good hiding-place for himself and partner, and the other to observe that of Miss Becky and Mr. Foster. The latter took possession of a small pantry, which was known in Mr. Jones’s

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58 establishment by the name of pie-pantry. They remained in it for some time—until, overhearing the expressed purpose of the seekers to search it, they stole out, and entered silently an apartment which had already been examined. Mr. Gulic, shrewdly suspecting that they would return to the pie-pantry, entered it, and placed in the only chair it contained a pumpkin pie, which was made not in an ordinary tin, but in an earthen vessel which formed the sec- tion of a sphere. The depth of the pumpkin was an inch and a half in the centre, from which point it shoaled gradually to the circumference. As Mr. Gulick had foreseen, Becky and her companion re-entered the pantry. A shriek was soon heard, which caused Ben to seize a candle, and rush to see what was the matter, or, rather, to speak with strict accuracy, to let others see. The demolished pie, and Miss Becky’s soiled dress, revealed the cause of the outcry. For a moment there was a contest between a feeling of sympathy for the poor girl’s discomfiture, and a sense of the ludicrous; the latter prevailed, though, to their credit it must be spoken. Sundry of the girls were taken with sudden fits of coughing, and others were seized with an insatiable desire for water, which led them to go in search of Miss Becky at once set out for home; she was attended by Mr. it in divers very improbable places. Foster—a partial recompense for her mishap. An animated discussion of the question, “How came the pie in the chair?” took place. Mr. Gulic took no part in it. Some one suggested that it was placed there when taken from the oven, and its weight was in the way of elevating it toa shelf. As no better explanation was offered, it was accepted, just as the larger portion of our historical facts are. After this interlude, the game of hide-and-seek Miss Stebbins, with the magnanimity becoming a superior mind, to In the course of this second game, Mr. Gulic and Miss If the reader is a Yankee, he knows what that term means; and if he is not, here is proof positive that he knows less than a Yankee. Ben and his partner concealed themselves in a clothes-press, and, of course, Were in total darkness, and in very close contact. Ben felt a great fluttering, and was on the point of asking what it was, when he found that it was the poor girl’s heart. It occurred to him that it was very doubtful whether Becky had any heart to flutter. Many thoughts rushed through his brain while he was in that press, pressed close to the side of Mary Mills. She was slimmer and handsomer than Becky; hada softer voice and a milder eye; she did not pretend to live without work ; everybody said she was not proud; and yet she was always as neat What a fool he had been that he had not thought of her before! How grateful she looked when he brought those early apples to her sick mo- ther! How good she looked when she watched day and night by Mrs. Alleut’s sick child! “ All found but Ben and Mary,” said a loud voice; was renewed with increased vigor. condescended engage in it heartily. Mills concealed themselves in a elothes-press. as a pink. MAGAZINE | | | | | BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM AND LADY’S BOOK. “where are they?’’ Ben drewa little nearer to Mary, whose heart fluttered still worse. Sbe made a slight effort to move a little from him, but as she was firmly planted against the wall, which did not give way, the effort was not successful. “TI won’t hurt you,”’ whispered Ben; “ you are the last being in the world I would hurt.” Whether Mary lacked confidence in his veracity, { cannot say; but she made another effort to get fur- ther off, which resulted (as such womanly efforts often do) in a closer céntact. «‘ They are in the clothes-press,’’ said the voice above alluded to. ‘They are not up stairs, and they are not down cellar, nor in the long room, nor pantry, nor anywhere else, and so they must be here.” It was at length suggested to the seeker, who remained at the door of the press, that he should examine the premises in question, and thus test the truth of his reasonings, which suggestion he proceeded to act upon. As he was entering, Miss Mills made an effort to pass out, and as Ben made an effort to de- tain her till they were fairly discovered, there was a struggle, during which Mary’s cheek came very near Ben’s face. In considering the matter at a sub- sequent period, when he was cool, and consequently his judgment unbiased, he remarked to himself, confidentially of course, ‘It is reasonable to suppose that, under the circumstances of the case, I must have kissed her—indeed I have very little doubt about it—in fact, I remember it distinctly.” There is always some considerable excitement connected with the breaking up of a party like the one under consideration. There is always sope embarrassment among the rustic gentlemen when bonnet and shawl time comes. He who can walk up boldly to a lady, and proffer his services to see her home, is regarded with envy. Now Miss Mary Mills, as I have said, was always Lehind some body, and, of course, she would not be one of the first to receive an offer of attendance home. It happened, on this occasion, that she was the last one accessi- ble, and that Ben was left to go with ber. It was with more than ordinary embarrassment that he offered her his arm, and, though she accepted it, she kept at a very respectful distance from him as they walked along towards her mother’s humble dwell- ing. Ben felt that he had a great deal that he wanted to say to her, but did not know what to begin with He thought of saying “the moon is most down ;”’ but, as they were walking towards the west, it was to be presumed that she was already as well con- vinced of that fact as she would be after his most solemn assertion He thought of many other things, but in every case some valid objection presented itself, so that, though they had half a mile to walk, they reached the door stone before a word was spoken. Ben began to grow desperate, and at length succeeded in asking, in by no means a musical tone, « Shall you be at home to-morrow evening ?’’ «* No, I am going away to-morrow,” voice so sweet and plaintive that a mist gathered over Ben’s eyes. said she, in a

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MODEL COTTAGE _— PP PPL PPP PIPPI IIIA AAA ————— eee *“ Where to?” said he, too much interested in the matter to pay much attention to the manner of his phrase. ‘““To Western New York.” “ How long are you going to stay?” «« Till next spring.”’ “¢ What for ?”’ “To teach school. feeble to work as she does. as we can both make by our needles here. board this winter, and not take in any work, but take care of her health.” * Don’t go.” “T must.” “You must not—I—I—” There is no telling what Ben might have said, if the door had not open- ed, and Mrs. Mills had not appeared. “ Good night,’’ said Mary. “Good night,’ said Ben; -and he went home to pass a sleepless night. The next morning he went early to Mrs. Mills, uader pretence of purchasing her corn. “Why did you not tell me sooner that you were goiug ?’’ said he to Mary. My mother’s health is too I am offered as much She is to 59 ‘T told you as soon as it came natural for me to 1 did not suppose you felt any particular interest in my movements.” ‘But I do, and I can’t bear to have you go’’— and a tear broke out of bounds and ran across his cheek. “ The stage has come,’’ said Mrs. Mills. “Good-by, mother,’ giving her a fervent em- brace. ‘Good-by, Mr. Gulic,’’ extending her hand. Ben walked by her side to the stage, saying, on the way, “ Take care of yourself, and don’t feel uneasy I will take as good care of her Mary gave hima do so. about your mother. as if she were my own mother.”’ look of thanks, which, as he afterwards said, he got framed and hung up in his memory. He kept his promise in regard to Mrs. Mills. Perhaps he made her write to her daughter a little more frequently than was perfectly convenient; but the accounts of his fidelity to his promise, which the letters con- tained, prepared Mary, on her return in the spring, to consent to his having a legal right to call Mrs. Mills moi her—a right which he assumed in advance. Early in April they jointly took possession of the Northern farm. A Dwelling for a Smail Family. Accommodation.—Here, Pig. 2, we have a colon- nade, which serves as a porch; a vestibule, a; a parlor, 4; a kitchen, with a stair to two bedrooms in the roof, ¢; a bedroom on the ground floor, d; a pantry, e; two closets, f, g; and water-closet, or pantry, k. The two bedrooms over ¢ and d may be lighted by dormer windows, and by the small opening seen in the upper part of the gable end. Construction. — The platform on which this oer dwelling is built 1s sustained by masonry, which, on three sides, supports the columns of the veranda or colonnade. These columns may either be of stone, of brick, stuecoed, or of timber; in either case, set on stone plinths, and with stone caps. The roof should be slated, with large courses at the The chimney gable ends, terminating in pinnacles. tops are plain, like’ the columns. The garden, F ig. 3, containing about three-fourths of an acre, is here shown surrounded by a hedge. This hedge might, in many cases, be formed of

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GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. Fig. 2. (PPP PLP PPL PP PPP fruit-bearing shrubs, such as plums, apples, sloes, service or mountain ash, the berries of which afford an excellent spirit; or elders, the berries of which make a well-known wine. Whichever de- scription of fruit-bearing plant is used, the branches must be pruned with a knife, and not clipped with shears ; because clipping, by producing an exube- rance of weak, young shoots, prevents the plants from forming blossom buds. If it should be desir- able to have a very formidable fence, the hedge might consist of two rows; the inner one of fruit- bearing plants, and the outer one of hawthorns or hollies. There is scarcely any situation, either on hills or by the sea-shore, in which the elder will not thrive, and its fruit is always valuable. The mode of laboring and cropping the ground may be as follows: trench compartment ¢ three spits deep, and plant with the cabbage tribe* ma- 0 Ae, BPA nure and dig 4, and plant with potatoes; trench Z two spits deep, and sow with root crops, such as turnips, carrots, parsnips, onions, &c.; manure and dig m, and crop with peas, beans, and kidney beans. According to this rotation, in the second year, ¢ will be manured and dug only, and will be under pota- toes; & will be trenched two spits deep, and under root crops ; ¢ will be manured, dug, and under legu- minous plants; and m will be trenched three spits deep, and under the cabbage tribe. Thus, a new stratum of soil will be brought up to the surface every other year: in the first year, what was the bottom becomes the top; in the second, the top is turned over; in the third, the middie becomes the top; and, in the fourth, this middle is turned over. Manure is applied every second year. This is enough to give a general idea of howa garden ought to be labored, manured, and cropped. “-". a a ~ 4. 4” SO? ge ° ~«

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THE PHILADELPHIA The smaller compartments may be cropped as follows : », with gooseberries ; 0, with currants and raspberries ; p, with strawberries ; g, with aspara- gus; r, with sea-kale; s, with tart rhubarb; ¢, with Jerusalem artichokes; and «, with perennial, or what is called Good Henry spinach (Chenopodium Bonus Henricus). The border which surrounds the RIDIN SCHOOL. 61 eee ww on garden may be devoted to the smaller crops, such as salads, herbs, &c.; and to early crops, such as peas and potatoes. The space immediately surrounding the cottage should be ornamented with flowers and flowering shrubs. The trees at the corners of the compartments should be standard apples, pears, cherries, and plums. D f I Tr ti ao We have been requested to give a more ample description of the celebrated ide school alluded to in our article in the July number,* and with plea- sure resume a subject which is of so much im- portance to the health of our fair countrywomen. Much is due to Mr. Craig, the proprietor of the establishment, for the liberality and perseverance with which he has presented every inducement to the study of horsemanship, for the past ten years, to ladies who have carried with them a taste for this most admirable accomplishment to homes in distant parts of the country. It is a centre from which much good has gone forth, and, as such, is well worth the attention of our lady readers. The school was established, as nearly as we can discover, about 1846, and, though various others have been commenced, meantime, none have survived the same term of years. About three years ago, the present beautiful building was completed, and since then the classes* have continued to increase in size and excellence. ; As we enter the second floor, we find a gallery well warmed in winter, as, indeed, the whole build- ing is, and furnished with comfortable settees. Here we are at liberty to place ourselves, no matter whether we have a friend among the pupils or not, and watch the animated scene. Every now and then, a bevy of fresh arrivals come gayly up from the principal entrance, and ascend to the dressing- room just above us, where, in the multitude of skirts and hats, you would wonder how they ever find their own. But it is done; and the robing is ac- complished amid jests and merry laughter, for they are all on speaking terms, at the least in class, though the acquaintance need not be considered as such out of doors, unless the young ladies please. This apartment has the usual complement of shelves, hooks, and mirrors; for many make an entire toilet, and come down arrayed in hat and habit, as if for the road. There is no particular etiquette upon this point observed, save that, in the height of the sea- son, when the classes are full, we notice fewer bonnets and more hats, habits instead of sacques, and gauntlets for gloves, Indeed, the class has anything but uniformity in costume, as they stand here before us, while the horses are led into the * ‘*A Plea for Equestrians.’’ By Alice B. Neal. 6* IA RIDING SCHOOL. centre of the arena by careful grooms, each properly accoutred with side-saddle, reins, etc., precisely as if for the road. Now the discussion commences ; for every lady has, of course, her favorite horse, which she is par- ticularly anxious to ride, and particularly sure “Mr. Craig won’t give” to her. Some go into rap- tures over the trot of ‘* Night,’’ the canter of «‘ Gene- or “ Romeo’s”’ delightful rack. is given, and now one after another gathers up her skirt, takes whip and reins in her right hand, and, placing her left foot in her teacher’s hand, springs No mistakes, no slips, no awkward- , ral,’ But the signal to the saddle. ness; they vault as lightly as if they belonged to the Ravel troupe, and some of them with quite as much grace. And here be it remarked, that mount- ing, though the easiest point in equestrianism, often seems the most difficult to a beginner. She is so afraid she shall slip, or commit an awkward- ness, that she loses all her confidence, when, if the escort understands his part, it is no less easy, after one or two trials—if not easier—than enter- ing a carriage gracefully. Nevertheless, it is a point that tells the practiced rider. Watch that pale-faced school-girl in the gray skirt—how timidly she approaches her horse !—from behind, too, as no- vices are apt to, being less afraid of heels than teeth! She puts her hand to the horn of the saddle, forgetting all about her reins, until reminded of them by Mr. Craig. See, she has her whip in her left hand—and how she blushes when asked what she intends to do with it there! But, at last, she is in her seat; and, drawing her reins loosely through the wrong fingers, of course, her horse moves at his own gait to the side. Here is ancther—that tall, fine figure in the green habit. How boldly she walks up to the head of her steed, patting the smooth neck that arches with the recognition, and talking all sorts of cajoling flat- “ fine fellow!” as she 0? teries to the “ good fellow ! does so. Of course, he understands her—the tone, if not the words—and winks gcood-naturedly, as much as to say, “Oh, I know you; none of the awkward squad, that’s certain.”” But Mr. Craig is waiting ; and, taking her reins in her right hand, she vaults to her séat, changes the reins to her left in an instant, and rises unassisted in the saddle to arrange her dress properly ; then, drawing her reins

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GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. OPP PPI perfectly straight in the centre, leaving the curb lighter than the other, she moves the horse forward with a single steady pressure of the reins. Now all are mounted, and walking their horses, a cavalcade of twenty or more, around the area, nearly two hundred feet in length, and fifty in width. All this space has its soft flooring of clean tan, is lighted from the roof, as well as side windows, thus giving a perfect ventilation, a most desirable thing in such a hall. Now faster and faster, to a gentle rack, past the Wissahicon views upon the wall— for we have paintings in oil the whole length—and gallery of interested spectators. The lookers-on have increased in number. There are cousins, uncles, and fathers. Lovers, too, who are looking forward to the next summer’s happy rides, in privi- leged téte-d-téte, through shady lanes and under sunset skies. The canter commences, and mur- mured comments arise. ** Do look at Anne, how well she holds herself! I had no idea she rode so well !”’ “That little girl in the crimson polka is just the one to ride ‘Tom.’ She ’s not afraid to use her whip.” « Oh, see, Mr. Craig strikes Miss Jenkins’ horse! Dear me, what an obstinate creature! And see how pale she is !”’ « Well done, Sallie! That trot is perfect! Rise a little more, my dear. There—easier—that’s it.” And the admiring father leans over the railing to watch Miss Sallie, as she disappears down the bridle path. Here comes our timid school-girl, the identical Miss Jenkins, perfectly white with nervous fear, and clinging to the horn of the saddle—a habit we so well remember to have been scolded a whole term for, and the most natural bad habit in the world. Mr. Craig is riding beside her, now sco!d- ing, now coaxing, now ridiculing. Oh, well, she will grow braver in time. But look! Miss Sallie sweeps along, green habited, black beavered, rising gracefully in the saddle, not so high as to be jockey- tsh, and looking perfectly at home on her well- managed steed. She has not touched her whip since she mounted; nor does it hang in a perpen- dicular line in her right hand, as does little Miss N.’s. How Mr. Craig has lectured the last lady for the ungraceful fashion ! The hour is not quite up; but we must go. Even now others are arriving to take the places of those now in the ring. The rapid canter, in which horse and rider formed so brilliant a kaleidoscope, is sub- siding into a quiet walk, and we must leave for morning engagements; though the present class will linger to criticize, good-naturedly, and perhaps admire, their successors, learning their own faults by contrast as well as example. So much for a hasty sketch of a morning lesson in our best riding school; the best in the country, so far as our experience and observation are con- eerned. There is no excuse for its pupils, if they . wee —o en on tactile nin nietetc ttatdnch dt etch OT OTe e eee eee eer are not accomplished horsewomen ; and for those of our readers who cannot have the advantages which it offers, we would suggest that firmness and gentleness are the two essentials jn managing a horse as well as a child; and, like many ladies we know, they may be coaxed when they cannot be driven. But we may have more to say on this matter at a later day; for, as we have so often said the accomplishment is one for which American wo- men should be distinguished above all others, their peculiarly fragile and delicate frames needing its bracing and strengthening effects. ad BENEDICTUS. BY R. T. CONRAD. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away: Blessed be the name of the Lord. Buirssep be Thy name forever, God of merey, God of might! Of all gracious gifts the giver, Of all life the Lord and Light! Bless Thee for the rest of even, Bless Thee for the joy of day; ‘ Peace on earth, and hope of heaven— Blesséd ever, blesséd aye! Not for these alone, O Father! Bless Thee, not for joys alone: For the griefs that round me gather, For my misery and my moan ; Bless Thee, with a bowed heart’s blessing, For the good that seems the ill: Whether chast’ning or caressing, Bless Thee, Father, bless Thee still ! Bless Thee for the awakening sorrow, Weeping o’er the early dead, Tearful night and mournful morrow, Sinking heart and aching head ! Bless Thee, Lord, for thou dost love me When with sickness thou dost smite ; Bless Thee for the clouds above me, ?Tis Thy mercy makes them bright! Blest the tempest o’er me sweeping, For o’er Thee the storm hath swept ; Blest my weariness and weeping— Let me weep, for Thou hast wept! Bless Thee! every grief ’s a token Calling me to Thee away ; Break, my heart! for thine was broken ; Bless Thee ever, bless Thee aye! Bless Thee, for the soul that yearneth, With a lowly love for Thee! Bless Thee, for the love which burneth Thine, in life and death, to be! Bless Thee, for the life which liveth, Vapor-like, to pass away! Bless Thee, for the death that giveth Life to bless Thee, Lord, for aye!

