Godey's Lady's Book and Magazine 1860-01: Vol 60 Iss 1

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GODEY’S Ladys Mook and ay Pagasine PHILADELPHIA, JANUARY, 1860. weer -_-— TILE UNRULY MEMBER, BY MARION HARLAND, “Cora, Cora, will nothing cure you of your sinfully careless habit of speech ?”’ “Auntie, auntie, will nothing cure you of your frightfully sober habit of speech ?”’ ‘Never, while assured, as I am now, that mine are the words of truth and soberness,”’ rejoined the elder lady, with an emphasis that was somewhat severe, yet not unkind, But Cora Manning only laughed—the sportive langh of a disposition as sweet as heedless. Throwing herself upon the carpet at her aunt’s feet, she folded her hands with a pretty affecta- tion of penitence, and looked up into the eyes which she knew could not meet hers without an answering smile. “You are all primed for giving me a long, delicious scolding, I perceive, auntie, so I will It will remind me of dear Please define, however, in the out- set, what is the precise nature of the habit you condemn by such an ugly name. Am I ‘sinful’ and ‘careless’ in grammar or composition, or do you object to the subject-matter of my not disappoint you. old times. ‘speeches’ ?”? “You are an educated lady, Cora. This fact should be sufficient of itself to preserve you from inaccuracies in the structure of your sentences, and your style is generally graceful and pleasant.”’ “Good! concile me to swallowing the abundantly bitter ” There is one drop of sweet to re- dose which ia to come. “*T wish that I could indeed make it so bitter as to be remembered,” said Aunt Janet, with increasing gravity. ‘I should have more hope, then, that you would set yourself seriously to o* work to correct a great, and, I fear, a growing evil.” “Tam getting very impatient, auntie,” interrupted the saucy girl. public debates, ‘Question! question !’ ‘*My first question is this, my dear: Do you again ** As they say in recollect what was your salutation to Miss Healy as she broke up our confidential chat this morn- ing—the talk you had devoutly hoped wou!d not be spoiled by any third perron, no matter how agreeable at most other times ?”’ ‘*T cannot say that I do, ma’am; I hope it did not betray my real feelings too plainly. There is no need that I should inform her that, instead of classing her among the ‘agreeables’ aforesaid, I have set her down at the top of the first column in my list of ‘bores.’ Whatever I may have said in my intense vexation, she bears me no malice for my lack of politeness, for she sat with us two mortal hours.” “One and a quarter, Cora, by the clock,’’ corrected Aunt Janet. ‘‘It seemed to me to be nearer four,”’ said Cora; ‘‘and then she apologized elaborately for ‘hurrying off before’—as she phrased it— ‘she had half talked out.’ That is a pet say- ing of hers, by the way. The adage that ‘half a loaf is better than no bread’ does not hold good in this instance, I am sure.”’ ‘“Yet you were at as much pains to convince her that she had paid a brief call as you were, at her entrance, to tell her that she was ‘the very person of all your acquaintances who you were wishing would call upon Aunt Janet imme- diately.’”’ “Did Tsay that? I am delighted, in raptures 17

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X 18 GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, at my graciousness of hospitality—at a display of urbanity so independent of circumstances !”’ cried Cora, clapping her hands. ‘ No wonder she stayed such an unmerciful length of time. llow comfortable I must have made her feel !"’ ‘* And me as thoroughly uncomfortable,”’ con- tinued Aunt Janet. “I have never regarded insincerity and falsehood as synonyms, although it appears that you do, But to proceed, | thought you told me that Mr. Miller left town but two days ago ?’’ ‘*So he did—on Tuesday.”’ ‘And that he made you a visit on Monday evening ?”’ Cora blushed slightly. “Of course! You do not suppose that he would have gone away without bidding me ‘ Good-by ?’ ”’ ‘‘If my memory serves me rightly, you added, likewise, that you expected him back on to- morrow ?’’ the inquisitor went on to say, in the same quiet, confident tone. ‘* Yes, ma’am, it was his intention, when he left, to return at that time, and’’—dimples breaking over her cheeks—‘‘I do not believe he will encounter any temptation potent enough to d&ain him longer in the country.”’ ** Yet’’—Aunt Janet spoke very slowly here —‘‘when Miss Healy rallied you—coarsely, I allow—upon ‘the cheerfulness with which you endured the absence of your handsome beau,’ you protested that you ‘had not seen him for an age—a week or more,’ pretended ignorance of his departure for the country, avowed a like want of knowledge as to the probable period of his return, and finally, in reply to her inexeus- ably rude interrogatory, ‘Come, now, Cora, are you engaged to him or not? Everybody says that you are, and the wedding is to come off in the spring’—yon said, promptly, and with seem- ing earnestness, ‘Everybody is wrong, then, in this, as in many other things. Mr. Miller is a friend of mine; he never has been and never can be more, if I continue in my present frame of mind,’ ” “Mercy, Aunt Janet, you make my blood run cold! You remind me of a judge summing up the evidence against one convicted of a capital crime—murder in the first degree—nothing less flagrant. a confidante of the most notorious tattler in the city, in sheer compassion for the poor woman, to gratify her overweening curiosity ?”’ ‘*Far from it; but I would have preferred seeing you commit this indiscretion to hearing a deliberate falsehood from the lips of my brother’s child, one whom I love as my own daugliter.’ Surely, you did not wish me to make ’ Tears sprang to Cora’s eves. “1, Aunt Janet? How can you talk so cruelly ?”’ ‘* Judge for yourself, my dear. Every word we utter is either true or false. Bring your conversation of the past hour to this test, and how does it appear ?”’ ‘*In love all things are fair,’’ said Cora, gayly, ‘*Everybody equivocates, or, if driven too hard, fibs outright, when—when situated as Horace and myself are,”’ ‘** Everybody is wrong, then,’ as I heard a sensible young friend of mine remark, not a month since. I understand and honor the delicacy which causes a woman to shrink from unveiling her heart-secrets to such prying med- dlers as is this, Miss Healy ; still, I believe that a mild but dignified resolution not to gratify them would be a more effectual quietus to her inquiries than was the denial she evidently discredited, positively though it was uttered. I do not know your betrothed husband, but, if what you and others have told me of his cha- racter be correct, 1 doubt whether he would sanction the rule of lawful prevarication—* fib- bing,’ you term it—laid down by ‘ everybody,’ and adopted by yourself.”’ ** Horace has chosen me with his eyes open, returned Cora, a little resentfully. ‘*To him, at least, I am no dissembler.”’ ** Never be, my darling !’’ said the old lady. **You are too young and happy to understand ’ ” how much of misery a single falsehood or the appearance of deception may bring upon those whose hearts and lives should be open as the day to one another.” With what sad experience of her own wedded life—ended years ago, by her husband’s death— Aunt Janet was, in remembrance, dealing, it does not now behoove us to inquire. Cora felt that self-reproach or an unforgotten sense of wrong received lent solemnity to the warning, and that further trifling on her part would be unkind. Gladly did she, for the first time in her life, hail the termination effected by other callers to a téte-d-téte interview with her favor- ite aunt. To Mrs. Barrett, better known to her circle of associates. as ‘‘Aunt Janet,’’ had been com- mitted the care of Cora during her mother’s invalidism, a tedious spell of several years’ con- tinuance. The improved health of the latter, and the removal to another town of the more judicious and not less affectionate aunt, had subjected the girl to a different course of train- ing. Of late years, Mrs. Barrett's visits at her brother’s home had been short and infrequent, and it was, therefore, with emotions of no ordi- os =e «& ons «f= Ge an oO of ew &

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THE nary pleasure that the family received her ac- ceptance of their invitation to spend with them the winter which was to end Cora’s singlehood, Jo the last-mentioned member of the house- hold the arrangement was fraught with peculiar delight, if for no other reason than because it was to bring the realization of a cherished de- sire, viz., that her lover should see and appre- ciate her best beloved of friends, the foster- mother whom she never wearied of describing and extolling to him, Cora had been universally admired since her débat in general society, two seasons before— adulation which had failed to impair the many domestic virtues that made her the pet of the home she now brightened, and fitted her, in most respects, to become the sun and centre of the more narrow sphere she ever adorned in Horace Miller’s dreams of his future. Whether it were the warm breath of flattery, producing in the fertile soil the legitimate fruits of an undue ambition to shine and to please, that had brought to light less lovely traits and ten- dencies, defects that were grievous blots upon the otherwise fair page of character, or whether these had been more slowly developed under a somewhat loose family government, Mrs. Bar- rett could not decide. Her upright mind only detected and recoiled at the unlooked-for blem- ish, and love united with conscientiousness in urging her to do her utmost to check the noxious growth. Her rebuke was taken as kindly as it was given. Aunt Janet sighed as she caught herself almost wishing that her adopted child’s temper were less even and sunny, at least that her nature were less mercurial, so evident was it that, an hour after such grave admonitions had been pressed upon her consideration, not a 1ankling recollection of what had transpired remained to disturb her enjoyment of the day’s employments and recreations. Certain it was that nosombre thoughts clouded the joyous mood in which she came flying to her aunt’s room, the next evening. Breathless with her rapid ascent of the stairs, she could not speak for a moment; nor was there need for words. Aunt Janet’s pleasant remark inter- preted the expression of her radiant counte- nance: ** He is here, I see; and you would like to have me behold and be seen by my future nephew.”’ Cora nodded impatiently, and went on empty- ing her aunt’s lap of the sewing it contained, upsetting the work-box by the operation. mind it,’’ observed Aunt Janet. “There will be plenty of time by and by to You do ‘* Never gather up my spools and patchwork. UNRULY MEMBER, 19 not suspect meof any intention to enact Madame de Trop very long on this the evening of his arrival,’”’ She was beguiled into a more protracted sit- ting below than she had anticipated, Prepared as she was to approve her niece’s choice, con- firmed by her father’s endorsement of its wis- dom, Aunt Janet was agreeably surprised, There was a mingling of gentleness and dignity in Mr. Miller’s manner, a union of heart and intellect in his conversation, which left no room for wonder that Cora should regard him as the embodiment of all that is to be loved and re- spected in man. The plighted pair were a con- trast in behavior and temperament, but one that formed an interesting study. Cora’s viva- city and piquant modes of expression never seemed more fascinating than when tempered, not repressed, by a certain deferential appeal in manner or tone to his stronger mind and supe- rior judgment. Seen thus, she was the charm- ing, winning woman; while in him the decided opinions of one perfectly conversant with his subject, independent in belief and in its decla- ration, were so softened by his style of address- ing her as to draw her on to a freer revelation of her sentiments, rather than awe her into reserve. ‘*He could never be harsh with me, however deeply I might offend him,’’ Cora had said, that day, to her aunt. Mrs. Barrett ac- knowledged, as she watched them together, that this was not a girlish boast of unfounded exultation—that, while Horace Miller was not the man to look lightly upou any deviation from the path of rectitude, nor perhaps to sub- mit tamely to personal affront, there was never- theless in him a large-hearted charity and gene- rosity which would overlook and forgive faults, even crimes, in one whom he loved. Cora rattled on merrily, to overcome her trifling embarrassment at the novelty of her position in her aunt’s sight. ‘‘ You are aware,”’ she said to Mr. Miller, ‘‘that I lived with Aunt Janet all my life before I was grown. Until within a year or two back, I knew no other home than hers. Then she suddenly awoke to the fact that I was an incorrigibly trouble- some article of household furniture, and bun- dled me back upon my poor, dear father’s hands, as other merchants do unprofitable and damaged wares.”’ Aunt Janet’s smile was painfully constrained. ‘*Cannot she speak without exaggeration? Into what trouble may not this foolish, worse than foolish practice lead her ?’’ was her mental com- ment, as she compared Cora’s ‘ facts’’ with the true statement of the case. The period of Mrs