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Tue following very interesting article will, we are sure, please our lady readers. All of them, no doubt, use the needle, but few are aware of the trouble of making it. The art of needle-making, in many of its depart- ments, presents much that is generally, or, to use a term commonplace enough, popularly interesting to a large class of readers; yet remarkably little is known as to the manner in which the tiny article in question is produced ; and, of the immense number of the ‘‘needle-using population,”’ but a small pro- portion have a due conception of the operations and processes through which a needle goes, from its rough form to the beautifully polished instrument used oft “by ladye fair, and maide of low degree.”’ Our illustrations represent a needle in its various stages of progression: in noticing these, we shall attempt to describe the nature of the operations, in detail, as fully as the very limited space at our dis- posal will admit of. Brief as this must necessarily be, we trust that it may be worthy of a small cor- ner—in keeping with the tiny article of which it treats—in the boudoir of the lady, or the little wall- nook or humble book-shelf of the peasant-girl’s home § ; ; | ? Needles, as all our readers are aware, are made of steel, the steel being made into thin wire, of a diameter proportionate to the fineness of the needles to be made. As the wire is brought to the factory in circular bundles, the first operation is untying them and cutting the wire into certain determi- nate lengths. A pair of shears, of rather large dimensions, are fixed to the wall of the cutting- shop, having the blades uppermost; one limb is fastened, the other is loose. The workman is pro- vided with a gauge, by which the length of the wire to be cut off is determined. Uncoiling the bundle of wire, he puts the end into the gauge, and placing the series of wires forming the thickness of the coil between the blades of the shears, he presses against the loose limb with his thigh, and, by moving the coil up and down to assist the cutting action, he speedily severs the lengths from the coil. Pro- ceeding thus, he cuts off a series of lengths till the coil is exhausted: out of one coil, he may thus ob- tain as many as 40,000 distinct wires. The coil being circular, it is evident that each individual wire must partake somewhat of its curvilinear shape ; in fact,each is far from being straight. Fig. 1 is a fac-simile of the wire at this stage As one 63

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64 of the requisites of a needle is that it shall be straight, the next process is to straighten all the wires. Supposing two of the curved wires in Fig. 1 to be placed in the palm of one hand, and rubbed quickly, backwards and forwards, by the fingers of the other, a slight straightening would ensue ; but, if the needles were removed to a hard flat surface, as a table, the operation would be much facilitated. If, however, a dozen or two of wires were to be placed on the table, and so kept as to lie close to one another, and then rubbed, the pieces, rolling one upon another, would soon be straightened, as the round part of one would roll upon the flat part of another, and thus, by the continuance of the pro- This is, in fact, the rationale of the process carried on at Two rings of iron cess, the whole wires would be straightened. this stage of the manufacture. are provided, some three inches in diameter, half an inch broad, and the same thick ; these are placed a distance apart, on a flat stone slab, some eighteen or twenty inches from the ground. The distance between the rings is such that, when the wires are placed within them, the ends are flush or even with the outer surfaces Supposing a number of wires are placed thus, sufficient to fill the interior of the rings one-half of their diameter or so; the whole are fastened tightly in, and plated in a furnace and heated to a red heat. They are then taken out, placed on the slab, and the fastening removed, so that all the wires are free to move one upon another. The workman then takes a piece of curved iron, some inch and a half broad, and half an inch thick : he places the curved or convex side of this on the top row of wires between the rings, and, pressing forcibly by means of his hands at either end of the iron, works the rings briskly backwards and for- wards on the slab. By this means the wires are kept rolling upon each other, and continually shift- ing their places, thus presenting a new portion of The shifting of the wires may easily be ascertained by their surfaces to the action of their neighbors. inserting a piece of cold wire, which, being black, is easily observable among its red neighbors. Near the bottom of the ring, in a few seconds it will be seen at the top, its course being distinctly traced, winding the When cold, the wires are all straight, as shown in Fig. 2. The next operation is the pointing. its eccentric Way amongst others. In order to save time, each wire is long enough to form two needles; each is therefore pointed at both ends, as seen in Fig. 3. The grindstones by which the wires are pointed are of small diameter, not more than ten or twelve inches, but they revolve at an immense velocity, the moving power being gene- rally’ water-wheels. Each grinder sits on a low stool, in front of the grindstone, a small trough of water being placed before him. Taking up sixty or one hundred needles, according to their quality, he places them on the palm of the right hand, so that the ends project over the length of the forefinger. Next placing the left-hand fingers on those, the MAGAZINE 74 4 ; ; ; 2 $ 2 ; ; ; ; i 2 ; ; ; < § ‘ § 2 2 ; § 4 § < 5 : $ 5 4 5 5 ANT a a% OOK. LADY’sS E

thumb grasping the back of the right, he is enabled so to move the whole range of wires that they may rotate with ease on their axes, and yet without roll- ing over one another. He then applies the points of the wires to the rapidly revolving grindstone : if he held them always in one direction, the action of the stone would be such that the points would be beviled off like chisels ; but by the fingers he makes them all to revolve, thus giving to each a gently tapering and perfectly round point. As the wires are apt to project unequally over the finger, thus presenting one wire longer than another to the grindstone, the workman every now and then strikes the points gently against an upright flat-faced piece of timber, somewhat in the same manner as a per son shuffling a pack of cards makes them all even by knocking their ends upon the table. On the wires becoming red-hot, the workman dips them into the trough of water placed before him. A bril liant stream of fiery sparks is continually passing from the points. The matter thus evolved being in haled into the lungs of the workmen, formerly ren The deleterious products are now, however, by the use dered them a peculiarly short-lived race. of a powerful fan, drawn away from the zone of re- spiration as soon as they are produced. The trade is now as healthy ‘as any other. The operation of grinding is exceedingly interesting, and presents an exemplification of the dexterity attainable by long practice in any one branch; but this remark is equally applicable to many other departments in the manufacture of needles. A good workman can point upwards of 10,000 in an hour. It is amusing to see the rapidity with which he will take up a handful of wires, point an end of them all, and turn- ing them so as to present the other ends to the stone, lay them aside perfectly puinted at both ends. The wires thus pointed are next taken to the “stamping shop,” and here the wire first gains its approach to a needle. Each needle is to be rounded at the head, and have a hole made there, called the eye, as also an indented channel on each side, called the “ round form, and marks the place of the eye-hole. A gutter’ of the head ; the stamping makes the wooden-framed stand, or table, is provided, with a massive anvil, on the upper surface of which is placed a die or design in intaglio, similar to that shown in Fig. 5; a weight is suspended by a rope over a pulley placed above the table, and plays be- tween two vertical guides; the same design as in the die is made on the lower surface of the weight, but in relief, or protruding from the surface. The lower end of the rope sustaining this weight is pro- vided with a stirrup, in which the workman can place his foot. Standing before the table, he takes a number of needles in his left hand, and with his right places each wire exactly in its centre on the lower anvil or die, and letting the weight drop sud- denly, by raising his foot, the design is impressed on the centre of the wire, on both sides, as seen in Fig. 4. Fig. 5 is an enlarged view of the centre part of the wire. The round circles are the places through

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NEEDLES. RPP which the eye-holes are to be punched; they are very slightly indented at this stage, merely enough to denote their situation. By depressing his foot, the workman lifts the weight, and places another wire on the die, allowing the weight to drop sud- denly, as before: the impression is made, and the wire cast aside, to be replaced by another, and so on. So rapidly is the process gone through, that it is actually inducive of an optical deception. The workman takes each wire from his left hand, places it upon the die, withdraws it, and throws it aside to take up another, so very quickly, that a quick-eyed witness of the operation actually believes that it is but one and the same needle that the operator is moving out and in. Considerable nicety is required in the stamping, as each wire is to be placed so that it will be struck exactly on the centre; the chief guide to aid him is the eye; and so rapidly does he become aware of its being wrong-placed, that he arrests the fall of the weight at any particular point of its descent: indeed, the facility with which he can do this by the immediate action of the foot is not the least remarkable matter observable in this department. The eye-holes are next to be punched. This operation is generally performed by little boys. A small screw-punch is used for this purpose. The lower end of the punch is provided with two pro- jecting points placed at a distance from each other, exactly equal to that between the indentation formed in the wire, through which the eye-holes are to be made. The little operator, taking a number of the stamped wires, spreads them out like a fan, and placing each one on the centre of a small slab, brings down the upper slab, which makes the holes in the wire forming the eyes. This is a very nice operation, as the slightest misplacement of the wires, so that the centres were not in the right places, would involve the spoiling of each, from the punches passing through wrong places. To guide the operative, a small indentation is placed in the lower slab, or bed; into this the wire is placed : by means of this, a delicacy of touch, and a quickness of the eyesight, almost every wire is placed on the slab, and properly punched in the exact places, Each of the wires has two moulded parts, gutters, and eye-holes in the centre; the next operation is the dividing of these so as to form two needles. Figures 6 and 7 show the needle in this stage pre- vious to the dividing. Figure7 is an enlarged view of the centre of Fig. 6. The first step in dividing the wires is what is termed “ spitting,’’ that is, passing a fine steel wire through the eyes of per- haps a hgndred wires ; as there are two eyes, there are also two wires; when they are all thus spitted, by bending them backwards and forwards between the hands, they are broken in the centre, one-half remaining on each wire. Before dividing them, however, the protuberances on either side, as seen in Figures 4, 5, 6, and 7, are filed off, by placing the wires (spitted) on a convex block, keeping them tight thereon by means of a leather band, while the PLL LLL LLL PLL 65 workman uses & smooth file. When broken, each needle has a square head, as in Fig. 8. It is nicely moulded by means of a very small grindstone, as seen in Fig. 9. We have thus far traced our piece of wire to a very respectable-looking needle; but, much as it would be prized hy a savage, it is by no means fit for use in civilized countries ; to make it so, it has to undergo many processes: these we shall attempt to describe very briefly. The needie, at the stage we have arrived at, is so soft that it can be bent between the fingers as easily as a piece of lead of the same diameter. They therefore require to be hardened. Previous to the hardening, the “ soft- straightening’’ is to be gone through. This opera- tion is meant to restore the straightness of each needle, lost by the repeated processes which it has gone through, as “ pointing,” “‘stamping,’”’&c. The ‘“ soft-straightening”’ is simple. The operative sits at a bench having a flat surface. Placing the needles parallel to one another on this, he presses a convex piece of iron on each of the needles, rolling it over and over, until it is straightened. So quickly is the operation effected, that a good workman may straighten upwards of three thousand needles in an hour. The straightened needles are then hardened by being heated to redness in an oven or furnace, and suddenly plunged into cold water or oil. This makes them so brittle that they can be broken as easily as glass. They require, therefore, to be “tempered.’’ This is effected by placing them ca a hot plate, and moving them about so as to present each needle in succession to the action of the plate. As soon as they have all acquired a particular color, they are removed. When cold, they are then beautifully elastic. As they are, however, slightly distorted by the action of the heat, each needle is straightened by giving it a tiny blow with a tiny hammer on a small steel anvil. This process is necessarily tedious. It is called the “ hard-straight- ening.”’ The needles, though now properly tempered, are still rough and unpolished on their surface: to ob- viate this, and make them bright, is the next of the series of operations. The process is termed the * scouring.’’ A strip of canvas is laid on the table, and an immense number of needles are placed on this, all parallel to one another; a pretty large al- lowance of soft scap, sweet oil, and powdered stone found in the neighborhood of Redditch, is then placed over them, and the whole tightly wrapped and corded up into a shape as seen in Figure 10. A considerable number of these bundles being pre- pared, they are placed beneath a moving table of wood, working to and fro in a wooden bed. The needles by this means are rubbed one against an- other, until, in process of time, they are smoothed and partly polished on their surface. After being subjected to the action of this machine, the rolls are untied, and the needles washed; they are then re- placed in the canvas, and tied up with a fresh sup- ply of soft soap, oil, and emery, and subjected to the

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66 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK, action of the scouri-* «.achine. This is repeated the needles, causing the head to assume a beautiful perfectly smooth. After * time, the needles are several times, till the being washed for the placed among some dry sawdust, and worked to and fro in a peculiarly-shaped copper tray till they are all perfectly dry. At this stage, a very curious operation is observable: the needles being mixed up with the sawdust, it becomes a matter of 1m- portance to separate them with rapidity; this is effected in a manner as simple as it is effectual. The tray in which the needies and sawdust are placed tapers up to an edge, which has no margin, thus affording a place over which matters can pass without obstruction. The workman moving the tray rather rapidly up and down, causes the needles and sawdust to approach the edge: the sawdust being lightest, flies off, the needles remain ; but such is the dexterity of the workman that, although the needles are seen glancing half over the edge, still it is an exceedingly rare occurrence for one to pass completely over: thus, in less time than we have taken to write the above half a dozen lines, the workman can separate thousands of needles from As may be supposed, the needles, from this rough preceeding, are lying ia all imaginable positions. To make them parallel to one another is the next operation. This is easily effect- ed by placing them in an oblong tin tray, and giving it a peculiar shake; in a remarkably short space of time some thousands are parallelized. But, al- though they are parallel to one another, still they are wrongly situated for subsequent operations—the head of oue may be next to the point of another; it their attendant sawdust. is necessary that the heads of all should lie one To attempt to do this by singling out each individual needle, would be a way, the points another. hopeless task where millions have to be operated upon. By a very simple contrivance—we may say machine, for it saves labor—the operation is effected most rapidly. A small piece of linen rag is wrapped round the forefinger of the operative, and, placing a few thousands of the parallelized needles before her on the table, she passes the covered finger along one side of the heap, the finger of the other hand on the other side; the needles having their points at one side stick into the linen rag; these are placed by themselves. In this way all the needles with their heads lying one way are left by themselves. The next operation is “ drilling’ theeyes. From the nature of the operation of ‘‘ punching,”’ the holes are rather rough and uneven: it is to remove this, and to countersink the holes, so that the sharp edges may be taken off, that the operation of drilling is gone through. hard, they have to be softened by the application of heat, so that the drill may not be spoiled by the hard metal. For this purpose, a number of needles are As the needles by this time are placed on a bar of iron, with their heads projecting over the edge a short distance: these are then ap- plied to a red-hot bar, which reduces the temper of PPP LLLP PPLE PEPE PPP ly blue color: this process is called the “ blueing.” A number of the blued needles are next taken by the driller—generally a little girl—and placed behind a flat steel bar, with their heads projecting slightly above its upper edge. The operative sits exactly in front of ~ little drilling-lathe, in which a small drill i d, and made to revolve rapidly. The needles are vrought one by one before the point of the drill: the drill not only cleans out the eye, mak- ing it internally smooth, but it also countersinks the outer edge of each. Some idea of the extreme nicety of the operation may be obtained, when it is remembered that the variation of a hair’s breadth, in the presenting of the eye of the needle to the point of the drill, would result in the complete spoil- ing of the article ; yet such is the amazing rapidity with which the drilling proceeds, that a dozen will be drilled in as many seconds: in fact, it is ditficult to believe, on first witnessing the operation, that the needles are really drilled. The needles are then taken to the polishing-room, where they are beautifully polished by being held to the periphery of revolving wheels, covered with buff leather. The needies are taken up in a dozen or so at a time, and first held by the points and the upper ends, then by the heads and the pointed ends : the whole surface of each needle is thus rapidly polished. They are next counted and put up in lit- tle blue papers, twenty-five in each, labeled, and tied up in bundles for sale. We have thus briefly traced the manufacture of a needle from its rough State to its final condition. As an instance of the many processes through which a needle of the best quality goes, we here append a list of them :— 1, wire received ; 2, weighed ; 3, gauged ; 4, cut; 5, rubbed ; 6, counted; 7, pointed at first end; 8, washed ; 9, cut back; 10, pointed at last end; 11, examined ; 12, counted; 13, washed ; 14, weighed ; 15, annealed; 16, stamped; 17, pressed; 18, spit- ted; 19, filed; 20, broken; 21, heads filed; 22, oil burnt off; 23, soft-straightened ; 24, evened; 25, counted ; 26, hardened ; 27, evened; 28, strapped ; 29, tempered; 30, weighed; 31, examined; 32, picked for crooks ; 33, hard-straightened ; 34, count- ed; 35, scoured with seven emeries, washed and evened between each; 36, washed and dried; 37, weighed ; 38, evened; 39, headed; 40, weighed; 41, ground (at pownrts); 42, weighed; 43, scoured again with one more emery, and glazed; 44, weighed ; 45, washed and dried; 46, weighed; 47, evened; 48, headed; 49, picked for waste and broken points, flecked, and crooked ; 50, weighed by count; 51, set; 52, examined; 53, wejghed for drillers; 54, blued; 55, drilled; 56, rubbed; 57, weighed from drilling; 58, examined ; 59 ,rounded by finishing ; 60, finished once ; 61, rubbed ; 62, finished again ; 63, rubbed; 64, examined; 65, counted in twenty-fives ; 66, papered; 67, labeled; 68, tied up; 69, collected; 70, packed up.

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ru, Mit BY D Wuart a glorious, airy, light hearted creature I should be ! fellow Iam!—and so I ought to be, I’m sure ; indeed, Ithink lam! Yes! for everybody says I am, and of course to disappoint everybody, by a direct and wilful appearance or thought to the contrary, would be stamped as the and more, what a free and easy, happy there can be no doubt of that, last extremity of obstinacy, and as a capital offence against the sacred institution of public opinion. 1 ain engaged ! It is so odd. The sensation is so indescribable ! perhaps funny would be the better word with which to christen my feelings, which are continually over- powering me like a restive horse, by getting the bit, like my thoughts, into his mouth, running away with me through an inexplicable and tangled-up maze of something indistinctly happy in the future, and finally disposing of me by throwing me over his head into a dry pond of sober muddy matter of fact. earthiness of our natures, not by any means a pleas- ing substitute for the etherial bricks and mortar palaces built up previously in my dreamy wakeful- ness. Everybody appears to look at me, as if I was somebody else, and not at all‘in my own proper form, but bought and paid for, and dearly sold at the price. of identifying a double with my future career, by An acute realization of the gross and plodding Indeed, [ am constantly convicting myself reckoning up expenses for two adults instead of one, multiplying boarding and washing bills by two, working out economical plans of housekeeping, and calculating mysterious sundries (never heard of before in my singleness, but which will suggest themselves now), by every rule in or out of the arithmetic. about the probable cost of dressing a woman up for I find myself growing very curious the period of twelve months, and rush at the conelu- sion that shaving at your barber’s is a luxury easily to be dispensed with, and the money better applied, with a few, a very few, dollars added (a box of ci- gars less in the year), to the purchase of a summer shot silk, or a crape shawl, or a winter drawn bon- net for the double previously referred to. This double of myself creeps upon my thoughts every- where, and at all times. No place has a charm to free me from its influence. It is the tangible echo I hear, see, ay, and feel in every act or part of my daily life. It is the shadow of my existence, but a shadow to me all sunshine, and a light of new hope, breaking through and clearing away the clouds of And as I thus am, a chastening tone, a permanent one, J] hope, comes the weary and graceless past. ENGAGE { VE NT ae a- soothingly over this new being of mine, and I walk on, a prouder and happier man, among my kind. How came this change about? I am engaged! It is settled, and from the muster roll of jolly, rol- licking bachelors (what libelous titles, I think, now !) Iam expunged; yet with the commiseration of the entire body, who feel sorry that I should have thrown myself away, after all the awful examples | ought to have profited by, but give me their best wishes for all that, with a powerful side hint about inviting them to the wedding, which they are pleased to style as the sacrifice of the stray lamb. They malignantly attempt to destroy my nervous system, by saying that “ marriage is a dreadful speculation, much worse than investing in steamboats, or touch- ing flour; some men have made the thing pay, but, as a general rule, it was much safer to stand from under. tinue with me long. ” And so they go on, but it does not con- I am (my single self) general- I feel of the plural number very strongly indeed, and possess the ly conceded to be in the past tense. active knowledge of having done something which has produced this change, of being in a chrysalis state, and of being about to change into some other mysterious creation, about which I have an immen-e amount of curiosity, but no fear at all. I think it a fond name; but then everybody under an engagement Effie is not handsome, that is, she is not as the world of Effie is the name of the double. thinks the same, so that it goes for nothing. criticism would style handsome, and I am almost selfish enough to prize her the more highly for it. But then her beauty is grafted upon her heart, in her trusting faithfulness, and her abiding love. Effie is the double, my other self, and we are engaged ! None ever think now of saying, “ Call in and see us some evening,’’ without tacking on to the end of it, ‘and bring Effie with you.’’ Effie is identified with me in all. She is worked up into the very dough of my daily crust. I have been away from town for a few weeks, and everybody seems changed. In that time (there being an understanding of a long engagement be- tween Effie and myself) Effie’s mother bas been in- formed of the fact, and has thawed considerably ; indeed my life, before I went away, might be said to have been thoroughly frozen over, save in one green and sunny spot of perpetyal summer, and, in short, that I was vegetating in a Lapland winter of rigid, supercilious, constrained courtesy, relieved periodically by sharp north-westers of cloudy looks In these Lapland tithes there had been a short, stout young man, with an unlawful display of highly 67

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68 GODEY'S starched shirt, ruled with red stripes, like a ledger, who was once my friend, and then my rival. He was rich, or would be, and on this contrived to leave me alone without a friend to back my suit. All went over to him, and so tried to crush down and mar my existing happiness as to do nothing, in their shallowness, more than to bind Effie closer to me, and excite my pride, which, as it fed and fattened upon their opposition, was all sufficient of itself to shatter their idle intriguings. But I am engaged to be married now, and I feel sofiened to all; for Effie says, gently, that “ I ought to feel so,”” and I know her to be right. This feel- ing extends to the short, stout young man in the ledger-ruled shirt, though in all probability we shall never become reconciled by speech, and I have an idea that, like myself, he does not wish it. He still calls on Effie’s mother, to inquire after her health, as he says; but I know the poor fellow’s chief charm is that which circles around my Effie. My Effie! What a happy possessive feeling is con- veyed in those two words! The old room is still thronged at night. We were a merry set who used to meet in that warm, cozy parlor, before the spirit of marriage crept into our thoughts and divided us; when Effie’s laugh would ring up the echoes from every corner, and animate us with her joyfulness without preference! Those were happy days and evenings, but the presiding fairy of the ring will soon be missing in her accustomed place. * * * * * ¥* We are sitting in the pleasant old chamber, Effie and I, alone. Her hand is resting fondly on mine, yet not so but that she can take it away quickly when the door opens; for, allhough we are engaged, the modest blood mounts as thought to her forehead at a hint of it from a stranger. She has not yet got quite used to it. She is looking up earnestly, but not sorrowfully, in my face, for [ am speaking seri- ously. « Effie, how strangely, how almost foolishly we began to love!” “ No, not foolishly. Is it folly tolove me? You shall not say foolishness,’’ she interrupts me with. « Without thinking,” I continue, “that we were not rich enough in the world to marry.” « Rich enough in our own love, which will never change,”’ she answers. I say that “such reads very well in poetry, but the wealth held in such sentiments cannot be trans- ferred as good deposit to the bankers.’’ J[ then tell her that all I have to depend upon is my salary for the present, whatever may be in the future. Then, after she has pressed my hand, and leaned over to let me kiss her, thinking only of the present, and wanting no other banker than me, where she can present her lips as notes for hard cash in kisses, I goon. [ put down, quite methodically, the amount of my salary, and very imposing and great it looks in figures, which is much more than it ever did to me in the hard material, always having had the happy knack of being ahead of my account at the MAGAZINE AND LADY'S BOOK. — a year’s end. From this, I deduct the boarding for two, and the mysterious sundries, which Effie agrees to with a half-smothered smile; this done, we dis- cover that we have a surplus, not a large amount, to be sure, but still quite a respectable sum for conitin- gencies, as Effie remarks with such a wonderful air of confidence as makes me feel prouder of her than ever. As I said before, people have changed since my return; some are the same, but these are few, who evidently wish I had never returned, for which kind- ness of course I am profoundly grateful. But then, I don’t care for them, and I let them see it. Effie and I are left alone now, and, as we are sitting to- gether, people, as they enter, slide across the carpet for anything they may want, moving like mysterious and quiet spirits, diving into corners with studied abstraction, to rush impetuously out by the door afterwards, in a manner which was at first alarm- ing from its utter novelty, but which is perfectly agreeable now, and very delicate, as I think. No more notice is taken of us than if we were the off- spring of the invisible boy and girl, enjoying the attributes of our parents. No! we are there as a matter of course, and, being there, have as much right to be studiously undisturbed as anything most sacred among the household furniture, or the family Bible, which has never been opened since a patri- arch of the tribe, aged one hundred and four years, departed this land for a better, some five years since. In the matter of births, Effie’s family has left off business so long that the record has slightly paled. It seems to be perfectly understood that we are ar- ranging little matters, though what little matters are so arranged, and to what extent, I never could per- fectly satisfy myself. It is a glorious privilege, how- ever, and comes particularly sweet and welcome to me after the iciness of my earlier wooing. As we thus sit to talk for hours, and happy listen- ing hours they are to both, we indulge in visionary creations ; and they speak to us of joy and a straight path onwards. Who may blame us? It is happi- ness to escape from the trammels which bind us down to life, to soar above, where, if fancy does de- lude us sometimes, she well repays us by the pass- ing forgetfulness of self. Effie is continually recounting the glories of, and has a painfully retentive memory connected with, the future of a married sister with large handsome black eyes. She is a walking inventory of the whols stock, and I have a dreadful impression that she has got it written out somewhere, and carefully studies it, with an ultimate view to a fac-simile es- tablishment. I may be wrong, but I have a fearful presentiment that it is so. Effie’s account at times is so glowing, so rapturous in describing the im- mense advantages of certain articles over others, to say nothing of the saving by having them, ard how tasteful, indeed elegant, they look, that she only pauses when I can no longer control a laugh at her mahogany mania. The apartments of the black- eyed sister are represented as so truly magnificent,

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MY ENGAGEMENT. MO that I am half inclined, sometimes, to confound it with a fabulous temple or castle of the past ages, and transform the black-eyed sister into a fair young virgin torn ruthlessly from her mother’s arms by a grim ogre, ultimately changed into a handsome young prince. It is something so amazing, with its hundred little things in detail, as only to be looked on admiringly at a safe distance by my plodding self, and not at all a place to trust myself in without great personal danger. I feel that. It causes me to think of my perspective brother-in-law as a Croesus, or as of one who has drawn an immense prize in a lottery, or as having a secret and inexhaustible mine somewhere in the bowels of the earth, unknown to mortal. In short, a thousand fancies connected with those rooms flit before my confined vision. But, however much I reflect, I still listen, and it pleases Effie ; and, though perhaps a smile will steal over my features, in very spite, as she rattles mer- rily on, I listen still, and believe devoutly, as she would have me do, in the establishment of the black- eyed sister. Sometimes I lock seriaus, as in one instance when I doubted the absolute necessity of a writing- chair covered with red velvet. Then Effie slyly pouts her plump little lips for a moment, only for a moment though, for I press them gently down with my finger in that time, which so changes the pout into a glad bright smile, as to make it seem almost impossible she should ever look otherwise, it sits so well upon her. She says she knows I think her extravagant, but she is not, and is not telling me about all those fine things because she wants them. No! I ought to know she would be content with what I chose, and I must not think so any more, to make ber unhappy. And then—I don’t know why, except to spoil her the more—I look at the door, and, hearing nobody outside, kiss her, which seems to square all old ac- counts very satisfactorily, and we proceed to open a new one forthwith. Again, but not so frequently as of the others, and I don’t know why, we speak of another sister and her husband, who live in the country, and of their happiness. And Effie, if she has received a letter from her, takes it from the desk to read to me, where she says that she is so-purely happy in her husband and her rural home; and that her love is so increasing that, if it so continues, in a few years she will not be able to tell how much she will love him. This sister (I call her “ Star,’’ because of the brightness of her eyes—good eyes are an inheritance in Effie’s family) and her husband were all of the family that stood by me in friendship in my love days, and I am grateful, and like to talk of them. And we speak of their home, and Effie tells me that “‘Star’s’’ furniture did not cost, oh! not near so much as that of the handsome black-eyed sister. But then, in answer to my question, she says it looks almost as well, and is so tastefully arranged, and so neatly kept, that it looks for all the world like a little fairy home, and “Star,” the good spirit, always VOL. LXIv.—7 69 PRADA P PLP PPA PLP LLP PAPAS wa bustling about to set everything to rights. say— “Yes! Effie; and, believe me, the best spirit this world produces is such a wife as ‘Star.’ The good spirit who brings peace to her husband’s hearth, confiding happiness to his heart, and a trust- ingness unto death.” We are both silent for a minute, and I think I see a tear. quite a little twinkling tear, trickle down over her cheek, before I feel it plash upon my hand, and she looks up tearfully, yet smilingly, and mur- murs, as he nestles her head upon my breast— ‘« Let us pray to God that we too may have that happiness.” “Amen!” I reply, and after a time of communi- cative silence, we try to think of something else. * * * * * * For some time past Effie has been busy in her attentions to numerous rolls of fine linen and muslin, by which I infer that she is thinking of our engage- ment in a very serious and grave light indeed. But when I enter on my nightly visit, it is a subject of general remark, at which Effie of course colors up very redly, that a greater portion of the attention due to the linen is transferred to me, and that a sub- dued téte-d-téte over the backgammon board has far more charms than the mysteries of the cross stitch or plain hemming. When the handsome sis- ter comes in, as she does often in the afternoon, we are very chatty, but rather stiff withal, for we both remember the past. Her husband also comes, and we meet in the streets, but we never speak, for we too remember well the past, and cannot forget it if we would. Effie says she wishes we were friends, and I tell her ‘‘ so we shall be some day ; the best.’’ But this does not satisfy ber, although I find it im- possible as yet to change my feelings to one who had been the most opposing of all, when he should not have been, and the firmest and most powerful friend of the short stout young man. This I say to her mildly, foron it Iam firm. And Effie, seeing me determined, and, for all my mildness, somewhat flushed, does not reply for some seconds, but then gently whispers that we two men are too proud, and that we ought to be reconciled as brothers ; upon which, I mentally ejaculate—curse his pride—- but promise, as I mean, to bear good peaceable rela- tionship to all. So that is dismissed. There is another man, so curiously mixed up with our engagemeni that sometimes I find it impossible to tear him uway from the web which it has woven about all who knew us, and were of our daily com- maunion, that I look upon him almost as a part and parcel of it. He was also against me, and on the side of the short stout individual; but now I hear from Effie that he wishes to renew old associations. We never passed a word of anger, and yet we cooled, became estranged, and so parted. But he is coming over with the others. Let them come! Against them all, alone, I won the prize I played for, and the warm blood, almost boiling as I write now, pushes ever to my head as 1 exult in my victory. Then 1

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70 GODEY’S MAGAZINE It was a triumph well worthy to be connected with Effie, and I feel now, stronger than ever, how un- wortby in comparison is my affection to hers, which outlived their united persecutions. I am digressing. This man I had always liked. I admired him. He was superior to all the men I knew most inti- mately, and I would dwell in my thoughts upon his arguments as a wrecker watches every wave for waifs. I think he knew this. In the evenings, since our coolness sprung up, I have caught him smiling when I turned round quickly, and at other times, when I have spoken, I have detected him looking at me not unkindly. He is a man of vast information, and has been a mystery to me, for a long time, who cannot remember anything. It very often occurs to me, I know it is sheer nonsense, and yet it does suggest itself, that he has a familiar imp, crammed with an entire encyclopedia of knowledge, constantly in attendance upon him. Viewing him as the friend of my opponent, the short stout man, I look upon him as a prize fighter may look upon the bottle-holder of his defeated adversary—a part of the fight, a negative principal forced into the ring, with the misfortune of wearing the losing man’s colors. * * It is morning—a pert, biting, snappish winter’s morning. Everything is great-coated and comforted, except the poor (God help them!); even the houses are hiding in wrappings of snow. Effie, and I, and he (the Cyclopedia) are sitiing by the stove. Cy- clopedia and I entered together, but he yielded the reserved seat by Effie. She is forming some hiero- glyphical characters of white silk braid upon a little flannel, something not unlike, in form, to a watch- man’s coat cut down to the smallest possible dimen- sions, but which, upon inquiry, I find to be a “ Jenny Lind night-cap”’ for the black-eyed sister. I say Oh! and think that the family Bible, honor- ably mentioned before, may soon have a pen and ink addition to the register. The Cyclopedia grins be- hind the book he is pretending to read, and | flatly refuse to believe in the night-cap. Then Effie says, with much subdued laughing, hidden by her handkerchief, and some enticing little pouts, that I ought to be ashamed of myself (as of course I am immediately), and threatens the hea- viest punishment, at which the Cyclopedia grins again. Effie commences again on her cabalistic figurings in silence, and I fall into a sweet reverie. I look at her there, and picture out boldly, on the canvass of my thoughts, a bright harmonious landscape of the hopeful future, peering, asI do so, so far into the perspective hereafter, as to trace the softened, warm, and mellow tints which might grace our old age, so that we might re-read the history of our earlier life, and say, with heartfelt reverence, that we had con- tinued to love, and that our love had not been a silly * * * * conceit. He is yet by the stove, looking upon the book, not AND LADY’S BOOK. reading it. Occasionally I feel him snatching hur- ried glimpses at my face. I know be is trying to follow my thoughts, but I have had my dream out, and I could defy Lavater. Effie touches me gently with her foot, and looks almost imploringly from me to him. I reflect for a moment. I know the meeting bas been arranged, and half dislike the contrivance ; but then I think again that he has been very kind to Effie while I was away. I rise from my seat, and holding out my hand to him, cross over to where he is sitting, and say— “We have too long been separated in that good feeling which should exist between us; let all be forgotien, and let our hands join on a new friend- ship.” ** Not on a new,”’ he says; ‘no, on the old friend- ship let us join our hands. Not on a new, for I have always felt warmly towards you, and have earnestly regretted the estrangement.” Then Effie, half crying for very joy, joins us, and says she is so happy; which she proves directly after, by engaging vigorously in the pleasant hand- shaking. We all ask questions, and give answers in a breath, and present a triangle of involuntary motion, not at all singular in appearance to ourselves, but presenting doubtless an eccentric spectacle to anybody else, especially to the short stout young man, who happens to call in incidentally, and who, as he opens the door unexpecfedly, and finding the opportunity not favorable to a quartette, disappears very suddenly indeed. Cyclopedia looks significantly at Effie, but not at me, for he possesses feelings too acute to make light of the heart’s best impulses : so the short stout young man is not spoken of, but is respected. Even I am compelled to respect him, for is not bis offence, in my eyes, that which has brought me my chief happiness, a love of Effie? But then I won; ay, there ’s the difference. Before we sit down, Effie’s mother comes in, all mottled with the cold, but fresh and healthy from the keen frosty air, and after thoroughly warming herself by the stove, joins with us in hoping that all is over, and that old friends may once more be old friends, so to continue. Then, leaving the room for a few minutes, she returns sofily with a happy smile on her pleasant good face, and a detachment of cu- rious small glasses, guarding a welcome bottle of her nonpareil cordial, only brought out on great occa- sions. And is this not one? she thinks. The cor- dia] is discussed and praised, as it deserves to be; and Effie insinuates, slyly, that she has been learning to make it, which of course incites a great deal of merriment about her apprenticeship to housekeep- ing. Thus we laugh and jest about others, as well as ourselves, and sit there, a very merry group, all the morning. Thus, [ am engaged! whisper assurances of good fortune to my hopes. When I shall be married, having received the con- sent of her mother, or when Effie expecis to be Everything conspires to

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THE PIONEER taken home to the little palace we are continually furnishing and peopling with our two expectant little selves, [ know not. Whenever I am ready, Effie says. But this I know, that, through all my waking and dreaming moments; in my visilations of de- spondency, for I have these too; in my moments of sanguine expectation, I feel the spirit of Effie with me. [t entwines round my heartas a protecting angel might will it so, and urge me on to increased exer- tion for her sake. It comes upon me most strongly MOTHERS | | : HE WEST. 71 OF as I lay down upon my bed at night stillness. Its influence works there upon my soul with its unsul- lied holiness; and, as I sink deep into the pillow be- fore sleep steals over me with its heavy pressings, I believe that I have obeyed the mandate of the God- head, in assuming the responsibility which every man should; and I murmur with her name a prayer, that I may to the end of my life act honorably up to my good resolves. THE PIONEER BY MRS. CATHARINE SEVIER.* Tue first advances of the English into the great vallcy of the Mississippi were across rugged mount- ains and through unbroken wilds, few or none geing by the way of the Lakes or the Gulf till the present century. Pioneer parties came from Vir- ginia and North Carolina at irregular intervals from 1765 to 1769, forming “ settlements,”? ‘* camps,” and “stations,” in what is now East Tennessee. Some of the earliest emigrants were from Raleigh ali-bury, in North Carolina, and settled first In one of these parties and Sz upon the Watauga River. from the Yadkin River came Samuel Sherril!, with his family, consisting of several sons and two daughters. One of these daughters, Susan, married Col. Taylor, a gentleman of considerable distine- tion; the other, Catharine, became the second wile of Gen. Sevier, and is the Mr. Sherrill’s residence was finally upon the Nola Chucka, and known as the Daisy Fields. He tiller of the soil, a hard-working man, and “ well to subject of this memoir. vas a do in the world”? for an emigrant of that day; but he was also skilled in the use of the rifle, so that it could be said, “‘ Sherrill can make as much out of the ground and out of the woods as any other man. He has a hand and eye to his work ; a hand, an eye, and an ear for the Indian and the game.” Buffalo, deer, and wild turkeys came around the tents and cabins of those “first settlers.”” A pro- vidence was in this that some of them recognized with thankfulness. These settlements encroached upon the rights and hunting-grounds of the natives; * The following memoir of the wife of one of the most distinguished among the pioneers of the West, was written by A. W. Putnam, Esq., of Nashville, at the request of Mrs. Ellet, for another volume of ‘‘Women of the American Revolution.’’” Mr. Putnam was person- ally acquainted with Mrs. Sevier, and has received ad- ditional information by letters from her children and acquaintances, and from other authentic sources. The sketch was read, previously to publication, before the Historical Society of Tennessee, and received with high approbation. MOTH ERS OF THE WEST. FP. ELLET. and although some had been established and per- mitted to remain undisturbed for several years, yet when Capt. James Robertson arrived from Virginia, in 1772, with a large party of emi- the Watauga, he quite grants, and selected lunds on endeavored to secure an occupation with the ap- probation of the Indians; therefore he effected a “ lease”? from the Cherokees of al! the lands on the river and its tributaries for eight years. Jacob Brown, with his family and friends, arrived from North Carolina about the same time with the Sherril!s, and these two families became connected by infermarriages with the Seviers, and ever yo mained faithful to each other through all the hostile and civil commotions of subsequent years. The family of the earliest emigrants from Virginia, and aided in the Seviers came among very erection of the first fort on the Watauga.* With few exceptions, these emigrants had in view the aequisitien of rich Jand for cultivation and Some, indeed, were there, or came, from inheritance. who were absconding debtors or refugees justice, and from this class were the Tories of North Carolina mostly enlisted. The spirit of the hunter and pioneer cannot well content itself in permanent location, especially when the crack of a neighbor’s rifle, or the blast of his hunting-horn, may be heard by his quick ear; there- fore did these advanced guards ofien change their homes when others crowded them at miles distance It must be remembered that these advances into the wilderness could only be made by degrees, step by step, through years of tedious waiting and toil- some preparation. And thus, though they had a “ lease’’ from the Indians, a foothold in the soil, stations of defence, and evidently had taken a bond of fate, assuring them in the prospect of rich in- * Valentine Zavier (the original family name), the father of John Sevier, was a descendant from an ancient family in France, but born in Londen, England; emi- grated to America; settled on the Shenandoah, Va. ; thence to Watauga, N. C.; and finally settled on the Nola Chucka, at Plum Grove.

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72 G@ODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY'S BOOK. BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAnnnsnnn eee heritances for their children, they could not -all abide while the great West and greater Future invited onward. Richer lands, larger herds of buffaloes, more deer, and withal as many Indians were in the distance, upon the Cumberland and Kentucky Rivers. The emigrants advanced, and they “ took no steps back- wards.”’ In afew years they were found organiz- upon the ‘dark ? ing ‘provisional governments’ and bloody ground”’ of Kentucky, and at the Bluffs, the site of the beautiful capital of Tennessee. And these Watauga and Nola Chucka pioneers are the leading spirits throughout. In the first Cherokee war of 1776, the early set- tlements were in great danger of being destroyed. The prowling savages picked off the emigrants in detail, and, though somewhat successful in these aims, they resolved to attack the settlements and stations at different points on the same day—in June, 1776. But they were so defeated in the battles of Long Island, and at the Island Flats, on the Holston, and in their attack and siege of the Wa- tauga Fort, that a happy change was wrought, and hopes of quiet were encouraged. The attack on the latter station was conducted by an experienced Indian chief, Old Abraham, of the Chilhowee Mountain region. This was a fierce attack, but the fort fortunately held within it two of the most resolute men who have ever touched the soil of Tennessee, and to whom East and Middle Tennessee were subsequently more indebted than to any other men who have ever lived—James Robert- son and John Sevier—they baving then no higher titles than captains. Some thirty men were under their command or direction. The approach of the Indians had been stealthy, and the first alarm was given by the flight and screams of some females, who were closely pur- sued by the Indians in large force. One of the women was killed, and one or two captured. In this party of females was Miss Catharine Sherrill, daughter of Mr. Saml. Sherrill, who had moved into the fort only on the day previous. Miss Sherrill was already somewhat distinguished for nerve, action, and fleetness. Although at other times she proved herself to “know no fear,” and could remain unmoved when danger threatened. yet on this occasion she admits that she did run, and «run her best.” She was very tall and erect, and her whole ap- pearance such as to attract the especial notice and pursuit of the Indians; and as they intercepted the direct path to the gate of the fort, she made a circuit to reach its enclosures on another side, resolved, as she said, “to scale the walls or palisades.” In this effort, some person within the defences attempt- ed to aid, but his foot slipped, or the object on which he was standing gave way, and both fell to the ground on opposite sides of the enclosure. The savages were coming with all speed, and firing and shooting arrows repeatedly. Indeed, she said, ‘the bullets and arrows came like hail. It was now— leap the wall or die! for would not live a captive.’ She recovered from the fall, and in a moment was over and within the defences, and “ by the side of one tn uniform.” This was none other than Capt. John Sevier, and the first time she ever saw him. This was the beginning of an acquaintance destined in a few years toripen into a happy union, and to endure in this life for near forty years. ‘“ The way she run and jumped on that occasion was often the subject of remark, commendation, and laughter.’’ In after life, she looked upon this introduction, and the manner of it, as a providential indication of their adaptation to each other—that they were de- stined to be of mutual help in future dangers, and to overcome obstacles in time to come. And she always deemed herself safe when by his side. Many a time did she say: “I could gladly undergo that peri] and effort again to fall into his arms, and feel so out of danger. But then,” ‘she would add, ‘jt was all of God’s good providence.”’ Capt. Sevier was then a married man, his wife and younger children not having yet arrived from Virginia. In 1777, Capt. Sevier received a commission from the State of North Carolina, and was thus decidedly enlisted in the cause of American independence ; and, not long after this, he was honored with the commission of colonel, bearing the signature of George Washington. In 1779, his wife died, leaving him ten children. Several of the eldest were sons, who had come with their father to gain and improve a home in the wilderness. They were trained to arms and to labor. He had selected land on Watauga and Nola Chucka, his chosen residence being on the latter stream, and for many years known as Plum Grove. His first wife’s name was Susan Hawkins, of Virginia. In the year 1780, Miss Sherrill and Col. Sevier were married, and she devoted herself earnestly to all the duties of her station, and to meet the exi- It may well be supposed that females spun, wove, and made up most of the clothes worn by these backwoods people. Girls were as well skilled in these arts as were the boys in such as more appropriately belonged to their gencies of the times. sphere and strengta. Not long after the marriage, Col. Sevier was called to the duty of raising troops to meet the in- vasion of the interior of North Carolina, under Tarleton, Ferguson, and other British officers. Preparations were hastily made, and the various forces assembled which fought the important battle of King’s Mountain. Col. Sevier had three sons and one brother in that engagement. This “ favor- ite brother, Joseph, was killed, and one son wound- ed.” These sons were then between the ages of sixteen and twenty-one. Boys were early taught to use the rifle with skill. This was the formidable weapon in pursuit of game, and im all the Indian wars.