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20 GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. Barrett's guardianship of her young relative was comprised between Cora’s eighth and thir- teenth years, and the ‘‘year or two back’’ signified the lustrum that had elapsed since Mrs. Manning's partial restoration to health, her daughter being now nineteen, ‘Your friend, Miss Healy, did ua the honor of spending the entire forenoon of yesterday here,’’ said Cora, archly. **T trust the favor was properly appreciated by the recipients,’ answered Mr, Miller, in a like strain, ‘She quite ‘talked herself out’ for once, TL auppore,"’ ‘Hy no means, my good alr, That shows what injustice you are disposed to do to her colloquial talents, Her lament at tearing her- self away from ua, aa the dinner-bell rang—she having come before the breakfast things were removed, while the flavor of coffee and buck- wheat-cakes ‘lingered here atill'—had the ac- customed pathetic burden, ‘Not half talked out, my dear creature !''’ Her comical mimicry of the gossip was highly amusing to Mr, Miller, but Aunt Janet bethought herself of her resolution to retire early, and did not feel that its execution involved any self- denial on her side, ** Poor child !’’ she sighed, as she laid her head upon the pillow. ‘Oh, that mothers would teach their children the worth of that pearl of great price—truth, pure and undefiled! Cora’s are only idle words, it is true, but for every one of these we read that we ‘shall be called into judgment.’ ”’ Among Cora’s visitors of the following day was Ellen Miller, Horace’s sister. The girls’ confabulations were always interesting, for the engagement was known to the Miller family, and Ellen was, moreover, the most intimate associate of Cora at school and in society. ‘*T chanced to meet Miss Healy, as I was making a call yesterday,’ she said, suspend- ing the discussion of more important matters. ** What an unscrupulous gossip she is!” ** What fresh evidence did she grant you of this propensity ?’’ asked Cora. “Why, you will not believe it, but, in my presence and hearing, she brought forward the subject of your engagement to Horace, and flatly contradicted it as an absurd rumor, quot- ing you as her authority! You had, she de- clared, denied to her that there ever had been anything of the kind, and intimated that you had rejected Horace’s proposals from the begin- ning; and, to wind up the farce, she represented how you had implored her to rectify popular impressions on this head!’ Cora was dumb with dismayed surprise, ‘Did you ever hear amore shameless falsehood or a bolder stroke of impertinence?’’ continued the indignant sister, ‘And to use your name to foist it of upon the community 1” What did you say?’ faltered Cora, whose changing color was to Ellen only the reflection of her own heat, Oh, she did not atop there! She referred to me for my opinion! T[ informed her, curtly, that she must not expect either corroboration or dental from me, alnce the alternatives were to east discredit upon your word, or to betray my brother's confidence, If he were a discarded lover, you were the person most likely to be aware of your own act; If accepted, it waa but natural that I, aw his slater, should be apprised of the event, I can laugh now, when I think how she withered down as I concluded my apeech with a frigid ' good-morning ;’ but I waa not so sensibly cool in talking the affair over with Horace, last night,” ‘*With Horace?’ Cora's heart stood still, ‘Yes, Is there anything so surprising in that? One would think, you little goose, that he was in danger of believing the ridiculous tale, from your terrified look! ‘ A likely story!’ he said, when it was finished. ‘Cora is the most truthful girl alive, and Miss Healy is the most—well, no matter what! A toad cannot harm a star, let it spit venom from night to morning.’ There’s a compliment for you, my little lady ! Are you not obliged to Miss Healy for having served as the means of obtaining it ?” There was too much of the true woman about Cora for her not to feel a pang of compunction at the necessity of submitting to this unmerited, ill-bestowed praise. The consciousness that in accepting it she was wronging another, however deservedly unpopular that other might be, was a poignant reflection. She became abstracted and pensive, revolving in her mind her folly— she gave it no harsher title—and its present consequences, and determining to be more watehful of her tongue in future. Alas for the repentance which is based upon conviction so imperfect ! for the reformation preceded by so partial a view of the nature and extent of trans- gression committed ! Ellen was speaking of Aunt Janet when ker friend again listened. ‘I recret that Mrs. Bar- rett should have selected this morning for her shopping expedition; I am impatient to see her. But I hope to have many other opportunities of improving so desirable an acquaintance, as she is to pass the winter here. You have visited

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THE her frequently since her arrival at B——, have you not?” “Oh, often!” Cora really thought that she was speaking sensibly and truthfully of the three visits she had paid her aunt in her present residence, ‘She lives in the suburbs, or nearly without the corporation limits of the town, I think I have heard,’’ pursued Ellen, ‘Almost in the country; but the outskirts of Bh are more eligible as building lota than any atreet in the city proper, The situation of aunt's house is lovely, and the neighborhood charming beyond deseription.” ‘Did you ever hear of a Mra, Cheater, there- abouts’ Do you know whether there ia a lady of that name, a widow with one child, 1 think, a resident of B-——, or ita vielnity ?"’ “Indeed Ido! Her gronnda almost adjoin Aunt Janet's, She is very wealthy, keepa upa princely establishment, is quite the leader of the fon, courted and aped by a host of admirers, Are you acquainted with her?"’ ‘| have never seen her,”’ began Ellen; but Cora, volatile as usual, interrupted her, ‘Then you have missed the sight of a hand- some, a queenly woman, She might rival her daughter in belleship if she chose, but she is too dignified to listen to a whisper of such a thing. I admire her greatly.’’ **You have met her, then ?’’ She and Aunt Janet are One of the most pleasant days of my life I owe to her hospitality. Her lawn, and gardens, and park are a perfect para- dise. In strolling through them, one forgets that there are unsightly objects or painful ‘* Scores of times. extremely intimate, subjects in the world.”’ “You alluded to the daughter,” said Ellen. “Her fame as a belle has reached my ears be- fore this. Is she as admirable as her mother?”’ ‘Quite as beautiful in person, and more winning in demeanor,” rejoined Cora, ‘‘ She is witty, without being sarcastic; accomplished, yet not pedantic; affable, without affectation. At the parties we attended together, she was the most elegant, and at the same time the most simply-attired, lady in the room. Her kind heart gives a certain inimitable grace to her most trivial action. I loved Mary Chester from the earliest moment of our meeting, and parted from her with more regret than | expe- rienced in leaving all the rest of my friends in Bh.” **T am afraid I shall grow jealous of your en- thusiastic affection for her, if she makes us the Visit our parents have planned so long,”’ said UNRULY MEMBER, 21 Klien. ‘‘ However, I will take lessons of her in amiability, and try to rejoice in her pleasure at meeting one she knows and loves, amongst 80 many strangers,’ “Why, you said you had never seen her!" exclaimed Cora. ‘*Nor have I, That treat is yet in store for me. Our mothers were schoolfellows and boon companions in their girlish days, and their cor. respondence has not ceased through all the years that have brought age and cares upon both. Recently, there has been a deal of con- ference reapecting an exchange of visits. ral times have been actually set, which have passed without the accomplishment of the im- portant event, At present, the scheme ia for Mra, Chester and Mary to come to ua about the latter part of January; but hope deferred haa rendered na incredulous of ita tinal fulfilment,"’ Cora brightened visibly, Almost two months off, and an uncertainty at the best, which would, No need Seve- unquestionably, be the worst for her! for her to brood upon the idea that she had given Ellen an erroneous and unpardonably highly-colored version of the history of her as- sociation with the Chesters. She had seen them repeatedly at church and in other public assemblies; had scrutinized the daughter across the room at one large party, where her chaste elegance of apparel and engaging behavior made her the observed of all eyes. Nay, Cora had even stood next her at supper, and received a graceful apology for a slight injury done to her robe bya falling spoon from Miss Chester’s saucer, as her attendant was in the act of hand- ing it to her. Mrs. Barrett, once in a great while, exchanged calls with her more fashion- able neighbors, but her retired habits formed too decided an opposite to their gay life to make intimacy likely or possible. The day spent at the Chester mansion was a picnic, held during the absence of the proprietors, and by permission of the steward, in the park of noble old trees that constituted the principal attraction of the place. Cora would have blushed at the sus- picion that she had stooped to subterfuge to exalt her personal importance in the eyes of Horace’s connections, yet this motive was the spring that had hurried her into culpable mis- representation. An uncomfortable foreboding would, notwithstanding her atteinpts to feel easy and unconcerned, find entrance to her thoughts for an hour or so after Ellen's depar- ture, but her native and habitual buoyancy enabled her to shake it off. ‘*T fear that Horace is taking an imprudent step in this new venture of his,’’ said Mr,