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THE PIONEER MOTHERS OF It was always a source of much gratification to Mrs. Sevier, and one of which she fondly boasted, that, “‘among the first work she did after her mar- riage, was to make the clothes which her husband and three sons wore the day they were in the memorable and important battle of King’s Mount- ain.”’ And she would say: “ Had his ten children been sons, and large enough to have served in that expedition, I could have fitted them out.’’* In the course of years, Mrs. Sevier became the mother of eight children, three sons and five daugh- ters ; and thus Gen. Sevier was the father of eighteen children, all of whom maintained good characters, were ‘“‘given to hospitality,” lived comfortably and usefully, alihough none of them acquired great wealth. Mrs. Sevier was often left alone to manage do- mestic affairs, not only within doors, but without. The life of Col. Sevier was one of incessant action, adventure, and contest. The calls of his fellow-citizens, and the necessities of the times, withdrew him frequently from home. The history of the Indian wars of East Tennessee, of the settle- ment of the country, and of the organization of the State Government, is the record of the deeds of his life. No commander was more frequently engaged in conflicts with the Indians with equal success and such small loss of his men. And yet it is a notable fact that he enjoyed, to a remarkable extent, the re- spect of the tribes and chiefs with Whom he con- tended. It isa known historical fact that he had taken to his own home, on the Chucka, a number of Indian prisoners, where they were treated with so much kindness by his wife and family that several of them remained for years, although they performed very little work, and this wholly at their option. The influence of Mrs. Sevier was intentionally and happily exerted upon these captives, that it might tell, as it did, upon their friends within “the nation ;”’ and the family, no doubt, enjoyed more protection than otherwise they could have expected. Col. Sevier acquired a sobriquet among the Indians, which was somé evidence of their famili- arity with and attachment to him, and probably of advantage. As long as he lived they called him “ Chucka Jack.’? They had one for Mrs. Sevier also, which is now not remembered. The Tories were the worst enemies, and perpe- trated more damage to Col. Sevier’s property than did ever the Indians; and from them Mrs. Sevier had repeatedly to hide most of her small stock of household articles. She usually remained at the farm, and never would consent to be shut up in a blockhouse, always saying— * The ptivate orderly, or memorandum-book of Col. De Poister, on whom the command devolved after Fer- guson was killed on King’s Mountain, and who ordered the surrender, was, with other papers, handed to Col. Sevier. This book was presented to the writer by Mrs. Gen. Sevier and her son, G. W. S., after the writer’s marriage into the family. 7% THE WEST. ** The wife of John Sevier Knows no fear.’’ “7 neither skulk from duty nor from danger.”’ And we believe this was emphatically true. We have seen her in advanced age—tall ia stature, erect in person, stately in walk, with small, piercing, blue eyes, raven locks, a Roman nose, and firmness unmistakable in She was able to teach her children in the exer- to health and usefulness, to nerve, her mouth and every feature. cises conducive and to action. greater distance, and none could, with equal grace and facility, placing the hand upon the mane of a Few could outrun her, or leap to spirited horse, and standing by his side, seat herself upon his back or in the saddle. She had the ap- pearance and used the language of independence, haughtiness, and authority, and she never entirely laid these aside. Yet was not her pride offensive, nor her words or demeanor intended heedlessly to wound. It could be said of her, without any question, that she “‘ reverenced her husband,”’ and she in- stilled the same Scriptural sentiment into the minds of his children. The very high respect and defer- ence which one of her dignified appearance ever paid to him, no doubt had a favorable influence upon others; for, though he was a man of remarkable elegance of person, air, and address, and of popular attraction, yet it must be confessed that she contri- buted much to all these traits, and to his usefulness und zeal in public service. She relieved him of his cares at home, and applauded his devotion to the service of the people. Her reply to those who urged her “to fort,’’ or to take protection in one of the stations, was, “I would as soon die by the tomahawk and scalping- knife as by famine! I put my trust in that power which rules the armies of Heaven, and among men on the earth. I know my husband has an eye and an arm for the Indians and the Tories who would harm us, and though he is gone often, and for weeks at a time, he comes homewhen I least expect him, but always covered with laurels. * * If God protects him whom duty calls into danger, so will He those who trust in Him and stand at their post. * * Who would stay out if his family forted ?” This was the spirit of the heroine—this was the spirit of Catharine Sevier. Neither she nor her husband seemed to think there could be danger or loss when they could encourage or aid others to daring, and to duty, and to usefulness. Col. Sevier at one time advised her to go into the fort, but yielded to her respectful remonstrance. * At one time the Tories came to her house and demanded her husband’s whereabouts, and finally avowed their intention was to hang him on the highest tree in front of his house ; but that if she would tell them where he was, she and her children should be safe.’’ Of course she refused to give them the in- formation One man drew a pistol and threatened to blow

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74 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY'S BOOK. OO EEE—eEeEeaEeEOrwrnrrvewrm—em—m»|YY ~~ out her brains if she did not tell, or, at least, give up all the money she had. “ Shoot! shoot!’? was her answer. “I am not afraid to die! But, remember, while there is a Se- vier on the earth, my blood will not be unavenged !” He dared not—he did not shoot. The leader of the gang told the man to put up his pistol, saying, “such a woman is too brave to die.”’ She knew some of the party, and that they were noted thieves and Tories. * At another time they came to her smokehouse to carry off meat. She took down the gun, which her busband always left with her in good order, and told them : ‘ The first one who takes down a piece of meat is a dead man !’” They could not mistake her resolution. Her tone, manner, and appearance avowed clearly enough that she uttered no vain warning; that she “knew her rights and dared maintain them.” They left without taking anything. Some of their negroes were stolen and never all recovered, being taken into the Indian nation by the Tories, and thence to Savannah or Charleston while in possession of the British. There was a mortal enmity between some of the active Tories and the Seviers, resulting in the hanging of some of the for- mer on two occasions. It fell to the lot of Mrs. Sevier to do acts of hos- pitality and kindness to some of this set and their descendants many years after the war. And these kindnesses she performed, although she acknow- ledged that she felt at the same time the spirit of revenge rankling in her bosom. ‘Some of thei,” she would say, “and, perhaps, all their children, may make worthy people and good citizens if they are not kept continually ashamed and mortified by being reminded of their bad conduct or of their Tory origin.” The sick and wounded soldier ever found a wel- come and nursing at the home of Sevier. The supplies for many of his Indian expeditions were from his own private means. His wife, sons, and servants were remarkd@bly successful in raising corn and hogs, and cheerfully were these given to the furtherance of the great objects in hand.* All her life long was Mrs. Sevier distinguished for her kindness and liberality to the poor. To- wards children she was gentle, though she had an appearance and manner which prevented them from giving that annoyance they are apt to do to the aged. * When the paper currency of North Carolina was so depreciated that a $100 bill would rarely buy “a pone of corn-bread and slice of ham,’’ and many per- sons would not take it at all in exchange for provisions or other property, the soldier could always purchase an ample supply at a fair estimate at Plum Grove, and thus by sales of lands, personal property, and, perhaps, in satisfaction for his military and public services, did the ‘‘old Continental currency’? accumulate in the desk of Gen. Sevier toa sum of between $200,000 and $300,000, which, with his papers, were left in the hands of his son, the late Col.G. W. S., of Tenn. ~~ It was usual with her to keep a supply of maple- sugar and cinnamon-bark in her spice-box, from which she would gratify them, and then wave them kindly away. This motion of her hand was ex- pressive, and easily understood. In the conflict of authorities and the civil and personal contests which grew out of the establish- ment of the “State of Franklin,’? of which Gen. Sevier was elected Governor, his wife added to his and her own favorable reputation. His house became the place of general resort. It was proclaimed open and free to all the friends of the rights of self-defence and independence, and the impressive dignity and noble bearing of Mrs. Sevier made a deep and lasting impression upon all who resorted to that home for counsel, aid, or hospitality And when a returning sense of justice, and the re- vulsion of public sentiment and power of popular gratitude, produced a repeal of the “ odious acts of exclusion’’ of North Carolina, placing him “ in lone conspicuity,”’ and the people called him, by unani- mous voice, again, and again, and yet again, to preside as Governor of Tennessee, and to a seat in the Senate of the United States, then did her great heart swell with thankfulness to God and her fellow- citizens. Then did she acknowledge that her hus- band had not endured peril, toil, and sacrifice in vain, though far short of the reward to which she thought him justly entitled. And we doubt not posterity will Coincide in this judgment When the Governor of the State of Franklin was seized and spirited away into the interior of North Carolina by the enemies of the “ new State,’’ Mrs. Sevier, with the promptness, energy, and daring which qualify for any occasion of utmost moment, aroused his friends, and would have gone, as a fearless leader, “to conquer or to die.” But seeing that her relatives, his relatives, and sons and friends were resolved upon his release and restoration, she little doubted his speedy return, and she was not disappointed. * During the twelve years in which he officiated as Governor of Tennessee, his wife made his home delightful to him and his children. It was the rest of the weary, the asylum of the afflicted, well known as “the hospitable mansion of the first Governor, the people’s favorite.’ The education of Mrs. Sevier, in respect of litera- ture and the embellishments of dress and music, was such as she attained chiefly from reading the Bible, hearing the wild birds sing, aud the Indian’s pow- wow. “I picked up a good deal from an observa- tion of men and their acts—for that was a business with us in the early settlements—and we examined the works of Nature to some advantage ; but as to school education, we had precious little of that except at our mothers’ knees.” * The circumstances which led to the organization of the State of Franklin were like those which at this day produced the hasty establishment of California-- necessity, self-defence, self-protection.

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THE PI She embraced the religious sentiments of the Presbyterians, and her lite throughout was exem- plary and useful. In this faith she lived and died. A favorite expression of hers was: “1 always trust in Providence.”? And she taught her chidren that ‘trust in God, with a pure heart, is to be rich enough; if you are lazy, your blood will stagnate in your veins, and your trust die.”’ She would never be idle. Knitting often engaged her fingers, while her mind and tongue were oc- cupied in thought and conversation. She always wore at her side a bunch of very bright keys. After the death of Gov. Sevier on the Tallapoosa, in 1815, where he had gone to cement peace and establish the boundary with the Creek Indians, Mrs. Sevier removed to Overton County, in Middle Tennessee, where most of her children resided. She selected a most romantic and secluded spot for her own retired residence. It was upon a high dench, or spur of one of the mountains of that county, a few miles from Obeds River, with higher mount- ains on either side. There were some ten or fifteen acres of tillable land, and a bold never-failing spring issuing from near the surface of the level tract of land, which cast its pure cold waters down the side of the mountain hundreds of feet into the narrow valley. In a dense wood near tpat spring, and miles distant from any other habitation, did her sons erect her log-cabins for bedroom, dining-room, and kitchen, and others for stable and crib. She resided for years at The Dale, with the General’s ged body-servant, Toby (who had accompanied him in all his Indian campaigns), his wife, Rachel, and a fi vorite female servant and boy. Seldom did she come down from her eyrie in the mountain. The aged eagle had lost her mate. She made her nest among the lofty oaks upon the mountain heights, where she breathed the air and drank the water untainted and undisturbed, fresh and pure, and nearest to the heavens. We have visited her in that chosen spot. “The Governor’s Widow”’ could never be looked upon as an ordinary country-woman. Whoever saw her could not be satisfied with a single glance—he must look again. And if she stood erect, and her pene- trating eye caught the beholder’s, he judged at once there was in that mind a consciousness of worth and an acquaintance with notable events. He would wish to converse with her. She used language of much expressiveness and point. She never forgot that she was the widow of Gov. and Gen. Sevier; that he had given forty years of his life to the service of his country, and in the most arduous and perilous exposure, contri- buting from his own means far more than he ever received from the public treasury ; and yet he never reproached that country for injustice, neither would she murmur nor repine. At times she was disposed to sociable cheerful- ness and humor, as one in youthful days, and then NEER MOTHERS OF PRPRDRAARAAALL OA WEST. 75 THE — ——— would she relate interesting anecdotes and incidents of the early settlement of the country, of manners and habits of the people, of the “barefoot and moccason dance”’ and “ spice-wood tea-parties.’’ Her woman’s pride, or some other feminine feel- ing, induced her to preserve with the utmost care an “imported or bought carpet,” of about twelve by fifteen feet in size, which had been presented to her as the * first Governor’s wife,’’ and as the first article of the kind ever laid upon a “ puncheon,”’ or split-log floor west of the Alleghany Mountains. Whenever she expected company upon her own invitation, or persons of character to pay their re- spects to her, the Scotch carpet was sure to be spread out, about the size of a modern bedquilt. But, as soon as company departed, the ever-present and faithful servants, Suzy and Jeff, incontinently commenced dusting and folding, and it was soon again boxed up. Three times were we permitted the honorable privilege of placing our well-cleaned boots upon this dear relic from the household of the first Gov- ernor of Tennessee, and of admiring the pair of ancient and decrepit branch-candlesticks 4s they stood on the board over the fireplace. The bucket of cool water was ever on the shelf at the batten-door, which stood wide open, swung back upon its wooden hinges; and there hung the sweet water-gourd; and from very love of every- thing around, we repeatedly helped ourselves. The floors, the doors, the chairs, the dishes on the have been shelves—yea, everything seemed to scoured. There was a lovely cleanness and order, aud, we believe, ‘godliness with contentment.”’ She was :emarkably neat in her person, tidy, and particular, and uniform in her dress, which might be called half-mourning—a white cap with black trimmings. She had a hearth-rug, the accompani- ment of the favorite carpet, which was usually laid before the fireplace in her own room, and there she commonly was seated, erect as a statue—no stoop- ing of the figure, as is so often acquired by indolence and careless habit, or from infirm old age—but with her feet placed upon her rug, her work-stand near her side, the Bible ever thereon or in her lap, the Governor’s hat upon the wall—such were the strik- ing features of that mountain hermitage. There was resignation and good cheer—there was hospitality and worth in that plain cottage ; and had not the prospect of better fortune, and attachment to children married and settled at a distance, induced her own sons to remove from her vicinity, she ought never to have been urged to come down from that “lodge in the wilderness.” But her last son having resolved to remove to Alabama, she con- sented togo with him and pass her few remaining days in his family. She departed this life on the 2d October, 1836, at Russelville, in the State of Alabama, aged about eighty-two.

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ELLA MORTON; OR, THE MAIDEN’S FIRST SORROW. avi BY VILLA ¢ « Leave me, Fannie, leave me fora while ; I would fain be alone at this hour,’ and, as the door closed after the footsteps of her gentle friend, Ella turned towards the window, and her pale face betrayed that her soul was struggling with an emotion almost too deep for utterance. The evening was beautiful, but she seemed unconscious of it; the purling of a little rivulet fell gently on the ear, but she listened not to the soothing sound; and, although her eyes were turned upward, she seemed not to note the myriads of stars that came forth from their distant homes to look down on the dwellers of earth. Hereyes were dimmed with tears, and ere long words of agony burst from her lips. ‘Oh! mother, come from your heavenly home, or take me thither with you; earth has no charms for your child since you have gone. Alone f must struggle on through life against words of envy, and looks of unkindness, perchance of scorn ; few will think of the orphan girl kindly, many may seek to scatter thorns in my path; and when my spirit is weary and sad, there will be no mother’s bosom on which to rest my drooping head, no mother’s voice to speak words of consolation and balm to my wounded soul, and no mother’s heart to pour forth its deepest, its best, its unfailing love. Oh! be my guardian spirit, hover around my every path, guide me in the way your steps trod heaven- ward; in sickness, in sorrow, still watch over your suffering, stricken child ; and, if it may be thus granted, be my attendant to your own bright home. Father in Heaven, take me, oh! take me early, and let the flowers of spring bloom above my grave!’’ She threw herself on the couch, and abandoned herself to uncontrolled emotion. « Ella, dear Ella, will you not rouse yourself, and cease thus madly, wickedly to repine against the will of your Creator ?’”’ murmured a soft voice in her ear. For a moment she raised her face, on which was written anguish too deep for utterance, but again she buried it in the cushions with only a moan of intense agony. « Ella, your bereavement is indeed most severe, and I need not assure you of my deepest sympathy; but remember, my friend, that except . “Oh! Fannie, Fannie, you have never lost a mother,” interrupted Ella, vehemently, ‘and you do not, you cannot know the utter loneliness that per- vades my spirit. For years has my existence been bound up in hers, for years have I watched her every look, and listened intently to the lowest tones of her I have seen her fading away, becoming too There voice. lovely for earth, and now, now she is gone. 76 are none to love me now, none to care for me more; and oh! I would that I were resting beside her !”’ ‘* Are there none to care for you?” was the re- proachful reply. “ Yes, you will not forsake me, my own kind Fan- nie; and may you be richly rewarded for all your kindness, your unwearied affection! and Heaven grant that you may long, long be spared the desola- tion, the woe of this hour !”’ ‘“‘ Holy Father, bless her!” were the murmured words as Fannie gently glided from the room. It was but too true—Ella Morton was indeed an orphan, and an orphan with no near ties to bind her to earth. Her father had died when her infantile lips could but just lisp his name, and her memory retained no traces of the form she had so earnestly yearned to see. In the prime of his days he had departed, far from home and kindred; stranger hands closed his eyes, strangers had consigned him to his last resting-place, and the beings he loved so dearly were denied the sad consolation of weeping over his tomb. Alfred Morton had had but one sister, and to her he had clung from his earliest infancy. A gentle, lovely being was she, one of those who seem created to diffuse light and joy wherever they tread, and to scatter sunshine over the darkest, gloomiest days. Five years his senior, she had rejoiced when her baby brother was placed on her knee, and she laughed gleefully when she could call up the smile on his beaming face, or hear the merry shout of his infant voice. Her hand had guided his first tottering steps, and on him she bestowed more than a sister’s love. Years passed away, andas the laughing babe changed into a thoughtless boy, he knew that her eyes were ever bent on him, and that in her ear he might pour forth his childish sorrows and meet with a ready sympathy. In every sport she was his chosen com- panion, if she were near; he sought for no greater happiness. An epidemic that swept the land, carry- ing millions to their graves, cast its darkening shadow over the home of the Mortons, and, in a few brief hours, father and mother were laid in the same tomb, while Helen and Alfred stood by that tomb, sorrow- ing orphans. The little boy was too young to under- stand his bereavement ; he only knew that the parents he had loved were gone, and he turned with a still deeper affection to his sister. It was then that the true worth of her character shone forth ; and, though but a child in years, she became, from that day, a woman in spirit. For her brother she lived; she taught him to look to the skies, and, in tones of soft-

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ELLA ~ ~~ PAPRPPA LPL PDL AD ness, bade him remember that his mother was there, and that there too he should go if he loved his Saviour here. Boyhood expanded into youth, youth into early manhood, and still that sister was ever by his side. Was he sad ?—her smile would cheer him; was he discouraged ?—her voice would whisper hope ; was he way ward anderring ?—Aer reproving countenance, her beseeching words would gently win him back to truth and rectitude. He entered the world with a firm purpose and a steady eye; manfully he strug- gled, and gloriously he won. His own patrimony would have richly maintained him, but he burned to distinguish himself, and to have his name shine brightly in the annals of his country. One object was ever before him—it was his sister’s mild face ; and, that she might have reason to glory in her brother, be made every exertion, and crowned each with suc- cess. Attwenty-four, no more brilliant talents were to be found than those possessed by Alfred Morton. His eloquence held thousands spell-bound, and fame even then placed her brightest laurels on his brow A few months passed away, and he pressed his sister closely to his heart in a partingembrace. She whose existence was almost identified with his own was about to leave him ; she, who had been his con- stant companion, his friend, his counselor, whose affection bad been the sunshine of his life, was on the eve of departure for other lands. A few weeks before, she had been united to one whose self-sacri- ficing, devoted spirit was equal to her own, and to- gether they were going to tell of a Saviour’s love on Turkey’s soil ; to labor, perhaps suffer, for the trath ; to supplant the Crescent, and place in its stead the ‘¢ Cross of the Crucified.” ‘‘ Sister,”? were his last words, “sister, farewell ; but for you I might have been the veriest wretch on earth; what [ owe you I can never repay ; your re- ward is laid up in heaven. You goon a high and holy mission—may angels guard your steps whither- soever they turn, and your Father in whom you Your absence will leave trust keep you from all ill! a void in my heart that none else can fill ; but I would not detain you even for a moment. Heaven bless you, my beloved sister! Farewell.” With an aching heart Alfred Morton watched the vessel that bore Helen and her husband far away, and then returned to his residence, for home it no longer seemed—feeling as if there was now no object for which to live. But he told his sister, truly, he would not have detained her, for he knew that hers was a nobler course, and hers a higher destiny than his own. Months passed on, and those that saw him in the crowded throng, or listened to his soul-stirring words, would not have imagined that there was sorrow in his heart. He was courted and admired ; everywhere the distinguished orator was received with applause ; and many there were who could have cherished a decper feeling than mere admiration for him whose fame had spread far and wide. But, one vision of feminine loveliness had been his, which he deemed MORTON. PAARL PPP | ; ; | | ; 3 | : 2 é ; ; 2 ; | i 77 PRALAAARP DAP could never be replaced, and he coud not, he dare not bind himself by ties which might be repugnant to himself, and cause him flagrantly to violate the laws of his Maker. Come with me, you that like to see strange things, to yonder chapel, and pause for a moment. Rumor with her busy tongue has been flying from house to house, and though the hour is early, many are assembled to witness what would seem to be an unlooked-for event. Look around you, and what fixes your attention? A bridal train is passing up the aisle, and look elosely, for, methinks that form, that bearing, is one that you should know. They stand beside the altar, and now the vows of Alfred Morton and Margaret Stanley are plighted, and they turn to leave the church. Watch carefully now for a glimpse of the bride, for the chosen of him so widely renowned should be one with whom few could com- pete. Are you divappointed? Gaze once more, thea ; I know that beauty of form and feature is not hers, I know that the complexion is not one of fairest hue, nor are those eyes dazzling in their brilliance ; but there is a beauty there that shall endure when these have passed away. There is intellect on that brow, there is soul in that eye, and there is an ex- pression resting on that face that arrogant beauties might vainly strive to possess. Enclosed in that form is a gentle, a “meek and quiet” spirit, aud within that bosom beats a heart that will not grow cold when the storms of life dash harshly aud piti- lessly on the objects of its present regard. Margaret Stanley was not beautiful ; to some, a mere acquaintance would not discover her noble soul; but there was that within her that fitted ber to be the life companion of Alfred Morton. She realized the dream that he had formed, and though some envious ones scornfully passed her by, thore that were honored with the friendship of Mrs. Morton wondered no more at her husband’s choice. She was the light of his home ; and as, in the days of his boyhood, he ever found his sister’s ear open to his joys or sorrows, so now, in his maturer years, he turned his footsteps towards his own hearth, and if weary and desponding, ever found an influence that would brighten everything. His home was a blessed place, and within its hallowed precincts the busy world was forgotten. Two years passed away, and they were no longer alone by their fireside, for an infant’s cheerful voice called forth answering music in their bearts, and drew them more closely to earth. On Helen, or Ella as they always called her, every care was lavished; for her no sacrifice was too great ; and her gleesome spirit would be infused into their own. Daily they watched her with ever-increaging de- light, and as they saw her merry gambols, or list- ened to her infant pratile, they almost forgot that any cloud could overshadow the horizon of their lives. Three years more passed away, and still the full sunshine of joy lit their home and giaddened their hearts. But joy may not last forever; for a time it

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78 GODEY'S is given to us, to make us turn with a truer love and a holier trust towards our heavenly home; but, when earthly objects cause us to lose sight of that home, the barriers we have raised must be broken down, and our souls be purified, though it be through suffering. It was witha burdened heart and a saddened eye that Mr. Morton read to his wife a letter that had jost reached him, bearing the mournful intelligence of his cherished sister’s rapid decline, and that he communicated to her his design of instantly going to her, although it might be but to see her die. “ You never saw my sister,’’ were his words; “but you know her lovely character, you know her unwearied care for me, and if [ could, ought I to leave her to die in a distant land almost alone? Should not duty, as well as love, prompt me to go to her? and if her spirit must be severed from earth, should not I be there to catch the last glance of her eyes, that never were bent on me but with the tenderest devotion ? To part from you, my wife, and my precious child, will be a struggle severe indeed ; but Heaven will watch over you, and, if it be our Father’s will, we shall be rejoined yet again on earth; if it be not so, we wil) still look to Him with unwavering trust, for we know that ‘ he will do all things well.’ ”’ No word was spoken in opposition, and in two days Alfred Morton was on the bosom of the ocean, hastening to the bedside of his dying sister. Six months had fled since Alfred Morton left his home in the full pride of manhood ; and by the hearth of that once cheerful spot, sat his desolate widow, and his fatherless child. Litt'e Ella could not un- derstand why her “ papa would come back no more,”’ nor why ber dear mamma looked so sad, and sighed so deeply when she pressed ber darling to her bosom. And her mother, as she watched her innocent child, murmured a prayer that for her sake she might still live. But for her, she would gladly have laid her head low in the grave; but when her child would gently climb on her knee, pass its little hands over her pale face, and look sad to see her so mournful, she reproached herself for thus yielding to her re- grets, and devoted herself more unwearyingly to her beloved little one. Time tarried not ; and as day after day Ella grew more lovely, more beautiful, as her intellect expanded, and her mind showed more of its strength and power, so the shadow gradually depart- ed from the mother’s brow, and a peace which is 20t of this world shed its light over her countenance. To Ella, her mother was all in all. Had sickness paled her cheek? Ella’s station was by her bedside, Ella’s hand administered medicine and nourixhment, Ella’s voice gently lulled her to repose, and Ella’s was the.first eye to brighten when health returned. One being alone beside her mother obtained any share of Ella’s affection. Fannie Enfield was the daughter of one of Mrs. Morton’s early friends, and the two girls were too much thrown together not to become mutually attached. A sister had never been given to Fannie, and she welcomed Ella with all a MAGAZINE AND LADY'S BOOK. sister’s aflection. Through their childhood they had been chosen companions, and as years flew by, their early friendship became still more firmly cemented. But Ella’s eye grew troubled, and her face wore an anxious expression, for her mother’s loved form grew thin, and her face was very pale, seve where the fever flush dwelt brightly in her cheek; her eye assumed a lustre too brilliant to last, and medical skill proved unavailing. With the agony that only those know who have lost all they loved save one, and who see the frail cords that held that one back to life about to be severed, Ella watched her mother’s fading form, hoping that the dawn of each day would bring, health and vigor to her whose existence was well nigh ended. Wildly, madly she prayed that yet a little while might be added to her life; but it was only the wild cry of despair. No faith, no love mingled with that petition, and when with each new hour hope grew fainter, no resignation marked her sorrow, no response of “ Thy will be done !”’ arose from her heart. Mrs. Morton saw this but too clearly, and earnestly she sought to lead Ella to look for guidance and con- solation from Him whose ear is ever open to the cry of the sorrowing. Gently she chid her for thus yielding to her grief, and bade her meet her in the bright spirit-land, to whose worshipers she should soon be joined. Her last words were to her dearly beloved daughter, her last look was fixed on her, and ‘as a smile of angelic sweetness rested on her face, and a prayer trembled on her lips, her spirit fled to add another to the choral band that encircles the throne of the Eternal. For hours Ella Morton sat by the bedside of her departed mother, searching for one indication that life still remained; but vainly she lingered, for the living principle that bad existed in that marble form had passed away, no more to reanimate it, until “earth and sea give up their dead.”’ There is a limit to physical and mental endurance and when Fannie Enfield entered the room, Ella had fallen insensible by her mother’s side. With more than a sister’s tenderness, Fannie watched over her friend, and when animation returned to that appa- rently lifeless body, it was Fannie’s glad eye that beamed hopefully on the sufferer. For a single mo- ment El!a seemed unconscious of all she had suffered, but the full tide of agony quickly rushed over her, and despairingly she prayed todie. It was well for Ella that she had such a friend ; it was well that there was a Fannie to speak words of hope, and breathe of purer skies than those that overcanopy our world; else she might have turned away from the call of the heavenly messenger, and the chastisement that was sent in mercy might have steeled her heart and weighed her down to death. * * * * * * A year has passed since the night we first saw Ella, on the evening of her mother’s funeral, and in the same room a youthful form is bending in prayer, and a holy radiance overspreads that fair young face

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POETRY. PPPS wr awe It is Ella; but how changed! Yes, she had sought for happiness where none ever sought and were re- fused. Sorrow has accomplished its sacred mission, and though a more subdued expression rests on her face than is common to those who have lost none of the objects on which their affections have been placed, though her thoughts turn less to the things of this world, and are fixed more constantly on those that shall not pass away, yet she is none the less loved by those who cluster around her, and listen un wearyingly to every accent of her voice. ; To shed joy around her is her unceasing aim; to ; make more easy the path gf those who but for her } might live uncared for, and die unheeded; to pour } balm into the bleeding hearts of those from whom 3 the busy world turn carelessly away, these are the ; purposes for which she exists. Prayers and bless- ; ings follow her from many mouths, and in her own ; heart there is diffused a happiness and peace which } those who bow before the shrine of Mammon would } vainly seek, | } } ‘ ‘ ‘ ; i ; ; ; 2 ; ) 5 Oem 7 Onn Has my tale been a sad one, gentle reader ?—Re- member that there are dark pages as well as those that are light in life’s history ; and, if you have never known in your own case the sorrow that the loss of one you devotedly loved has occasioned ; ifa mother’s eye is resting fondly on you as you peruse there pages, and no vacant chair stands by your hearth, pour forth your richest thanks that thus it is. But if a dark cloud should overspread your dwelling, and your heart be desolate and sad because the Angel of Death has come thither, then raise your thoughts above the things that are within the power of the Destroyer, bow meekly to the will of your God, and you shall then know that to the darkest and most cheerless night may succeed a bright and glorious morning, and you shall feel ‘¢___that by the lights and shades through which your pathway lies, By the beauty and the grief alike, you are train- ing for the skies.’’ POETRY. NEW YEAR. BY ABBY ALLIN. Up into the sunshine, soul of mine! I brook no darkness here ; The sun is shining on the hills In the first day of the year! The giittering snow is on the pines, Like frosted cones they rise, And the earth below, and the sky above, Are ciad in happy guise! Up, up, my soul! no longer sit, With folded hands, alone; The Future opes her arms to thee, The Past is dead and gone! The Future, with her luring voice, Cries, ‘‘ Hither, hither, sweet !’’ The Past, a shadow of the lost, Is tracking at my feet. Up, up, my soul! nor glance behind ; Turn not one wistful look ; Leave all the Past to Him who gave, To Him, again, who took! Press on, press on, the year of life Cannot be always May ; Yet the snow-birds sing on the leafless tree, And why not thou as they ? Up, up, my soul! no longer sit Inert with fear and dread, Since Nature‘s calm is all around, And the sky shines overhead ! Up, up, and climb the mountain path, With strong, unfettered will ! And let thy motto ever be, ** Onward and upward”’ still! POO ttt ttn te tattinaten . PAPA PAPEL TO A SNOW-BIRD. BY M. &. H. Wetcome, thou little warbler, With tuneful notes and sweet! Thrice welcome, in these dreary days Of frost, and snow, and sleet ! Chirp on! thou bring’st sweet memories Of the laughing summer-time, Of whispering leaves, the warm south wind, And the streamlet’s silver chime! Where hast thou been, bright wanderer, Since the winter last was here ? Why cam’st thou not with the summer birds, When the sky was blue and clear? Spring brougl.t her buds and blossoms, And, in every grove and dell, Those gentle minstrels tuned their notes, Of happiness to tell. They ushered in the morning, They bade the day adieu ; When evening shadows gathered round, Home to their nests they flew. Oh, the world was then so beautiful ! The air with music rung! Why cam’st thou not when its summer garb Was brightly o’er it fang ? Alas! too soon it faded! The flowers bent down to die! And cold, dark clouds, with chilling looks, Came o’er the autumn sky! The leaves grew brown and withered, And fell upon the ground,

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GODEY’s 80 “ne PRP PPP LLLP And the winds swept through the naked trees With a lonely, solemn sound! All fair, bright things departed! The cold snows came at last, And wrapt the earth in its winding-sheet, By the dirge of the wintry blast! The stream’s gay song was silenced, The glad birds sung no more, And loneliness was on the hill, And by the pleasant shore! Thy sweet voice broke the stillness, And, with its first glad strain, All the gentle gifts of the summer hours Seemed to return again! ?Tis so when shadows darken The sunshine of the heart, And the gentle tones of mirth and joy, Like summer flowers, depart. Some sweet hope ever springeth, Like a bird in the wint’ry hours, To brighten the brow with a sunny gleam, Though dark the storm-cloud lowers. POEM. TEMPORA. LATIN VITH HUMANZ BY WM. ALEXANDER. MANE veni; erat Ver, Atque risi. Meridiano tempore, Perdeambulavi, Erat Astas; Atque gavisus Sum Consedi Vesperi ; Erat Autumnus; Atque tristitia affectus Sum. Nocte quieti me dedi; Erat Hyems; atque dormivi. SEASONS OF LIFE. A Paraphrase of Wm. Alexander's Latin Poem. BY R. PENN SMITH. I came in Morning ; it was Spring, And I smiled. At Mid-day, I, on eager wing, Rambled o’er the green to sing, As bird or child. It now was Summer, fruitful, bland, My Soul and Joy walked hand in hand O*er flowery fields, in merry glee; I smiled at Joy, he laughed at me. Shades of Eve came slowly on, *Twas Autumn now; My joys had vanished one by one, Grief pressed my brow. Although my breast was sore distrest, Soon Night approached to give me rest: *T was Winter now, all nature wept ; I shed no tear, but calmly slept. MAGAZINE AND LADY’S PPA PAP PPL ——e ms BOOK. ~ INDIVIDUAL AND UNIVERSAL ACTION. FROM THE GERMAN. AcTIon, action, action, action! Never tiring, never ceasing, At each step with new-born power, Like the mountain stream increasing Up, thou craven! up, and doing! Toil alone can win the road ; Onward, upward, still pursuing, On, and leave the rest to God! It is true, thou art a trifle, Sport of every passing wave, That, with one quick plunge, could stifle, And give thee a wat’ry grave. Thou canst not one fiat alter In the heavens or on the earth; Could a heavenly being falter Toa thing of mortal birth ? Well thou mayest cry, in sorrow, ** All my labor is but vain! What is built to-day, to-morrow Must be all built o’er again!’ Know this truth, and cease complaining, Hope will here revive thy soul— Thou art but a single atom Of a universal whole. In the cycle of Creation, Toil not for thyself alone: In thy brother’s thy salvation, In his ruin, too, thine own. HALCYON DAYS.* BY ROBERT G. ALLISON. Tue haleyon days of youth have fled, And many a joy with them has sped ; For many a friend sleeps with the dead. Ah, ne’er shall balmy Spring’s return Revive the ashes in Friendship’s urn! Those halcyon days, when Fancy drew Her scenes all tinged with Hope’s bright hue; 2 Memory may oft those days review: But youth’s fresh hopes have with them fled— Those hopes lie buried with the dead! * These lines were suggested while reading the fol- Ipwing in ‘‘ Virgil’s Georgics’’ :— ** Non tepidum ad solem pennas in litore pandunt Dilecte Thetidi Haleyones,’’ &c. The reader will recollect the portion of mythological history to which Virgil alludes: ‘‘ Ceyx, King of Trachinia, going to consult the oracle of Apollo, at Claros, was shipwrecked in the Hgean Sea. His wife, Halcyone, seeing his dead body floating near the shore, flung herself upon it in a transport of ber passion. Thetis, out of compassion to the lovers, transformed them into the birds called king-fishers; hence Dilec- tw Thetidi. It is said the sea is calm a certain number of days about the winter solstice, while these birds of poetry are gently gliding over its surface.’’

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POETRY 81 ON THE DEATH OF AN OBSCURE CITIZEN. BY W. GILMORE SIMMS. Men wonder when the planets do go out, And stars desert their places; when the might Of the great oak is shattered, and the storm Sweeps the imperial trophy from the brow Of him who looked the god in mortal eyes, And grew so to his own. And yet for thee, So lowly in life’s places, with no power To lift thee into majesty, no grace To woo glad eyes in homage to thy walks, And consecrate thy doings with applause That cheered to new achievements; with no aim Of greatness, and but little thirst for life— Death hath no dignity: and thou hast sunk, Silent, from out the crowded walks of man, Into the quiet grave, and art not missed. But Nature hath her obsequies for all, And virtue is remembered with her tears, When Fame itself grows voiceless o'er the great, And clothes their shrines with ruin. Thou hast made Some sweet affections blossom at thy grave, Which have befitting flowers, that take on bloom Ere Spring hath made escape from Winter cells, Still pale with cold and terror of pursuit! Love did not shrink to shelter in thy cot, Though at the door stood Poverty, and Toil, Forevermore within, from dawn to dusk, Found little respite to enjoy the smiles That warmed his courage to resolve, and made The burden easy of his daily care. But, in the very rareness of the joy Grows its delicious value; and thy bliss, If lowly in condition, wanting state In utterance, and significant to thee Alone, of all around thee, was not less The wholesome solace of a life that knew A cottage empire only. In thy home Sat Peace, content with lowliness, that gave New fireside warmth and gladness to thy hearth, That wore no gauds of grandeur. Love could share Thy labors, and could lighten them; and Truth, That has a beauty separate from the world, Found thee meet treasures that, within thy heart, Assured of faith, made alla calm delight, ~ That never wept for fortune. Thou wast blest. To the necessity reconciled, that left Thy home secure from Envy, and which brought An adequate beauty to thy homely weeds, And sweetness to thy threshold; and thy life Passed on, as passed the long summer day O’er silent forests, making shade and sun Equally fruitful of repose and love ; Commencing, in rare union, with a joy That, if it knows no gushings wild and warm, Knows not the storms of passion, which but show The beats of rapture—all the peace denied That makes the pleasure holy and secure Thy living and thy dying, both the same, Safe from the tempest, in the world without Making no stir. Few were they who knew Thy virtues; few, at thy departure, feel That something, which was precious to the day, Hath been despoiled by night. Yet, in thy home, There hangs a blind, sad vacancy, that looks, VoL. LxIv.—8 teeta tetetettetetnteteteete teddies e On nnn nee I’M KNEELING Through eyes of terror, to the lonely heart Of thy sad widow. If she weeps, her tears Lack voice, unless to those, her orphan brood, That hear through a like consciousness of loss, And echo with a silence like her own. Ah, Nature hath n&t one unnoted child! Some soul still sorrows when the light goes out, Though feeble, which, in Poverty’s low cell, Shone for the humblest: desolate hearts still shrine The lineaments of care, when softened thus By Love; and precious instincts still discern The little, lowly hiding-place in earth, Unmarked by any monument, where sleeps The form of him whose gifts in Poverty Made Poverty’s self a treasure, best of all' AT THY GRAVE, MOTHER. BY Cc. T. POOLER. Ain—‘‘ I’m sitting on the stile, Mary.”’ The following lines were suggested on seeing 2 sick girl—an only child—a few weeks before her death, kneeling at her mother’s grave. I ’m kneeling at thy grave, mother, Where I have planted flowers, Which, with dew-drops, nightly weep with me, Here in my lonely hours. F orget-me-nots are blooming here, And the rose perfumes the air ; Willows bend above thy head, mother, Where thy daughter bows in prayer I’m kneeling at thy grave, mother, As once I knelt by thee, When early taught by thee to pray, My head upon thy knee: Oh, then our home was bright and gay, When thy voice was heard in song ! Now I sing and weep alone, mother, And the days are sad and long. I ’m kneeling at thy grave, mother, Where I have come to pray; Though the stars of autumn coldly shine As twilight fades away ; Though winds are sweeping hoarsely by, Still I love to linger here, For ’tis lonely at our home, mother, Since thou ’rt not there to cheer. Oh, art thou looking down, mother, Upon thy weeping child ? And now, from the spirit land, canst thou Not bless thy dying child ? Though I am wasting fast away, I ’ve no one to weep with me; For a little while, good night, mother— Soon I ’1] come and sleep by thee. * * * * ~ September winds have blown chilling, The token flowers are gone, And, bencath the willow bending there, I mark another stone. Death, too, hath nipped an angel flower, And beneath the sod ’tis pressed ; Ceased from sorrow, with her dear mother, Emma now hath gone to rest.