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22 GODEY’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, Manning, one morning. ‘‘He is a sagacious man of business for one so young; but he is young, and, it may be, has not counted the cost and risk of extending his operations in these troublous times.” ‘‘He impresses me as a person of singular judgment for his years,” said Aunt Janet, notic- ing Cora’s uneasy look. ‘* Have not his actions heretofore been characterized by prudence ?”’ ** Yes, I suppose they have,’’ commenced her brother, who was a cautious man, and slow of speech. Cora broke in, eagerly: ‘‘Oh, papa! you know that he is discreet. I have heard you say, five hundred times, that he had the oldest head you ever saw upon young shoulders. It is unkind to depreciate him now, when this is the only measure of doubtful propriety he has ever adopted.” ‘While the wisdom of the measure remains a question, it is but fair that he should have the benefit of the doubt,’’ remarked the ever kind aunt. Mr. Manning patted his daughter’s head. ** Agreed, with all my heart! You must not fly out at your father, puss, until you are sure that he means to find fault with a noble friend of yours, whom we all like, although there are degrees of fondness amongst us.”’ **But you do not really apprehend loss for him, do you, sir?’’ inquired Cora. **T cannot say that I do, dear; I merely inti- mated that his course was a bold one; I feared lest it should prove unwise also, in view of the breakers ahead of business men. I do not understand his drift, but I imagine that he does, so it’s all right, perhaps.”’ **He will outride the breakers, if any one ean,’’ said Cora, confidently. ‘‘ His is a steady eye and hand.” ‘*And a true heart, you might have said,” subjoined Aunt Janet, as her niece stopped, confused at the warmth she had manifested in her lover’s defence. ‘Might not a word of caution from you be of use to him?’’ she con- tinued to Mr. Manning. **I would have spoken it, had he consulted me at the beginning,” was the reply. ‘‘I fancy that matters are now in such a state of forward- ness that objections would dishearten him, with- out altering his purpose. My fears may be false prophets, after all. We will hope for the best, and let him have his own way.’’ Horace did not appear very sanguine as to the result of his enterprise, when he unfolded his plan to Cora, ‘It may be that I have been rather precipitate,’’ he said, “ have trusted too implicitly to the representations of others who ought to be better informed in these affairs than Iam. Iam getting timid nowadays, I have so far greater happiness at stake than formerly, Something more than my own comfort or profit depends upon my success or failure. My pride and joy in our mutual relations is still so new and precious that I am in continual dread of losing it—the common fate of those who have become rich suddenly. Forgive me, love, for troubling you with pecuniary projects. I am ashamed of my selfishness in unburdening my heart of its cares, the details of which must be annoying to you.’’ ** Nothing is annoying or uninteresting that relates to you,’’ answered Cora, with an in- genuous affection for which her auditor honored and blessed her from his inmost soul. ‘1 am troubled, but it is at seeing you cast down. I should be more distressed, if you showed a dis- position to defraud me of my right to sympa- thize with you. Have you any reason, apart from your presentiments, for doubting the ex- pediency of your recent transactions ?’’ ‘*None, if I except the ominous nods and sighs of a few croakers, and the lowering aspect of the commercial horizon. I called several times at your father’s office, while the business was undecided, in the hope of persuading him to the gift of a few words of advice, but was invariably so unfortunate as to find him out or engaged. Has he passed any opinion upon my proceedings in your presence ?”’ Cora hesitated. The truth, unpalatable as it would be, was upon her lips; then a second glance at his anxious face summoned to her memory her father’s concluding remarks: ‘ Ob- jection would dishearten, without altering his purpose. We will hope for the best, and let him have his own way.’’ ‘‘ We were speaking of the subject yesterday,” she replied, as if trying to recall the conversation. Her courage failed fast at seeing his intent expression. ‘* Well,” he urged, as she paused again, ‘did he pronounce me a headstrong speculator ?” ‘*No, indeed! He declared his entire conf- dence in your talents and judgment.”’ ‘* Excepting as I have displayed them in this one case,’’ suggested Horace, with an attempt at gayety. ‘‘He made no exception, but was hopeful for this, as for the rest of your undertakings.” ‘‘Ah! he approved it, did he?” exclaimed Horace, joyfully. ‘*This is too good news to be true! Are you sure that there was no dis- satisfaction, no prophecy of evil, mingled with the grateful sentence ?’’ oo @ eh aw

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THE ‘‘He said that yours was a steady eye and hand, which, united with a true heart, made failure almost impossible,’’ said Cora, proud of the enlivening effect of her communication, * Aunt Janet was not backward in expressing her cordial assent to this.’”’ She was doing him a signal favor in thus turning the bright side of the picture to hin— in unloading his mind of fears that would im- pede his progress. “You are a comforting angel,’? he said, ‘It is almost a luxury to be despond- I am fondly. ent now and then, so sweet is the cure. unwilling to confess how utterly the knowledge of your father’s sentiments has revolutionized my He would have bestowed his counsel very sparingly, had I solicited it in fee lips. person. Conscious of this peculiarity of his, ldid not persist in my design of wresting an opinion from him. I have boundless confidence in his sound sense and farsightedness. I came here, to-night, depressed and irresolute. It was my Wish to see him for a few minutes in private, and ascertain, if I could, how he stood affected with regard to this somewhat bold enterprise. I was ready—more than ready— anxious to abandon it at the eleventh hour, at a single dissuading word from his mouth. How happy am | that I made you my confidante in- stead, and, by this mancuvre, became possessed of his most candid decision, unbiassed by any desire to conform to my inclinations !”’ *}lad you not better consult him, as it is ?’’ asked Cora, faintly. “Ono! There is no necessity or propriety He is careful to a fault, and never would have employed the language you have quoted, had he not been altogether satisfied with the wisdom of my course.” “The language you have quoted !’’ mockinuly conscience repeated the phrase, as Cora tossed upon her sleepless bed ! ‘*] wished to spare him needless pain,’’ she alleged, in excuse; ‘*I meant it for his good. lt cost me a struggle to speak as I did; but could I bear to see him sad, and not strive to console him by any sacrifice of my comfort? in doing so. How How could | foresee that he who is generally so independent in forming plans, so resolute in their execution, was prepared, on this occasion, to be swayed by a word from another? I hope I will not allow that he can be defeated by any enemy; he is bound to succeed.’’ no evil will come of it. **1f he should fail—and failure has come to Others as keen of sight and brave of heart— Who is to be blamed for it?” sneered the tor- UNRULY | £8 MEMBER, mentor; and Cora, dumb at this home-thrust, cried herself to sleep over the bare imagination of this sequel to her ‘‘well-meant’’ consola- tion. A month went by, and nothing had occurred to arouse the had sunk into a lethargic slumber almost as quickly as the pillow wet by her tears was dry. Life was one continued smile of love and beauty to the be- trothed maiden. Preparations for the marriage were going forward steadily and quietly. Friends gathered lovingly about her whom they were to resign to care yet more tender and constant, when spring should furnish her first flowers to fears which grace the bridal feast. It was on a balmy day, which she could have fancied had been sent in advance to remind her most vividly of the bliss of the approaching season, that Cora left home on a mission of mercy—to carry some of the sunshine with which her soul was filled to the chamber of sickness and languishing. Constance Remer was a universal favorite with her associates, each one of whom she converted into a friend. Young, loving, and beloved, she tasted, with a glad and thankful heart, of earth’s best trea- sures, until the Father, All-merciful as All-wise, interposed to save the tempted soul from idol- atry. Very gentle was the summons—painless and gradual her withdrawal from an existence whose every hour had been marked by its blessing and its corresponding joy; so calm her passage towards the haven of never-ending happiness that she, and, what was more re- markable, those who were nearest and dearest to her, but dimly suspected the truth. It was, therefore, with nothing of fear, with hardly a shade of solicitude in her manner or feelings, that Cora inquired concerning the invalid’s state, of the physician, as she happened to meet him about a square from Mr. Remer’s dwelling. Dr. Merrill was a blunt man, when it suited his humor and convenience so to be. At that instant, he was pondering upon Con- stance’s case—not weighing the chances for and against her recovery, but speculating mourn- fully as to the greatest length of her stay among those who little dreamed of the impending woe. His reply to Cora was abrupt and startling :— ‘She is as well as she ever will be again, poor thing !”’ ‘* Doctor,’’ ejaculated Cora, ‘‘do you mean that—’’ ‘‘] mean that she is dying,’’ returned the Doctor, wheeling about, and joining her in her walk, not see three more suns rise in this world. It She could proceed no farther. ‘*She may live three weeks; she may

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24 GODEY'’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. would not be a matter of surprise if to-morrow’s sun shone upon her lifeless body.’’ They walked a little way in silence. Then Cora queried, tremulously, ‘‘1s she aware of her condition ?”’ ‘*No. Why should she be? She is ready for death ; that her life has proved, better than If she were not, She has no any dying triumphs could do, it is too late to begin the work. unsettled worldly business to attend to, and that is, to my notion, the sole reason that justifies one in molesting the sick in the hour Doctors and friends often No! no! I believe in no such miscalled kindness. Let the child pass away peacefully. Human nature She would feel alarmed of mortal extremity. bungle wretchedly on this point. is alike, the world over. at the near prospect of dissolution, little cause as she has to dread an exchange of worlds ; or, grief at leaving those she loved might be as disastrous, and hasten the event which it is our aim todelay. To reveal the truth would be an act of absolute cruelty—downright in- human !” They were at Mr. Remer’s gate, and, with an additional injunction to Cora ‘‘ to do her prettiest to cheer his patient,” the Doctor bade her **Good-day.”’ On the threshold of the house, another warn- ing awaited her. The door was opened by a kind neighbor, Constance’s nurse for the day. ** Walk in!” seemed advisable, considering the proximity of ‘*Constance will be very glad In a whisper, she continued: she said, in a louder tone than the sick-room. to see you.” ‘*She saw you from the window, talking with Dr. Merrill, and will ask you what he thinks of her. She is nervous and down-hearted to-day, so, if he did say anything unfavorable, don’t hint it! Agitation would be fatal, in her pre- sent weak state.”’ The dying girl was propped up in an easy chair by the window, and beside her sat Ellen Miller. The placid face of the latter in .. mea- sure quieted Cora’s excitement, or her nerves and courage would have been severely shaken by the wistful gaze riveted upon her, as she stooped to kiss Constance’s hot forehead. ‘* How are you to-day, dear ?’’ she inquired. ‘*T cannot tell, “ora; I doubt whether I am as well as they would persuade me into believ- ing. I fear, sometimes, that it will be a tedious This in- creasing weakness does not promise the return to health about which the Doctor and others talk to me. deceive me, and I sick almost unto death, Cora?”’ season before I recover, if I ever do. Do you suppose that they could | | | | | | | “What an absurd fancy!” said Cora, play- fully. ‘* Your sickness has produced a radical change, indeed, if it has taught you suspicion, Fie! am disposed to resent the implication.” Constance laid her thin hand within that of her schoolmate. ‘‘ Do not be displeased,’’ she said, with the plaintive simplicity of a child; ‘*but this dread haunts me. Nothing but love and kindness moves them to tell me what they do; still, I cannot help wondering if this fear of causing me pain is not tempting them to and of those whom you love. I, for one, blind me, as long as they can, to the fact, the solemn truth that I may die of this illness.” ‘** Dear Constance,”’ said Ellen, ‘‘ why brood upon this thought? Be sure that your earthly friends would not knowingly mislead you, and, should they err in their opinion of your situa- tion, what is there so terrible in death? Re- member in whose hands are the issues of life. If it pleases your Heavenly Father to call you home, are you afraid or unwilling to go?’’ Tears gathered in the eyes large and bright with the insidious disease. ‘* Not afraid, Ellen. I learned, long ago, to trust and love Him, and I know He is able to keep all that is committed unto Him. I do try to say, unmurmuringly, ‘Thy will be done !’ but it is hard to resign the life He has made so full of sweetness, which He has given me capacity to enjoy; and I am so young—so young !”’ She clasped her fingers passionately upon her brow, as if to still its throbbings. **This will never do!’’ said the nurse’s eye and finger to Cora, unseen by the sick girl. Cora knelt down by Constance’s chair, and drew her head to her shoulder. ‘‘ My dearest friend, you cause yourself needless anxiety, and us exquisite pain. You will live to see how uncalled for is all this borrowed trouble. We cannot let you go yet. You are alone in your imagination that you will be compelled to leave us soon. The spring will restore hope and health together.”’ ‘* Did the Doctor authorize you to say so to me ?’’ inquired Constance. ‘* You speak very positively. Have you his warrant for your prediction? You were talking of me, were you not? I watched you both, as I sat here, and told Ellen that I should entreat you to re- peat every syllable he said.”’ It would have been a hard trial to one of less acute sensibilities and sterner principles than our poor Cora to see that face, so lovely in the eagerness of reviving hopes, and reflect upon the sentence that had gone forth against the ‘*sweet’’ life to which she clung. It was no

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THE UNRULY occasion for even slight marvel that she suc- cumbed to the temptation. ‘¢What an egotistical little creature you are!” she said, with a laugh that sounded like genuine heart-music. ‘‘ Dr. Merrill commented upon the weather and my blooming cheeks—for he is often gallant, after his fashion, cross as he is generally—and merely observed, at parting, that you were low-spirited this afternoon, in- clined to be hypochondriacal, and that I must cheer you up.” ‘*But you must have asked him how I was,”’ persisted Constance, not satisfied. ‘‘T did, and I forget the precise ‘syllables’ of his reply. The substance of it was that you were ‘no worse,’ or ‘ well enough, if she would only think so,’ or something else as amiably complimentary, so well as I remember.”’ ‘* He did not intimate that I was dying, then ?’’ A cold hand, like that of death itself, struck apon Cora’s soul, but superhuman power— from what source ’—was granted her to answer steadily, cheerfully, desperately: ‘‘So far from that, he said that you were getting along slowly, but well, and alluded to your recovery as a matter of course.”’ When the sisters-in-law expectant left the invalid, she was comfortable in body, and mani- fested more liveliness of spirit than she had shown since an early stage of her sickness. Cora’s conscience, seduced from its fidelity by her repeated perversions of good and evil, was basely recreant enough to congratulate her upon a worthy deed performed in the face of dificulties that would have daunted a less courageous spirit. Early on the ensuing morning, a messenger came from Mrs. Remer to beg for Mrs. Man- ning’s presence and sympathy in her sore be- Constance had died at daybreak ! When Cora could endure to listen, she heard how peaceful was her departure ; how quietly and unconsciously the gentle spirit left the beautiful clay tenantless ; learned of her affec- tionate and grateful mention of the beloved friend who had put to flight her presentiment that the dark-browed king of terrors was, even then, standing at her side. ‘‘Cora’s visit has been an actual blessing to me, mamma. My dreams will be happy ones to-night, I know,” she said, before committing herself to sleep. Her awakening was among the angels. If these tender recollections of the lost one reavement. assuaged the bitterness of Cora’s grief, her out- ward bearing was a false index to her inner emotions. For days and weeks, she labored under an extremity of depression, as foreign to VOL. LX.—3 jours & ses premiers amours.’ MEMBER. 25 her nature as it was obstinate in its resistance to the efforts employed to relieve it. ‘*Constance’s death was a fearful shock,”’ said the Mannings and the majority of their ac- quaintances ; but there were not wanting those who put another interpretation upon the gloom that shadowed a face but lately all beaming with health and pleasure. ‘*Cora is sadly altered,’’ said the indefati- gable Miss Healy, at an evening party. ‘‘ She was invited here to-night, but sent a regret, so Miss Williams tells me. Some will have it that she is mourning over poor, dear Constance Re- mer’s death, who was no more to her than to many of the rest of us. reasons why she should not feel particularly I guess there are other gay just now, and especially why she should not care to be here this evening.’’ Her emphasis and knowing shrug brought the wished-for request for enlightenment on the part of her auditory. ‘*T do not know whether it is exactly fair to ” repeat the story in Mr. Miller’s presence,” sim- pered the mischief-maker, rolling her eyes af- fectedly at Horace, who stood near. ‘* That scruple can be easily overcome; I will retire out of hearing,” he said, as indifferently as he could. ‘* No, please don’t !’’ and the lady involunta- rily (?) grasped his arm. thinking me an ill-natured, ill-mannered tale- ” ** You would go off, bearer. I have nothing disreputable to relate. “T hope not, indeed !’’ Horace could not help saying. She paid no notice to the interruption. ‘‘No- thing that you may not have heard fifty times over. I should not wonder if you were better posted up on this subject than any other per- son alive. It is altogether proper and likely that you should have had a version of the ro- mance from head-quarters. Did Cora never confide to you the story of her youthful folly— her engagement to Fred Williams, nephew to our host ?”’ ‘‘T am now first made acquainted with the existence of that highly distinguished person- age,’’ said Horace, coolly contemptuons. ‘*Hush-sh-sh! There heis! He lives now in B——, but is spending a few days with his uncle. This is why I understood so quickly the source of Cora’s low spirits, which disquali- fied her from joining our number. ‘ Auld lang syne’ cannot be so soon forgotten. Do not be uneasy, Mr. Miller; yours is not an isolated You recollect the song: ‘On revient tou- I dare say it is case. nothing more than the thought of her sufferings