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GODEY’S PAPAL PPP PLP LLL NEWPORT. FASHION IN BY PARK BENJAMIN. [The following lines, now first in print, were intro- duced by our friend, Paxx Benjamin, Esq., in a hu- morous, satirical poem, entitled, # The Age of Gold,’’ which he recently pronounced at the Bellevue Hall, in Newport, before a crowded and fashionable audience.]} On, mighty fine it is to be the slave Of Fashion! Mighty fine it is to brave Old Common Sense, that antiquated snob, Mix in gay crowds and mingle with the mob, Whom love of show, and love of pleasure, too, Lead where they can be rather viewed than view ! Where they can run from folly to excess, Loll all the morning, and with leisure dress; And then, at dinner, sit o’er sleepy wine, And sleepier talk—all this is mighty fine! And, finer still, when evening shadows sink, And small desire is left to eat and drink— The livelong day in vacant dawdle spent, As if Life’s lease were given free of rent— QOblivious now of office or of shop, To spend the evening in a general hop! (All hops, I ween, a slumberous influence shed, Made by the feet or pillowed near the head.) Yes, to live thus, in some sea-beaten spot, Is truly charming while the weather's hot, And while—kind friends, excuse this truthful song— Sport is the judgment and the purse is long. Yet, glorious Newport! though all sorts of belles And fops come thronging to thy huge hotels; Though many a seller by the yard of tape Here strives high manners and high style to ape; Though anxious mothers deem thy market good For girls on hand, grown sick of solitude ; Though pointless slanders, and jokes void of pith, Are told of some Count Mustache or Count Smith ; Though to knock down smal! pins with balls that roll, And shoot at targets, occupy the soul; Though the fond mazes of thé doubtful dance Lap youths and damsels in a dreamy trance ; And though fantastic tricks are madly played, Before high Heaven, within thy breezy shude— Thy charms are many, thine attractions rare! Blue are thy summer skies, and sweet the air Which, saltly perfumed by the billow, flings Health and excitement from its shoreward wings! And many spirits, gencrous and bright, Cheer thy fair day, illuminate thy night, Who, from some region or remote or near, Seek the cool influence of old Ocean here; And who, by studious culture, tastes refined, Deck social pleasures with the gems of mind. THE SPIRIT’S REVELATION. BY J. WM. WEIDEMEYER. “ TELL me, ye departed spirits, Who, in mystery, round us dwell, Dare ye hold converse with mortals, And your tale of wonders tell ?”’ ‘« Ask us not to break the secret, Aught beyond the grave reveal ; In the gray night’s gloom and stillness, Drawn toward the earth we feel : _———e~ weer MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. — eo ‘* For there is a strange communion *Twixt men and our spirit band ; Oft in omens we approach ye, Brothers of our ancient land. ‘* From the glittering orb of even, Glidiag down upon its beams, Noiseless as the step of zephyr, Do we visit you in dreams. ** At the couch of all true-hearted Stand we guardian in their sleep ; For the loved ones left behind us Do we faithful vigils keep. * See yon spirit-mother hovering O'er her fondly-cherished child Smile on it in tender sorrow— Drink its breath in rapture wild ‘* And the ghostly husband beckons, Loving, to his lonely wife ; In yon lunar bowers he bids her Join with him in spirit-life. * Playing with her flowing tresses, Pillowed on her heaving breast, Comes the spirit-child to linger, By its mother’s lips caressed. ‘* Never can the tie be severed ’T wixt the hearts that truly love ; And for every friend departed, One ye gain with us above.”’ THE DREAM OF MEMORY On, why, sad mem’ry, wilt thou cling To that dear name I love to sing ! That vision of my youth’s glad dreams, Which Love once decked in fuirest beams ? Ab, well, fond mem’ry, may’st thou cling To that dear name I love to sing ! How joys have faded since we met! Friends change or die, and some forget! While sorrow’s tears, like gentle rain, But make the Past look green again ! Then cling, sad mem’ry, fondly cling * To that dear name I love to sing! I would not tell thee al/ [ ’ve borne, Thy yet kind heart perchance would mourn; And oh, to show thy heart one pain, I ’d bid them all in mine remain ! Then cling, sad mem’ry, fondly cling To that dear name I love to sing ! Yet I would ask thee, when I ’m gone, Give but one thought to me alone : The idle thing will cost thee naught, And be to me so sweet a thought! Then cling, sad mem’ry, fondly cling To that dear name I love to sing ! But other friends will soon be thine ; The gay, false-hearted would be mine : They smile in vain, I knew but one ! Dream on, sad mem’ry, I ’m alone! Ah, well, fond mem’ry, may’st thon cling To that dear name I love to sing.

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MUSLIN CANEZOU AND LE MUSLIN CANEZOU. Srnce lace and embroidered muslin capes are somewhat out of date, the canezow seems to have taken their place, a medium between the high aud low corsages. Of these, we have every variety ; and. when fitting well to the form, nothing ean be more tasteful. Fig. 1 is a canezou of Swiss muslin, and intended for a dinner or evening dress for a small company. It may be worn with a,white muslin or light silk skirt. The body is composed of alternate rows of fine Swiss insertion and putfings, or, as the French GILET. call them, dorrt//onnées, of plain muslin, made very full. The sleeves are plain to the elbow, where they widen trumpet-shaped, and are finished in the same style as the corsage, edged by a wide row of * embroidery. The same also surrounds the throat and edges the corsage, which is clasped by a belt suitable to the skirt in color, and a buckle of pearl, gold, or enamel. GILET. We have frequently of late alluded to the intro duction of the Gilet, or vest, to the wardrobes of 83 LE

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st our fair countrywomen. They are most suitable for a promenade toilet, though, when made of a light or rich material, dinner dresses are improved by them. We have selected two from the great variety of models offered to us, and have had them engraved without the skirt or chemisette, which usually accompanies them, that our readers mnay understand the forms more distinctly. Fig, 2 is of white Marseilles, and intended to be 4 | WAI 8 Orr GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. worn with a plaid silk or poplin skirt. It has a roll- ing collar, and is ornamented with small enameled buttons. ‘The sleeves are en revers, or turned over so as to form a cuff. Fig. 3 is of watered silk, a deep Marie Louise blue. Instead of the collar, it has an edge of needle- work, the scollops being very deep. This Gilet is lined with white silk, and the entire corsage is open in front, intended to display a costly chemisette. TY i/7* HAN SCREENS AND CUSHION. HAND-SCREENS. Figs. 1 and 2. The new raised cross-stitch, for working canvas. This stitch answers extremely well for screens, or anything that is shown on either side (as in the screens shown in Figs. 1 and 2), both being finished. The canvas must be placed in a frame, and worked the same as common cross stitch, with this excep- tion, that the cross-stitch on the right side must be left loose, about half an inch from the canvas, then cross it on the wrong vide, which finishes the stitch. It must be worked with double wool, and, when on es ee finished, cut according to taste. Any Berlin pattern can be worked, but birds are the most suitable. CUSHION. Fig. 3. The cushion shown in Fig. 3, which is about a quarter of a yard square, has the pattern worked on canvas. The flower is white, shaded with stone color, and the outer petals are blue. The largest leaf is worked with olive green in four shades. The other two leaves, which are partially hidden by the flower, are in shades of common green.

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CROCHET.—NOVEL VASE 4) f) “ > ‘s OX) KXSAXY "S #4 2 Materials.—One ounce of double Berlin wool, shaded scarlet; ivory heok. Make 3 chain stitches; unite the ends. First round.—Single erochet, making 1 chain stitch between each single. Second round.—3 chain into every second stitch in the last round. Third round.—The same. Fourth round.—4 treble into every loop of 3 chain. Fifth round.—Plain trebie, taking every loop at the back of the chain. Sizth round.—3 chain into every second stitch in the preceding round. Seventh round.—4 treble into every loop of 3 chain. Eighth round.—3 chain into every second stitch in the last round. Ninth round.—2 treble into every loop of 3 chain. Border.—5 chain into every third stitch in the last round of the bottom 8* Tx SAS AY SOREN \ Poe co xy) g A Y XD (\S OSORIO MY WK RR STAND. 4 i, U + ty Sys WAY a 805/47 af SURETY Second round.—1 treble into every loup of 5 chain, making 7 chain between each treble. Third round.—4 chain into the centre of every second loop in the last round. Fourth round.—1| treble into every third stitch in the last round, making 7 chain between each treble. Fifth round.—3 chain worked into every second loop, as in the third round. Sizth round.—6 chain into every fourth stitch in the last round. Seventh round.—6 chain into the centre of the loop in the last round. Etighth round.—3 chain into the centre of the loops. Ninth round.—6 chain, 1 treble in the space form- ed by the 3 chain in the last round. The Vase-stand is now completed by working 7 chain stitches betwéen every second loop where the border commences turning up, Which makes a finish to the bottom. 85

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Tue fashion for embroider- ing the borders of cloaks, pe- lisses, sacques, &c., on meri- no, or fine cassimere, or flan- nel, with silk, is so prevalent this season, that we have thought it might be useful to give our readers a few choice patterns for the purpose from original designs. They are to be wrought witk coarse or fine silk, or with a mixture of the two, according to the de- gree of intricacy or simplicity in the parts of the pattern. To facilitate the work, we can furnish casts from the original wood-cuts of these designs. By chalking the raised figure on the cast, the design may be stamped on the cloth, and the whole trouble of tracing or drawing on tis- sue paper saved. One of our correspondents uses printer’s ink, instead of chalk, in put- ting the design on merino. This requires skill and care to avoid soiling the cloth. These patterns are equally serviceable for muslin, or any other material. 86 PATTERNS FOR SILK EMBROIDERY. di,

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KENITTING FOR THE N A NEW KNITTED PELISSE (WITH TRIMMING TO IMITATE CHINCHILLA; SUITED IN SIZE FOR A YOUNG LADY, FROM SEVEN TO NINE YEARS OF AGE). Materials.—Six ounces of crimson, four thread super fleecy. Two ounces each of three shades of stone color ditto; and No. 4 box wood pins; and No. 8 bone pins for the trimmings. The pattern consists of two rows worked thus :— First row.—Make one, { place the pin in the next stitch, as if going to knit it, pass the wool twice round the pin, and finish knitting it as usual, ¢ repeat until one is left, knit that plain. Second row.—Knuit the first stitch and half the next together ; then the remaining half and the half of the next together, continue this to the end of the row. These two rows form a ridge, and to be continued throughout. FOR THE BACK. Cast on thirty-two stitches. Repeat the two rows until you can count eight ridges on the right side of your work ; then cast off three on each side. In the next ridge decrease one on each side. Knit back as in the second row. Knit three ridges without decreasing; then cast on three stitches at each end of the row, thus making half the arm-hole ; then work seven ridges, decreas- ing one stitch every alternate row; cast off. FOR THE FRONT. Cast on sixteen stitches. Knit eight ridges as in the back; then cast off three. At the commencement of the next row, knit the back row, but decrease one at the end. Knit three ridges without increase or decrease. In the beginning of the next row cast on three stitches, and work one ridge ; then seven other ridges, decreas- ing every alternate row at the beginning, thus making the other half of the shoulder. In working the othe? side, it will simply require the knitter to increase or decrease at the end of the row instead of the Jeginning to make both fronts alike. FOR THE SLEEVE. Cast on twenty-six stitches, beginning at the wrist. Knit six ridges; then increase each side every alternate row for twelve rows. Cast off in the next row three on each side; then decrease each side every alternate row three times more, and cast off. FOR THE SKIRT. Cast on one hundred and twenty stitches. URSERY Increase every row on each side for ten ridges, knit two together in the next row, and cast off. FOR THE TRIMMING ROUND THE SKIRT, ETC. Cast on with the darkest shade of stone color one hundred and eighty stitches. First row.—Kanit two, ¢ purl four, cast on six on your right hand pin, { repeat, knit two. Second row.—Kanit two, } purl seven, knit three, f repeat, knit two. Third row.—Knit two, { purl three, knit seven, ¢ repeat, knit two. Fourth row.—Nezxt shade.—Kuit two, { purl seven, knit three, f knit two. Fifth row.—Knit two, ¢ purl three, knit two to- gether, knit three, knit two together, { knit two. Sizth row.—Knit two, { purl five, knit three, ¢ knit two. Seventh row.—Knit two, ¢ purl three, knit two together, knit one, knit two together, { knit two. Eighth row.—Nezt shade.—-Knit two, { purl three, knit three, ¢ knit two. Ninth row.—Knit two, ¢ purl three, knit two to- gether, knit one, ¢ knit two. Tenth row.—Knit two, { purl two, knit three, f knit two. Eleventh row.—Knit two, { purl three, knit two together, { knit two. Twelfth row.—Pilain. Join on the darkest shade, and work the pattern through again and cast off. FOR THE COLLAR. Cast on sixty-four stitches, Knit the same as the border, but only going through the rows once. FOR THE CUFF. Cast on twenty-four stitches. Which will be six patterns, and the two stitches for each edge, and work as the Collar. FOR THE FRONT. Cast on eight stitches. Which will be two patterns, and work four pat- terns in depth. A second piece must be knitted like this to go down the other front. To make it up, the back and two fronts must be jomed ; sixty stitches picked up roumg the waist, and a plain row knitted, and cast off. The skirt to be sewn on to the body leaving a plain space on each side the front of a nail and half, sew the rest round to suit the figure. To be tied at the throat, and down the front of the body with rib- bon to match. The cuffs also the same. The chin chilla trimming having been previously sewn on. 87

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EBiTORS’ Tue New Year is a standing-point from which we should look backward as well as onward, noting chiefly those actions and influences that, beginning in the past, are to be carried out in their full results, or modified in their tendencies, by causes and events yet undeveloped. The most important, among these recent movements, is the attempt to take woman from her empire of home, and make her the rival of man for the mastery of the world. The ostensible plea for this innovation is that the female sex suffers oppression and wrong from men ; and therefore women mast learn to support and defend themselves, and be able to demand justice before they will obtain it. That men should consider physical strength and me- chanical skill superior to moral influence and spiritual purity is not strange, because the tendencies of their nature are earthward ; but that women should be found in our country, where the sex is so highly respected and tenderly cared for, willing to give up their heavenly privileges of acting with angels in the care of the young, and co-operating with the Divine influence in keeping alive the true faith of the Gospel in the heart of humanity, isastonishing. It seems impossible that those of the sex who are leading onward this move- ment can have considered its consequences. The in- dustrial power of the world is now greatly in advance of its moral development; and shall woman, who is the appointed guardian of whatsoever is good, pure, and lovely in morals and manners, resign her mission, in order to add to the material wealth of the world? [t is as though a star should strive to come down from its place in the calm sky, and take the station of a gas- lamp in a crowded city street. Let us take an illustration from that Magna Charta of woman’s rights, the BIBLE. The pyramids of Egypt show to this day the grand triomph of man’s physical power and mechanical skill. No female mind would ever have planned the pyramids, and no female strength could have erected those mountain-like strue- tures ascribed to the Pharachs. But the daughter of a Pharaoh performed an act of womanly tenderness, which was of more importance to the cause of human improvement than all the material works of all the kings of Egypt. Which deed was the nobler, the dis- interested kindness which saved the life of the Jewish Lawgiver, or the selfish pride which probably destroy- ed, or rendered miserable, a hundred thousand lives in building the great pyramid? Men and women have different tendencies of nature, and different tasks to occupy and develop those tenden- cies; to bring them into the same field of employments would be as absurd as to make the value of porcelain consist in igs power to do the work of iron. Woman has a higher pursuit than the industrial arts afford; a better inheritance than earth can offer is in her keep- ing —to raise humanity towards the angelic is her The most important vocation on earth is that The true wife office. of the Christian mother in her nursery. has a ministry at home which may be more potent than that of the pulpit; for she, “ by her chaste conversa- tion, coupled with fear’ 88 ’ —that is, piety, with gentle- PPL TABLE. ness and humility—may convert and save her husband when the preacher fails. The female teacher wields an influence more potent than the statesman; and, as the preserver, women, when made tamiliar with medical science, which belongs to their department of know- ledge and practice, so far as their own sex and chil- dren are concerned, will excel in the preventive depart- ment, and, by diffusing among mothers the knowledge of the laws of health and better modes of training chil- dren, they will bring about a renovation of the gencral health, and, doubtless, a prolongation of human life. To fit her for these duties, and give her opportunities of performing them in the best manner, woman needs what the BIBLE, above ail other books or codes, gives the sex, namely, the right to claim support, protection, education, and every needful facility which man can provide. Sons must provide for their mothers—such was the example of the blessed Saviour. He did not leave his mother to support herself by her own hands. One of the first cares of the early Christians was to provide for widows; husbands were commanded to ‘love and cherish’’—provide the father was worse than an infidel who did not provide for his children. The churches were commanded ‘ to help those women who labored in the Lord.’’ The fe- male disciples were ‘‘ to keep the house,’’ ‘to teach the children,’’ and to ‘‘ teach the young women.”’ If the doctrines of the Gospel were carried out, there would be no saffering, no oppression of the female sex. for—their wives: “« Christ was made of a woman.”’ Everywhere He has borne testimony to feminine excellence; the precepts of His doctrine harmonize with woman’s uature; and, as the same standard of purity is required by the Gos- pel for both sexes, it follows that, in the real improve- ment of society, men will, in their moral sentiments, become more like the gentle sex, and not that women are to affect the style and pretensions of the masculine character. In a work*® of our own, which has been long in pre- paration, and will soon appear, these views are fully explained; and, we trust, the book will be of some service in settling the agitations about woman's sphere, which now perplex many minds, and threaten to disturb the happiness of home and the peace of so- ciety. In order to show what woman becomes when com- pelled to do ‘man’s work,” we give a description of rural life in France, from the pen of one of the best and most philanthropic of living French writers. Sach pictures are common over continental Europe. Where millions of men are withdrawn from labor, and kept embodied as soldiers, much of the out-door work must be done by females; hence the low estimation placed on woman in those countries, and the degradation of the sex. As a contrast to this shocking portrait of * working women’’—that is, those who are engaged in labors pertaining to “ subduing the earth,’ which God imposed on men only—we give the views of an eminent oe] * ‘Woman's Record; or Biographical Sketches of all Distinguished Women,” &c.

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LITERARY NOTICES. ~~ ~ Amcrican statesman respecting the true destiny of the sex. Is there an American woman who would not pre- fer this lot above any which earth can offer ? THE WORKING WOMEN OF FRANCE. BY L. AIME-MARTIN. The great misfortune of our villages is the degrada- tion of the women through labors which belong to men. In their earliest years they tend the flocks and gather in the harvest. As young girls, an instinct of coquetry and the foresight of their mothers remove them from the,rude fatigues of husbandry ; but no sooner do they marry, than all is changed; they abandon the house, and follow their husbands into the fields. You see them bowed to earth, as laborers, or laden with enor- mous weights, like beasts of burden. There are dis- tricts in France—I do not say in Africa—where they are harnessed to carts with the ox and the ass. From that time their skin becomes shriveled, their complex- fons like coal, their features coarse and homely, and they fall into a premature decrepitude, more hideous than that of old age. But, whilst thus performing the labor of men, their own labors, those labors which sweeten and refine all others, remain neglected or un- known. Nothing can be more filthy, nothing more un- wholesome, than the interior of their cottages. Fowls, ducks, pigs, contending for a meal; the door opening into the mud; and the windows, where there are any, serving only as vent-holes to carry off the smoke. It is there, nevertheless, in a hole, miry as the hut of a savage, amidst the gruntings and fetid emanations of animals, that, every evening, two human beings, male and female, repose from the fatigues of the day. No- body is there to receive them, nothing to flatter their regards, the table is empty, and the hearth cold as ice. There, lastly. other labors await the woman, and, be- fore thinking of her husband’s supper, or the care of her children, she must think of the stable and of supper for the beasts. But how different would it be, if, leaving to her hus- band the hard labors of the field, and confining her attention to the interior of the house, the wife, in her delicate forethought, had prepared all for the hour of return! The fire would blaze on the hearth, and the evening’s meal smoke on the polished board. ‘The good housewife would present herself to her husband in the midst of plenty, and surrounded by the smiling faces Thus a sweet and easy life would be But there is nothing to of her children. the natural life of the villager. impress his mind with any image of this happiness; he knows not the word comfort; he is insensible to the charm of caresses, and even the power of love. His children tremble before him, his wife dreads the vigor of hisarm. The adversary, not the protector, of these feeble beings, he knows of no law but force. The der- nier argument of the peasant, in his cottage as in his field, is the weight of his fist. If asked for examples of these things, we will cite whole provinces, the richest as well as the poorest, of France: Perigord, where the women live in a state of filth and abjectness which reacts on the whole family ; Picardy and Limousin, where, degraded to the lowest rank, and as of an inferior race, they serve their hus- band at table, without ever daring to take a place at his side; Brescia, where they are mere laborers, mere beasts of burden; lastly, Lower Brittany, where hus- band, wife, and children, reduced to a state almost savage, live all, pell mell, in the same filthy chamber, NRRL ARAL 89 PLP PEL LLLP PLL LLLP and eat black bread, in the same trough with their sheep and hogs. Everywhere is the degradation of the woman a sure proof of the brutishness of the man, and everywhere is the brutishness of the man a necessary consequence and reaction from the degradation of the woman. Do not offer them comfort or well-being ; they would reject it as something useless or strange. To desire comfort, it is necessary for them to know what comfort is, and ages have passed over their cabins without leaving there any other thoughts than those of labor and wretchedness. Such is the condition of whole districts in almost every country of civilized Europe. And what is sad- der still, is the fact that these spectacles strike our eyes without wounding them, our souls without soften- ing them. Two modes, very simple, offer themselves, however, for ameliorating the lot of these poor rustics. The first is to establish a primary institution, sufficiently large, for young girls, where they may learn how to direct the after, be themselves qualified to instruct their own To establish, in a village, the interior economy of a house, and thas, here- children in the same. intellectual superiority of the women over the men, however transiently, is to restore to the former their influence—that vivifying influence which enriches cot- tages and civilizes nations. Hitherto, all our laws of primary instruction have proved insufficient, because they did not establish—be- fore all, and in preference to all—schools for the educa- tion of young girls. Never will instruction take deep root and spread in the rural districts, if it does not reach the children through their mothers, and the men through their wives. The public teacher is but a dry instrument, that teaches the alphabet; the mother of the family, on the contrary, is a moral power, which fertilizes the mind, while, at the same time, it opens the heart to love and the soul to charity. The second method, a necessary sequel of the first, consists in restoring to the women of the village the occupations of their sex, and in bringing them back to the This change, so simple, would operate as a complete revolution. In resuming her ap- propriate tasks, woman recovers her beauty; in re- covering her beauty, she regains her just influence and power. Occupied with employments less gross, her tastes become purified, her manners softened ; she stu- law of nature. dies neatness, she comprehends comfort, and a day at length comes when all her thoughts, all her desires, penetrate even the heart of her husband. Delicacy in woman is the most powerful enemy to the barbarism of man. It may be urged, perhaps, that, to withdraw women from the rude labor of the field, is to ruin the laborer. To this we reply that, far from ruining, it would enrich him. Surely the avocations of the cottage are neither less numerous nor of less importance than those of the field. or the plough, it requires not less careful hands to re- If it require a vigorous arm to handle the spade ceive the crop, to gather in the fruits, to rear the poul- try, to prepare butter and cheese, to card and spin the wool, and to maintain everywhere order and neatness The earth does not bring forth but under the plough, which rends it asunder, and the house cannot prosper but under the wisdom which superintends it. When Solomon would describe the prosperity of a house, it is not the labors of the man, but the sweet in- fluences of the wife, that occur to his thoughts. To the woman he attributes all the favors of fortune, even

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GODEY’S MAGAZINE 90 AND LADY’S BOOK. to the wisdom for which her husband is honored. He describes her as watching over the ways of her house- hold, and rising, while it is yet night, to distribute wool to her servants. Wisdom speaks through her mouth, kindness reposes on her lips, and never is she seen to eat the bread of idleness. ‘Thus is she respected by her servants, blessed by the poor and needy, and, when she appears ‘so girded with strength and beauty, her children rise up and call her blessed, and her hus- band, joining his praises to theirs, says to her, ‘‘ Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou exceliest them all’? The recompense of the virtuous woman in the Bible is the respect of her children, the love of her husband, and the homage of all around her. Sach are the sentiments which would spring frm the civilization of the country. Let the legislator but once give birth to them, and we shall, ere long, admire in the cottage the same virtues which, in the time of Solomon, gave delight to the palace. INFLUENCE OF WOMAN. BY HON. DANIEL WEBSTER. It is by the promulgation of sound morals in the com- munity, and more especially by the training and in- struction of the young, that woman performs her part towards the preservation of a free government. It is generally admitted that publie liberty, the perpetuity of a free constitution, rests on the virtue and intelli- gence of the community which enjoys it. How is that virtue to be inspired, and how is that intelligence to be communicated? Bonaparte once asked Madame de Staél in what manner he could most promote the hap- pinéss of France? Her reply is full of political wis- dom. She said, “Instruct the mothers of the French people.’? Mothers are, indeed, the affectionate and effective teachers of the human race. The mother be- gins her process of training with the infant in her arms. It is she who directs, so to speak, its first men- tal and spiritual pulsations. She conducts it along the impressible years of childhood and youth, and hopes to deliver it to the rough contests and tumultuous scenes of life, armed by those good principles which her child has received from maternal care and love. If we draw within the circle of our contemplation the mothers of a civilized nation, what do we see? We behold so many artificers working, not on frail and perishable matter, but on the immortal mind, moulding We applaud the artist whose skill and genius present the mimic man upon the canvas; we admire and celebrate the sculptor who works out that same image in endur- ing marbic; but how insignificant are these achieve- ments, though the highest and the fairest in all the departments of art, in comparison with the great voca- tion of human mothers? They work, not upon the eanvas that shall fail, or the marble that shall crumble into dust, but upon mind, upon spirit, which is to last forever, and which is to bear, for good or evil, through- out its duration, the impress of a mother’s plastic hand. Our security for the duration of the free institutions which bless our country, depends upon the habits of virtue and the prevalence of knowledge and of educa- tion. Knowledge does not comprise all which is con- tained in the larger term of education. and fashioning beings who are to exist forever. The feelings are to be disciplined ; the passions are to be restrained ; true and worthy motives are to be inspired; a profound eval PPAR ORAS RO ogee religious feeling is to be insti!led; and pure morality inculeated under all circumstances All this is com- prised in education. Mothers who are faithful to this great duty will tell their children that, neither in poli- tical nor in any other concerns of life, can man ever withdraw himself from the perpetual obligations of conscience and of duty; that, in every act, whether public or private, he incurs a just responsibility ; and that in no condition is he warranted in trifling with important rights and obligations. They will impress upon their children the truth, that the exercise of the elective franchise is a social duty of as solemn a nature as man can be called to perform; that a man may not innocently trifle with his vote; that every free elector is a trustee, as well for others as himself; and that every man, and every measure he supports, has an im- portant bearing on the interests of others as well as his own. It is in the inculeation of high and pure morals, such as these, that, in a free republic, woman performs her sacred duty, and fulfills her destiny. ‘ Curistmas AND New YEAR.—We have a twofold pleasure in sending out this number of our * Book ;”’ it will go forth as the harbinger of two important days, Christmas and the New Year. We did not allude to the former in our last namber, because this, being is- sued about “ Christmas time,’’ would be better suited to the congratulations we now heartily offer our many, many friends. ‘* A merry Christmas’’ and “a happy New Year’’ to each and all who clasp our hands through the “ Book !’? May our long-continued friend- ship, be strengthened, as well as brightened, by the mutval favors conferred, and the blessings enjoyed dur- ing the year 1852! Literary Notices. From Biancuarp & Lza, Philadelphia :— EXCERPTA EX P. OVIDII NASONIS CARMI- NIBUS. This is another neatly printed volume of the classical series now in the course of publication by Messrs. Blanchard & Lea, and edited by Drs. Schmitz and Zumpt. Itis enough tosay that this series has mct with the unqualified approbation of the best teachers and scholars of America. From A. Hart (late Carey & Hart), Philade phia:— MEMOIRS OF THE QUEENS OF FRANCE. Ineluding a Memoir of her Majesty, the late Queen of the French (Marie Amelie). By Mrs. Forbes Burk. From the second London edition. The history of courts, and the private memoirs of queens and kings, are too often but the details of gossip and scandals, which would bring dishonor upon the lowest of their subjects. There are exceptions, no doubt; and, if there were not, the book before us would be a sad and melancholy record of all the human weak- nesses blended in the characters of the greatest princes. But there are exceptions, and thus we find the purest and most exalted virtue contrasted with the lowest vices. There are many examples of both in the book before us, which cannot fail to have a salutary effect upon those who love to philosophize on the wayward- ness, the nobleness, and—alas, that it shouid be so!— the corruptions of the haman heart. THE SCOURGE OF THE OCEAN. A Story of the Atlantic. By an Officer of the U.S.Navy. In one volume. Price 50 cents. Onc of the best features of In two volumes.

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LITERARY this book, as far as its authorship is concerned, will be found ix the evidences which it contains that it was written by some one who had actually handled the ropes. Besides this, the story is patriotic, and the plot prudently interwoven with the affections. From Cuartes Scrisner, New York, through A. Harr, Philadelphia :— NAVAL LIFE; OR, OBSERVATIONS AFLOAT AND ON SHORE. The Midshipman. By W. F. Lynch, U.S.N. We have just laid aside one book by an officer of the United States Navy, and here is an- other, rather better printed, and more durably bound, and of a somewhat different order of literary merit. We are not sorry to see that, in these “‘ piping times of peace,’’ our naval defenders are disposed to ex- change the tar-pot for the ink-pot, and the steel sword for the steel pen. They have had ample opportunities for the study of human nature, and of examining the institutions of other nations ; and, at their leisure, they have now an opportunity to add to the literary fame, as they have already assisted in establishing the naval glory, of their country. . THE BOY’S AND GIRL’S COUNTRY BOOK. With illustrations. Thisis one of Uncle Frank’s fami- liar works, amiable in its sentiments, and peculiarly adapted to the youthful mind. WATCHING SPIRITS. By Mrs. Ellet, author of ‘*The Women of the Revolution.’’ This work is, in every sense of the word, a most beautiful volume. Beautiful in theme, in language, and in moral and reli- gious sentiment; and beautiful in its illustrations, in its printing, its paper, and its binding; and, in all,a most beautiful present for the holidays. THE CAPTAINS OF THE OLD WORLD. By Henry William Herbert. The reading public has long been familiar with Mr. Herbert as a spirited and ele- gant writer. We have not had time to read his book carefully, but have satisfied our mind that he spoke truly when he assured the reader that his object had been to produce authentic details concerning the great generals of antiquity, with particulars of their cam- paigns, cunduct, feats, exploits, real merits, and com- parative degrees of skill and excellence. RURAL HOMES; OR, SKETCHES OF HOUSES SUITED TO AMERICAN COUNTRY LIFE. With Original Plans, Designs, &c. By Gervale Wheeler. The best idea of the contents of this book that we can present to our readers is to refer them to our own views and illustrations of cottages, furniture, etc., which, as they know, form a principal feature of the ** Lady’s Book.’’ From FE. H. Butrer & Co., Philadelphia :— THE FEMALE PROSE WRITERS OF AMERI- CA: with Portraits, Biographical Notices, and Speci- mens of their Writings. By John S. Hart, LL.D. A more acceptable souvenir cannot be found among the numerous splendidly illustrated and illuminated o1Ft- Books, Which have been issued by our various enter- prising publishers for the holiday season. Professor Hart has performed the duties of editor, biographer, and bibliographer with great ability. Among the selections are many articles of sufficient merit to estublish good claims to high rank, in the same departments of literature, wherever the English lan- guage is a medium for the expression of bright fancies, interesting heart-romances, or picturesque descrip- tions; wherever it is the record in which the ideal he- NOTICES. 91 toes of the imagination are embodied by the soul’s his- torian in noble thoughts and an imperishable language, at once monuments to the minds and means. In the so called province of “ light literature,’’ we have often been struck with the vigor and originality of some of our ‘‘ female writers,’’ and have long seen the necessity for such a volume as we now have the pleasure of noticing in our magazine. Most of our readers will find *‘ old friends’? among this wreath of “fair names.’?’ Many of them have graced the pages of the ‘** Lady’s Book’? as frequent and regular contri- butors. It gives us great pleasure to see that their writings have found such value in the estimation of the public as to call for some less perishable form than that in which many of them became known to fame. It is the subject of much surprise to behold such an array of names, and such a collection of excellent ex- tracts and articles, as fill the ample pages of this beau- tiful volume. The illustrations and portraits are gems of art. The whole of the heads have been engraved in London, from drawings made expressly for this work. In every case where we have had opportunities to know the originals, we find the likenesses exceedingly life- like and correct. The paper, typography, and binding are superb, and present the claims of this galaxy of our gifted countrywomen in the most winning and appro priate dress. The book must find a rapid sole among our large reading public, being the first publication of the kind that has been issued by an American publisher in such gorgeous style. From Hogan, Perkins & Co., No. 30 North Fourth Street, Philadelphia :— THE TALISMAN. An Offering of Friendship. A splendid annual, with twelve oil-colored illuminated plates, from designs by Devereux. This is one of the finest annuals of the season, beautifully printed and bound, and the illustrations are fully worth the price of the book. It is edited by Rev. Henry D. Moore, who has made an admirable selection of articles. Among them we notice the celebrated ‘‘ Love Song,’’ by our contributor, ‘‘ Carl Linley,’’ first published in the ‘* Lady’s Book.’”? We cannot recommend a more acceptable volume for a holiday gift-book. PAUL AND VIRGINIA. THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. Two standard works, without which no library is complete. The publishers have got them up in beautiful style, hand- somely illustrated by Devereux. The beauty of the typography, the elegant plates, and the neat binding, will render them desirable books for the coming sea- son. Their internal merits require no notice at our hands. HAPPINESS, IN ITS RELATION TO WORK AND KNOWLEDGE. By John Forbes, M.D. A moral lecture, delivered by the Queen’s Physician, which may be read with pleasare and profit by all classes. A SET OF CHILDREN’S BOOKS, embracing “ TIMOUR, THE TARTAR,” “ THE SOLDIER'S CAP,’ and a series entitled, “OLD TESTAMENT SCENES AND NARRATIVES,” including the sepa- rate histories of Joseph, Samuel, Jacob, David, Isaac, Abraham, Joshua, Moses, the Departure of the Israel- ites, the Dispersion of Mankind, the History of the Flood, and the Garden of Eden. These are all hand- somely illustrated with colored engravings, and the tendency of their contents, as well as their cheapness, renders them most desirable books for parents and

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GODEY’S 92 A mr guardians to place in the hands of their children and wards. From Harper & Brotrners, New York, through Linpsay & Buaxiston, Philadelphia :— LIVES OF THE QUEENS OF SCOTLAND AND ENGLISH PRINCESSES CONNECTED WITH THE REGAL SUCCESSION OF GREAT BRITAIN. By Agnes Strickland, author of the ‘‘ Lives of the Queens of England.’? The second volume of this able work will be favorably received by those who have read its predecessor, and by all who love to linger in the shadows of romance, while tracing the facts and realities of history. THE YOUNG CHRISTIAN. By Jacob Abbott. Very greatly improved and enlarged. With numerous engravings. This work, as the reader might presume, is not intended for children, nor exclusively for the young, but for all who are commencing a religious life, whatever their years may be. The works comprised in the series are, 1, ‘‘ The Young Christian ; or a Fami- liar Illustration of Christian Duty ;’’ 2, ‘‘ The Corner Stone; or, a Familiar Illustration of Christian Truth ;*’ 3, **The Way to God; or, the Christian Character Matured.”’ RULE AND MISRULE OF THE ENGLISH IN AMERICA. By the author of ‘‘ Sam Slick, the Clock- Maker,’’ “‘ The Letter Bag,’’ etc. Many things will be found in this book to which the American reader will not readily give his assent. We find mach to ob- ject to, even in a cursory perusal, as well on the ground of fact, as in the author’s speculations and opinions, which would have passed as harmless jokes from the lips of Sam Slick, the clock-maker, but cannot be so easily tolerated when falling seriously from the pen of a British jurist, and addressed to the consideration of a British lord. FOREST LIFE AND FOREST TREES: contain- ing Winter Camp-Life among the Loggers, and Wild- wood Adventure. operations on the various rivers of Maine and New Brunswick. By John 8. Springer. There is a great deal in this book to amuse and instruct the reader, who, hitherto, has thought only of forest-life in the West. He will here find, by turning to the eastern boundaries of our country, scenes and adventures quite as roman- tic and formidable as any recounted of the opposite ex- treme of our forest limits. THE FIFTEEN DECISIVE BATTLES OF THE WORLD; FROM MARATHON TO WATERLOO. By E. 8. Creusy, M.A., Professor of Ancient and Mo- dern History in University College, London, late Fel- low of King’s College, Cambridge. This is a work of deep research, and, as such, will greatly interest the student of history. Theauthorisan Englishman ; but, from all that we have read of his work in relation to ‘the victory of the Americans over Burgoyne at Sara- toga,’’ we believe to be as honest and impartial as could have been expected. With descriptions of lumbering ” From W. J. Hamersty, Hartford, through E. H. Burier & Co., Philadelphia :-— THE STRING OF DIAMONDS, GATHERED FROM MANY MINES. By a Gem Fancier. This volume embraces a large collection of poems by writers of the first distinction in the literary world. Great taste has been displayed in the selection of these poems, as well as in the printing and binding of the book, all which will render it an appropriate holiday present. $ 2 ; ; Q § MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. PAPLDPLPPPAAR ALAS aa From Joun Batt, 48 North Fourth Street, Philadel- phia :-— HUNGARY AND KOSSUTH ; or, an American Ex- position of the late Hungarian Revolution. By Rev. B. F. Tefft, D.D. This work, as the author informs us, is not intended to be a history of Hungary, or a biography of Kossuth. The substance of the work was originally confined to the limits of a popular lecture, but was afterwards ‘‘ expanded to a small volume,’’ in which form it now appears. The sentiments and the views of the author are on the popular side of all ques- tions relating to Hungary, many of which are, how- ever, undergoing a thorough investigation by those who are better able to decide upon them, religiously and politically, as they are presented to us in the vol- ume before us, than we profess to be. From Ticxnor, Rezp & Fre.ps, Boston, through Witulis P. Hazarp, 178 Chestnut Street, we have re- ceived two very neatly bound and printed volumes, in- tended for the amusement of young readers. The first of these is entitled, THE MEMOIRS OF A LONDON DOLL. W@tten by herself. Edited by Mrs. Fairston. With engravings by Baker. The second, which is a match volume, is entitled, TALES FROM CATLAND FOR LITTLE KITTENS. Byan Old Tabby. With engravings from designs by Billings. From H. C. Peck & Txeo. Buiss, Philadelphia :— THE LADY’S ORACLE: an Elegant Pastime for Social Parties and the Family Circle. By Henrietta Dumont. The pastime proposed by this book is a game of questions and answers between a lady and gentle- man, and may be carried successfully round a whole circle, all giving attention to each question and each answer. The answers being quoted from standard poets, and made by a chance choice of numbers, all ap- pearance of personality is avoided, and the amusement, which often occasions the liveliest mirth, is free from every kind of offence. From D. AppLeton & Co., New York :— ULRIC; OR, THE VOICES. By T.S. Fay. We have not had time to examine, minutely, the plot, the beauties, or the deficiencies of this poem. We know the author to be a gentleman of considerable reputation as a poet, and these, we presume, have been fully sus- tained in the effort before us. From Waker & Jamus, Charleston, 8. C. :— HISTORY OF ALABAMA, AND, INCIDENTAL- LY, OF GEORGIA AND MISSISSIPPI, FROM THE EARLIEST PERIOD. By Albert James Pickett, In two volumes. Second edition. We have received, with the compliments of the author, through Thomas, Cowperthwait & Co., of this city, a copy of this valuable work, which appears to have had bestowed upon it the greatest amount of labor and re- search that an individual writer could possibly bring He has brought to light in these volumes, and condensed, a vast amount of historical informa- tion so intimately connected with the first settlement of the American continent, that, it may be said, the public records of our national existence would have been incomplete without them. of Montgomery. to his aid. NOVELS, SERIALS, PAMPHLETS, &c. From T. B. Peterson, 98 Chestnut Street, Philadel- phia: ‘*The Oxonians.’’ Being a Sequel to ** The