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26 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. in the past, on his account, that indisposes Cora to meet her old flame. It went very hard with her, when her father, at Mrs. Barrett’s instiga- ion, broke off the match. For years, there was a coolness, nearly amounting to a decided rup- ture, between ‘ Aunt Janet’ and her protégée.”’ ‘Was there a regular engagement?’ asked some one. ‘** Fast and firm, my dear sir! She denied it, but not as positively as she does now, that there ever have been any pledges, mutual vows, etc., between herself and another individual whom I could name, but, dear me! everybody fibs about these things. You ought to have seen ‘ Aunt Janet’s’ look of solemn reproof when her niece’s pretty mouth took oath by all the saints in the calendar, and by some who are not, for she protested upon her own word of honor, asa lady, that Mr. Nameless-just-now was no more en- gaged to her than she was to the man in the moon. I wanted to burst out laughing in both their faces.”’ Too much disgusted and annoyed to listen longer, Horace turned his back upon the scan- dal-monger, and began a conversation with his nearest neighbor; but Miss Healy had sufficient wit to see that her shaft, rough and coarse as it was, had found a joint in the harness. Her sly smile was truly feline, when she remarked his closer inspection of the junior Williams, and the curl of the lip which concluded it. She had her reasons for disliking young Miller, and would have gone to greater pains to torment him than the retailing of this one item of gossip cost her. It was unlike him to narrate the cir- cumstance to his betrothed, confidently as Miss Healy had calculated upon this action. He was ashamed of it the instant the recital escaped him; angry with his thoughtlessness, when Cora’s perturbation evinced that her annoyance or surprise surpassed his. She even trembled and grew pale with the unsuccessful attempt to reply to his story. ** You will call me a jealous fool!’’ said Ho- race. ‘Foolish Iam to cause you uneasiness about the contemptible business, but it is not jealousy that irritates me, as I recall the tattler’s accusation. How I should delight to horsewhip the one who dared I wish she were a man. to couple your name with that of the coxcomb, the brainless puppy, who did nothing but pull his dust-colored moustache and drawl ‘ Ah-h, indeed |’ ‘ Ya-as!’ ‘Ne-ow, re-al-ly !’ the whole evening! I forget! This is a serious matter— sport to me, it was once almost death to you. It is ‘altogether proper’ that I should enact father confessor, and possess myself of the ‘ romance,’ from preface to ‘Finis.’ How old were you when you surrendered your heart, without firing a shot, at the siege of this invincible Adonis ? What a flint your father must have been to condemn you to inconsolable misery by his re- fusal to sanction so congenial a union! What filial piety you have exhibited in not hating him and Aunt Janet forever and a day !”’ Instead of replying to his raillery, she burst into tears. The bewildered Horace wondered, apologized, and coaxed by turns. **Only tell me how I have offended!’’ he begged. ‘‘ You could not have conceived the idea that I was in earnest in aught that I have said. I never imagined that you would regard Miss Healy’s fabrications more than I do—than every one does—as beneath the contempt of de- cent, sensible people.”’ Cora wept on in silence, only signifying by a gesture that he was not in fault. Completely baffled, Horace had to await the subsiding of the flood. As her face cleared, his darkened. An unwelcome fancy had crossed his brain. ** Dearest,’’ he said, tenderly, yet so gravely that she shook with alarm, ‘‘I do not seek to know the fount of the tears which have aston- ished as much as they have distressed me. Answer me a single question, and we will let the unlucky topic rest. Was there one iota of truth in all that Miss Healy reported? Was this man ever an intimate acquaintance—a suitor of yours ?”’ ‘‘ Never!” ‘*Was there ever an attachment on either murmured the frightened girl. side ?’’ pursued Horace. ‘* None that I knew of,’’ was the response. ‘*T am content !’’ and he withdrew her hands bie My little daz ling, you are weak and nervous, and are scare: from the tear-stained cheeks. by shadows. Pardon me for teasing you so pertinaciously. Seriously, if you had fancied yourself in love fifty times in your girlhood, [ should not care, provided you confessed it to me. The history of ten engagements, and as many broken hearts on your part, even were all the honored swains Fred Williamses, would not arouse the pang I should experience at one partial or distorted confidence. I am pleased, though, that you never cared for the fellow, else I might feel less flattered by your unac- countable acceptance of your humble servant.’’ ‘“You were never more welcome!” cried Ellen Miller, as Cora dropped in for an after- noon call. ‘I have an agreeable surprise in reserve for you. Come into the back parlor. There is something there you will be overjoyed to see.’’

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THE UNRULY Full of expectant pleasure, Cora followed her. A lady arose at their entrance, but there ensued no such scene as Ellen had pictured to herself. The telltale blood dyed Cora’s tem- ples with shame and embarrassment, whilst the stranger remained quietly standing, without any token whatever of recognition. **Is it possible that you have forgotten Mary Chester?’ said Ellen. ‘‘And you, Mary, do you not recognize an old friend in Cora Man- What fickle hearts or short memories you two must have !”’ ‘Forgive me, Miss Manning,’’ returned Miss Chester, extending her hand in graceful saluta- **I did not remember your name for a ning ! tion. moment, familiar as your features seemed to me. Have we met before, and where ?”’ ‘*In B——. My aunt, Mrs. Barrett, is a resi- dent of that place,’’ Cora continued to say, she never knew how. **T have the pleasure of a slight acquaint- ance Mrs. Barrett,’? said Miss Chester, charitably intent upon removing the confusion oftheother. ‘If I had known that she had a relative here, I should have done myself the honor of a farewell call, and inquired if she Have with had any message or letters for you. you heard from her recently ?”’ ‘*She has been with us for several weeks,”’ was Cora’s reluctant answer, for Ellen’s elo- quent countenance bespoke amazement at this singular proof of the ‘‘extreme intimacy” of Mrs. Barrett and the family whose ‘‘ grounds adjoined”’ hers. ‘*You have visited her occasionally, I sup- pose ?’’? resumed Miss Chester. ‘‘ How careless in me not to recall the circumstances of our former introduction! Iam not usually so for- retful. inising never again to be guilty of a similar I must request your forbearance, pro- fault towards you.”’ Her scrutiny, earnest and puzzled, engaged that she would keep herword. The visit passed off stiffly, affable as she endeavored to be. felt that there was a mistake, not her own, yet She that continued inquiry would be unpleasant. Elien was not less perplexed, and more troubled ; while Cora’s chagrin defied description. She took advantage of the earliest opportunity of the walked hurriedly homewards, execrating her folly and ending embarrassing scene, and the unpropitious fate that had enabled the Chesters to keep an engagement so long post- poned. There were more sickening misgivings mingled with her discomfiture. ‘What will Ellenthink? She will tell Horace! What will he do? What can I say p?? nh “I MEMBER. The straight road of honest, penitent confes- The web of her own inconsiderate weaving was about her, choking, blinding, every turn, and she planned escape by plung- ‘ulpable sion was the last she meditated taking. crippling her at ing deeper intoits intricate windings. ( as was her confirmed habit of misrepresentation, lax as her morals had become through long in- dulgence in prevarication, she had seldom, if ever, manufactured and uttered a deliberate lie, such as she laid away in her heart, ready for her betrothed’s hearing and belief against his next coming. She met him with glimpse of his features assured her that some- There was a trepidation, and one thing weighed upon his spirits. single flash of light—the fond beam that always greeted her—then the cloud again usurped the place of the “‘clear shining.”” It was an un- speakable relief to the guilty heart when the cause of his The speculation of which we have treated upon a sadness was announced. former page, as having excited his friends’ fears, and, in some degree, his apprehensions, had been unfortunate. He was likely to lose heavily by it—how heavily he could not as yet determine; it might eventuate in a total wreck of fortune. Like the strong-hearted man and Christian he was, he indulged in no useless murmurs at fate, or cowardly misgivings at what the future might have in reserve to tax his fortitude and strength. Already he was deyis- ing expedients by which he might retrieve his failure, if failure it should prove to be. Against all reverses he was prepared to struggle bravely, except the delay of the union wherein were centred his best and proudest hopes. They might be obliged to live more plainly than he had anticipated, he stated to his ladylove, but, if the worst should befall him, he would still be able to offer her a comfortable home, and together they would wait patiently for the dawn of more prosperous days. All that was noble in Cora’s nature was drawn forth by this appeal. She hastened to disabuse Horace’s mind of every apprehension of reluctance on her side to fulfil their contract, or repugnance to entering the humble dwelling he had described Her regrets were all for him and his disappoint- In her cheerful constancy, her self-for- as her probable abode for years to come. ment. getful love, he found compensation both for disappointment and the suspense which was yet more harrowing. Mr. Manning interrupted the dialogue. He, too, was full of sympathy, and was not quite superior to the temptation to repeat his prog-

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nostications of this very result. ‘‘I wanted to caution you, my boy,’ he said, shaking his head sagely, ‘‘but young people are apt to con- sider us old fogies as a set of bilious croakers, and regard our advice accordingly. Cora here can testify, as can my wife and sister, that I foresaw this evil from the start. And sharply was I taken to task for my opinion, 1 assure you”’—nodding at his daughter. ‘I won't re- peat the womanly arguments that hailed about my ears until I was glad to hold my peace.” ‘* Had you addressed your dissuasions to me, sir, my course might have been very different,”’ replied Horace, with a searching glance at Cora. ‘*T acted upon the impression that I had your cordial approval of my venture, and this mis- take led me to greater lengths than I originally purposed.”’ ‘* It was a mistake, and a singular one,’ ’ said Mr. Manning. ‘‘ Why, Cora, you—where has the child gone? could have set you right on that head. I was about to say that she There is no use in lamenting over what is done and cannot be remedied. I am an intruder here, to-night, to say to you, my dear fellow, that my confidence in you remains unshaken—that I have not even the charge of imprudence to You were a little precipi- Men of twice your years and experience commit greater bring against you. tate, but that is of no consequence. blunders, are guilty of greater rashness every ’? Here the old gentleman began to stam- ** And furthermore, day. mer and look embarrassed. Horace, if you do not get well out of this quag- mire, if all that you have goes by the board, I stand ready and able to help you to regain your place—an honorable one it is, too—in the mer- cantile world. Moreover’’—hesitating yet more woefully—‘‘ don’t make yourself wretched— that is, unhappy; I mean uncomfortable—with certain fancying any alteration in arrange- ments. You understand? I commenced life— ’—when I was pretty It’s by far the best my married life, ahem near the foot of the ladder. way.”’ This was a long speech for worthy Mr. Man- ning, yet Horace had no language, at its close, Deeply affected, he wrung his hand, and his moistened eye and with which to thank him. quivering lip told of gratitude too great to be articulate. When Cora re-entered the room, he was alone and more composed. Into her ear he poured his acknowledgments to and praises of her father. **But how strangely you misconceived his sentiments touching this luckless business !’’ he remarked, presently. ‘‘They appear to GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. have been exactly the reverse of what you understood. How do you account for this ?’’ ‘* Either I was dull or so perverse in my ideas of the subject that I did not and would not com- prehend, or he is forgetful,’’ answered Cora, readily. And this was the woman who, not two months previous, had avowed so proudly, ‘‘ To him, at least, Iam no dissembler!’’ The broad, shallow steps of harmless evasion, unimportant exagge- ration, and pardonable equivocation had pre- pared her slowly, but how surely, for sudden and deeper plunges into falsehood. The Father of lies appreciated his tool, and was master of his art. Horace had not the meagre satisfaction of knowing how full and remorseful was her participation in the trial of feeling and threaten- ing of pecuniary loss that oppressed him. He saw that she suffered, and from some cause be- yond his power to cure; and this begot in him, additional care at a season when his uneasiness was already sufficient to crush the spirits and energy of an ordinary man. While matters were in this state, he had a call from Dr. Merrill. This devoted man of medicine rarely stepped aside from the routine of professional life, unless incited to the extra- ordinary measure by business of an urgent nature. himself, he broached the subject of his errand. Horace’s amazement was profound when the Upon this occasion, before seating theme was prefaced by his sister’s name, and it grew apace when he discovered that a serious complaint was entered and sustained against one whom he had ever regarded as a model of discretion. But, as the recital proceeded, he perceived, from his prior knowledge of the cir- cumstances, that, if she had spoken more freely than was altogether consistent with prudence, she had said nothing unadvisedly. The Doc- tor’s charge was to this effect: that Miss Miller had stated and reiterated publicly, as a fact, his ignorance of Constance Remer’s danger, when every labored breath was throwing out the death-dew upon her brow; had reassured her friends, and, through them, the doomed patient, when they expressed solicitude at the result of her sickness; had allowed her to pass into the eternal world unwarned, and without the last mournful privilege of saying ‘ Fare- well’? to those who would always lament her silent departure. ‘* Now, sir,’’ concluded the irate physician, ‘*T never said that the girl would probably re- I have not practised medicine—with some indifferent skill, grant—for twenty-five years, not to know con- cover. as even my enemies

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THE UNRULY MEMBER. 29 sumption when I have it to deal with, hydra- headed though it be. I gave up all hope of the case in point before I had paid half a dozen visits at Mr. Remer’s. You do not re- quire to be told how far short I should have iullen of my duty, if I had openly proclaimed my conviction, and advised the parents not to waste more money, physic, and pains upon their idol. we must work on, with what semblance of con- Until the world is as wise as doctors, fidence we can assume, while the vital spark quivers in the body. But do you not see in what a light people will eye the physician who is as much the dupe of appearances as they are themselves? It is a mortal sin in him to mis- take the slightest symptom. He ought to fore- see the end from the beginning, in the most complicated malady. Is he not paid to do it? I never exchanged a syllable with your sister upon the subject of the deceased’s illness, nor do I guess who was her authority for the state- ment she has circulated of my judgment in the case. There was one who could have told her a totally different story, and the evidence of this person I am prepared to adduce at any moment. The afternoon preceding Miss Remer’s death, I imparted my impressions—my certainty, rather —of ning—”’ ‘**To whom?’’ exclaimed Horace, starting from Did you say her actual condition to Miss Cora Man- his seat. ‘‘I beg your pardon! Miss Manning ?’’ ‘“‘I did. Chancing to encounter her on my way home, after the last visit 1 made Con- stance’s sick chamber, I answered her inquiries as to her friend’s health in the most candid style I could command; told her, in so many words, that she was near her end; that it would not surprise me if she did not live through the night. She was shocked, of course, so visibly overcome that I had to warn her against be- traying her alarm to its object, pointing out the evil effects of such a useless revelation at that late hour. suggestion, and I left her at Mr. Remer’s door. She acquiesced in my prudent t is impossible that she should have forgotten the substance of our conversation. If you de- mand her evidence, I trust that she is enough iny friend to afford it, at my request.”’ ‘*It is unnecessary—quite superfluous,’’ re- joined Horace, hastily. ‘‘I have heard all I want, and more.”’ Commanding himself by a strenuous effort, he pledged his word for the contradiction, and, if practicable, the suppression of a report so detrimental to the Doctor’s professional pride and interests, and they parted amicably. The wave that tears the breach in the dyke prepares the way for the surge of its mightier and more disastrous successor. Horace still sat over his neglected ledger, his head resting upon his hands, buried in the painful train of thought forced upon him by Dr. Merrill’s communica- tion, when a letter was brought to him. As he broke the seal mechanically, another missive He read the first. are proverbially thick-skinned, or magnani- mously indifferent to the prickles they rub against in their quest after the truth, which, fell from within it. Gossips we may remark, in passing, is seldom ‘the whole truth,’’ and still more rarely ‘‘ nothing but the truth.’’ made her an exception to the general law of She ‘had “ she was fond of saying. Those who were ac- Miss Healy’s sensitive spirit imperturbability. her feelings, quainted with her idiosyncrasies hinted that she had her spites also, and that this class of emotions often reached a pitch of virulence and obstinacy exceedingly unbecoming in so public- spirited an individual, the pretended dispas- sionate benefactress of the community blessed Horace had fairly recollection. in being her abiding-place. earned a share in her rancorous Stung to the quick by his open disdain for her, as exhibited at divers times and in sundry places, especially and most offensively at Mrs. Williams’ soirée, the aggrieved spinster had sought through her well-supplied arsenal for an instrument of torture that might suitably avenge her for the indignity offered. His love for his betrothed was his most vulnerable point, and this chimed in well with her inclination, for Cora, albeit several degrees less obnoxious than her lover, was by no means a favorite Fred Williams she found a not unwilling accessory to her plot of humbling both the haughty Horace and her with this fastidious lady. In who had, to the gentleman’s notion, displayed inexcusably degenerate taste in receiving the devotion of his rival. The ci-derant beau had, fortunately for the success of their machina- tions, preserved one memento of the juvenile engagement which, the reader may not be astonished to learn, had once existed between himself and Cora Manning. This souvenir, whether accidentally overlooked in the return of letters at Mr. Manning’s command, or with- held purposely, was evidence unimpeachable of the fact and the character of said connec- tion. It was nothing less than a letter penned in Cora’s own hand, addressed to her boy-gal- lant, and glowing with all the inconsiderate in her sixteenth ardor of a love-lorn maiden year.

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This was the effusion which Horace Miller’s burning gaze now scanned ; its every line brand- ing with the grossest deceit and direct menda- city the being he had worshipped as near akin to angelic natures. Galling as its phrases of undisguised tenderness were to his proud, deli- eate spirit, this was as nothing in comparison with the blighting conviction that his idol was the basest clay—one for whom his pity must be mingled with contempt. ‘*If she had but told me! the truth, were it a thousand times more hu- if she had owned miliating, I would have loved her all the same,”’ he groaned to his sister, that night; ‘‘I said this to her when I made inquiry about this early folly—for it was only a folly, Ellen—the fanciful The whole sin was in its concealment, in the dream of a sentimental school-girl. premeditated deception of him who hid nothing her. I this at her hands.”’ Ellen was much moved, but less surprised from have not deserved than her brother; the scales had not fallen so suddenly from hereyes. Feeling that all might as well be told; that the wisest and most mer- ciful policy towards the sufferer was to complete his disenchantment by abundance of testimony, she related her story. To her, the scene in whieh Cora and Mary Chester had acted such different parts was but the commencement of similar developments, the key to incidents hitherto inexplicable, each illustrative of this heinous defect in the disposition and conduct of the misguided girl. GODEY S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, And thus Cora Manning lost lover and friend, gaining in their place a memory replete with wretchedness and shame unavailing; the blind commiseration of those cognizant of the pun- ishment, and not the sin; the displeasure and distrust of the few whose esteem valued; the lasting reprobation of him con- she most cerning whom, and in whose behalf, she had sacrificed more of truth than for any other cause or creature besides. For was it not to screen their loves from the profanation of vulgar re- mark, that the lie of policy slipped from her tongue ere she was alive to its formation in thought? that she might shine brighter, stand higher in the respect of him and his, was not the tinsel lie of vanity paraded? to spare him a feather’s weight of vexation, an atom of added care, had not the lie of affection been earnest and repeated? to escape his anger, to retain his love, was the lie of fright a whit less plausi- ble and convincing than the rest? Truly, her labors had been neither few nor small, and here was theirreward! The fly in the ointment had fulfilled its mission, and the once exulting pos- sessor of the precious casket flung it from him with sorrowful loathing. Would that the tale were all fiction, or that it treated of the only golden phial thus polluted into a rank offence to those who, in this age of gaudy coloring and intense refraction, still cher- ish, as one of the holiest of sentiments, a genu- ine Heaven-commanded love of trun, for itself and as it is. - - -~2e oe + —— — BLUNDERS OF CODE OF Apsence or Mixp.—Lord Chesterfield, in his ** Advice to his Son,’’ justly characterizes an absent manas unfit for business or conversa- tion. Absence of mind is usually affected, and springs in most cases from a desire to be thought The world, however, gives a man no credit for vast abstracted in profound contemplations. ideas who exhibits absence when he should be attentive, even to trifles. The world is right in this, and I would implore every studious youth to forget that he is studious when he en- ters company. I have seen many a man, who would have made a bright character otherwise, affect a foolish reserve, remove himself as far from others as possible, and, ina mixed assem- bly, where social prattle or sincere conversation BEHAVIOR DEPORTMENT FOR | | CORRECTED. BOTH SEXES. enlivened the hearts of the company, sit by himself abstracted in a book. It is foolish, and, what is worse for the absentee, it looks so. A hint on this subject is sufficient, and we do hint that abstractedness of manner should never be exhibited ; the greatest geniuses have ever been attentive to trifles when it so behooved them. AccoMPLISHMENTS are by some considered too trifling for their attention, but no person de- sirous of the enjoyments of social life can spurn them without paying the penalty. Men of business are frequently denied the leisure ne- cessary to render themselves moderately pro- ficient in continental languages, music, dancing, and the arts of pleasing. Yet such things are