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PUBLISHER’S ~~ Roue; or, the Hazards of Women.’ This purports to be a domestic romance, and was first published in Lon- don twenty-four years ago, and its authorship was generally attributed to Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer. Three volumes complete in one. Price 25 cents.— ‘ Sketches in Ireland.’”’ By W.M. Thackeray, author of ‘* Vanity Fair,’? ‘“‘History of Pendennis,’’ etc. These sketches are very amusing, and very instructive in regard to the condition of Ireland and the peculiari- ties of her people. From Harper & Brothers, New York, through Lind- say & Blakiston, N. W. corner of Fourth and Chestnut Streets, Philadelphia: ‘* London Labor and the London Poor.’? By Henry Mayhew. Parts 13 and 14. Price 124 cents.—No. 18 of the *‘ Pictorial Field Book of the Revolution.’’ Price 25 cents. From E. 8. Jones & Co.: No. 4, being the October number of ‘*‘ The Model Architect,’’ containing original designs for cottages, villas, suburban residences, etc., accompanied by explanations, specifications, estimates, and elaborate details. Prepared expressly for the use of projectors and artisans throughout the United States. By Samuel Sloan, architect, Philadelphia. From J. 8. Bailey, Portland, Me.: ** Bozzaris.”? A Tragedy, in five acts. By N. Deering. We have not had time to examine this play with sufficient care to enable us to speak of it critically Music.—From Lee & Walker, 162 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia: ‘*‘ The Mississippi River.’? Respectful- ly dedicated to the ladies of Memphis, Tenn. Words by J. Fred. Simmons. Masic by J. H. Milton. ublisher’s Department. a Gopry’s Lapy’s Book ror Janvary, 1852.—All that art can do has been employed to ornament this number. The first plate, on the cover, is printed in colors from a steel engraving: this style of work is not attempted in any other office in this country. The second plate, the title-page, is printed in colors on stone. This en- graving has to go seven times through the press. The next, ‘‘ The Parables of our Lord,’ contains five dis- tinct pictures, engraved in line. The next plate, ‘‘ The Happy Family,’ is engraved in the style termed **Gemograph.’? Ours is the only magazine that has given a plate engraved in this style. The next, ‘‘ The Pet Bird,’’ is colored, by our corps of female colorers, by hand. Here we have every variety of engraving and coloring: line engraving, gemograph engraving, steel plate printed in colors, lithograph printed in co- lors, and a plate colored by hand. The following were designed expressly for the ‘‘ La- dy‘s Book:’’ “ Preparing for Winter,’’ painted by Chapman ; ** The Title-Page,’’ designed by Croome; * The Parables of our Lord,’’ by the same artist ; ‘‘ The Pet Bird,’ by Tucker. Four original designs in one number. We have never heard of any other magazine giving a single original plate. In the one hundred pages of original reading matter, will be found effusions by the master minds of our country. We are certain that no person will be disap- pointed who subscribes to ‘‘ Godey’s Lady’s Book’? for 1352. WE call attention to the notice on our cover touch ing traveling collectors. It will be seen that, in future, all remittances must be made direct to us. VOL. LxIv.—9 DEPARTMENT. ewww rw rw PE PAP WAAR AARARAARAAAA 93 (POO PAP AA LLL LPL LLLP WE shall, in our next number, commence a series of ‘Model Cottages’? far exceeding in beauty anything that we have hitherto given. We were the first to commence this highly interesting feature. WE would respectfully announce that we are making a collection of autographs. We should be pleased to receive those of our subscribers who happen to be in arrears. Two articles that we have recently published have been very extensively copied and very much praised by the press—‘‘ Hugh Evans; or, the Young Statesman,”’ and *‘ How can an American Woman Serve her Coun- try ?"? Tue ‘Rome Courier’’ says, ‘‘ We have been much gratified that Mr. Godey has given no encouragement to the Bloomer folly.”? We were right. Even those who paraded our streets at night havegiven it up. The thing is deed. Tue ‘“ Huntingdon Observer’? says, ‘‘ Godey must set up at nights to study out so many new and pleasing We cannot see how he does it in any other way.’’ We assure our friend of the ‘‘ Observer’ that the ** Book’? **is our pondered thought by day, our dream by night.”’ features. Tue following letter speaks volumes for ‘ The Book :°— ** Harper's Ferry. ‘Str: According to request, I inclose $5, the amount due for the present as well as the next year’s ‘ Lady’s Book.’ It has been a friend of thirteen years’ standing, with the exception of the year 1849, when I was tempt- ed to give it up for another magazine, but very soon discovered that it did not yield me the same pleasure that the long-tried ‘ Godey’ had done. ‘© Very respectfully, Mrs. A. C. C.”’ A Gem ror Cuitpren.—W. P. Hazard, No. 178 Chestnut Street, has published a series of stories for children, entitled, ‘‘ Slovenly Peter,’? ‘‘ Young Trou- blesome,*’ ‘‘Simple Hans,’’ * Slovenly Kate,’ and other stories. The one great merit of these tales, sim- ple as they are, is that each contains a good moral. The illustrations no one can misunderstand. They are of the most ludicrous kind, perfectly chaste, and very expressive. Don’t neglect this book among your Christmas presents for children. Messrs. S. Hart & Co., Nos. 24 and 17 Merchant Street, in this city, are perhaps the largest American manufacturers of staple stationery and fancy goods: blank and playing cards, steel pens, pearl visiting card- cases (a most beautiful article), traveling companions, &e. Their factory is well worth a visit. Thanks to Messrs. Hart & Co., we are no longer dependent upon Europe for the articles we have here mentioned Tue ‘ Belfast Journal’? says, ‘‘ We are pleased to see so much matter of domestic interest in so popular and cheap a form. Godey is extending the useful de- partments of his magazine.’? We think this number gives good evidence of our intention to devote a large portion of our “‘ Book’’ to the useful. A lady must, indeed, be hard to please that cannot find some matter in this number that will interest her.

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GODEY’S MAGAZINE 04 Reese a Tus New York Spirit of tHe Times.—The laugh- ter-loving editor of this paper, Col. Wm, T. Porter, stili continues to give his subscribers the most re- cherché paper published in this country. It is the only one of the kind; and, for pure American stories and anecdotes, records of fishing, hunting, ete., it has no equal in Europe. Virotnivs Hurcnen, Fsq., has assumed the editorial chair of the ** Banner,’’ at Henderson, Ky. Our read- ers have often met with articles by Mr. H. in our ss Book.’? ’ To Heaps or Famivies.—FirzGerap’s City Item is the title of a weekly family journal, published in Philadelphia by Fitzgerald & Co. It is a very good paper, of a medium size, elegantly printed, and espe- cially devoted to literature, the fine arts, music, and the drama. In the literary department of Fitzgerald’s City Item the most careful taste is exercised to present a variety of high-toned, instructive, and entertaining articles, selected particularly with an eye to the tastes ladies and Subscriptions two dollars a Address Fitzgerald & Co, of families. year. Home Books. By Covsin Attce.—Under this title, Mrs. Neal bas published the first number of a practical, hoasehold work, for the amusement and instruction of the young class of readers. ‘* No Such Word as Fail,”’ a book intended particularly for boys, is beautifully il- luminated by Sinclair, of Philadelphia, and will forma handsome present, and a salutary lesson for the opening of the new year. Tue Boox Trave.—The second volume of this paper was commenced in August last. It is a monthly record of new publications, and literary advertiser, and, as such, has proved itself useful to all who are engaged in writing or in publishing books. H. Wilson, publisher, Ann Street, New York. Mrs. Lespernier.—We had the pleasure, a few evenings since, to attend, with many delighted friends, the ** Readings from the Poets,’’ by this gifted and amiable lady of expression were of a superior order. Her voice, diction, and whole manner In her comic readings she was especially true to life, and afforded to all who listened to her the highest amusement and pleasure. CARPENTER’S. “Oh, she’s very fond of her husband!’ we heard ‘* Why, I often see them together at Levy’s, and she takes just as much interest in his gloves and scarfs as if they were her own.”’ Well, after all, it may be a trifle, but it certainly is one lady say of another not long ago. a pleasant thing to have one’s husband notice a dress that has been arranged with especial reference to his taste ; and why should not *‘ the rule work both ways ?”? Indeed. if ladies interested themselves a little more in the toilets of their liege lords, we should see fewer men who outrage taste and propriety in light colors and bold checks, by shining satin scarfs, and nether garments with ‘‘ the other plaid on the other pair.’’ To be sure, a tailor’s is not exactly the pr>per loung- ing place for a lady; that is, most shops devoted to the wardrobe masculine are not. But, if any of our lady readers choose to exert their taste, and save their hus- RAPPAPORT PRADA L LPL PPL PLP LPL AND LADY’S BOOK. bands from being ‘‘ horrors,’’ they will be most cor- dially welcomed, and comfortably seated, at the new establishment of the brothers W. & F. Carpenter, cele- brated in many ways, apart from the editorials of the ‘¢ Home Journal,’ where Willis, in congenial element, discourses of their excellencies. It is, in fact, an ele- gant saloon, a part of the beautiful hotel just opened as the ‘‘Girard House,’’? Chestnut Street. Carpets from Orne’s, chandeliers from Cornelius’, sofas, lounging chairs, etc., might cheat them into the belief that it was not a shop, after all. But it is ‘‘ Carpenter’s,’’ never- theless. A firm known even in Bond Street, and talked of in Paris; and, better than all, properly appreciated and supported in our own country. This is due to the taste that has selected their present extensive stock, including gloves, handkerchiefs, cravats, in fact, all those elegant little articles that go to make up the tout ensemble of the outer man. And we commend to your especial notice, fair ladies, as we commend you to the courtesies of the ever-courteous proprietors of the esta- blishment, a character well worth the study, and known as ‘‘ Old David’’ by every young man and boy in town, ever since they were old enough to feel a nervous satisfaction in getting home a new coat and vest ‘‘ of a Saturday night.’’ In his fine new livery as porter, he seems to dispute the sobriquet so universally accorded him, looking ten years younger at the least, as he brings you a chair, or bows politely to his old acquaintance, your husband. We don’t think you ‘ll repent your visit; and then you can any day bring a claim for attendance at an ‘“‘ opening,’’ against the gen- tleman you have assisted by your taste and kindly ad vice. Arrnur’s Home Gazetre.—In addition to the no- tices which will be found on the cover of the ‘‘ Book’? of this valuable family newspaper, we have selected from our numerous exchanges a few more equally just and warmly complimentary to the editor. No editor that we know of has been more deserving of the appro- bation of his fellow-citizens, and of the esteem and confidence of the entire reading public of America, than Mr. Arthur. Honest, dignified, and calm in all his personal relations, the same peculiarities of character distinguish the columns over which he presides in an eminent degree. Without rant or vulgar passion, they are sufficiently expressive and enthusiastic in the cause of truth and virtue to assure us of their honesty of pur- pose; and, without assumption or dictation, they are sufficiently careful and explicit in explaining and sup- porting their own position, to command for the editor the respect and the esteem of all truly independent minds. As we have said, on a former occasion, we know of no man in the wide circle of our literary ac- quaintance whom we deem more valuable in the voca- tion, or more efficient, scrupulous, or penetrating in the performance of his editorial duties, than Mr. Arthur. The great heart of the American nation, we might tru- ly say, owes Mr. Arthur a debt of gratitude, which we hope yet to see paid in full, without stint or objection While too many of our writers have sought only fame, he has been leading the minds of thousands, almost im- perceptibly, into the quiet and peaccful paths of virtue. How many fond wives and mothers can look back npon his glowing description of the nobleness and the happi- ness that spring from a moral and a temperate course of life, and from them date the period that first brought kind looks, gentle words, and soothing consvlations into their own poor homes! How many parents, who

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FASHIONS have sighed in bitterness over the degradation of a son, have rejoiced in his restoration through the persua- sive pages of Arthur! How many children, who have wept for very shame over the follies of their parents, rejoice now and shed tears of lively gratitude over those touching stories that led to the reformation of their hapless lives! But we have said enough for the present. Hear now the opinions of others of Arthur and his ‘‘ Home Gazette.”’ ArTuHUR’s Home Gazettr.— This very superior family journal has just entered upon its second volume. That it should have proved eminently successful during the first year of its existence is no more than its ster- ling merits deserved; and the fact speaks well for the discrimination of the American public. Mr. Arthur’s abilities as a writer, and the admirable moral which we find interwoven in each one of his pleasing tales, of which he contributes a large number to the Home Gazette, together with the pure and useful character of the articles prepared for it by a long array of the best authors in the United States—all combine to render this paper one of the most desirable extant for family reading. Now is a good time to subscribe, and those who have not heretofore taken it will find it all they could wish as a home journal.— Mich. Whig. ArtuurR’s Home Gazette this week commences, under happy auspices, its second volume. Among our exchanges there are a few we always seize with avidi- ty, and the Home Gazette is one of the few. Asa family journal, we consider it the best in the country. There is a fine moral tone running through the whole that cannot fail of doing good. Mr. Arthur is an ex- cellent writer, and we have often endeavored to study his style; indeed, we consider that, in his sphere of literary labor, he has no superior. His tales are al- ways so good, and yet so instructive, that the reader rises from their perusal with an inward conviction that he has not been wasting his time over a mass of foolish nonsense. His paper is but a mirror, in which are re- flected all his traits of superiority.—Gazette, South Boston, Mass. ArRtTHUR’s Home GazetTe.—The second volume is begun. No periodical can we wish a more hearty ‘sGod speed.’? It abounds with information and mo- rality—its lessons are all purity ; and it is emphatically what it professes to be, a Home Gazette—appropriate companion for every fireside.— Waterloo Patriot. ArtuuR’s Home Gazette has entered upon its se- cond volume, and we have heard but one opinion of its merits expressed on all hands, and that is a favorable one. For papers of that class, we hazard nothing in saying it takes the first rank ; and we are the more pre- possessed in its favor for the high moral tone of its con- tents. It appears to be entirely free from that under- current of impurity which is so characteristic of a large portion of the mammoth sheets of the day.— Journal of Education, Bath, Me. Artuur’s Home GazertrTe is so sacred to our home that it always escapes our scissors. It is a real family paper, containing no demoralizing stories or low witti- cisms. Its character corresponds with that of its-edit- or, who is well known to the public as a pleasing, graceful, and interesting writer —Palmer Journal. Artuvur’s Home GazsTre meets, at our table each week, a warm greeting, and at the ‘“‘ home cirele’’ un- mistakeable marks of favoritism. Its dignified and practical moral tone fits it eminently for a place in the bosom of every family. The assiduity of its editor 95 keeps its columns full of interest; and its truths can- not fail to instruct.— Mich. Citizen. ARTHUR’s Home Gazette, T. S. Arthur, Editor, has just finished its first volume. It is filled with the choicest matter from the pen of its celebrated editor, and is a paper which should be read at every fireside Its subscription price is but two dollars per year, and everybody who subscribes for it well invests his mo- riey.—Advertiser, Biddeford. Receipts. A Receipt ror a Carrot Puppine, which tastes very good: Take half a pound of raisins, half a pound of currants, half a pound of suet, one ounce of lemon peel, half a nutmeg, two large carrots, two tablespoon- fuls of flour. To be boiled two hours and a half, and the carrots are to be boiled and pulped previously. PuILapELPHIA Buns.—Take a pound of flour, the rinds of three lemons grated fine, half a pound of butter melted in a coffee-cup of cream, a teaspoonful of yeast, and three eggs. Mix; add half a pound of finely-pow- dered white sugar: work well, let it stand to rise well, and it will make thirty-nine buns. Tea Cakxes.—Take a pound of flour, half a pound of butter, and the same of sugar; the peel of a lemon fine- ly grated, a little of the juice, an egg, a little brandy to flavor, and a teaspoonful of bruised coriander seed. Roll it out thin, make into cakes, and bake them in a quick oven. Fashions. DESCRIPTION OF FASHION PLATE. Fig. 1st.—Evening dress of white crape, embroidered in a star pattern of gold-colored silk. The trimming of the skirt consists of rows of gold-colored gauze rib- bon in groups. The corsage is made en chemisette. and edged only by a narrow row of lace. A necklace and bracelet of pearls, and a wreath of blush roses and foliage, are the only ornaments. Fig. 2d.—A dinner dress of pink silk solitaire, the skirt trimmed with two deep flounces, embroidered in a double row of needlework scollops. These scollops are trimmed with five rows of narrow velvet ribbon, of a bright maroon shade, placed at regulur distances. The upper part of the second flounce forms a ruche, and the skirt is also edged with one in silk. The corsage is low, cut en gilet, and trimmed in scollops to corre- spond with the skirt. Chemisette of Valenciennes lace, slightly full. A simple band of velvet, with a pearl clasp, encircles the throat. Hair dressed plainly with knots of pink and maroon velvet. ROBE DE NUIT. A most elaborate and elegant garment, made of the finest French cambric. The skirt is very full and lung, and divided in each of the front breadths into three branches of plaits, six in each. A row of very narrow tucks edges the hem. Two rows of rich embroidered cambric are disposed after the fashion of a pointed yoke, and a collar of the same encircles the neck close- ly. The sleeves are stitched in plaits at the wrist, with a double cuff of the edging, the lower falling over the hand.

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96 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. CHIT-CHAT ON PHILADELPHIA FASHIONS FOR JANUARY> Cloaks and evening dresses secm to divide the princi- pal attention of our ladies the present month. It was thought, earlier in the season, that few cloaks would be worn; but the variety and gracefulness of the styles have made them the favorite out-door dress as the sea- son advances. The most beautiful display that we have yet seen, or that will probably be found in the country, is in Stewart’s cloak-room, which, now that the edifice is finished, is situated in the left wing of the building, bordering apon the Park, and is entirely dis- tinct from the shawl-room in the opposite extremity. It 1s very large, beautifully lighted, and fitted with models upon which to display the elegant garments which it contains. The centre of the room has a coun- ter, bearing the same relation to its size and extent as a sofa-table in an ordinary parior. At each end is a figure, upon which is displayed every day a new bro- caded silk, finished by a light and elegant mantle to correspond. Among the richest, we noticed a gold- colored ground, with the flowers in a light running pattern, principally in pink, with green foliage. It is. intended, of course, for an evening dress. Price seven- ty dollars, and is a full pattern. Another, more quiet, and far more tasteful, has a black ground, with bou- quets of half-blown moss roses and buds, with their simple, natural brown stems, and emerald foliage. Those in plain colors, with the figure merely raised in satin, are great favorites, and their ordinary price from three dollars to five dollars per yard. It must be re- membered that they are nearly, if not quite, a yard in width, and, as the common, but most expressive phrase goes, “‘are as thick as a board.’’ Indeed, we have seen some this season as thick as an ordinary Mar- seilles counterpane. The heaviness of the material, io- gether with the rich colors in which it usually is em- broidered, makes it quite unsuited to the toilet of young girls, unless it is in the lightest and most deli- cate plain shades, as white, fawn, pink, or blue. Miss Wharton has made a very stylish bridal dress of rich mofr d’antique, perfectly plain, with the excep- tion of a rich fall of blonde upon the open sleeves. With an elegant lace collar and bridal veil, this will be all-sufficient for ornament. The wreath was of lilies of the valley, clematis, and white roses; the roses forming the base; and the light wreath over the forehead, arching slightly, to give greater height to the figure, was of the simple lily bells. Clematis and pen- dent sprays of lilies were mixed with the roses. The whole could not be detected from nature, except by toach, in the evening. Perfuming artificial flowers is the last refinement of Parisian skill. The contrast be- tween these most natural blossoms and the stiff nonde- script conceptions, called “ artificial flowers’’ by coun- try mjlliners, usually in upright bunehes, shapes such as flowers never could assume, is ludicrous enough. Indeed, we have long intended a crusade against these same tasteless bits of pink cambric and crimson mus- lin. They are placed inside an unlined brim, in direct contact with a complexion in most cases far from delicate, and only resemble the flowers of the field in that ** they toil not, neither do they spin.’’ Not that we would breathe aught that could affect so lucrative a trade, in which many of our countrywomen are now engaged. But, if public taste demands an improve- ment, it will most assuredly be made; and, if ladies object to wearing poppies, peonies, and ‘* composition”? flowers, taking nature to task, as it were, in shape and coloring, the more graceful.and delicate blossoms will be imitated and improved, until our manufactures shall rival those abroad. Our young countrywomen have taste enough, if it were only allowed scope, and en- couraged. Flowers inside the brim should not be worn without a light mixture of lace, plain thulle, to soften the effect, particularly if the complexion of the wearer is at all brilliant. Amid the trousseau spoken of above, we noticed an elegant dinner dress of fawn-colored moir d’antique, made with the marquise corsage, with the close puf- fings described in our last. It hasa most stylish effect, and is not easily imitated or copied. A rich traveling dress of habit cloth, a lighter and more creamy shade of fawn, was considered an elegant accompaniment to the bridal wardrobe. The cloth is as glossy as the softest satin, and, at the same time, is thick enough to afford all necessary protection in the most inclement weather. The corsage was plain, with the double pointed bodice, and the sleeves and skirt have plain bands of therry satin ribbon, the same shade, a favorite and very neat trimming. The cloak, of the same, is of the circular, or cardinal shape, with a light hood and tassel, lined and quilted with silk. We have also noticed, at Miss Wharton’s rooms, a new gilet with a short basque. The corsage was black watered silk, with the vest of lavender, a very light and delicate shade. Lavender is now universally worn in second mourning, and is quite a distinct shade from the French gray so much the style a year or two since. The deepest borders upon violet, and the lighter shades are more of pear! gray. Black bonnets, with lavender ribbon inside the brim and for strings, are much worn, also lavender silks, and neck ribbons, sometimes plaid- ed with black. It is one of the most ladylike, because quietest, shades of color that can be introduced into the toilet. But we have wandered a long distance from the cloaks displayed at Stewart’s. You will find them ly- ing in elegant confusion—velvets, satins, cloth, and fur mingled in graceful combinations. The cardinal form still continues the favorite. It is a simple deep cape, reaching almost to the knee, of a three-quarters circle. It is lined and quilted throughout with silk, as the corners are turned over the arm in front, display- ing it, and making a kind of loose cardinal slecve. Hoods, or deep collars, are the accompaniment of this style, and there is a little novelty in the shape of a side pocket in the lining, just large enough for a small purse or card-cuse, or a tiny embroidered handkerchief. A Persian cloak, imported to order by Stewart this season, was composed of velvet and Siberian sable. In- credible as it may seem, the price was $600 ! Of the lighter items of the toilet, little can be said. Chemisettes of a hundred different varicties are seen, and undersleeves of every conceivable pattern and ma- terial. The last are worn a trifle narrower, and, as the weather grows cool, of fine French and linen cambrics, or India muslin. Ear-rings have pendants no longer. The last style is a little flat button, about the size of a half dime, ornamented with precious stones. Chate- laines are little worn, a simple vest guard, or belt chain of gold, attaching the watch to the waist. Vest but- tons are a new and dainty style of jewelry ; but we have been quite extravagant enough in this article, in our faithful descriptions of what 1s worn by city fash- ionables, not recommending our readers generally to folloy the example. Fasiion,

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CHINESE SLIPPER SEE DESCRIPTION.

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