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BLUNDERS IN essential, and add very much to our enjoyments; they tend to refine the nature, and form links of connection between persons of all ages, sexes, and dispositions. It is our duty to encourage everything of a refining nature, so long as we lose in the pursuit none of the solid excellencies of character; and, by a proper attention to such things, we insure for ourselves reception in quarters where we should be obnoxious without them. These acquisitions are equally important to both sexes, though those of the masculine gender are most guilty of the blunder of setting them at naught. AFFECTATION i3 more prevalent than people care to own. Ladies are terribly given to this folly. One affects not to know the color of money, unless it be pin money, and then her wits are unusually sharp. Another is so fash- ionable in her tastes, that she thinks it elegant ~ to take no interest in her husband’s affairs ; so that whether he prosper or fail in life seems all the same to her. I know a lady who has lately adopted the affectation of ignorance—a strange kind of affectation, certainly. If she should hear a remark from a scientific man, in explana- tion of some curious natural phenomenon, she will toss her head aside, and, with a benign but unmeaning smile, say, ‘‘Indeed! I don’t un- derstand such things.’’ We do not seek for blue-stockings, but really we cannot do without common sense; and the pride of ignorance, whether it be fashionable or not, must be looked The affectation of superior wisdom is equally objec- upon as a blunder of tremendous import. tionable. If a person tells you something you already know, you are not to inform him in the middle of his story that you know it already. It is a mark of a most vulgar mind to parade your knowledge on any occasion, or seek repute in society as a person of great attainments. Some ardent young students are apt to interlard their conversation with scientific terms and ex- planations, and with quotations innumerable from out-of-the-way books. Such things are well enough in moderation ; but if not tempered as to time and place, stamp the individual as conceited. I knew a man who, in every respect but one, was a model of deportment and sound sense; but in the one blunder of which he was guilty he managed on every possible occasion to mar the esteem in which he was everywhere held. subjects ready and well informed, but he intro- He was a profound chemist, and on all duced chemistry into his conversation so fre- quently, and soared to such ethereal heights in his theoretic speculations, that his presence was BEHAVIOR CORRECTED. 51 at last dreaded. The ladies looked at him in awe, the frivolous young men jeered and tit- tered, and he was known at last by the sobri- quet of the ‘‘Oxygen Nuisance.’’ But, though few persons carry their conceit so far as this, too many of us are weak enough to think that what we must prove equally acceptable to all we meet ; and affecta- especially delight in tion, in this respect, must be guarded against by all who desire to conduct themselves in so- ciety so as to be respected and esteemed. Affectation of superiority is worse still, be- cause it galls the feelings of those to whom it is offered. In company with an inferior, never let him feel his inferiority. An employer, who invites his clerk to his house, should treat him in every way the same as his most distinguished guest. No business should be made, and anything in the confidential reference to shape of command avoided. It is very easy, by a look, a word, the mode of reception, or other- wise, to advertise to the other guests, ‘‘ This is my clerk,’’ or, ‘‘The person I now treat as a guest was yesterday laboring in my service ;”’ but such a thing would lower the host more than it would annoy the guest. Before Burns had arrived at his high popularity, he was once invited by some puffed up lairds to dine, in order that they might have the gratification of hearing the poet sing one of his own songs. Burns was shown into the servants’ hall, and left to dine with the menials. After dinner he was invited to the drawing-room, and, a glass of wine being handed to him, requested to sing one of his own songs. He immediately gave his entertainers that thrilling assertion of inde- pendence, ‘‘A man’s a man for a’ that,” and left the moment he had finished, his heart em- bittered at patronage offered in a manner so insulting to his poverty. If you take pains to mortify a man, to make him feel that he occupies an inferior station, that he stands below you in abilities, rank, or fortune, you offer him an insult, which, though he may be too much of a gentleman to resent, nevertheless he is sure to feel, and for which none of your kindnesses are a compensation. An inferior is even entitled to superior attention, that he may not have even the fear of being slighted; and, above all things, that he have sufficient confidence in himself to mingle freely in conversation. True politeness consists in making everybody happy about you, and to do otherwise is a proof of an uncultivated nature. Arrronts are to be borne more patiently than we are wont to bearthem. To resent an affront

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is usually wrong, and for these reasons: We are not always sure that an affront was intended, in which case resentment must be built upon error. We are not to carry in our breasts re- membrance of every wrong, for we know not how many we ourselves unconsciously commit on others. If we cannot bear with trifling annoyances, we must shun human society alto- gether, for it is a mixture of such with grati- fications. Nature gives us corn with the chaff on, and in men she presents us with some paltry characters which we must tolerate. Besides, to take notice of every trifling annoyance shows too great a study of trifles, quite apart from the Do not notice every offence, and you will not have dignified bearing of gentlemanly conduct, many to trouble you. Ba.t-Room.—Everybody knows it is a blun- der to enter a ball-room with the head covered; but everybody does not know that it is equally so to enter immediately after smoking, when every lady you speak to must put up with the Stygian fumes of your tainted breath. As to the elegancies of salutation, address, and so forth, must be sufficiently prepared beforehand, by every person who enters a ball-room having mingled in genteel society ; such things cannot be taught in words. Those who can dance know all the forms of ball-room courtesy ; but these are apt to commit blunders unless Those ball-room should enter it with confidence, seek they study to please. unused to the a partner, and after one or two dances leave. After leading your partner to a seat, leave her, but not society, abruptly ; if you burden her with your she may fail in getting another partner. Young men, who have not had much experience in polite circles, are sometimes so enamored of a lady, after one or two dances, as to con- tinue their companionship throughout the even- ing. This is a great error; you seek a partner for the dance only, and not for companionship Do not seats as a looker-on, or you will be counted a and conversation. lounge about the Should a lady express a wish not to dance, it is impolite to press her; and it is equally impolite to look after a certain lady as bore. a partner, to haunt her, as it were, when per- haps she may not have the same desire to dance with you that you have for her. When a lady has engaged to dance with you, you are not to afflict her with your society as a matter of course ; indeed, to sit with your partner for any It is the thorough mingling of persons one with an- other that constitutes the charm of the ball- length of time is a mark of ill-breeding. GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, room, and cliques and conversations are to be avoided. Relatives and lovers should associate as little as possible in the dance; and a man should but seldom, except in very homely par- ties, dance with his wife. Greetings in the ball- room should be quietly performed, so as not to attract attention. Ladies are generally au fait in ball-room eti- quette; but having once or twice seen a lady rambling in the room by herself, I will here hint, for the benefit of my fair readers, that a lady should not leave her seat to cross the room, or speak to a friend, unless accompanied by a gentleman. A little observation, and a modest confidence, will enable any person to acquire ease and elegance in parties where dancing is going on. CuiLpren.—Almost every parent commits the blunder of making too much of his children in the presence of visitors. It is very pardonable in fond mothers, but papas are the most sub- ject to make themselves ridiculous on this score. Remember the old motto about regard- ing your geese as swans, and do not thrust your children on your visitors as prodigies of beauty, eccentricity, and excellence. The other extreme is just as bad; and to thrust your children from the room, or to treat them harshly in the presence of others, makes you look as if you were ashamed of them. Still, as a rule, children should not be obtruded on the atten- tion of visitors, or made to exhibit their parts to those who feel compelled to praise even in spite of disapprobation. A friend of mine often burdens me with anecdotes of his boy’s roguery, and this in presence of the boy himself. Where- upon the child, fired with parental approval, begins to pinch and pummel me, much to my annoyance ; though I can bear this better than I can to hear my friend talk of his son’s mu- sical predilections, which always lead the youngster to a sham pianoforte performance with his fingers on the table, or to the humming of some tune in a tone loud enough to stop all conversation. Cieanuiness of person is a distinguishing trait of every well-bred person; and this not on state occasions only, but at all times, even at home. It is a folly to sit by the fire in a slovenly state, consoling one’s self with the re- mark, ‘‘ Nobody will call to-day.”’ Should somebody call, we are in no plight to receive them, and otherwise it is an injury to the cha- racter to allow slovenly habits to control us even when we are unseen.

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MISS SLIMMENS’S BOARDING-HOUSE. BY THE AUTHOR CHAPTER I. ‘* SINGLE GENTLEMEN PREFERRED.”’ {As Pennyville grew larger and more fashion- able, the business of the new milliner from Boston rapidly increased, while very many of Miss Slimmens’s oldest and most reliable cus- tomers deserted the little shop, climbing up a pair of stairs to give their patronage to the showy establishment whose windows flaunted nearly the whole stock of the possessor, above the first-floor dry-goods store of brick, new, and three stories high, which had now become the centre of attraction to the feminine portion of the village—flaunted its stock right in the ancient face of the weather-worn sign across the way. This was too much for human nature, and especially woman nature, toendure. There is a time when ‘‘ patience ceases to be a virtue.”’ Miss Slimmens felt that that time had arrived; and, two years after that tragic event which made such melancholy inroads upon her heart and fortune, the shop was closed, the sign was taken down, and the Boston milliner was left in possession of the field. Let not her sympa- thizers suppose from this that Miss Slimmens To that indomitable spirit A card which was vanquished. there was no such word as fail. appeared in the Pennyville Eagle will explain her purposes sufficiently to those able to appre- ciate the advantages which such a step must insure to a lady of her business habits and matrimonial aspirations :— ‘“Wantep.—A few genteel young men, as boarders, at No. 90 Washington Street, by a lady without family, who has more room than she requires. All the of a home Single gentlemen preferred.”’ comforts secured. Our fair friend had run some risk, as she had been obliged to invest quite a large part of the money which the sale of her stock in trade, etc. brought in fitting up the establishment indicated in the advertisement as No. 90. Dora, poor child, had lost her mother, and, being without other friend or protector in the world, had accepted the offer of her mistress to re- main with her, assisting in the superintendence of the household as a compensation for her keeping. ] Yes, gentlemen, I really trust we shall; I trust or ‘‘THE | | just twice my age. TALLOW FAMILY,.’’ I de- pend upon you both for guidance and support. we shall get along admirality together. Hitherto, my efforts to obtain a compensation have been principally among my own sex; and, although there are a few honorable exceptions, I must say, as a general thing, women are dread- fully down upon one of their own sex who is struggling for a livelihood, especially when, like the one who is now before you, she is timid and unexperienced, I wonder if I shall ever, in my maturer years, arrive at an age when I shall be less sensitive and more capable of taking care of myself? Oh, gentlemen, I have suffered ; but it ‘‘ boots not to remember’’ the past. With the sweetest of Boston’s many bards, let me exclaim :— “Oh, faint not, in a world like this, And thou shalt know, ere long, Know how sublime a thing it is ’ To suffer and be strong !’ What’s that you remarked, Mr. Little? You think this butter must have suffered? Oh, Mr. Little, how sharp you are, now—he! he! I was not aware that it had the slightest unplea- sant flavor; and my digestive faculties have always been considered rather too critical. I paid the highest market price for it. But that’s only one of many instances of how an unpro- How did you ? Without sugar or milk? I declare, what a curious co- incidence! Why, that’s the way I take mine! It’s the only way to take tea, don’t you think so? All true lovers of tected female is imposed upon, say you took your tea, Mr. Grayson “The cup which cheers, but not depreciates,’ as ‘‘Gray’s Elegy,’’ I think it is, has it, consider its delicate aurora injured by any addition. What's that, Mr. Little? Old people are apt to take it without, but, for your part, give you plenty of the fixings along with it? Oh, cer- tingly, as much as you choose. But I’m sure Mr. Grayson is not old, if he is a widower. How old are you, Mr. Grayson, if it isn’t a secret? Rising of forty, perhaps? Fifty-six! I never should have guessed it in the world. But I’m glad there’s somebody who has arrived at maturity to give an air of We shall be a very plea- I shall do my best to study 33 dignity to our circle. sant family, I trust.

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54 the tastes and peculiarities of each, in order to consult them, A daughter of mine! Dora a daughter of mine! Oh, Mr. Grayson, you know not what you ask. Nothing but your being a stranger in this vicinity excuses so strange a question. Surely, you must have noticed that 1 am ac- costed by the prognostic of Miss Slimmens. I am unmarried, and have ever been, Mr. Gray- son; my heart is still my own, my affections are virgin as the unkissed bloom upon the grape. Vergin’ upon fifty, did you say, Mr. Little? I’m sure I don’t understand you, and it’s well for you that I don’t. Besides, Dora is too old to be a child of mine. We are gene- rally taken to be sisters. She has a good deal of my expression about the mouth and eyes— You speak true; she We are said to re- the same sort of smile. has a sweet countenance. semble each other considerably, although we no relation. are She’s a poor girl, without father or mother, that I’ve taken and made what she is. She’s my adopted sister, now; and if I do well in the boarding-house, I intend to take her in as pardner before the end of the year, which will be doing a good deal, for she won’t have as much to put in the general stock as would buy a dozen of eggs, whilst I’ve already infested nigh on to a thousand dollars. Ilave some of the chipped beef, Mr. Turner— do! Won’t you have some more, Mr. Little? You're not fond of chips? ! he! I’ve always heard you were a witty person, but I he hope you won’t be too severe at my expense. Yes, Dora’s a nice girl, but she’s poor, awfully If anybody thought of marrying her, I where the It’s a terrible pity she wasn’t What’s that, I might lend her my bridal-robes, Really, now, I wasn’t aware that I had any; I cut ’em poor. don’t know wedding-dress would come from. born an heiress, like myself. Mr. Little ? if she should chance to want ’em? up for bunnit-silk months ago; besides, what should you know about ’em, when they ’ve never seen the light to this blessed day, and I keep the key of the chest myself? And as for that matter, he’s only jesting, Mr. Grayson, as I never had any bridal-robes, of course, seeing Dear me, it ’s uncomfort- ? Brid- get, open that door, and bring some more bread Don’t I never was married, ably warm here; don’t you find it so —one slice, and cut it in two, mind, girl. you see the plates are empty? Yes, gentlemen, I trust we shall prove to be kindred spirits. There is nothing more absorb- ing to the contemplation than a united family circle, where congenial aspirations bind them GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, together. I am young to assume the responsi- bility of feeding and clothing—of course, 1 am speaking metaphistically of the clothing—so many of the opposite sex ; but I intend to en- deavor to fulfil the charge—to be a sister to you all. I hope my example will be such as to keep the younger members of this interesting group in the rectified path of probable and truth. If any of you stand in need of advice, come to me. If any of you wish shirt-buttons replaced, come tome. If any of you ever feel lonely, and in need of the tender constellations of home, come to me. pocket-handkerchiefs hemmed, come to me. If any of you wish your cravats and It My object in establishing this boarding-house has shall be done freely and without charge. not been simply to make money—to feed like a coroner on the hearts of my victims, charging them a high price and giving them cheap pro- visions in return, while I withhold that sym- pathy and intimacy which is more precious than bread and meat. My principal object has been to establish a home—a place where young men, away from their mothers, may find, for a moderate reimbursement, the comforts to which they were accustomed before they left the shel- ter of their childhood’s roof. So plausible an object ought to succeed. I feel that it will. Already, at this, our first meal, I count before me six of the most respectable young gentlemen of Pennyville, and this interesting stranger, who intends to become a permeate residence, and who has brought along with him initials of the highest character. I have forebodings that I shall succeed beyond my fondest anticipations. In the mean time, my rent is high, and provi- sions—as you are aware, Mr. Turner, being in the grocery business—are very dear; which accounts for the price I have fixed upon as the weekly remuneration for what you receive. I would fain allow filthy lucre to remain unmen- tioned in my plans, but, as long as this cannot be, I know that to your noble and generous minds it will be a pleasure to contribute towards the support of an unprotected female obliged to abandon the millinery business to which she had clung for the last—five years; and that a dollar more or less will never be weighed in the balance by those of you who have sisters, or who expect to have wives. Yes, gentlemen, I throw myself—really, Mr. Little, you drink considerable tea for a young If you don’t look out, you ’ll be sallow and with- man. This is your fourth cup, I believe. ered up before you know it; too much tea is What ’s that? Am I No, of course I bad for young people. a very great tea-drinker? ‘m

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MISS SLIMMENS'S BOARDING-HOUSE., not; two cups is enough for me, at my age. When I get to be forty, maybe I’ll feel the need of more. They say tea makes people grow old dreffuly fast ; and sugar in it spoils the teeth. ’Twould be a pity for your teeth to go, Mr. Lit- tle ; He! thank you I’ve been told— they ’re beautiful now. he ! ! mine are pretty good. | better than they used to be several years ago? Why yes, I’ve no doubt they ’re better than they were when I was sheddin’ my first Children’s teeth is apt to be irregular Won’t you have some more hey set. about that time. of the preserves, Mr. Grayson? Don’t be back- ward about saying so, if you will, for Bridget can bring jn some, if anybody wishes ’em. There ’s plenty in the cellar. Well, gentlemen, our first meal together has taken place. This is an important error in my Please remember that the parlor is al- I shall generally be there myself, evenings, to give it a familiar aspect. ah there ’s a guitar in there—I play on it myself life. ways at your service. some—have been learning lately on purpose to add another charm to home. So I should be happy to take a duet I sing some. does Dora. I’ve also got a It was with any of you, at any time. It’s right back of the parlor. originally invented for a bed-room, but, as I told Dora, a bodoor would be more appropriate. They ’re quite the style. And then they have They ’re a sweet place to bodoor. such a reclusive air. retire to when one has something to confide, or It will If any one needs feel weary of the prometheas throng. be one of my favorite hounts. advice, or has got the headache, or anything to confide or mistrust, he is welcome to Alvira’s bodoor. CHAPTER IS CONFIDENTIAL Il. SHE WITH DORA, It’s a money-making business, when it ’s managed We’RE getting on swimmingly, Dora. right—better, on the hull, than fixing over old bunnits. I’ve cleared nigh on to eighteen dollars this week, over and above all expenses. And then, you see, child, our chances for re- ceiving the attentions of the opposite sex are better. your infancy, as it were, to attach much importance so much You’re too much in to this advantage yet, but the time ’ll come when you'll depreciate it as it deserves. Why, the gentlemen scarcely take their eyes off you, They don’t eat much But I don’t mind that; what I consider is your interests ; when you're at table! more than half the usual amount. and that’s why I’ve decided that you'd better not eat at the general table. You’re too modest a girl, too much like me, to wish to be the sine- I hate it myself, like poison; but of course somebody cure of so many young men’s eyes. must reside at the head of the table, and so I’m actually impelled to. It goes against the grain, though I’m getting a little used to it. You shall have of the best of vittals saved, and be waited on like the rest of us, some but I guess you ’d better eat by yourself. That puts me in mind! I’ve invited Mr. Barker to bring in his flute, and we'll get up a concert this evening. I’m glad so many of the boarders have musical abilities; it’s such a nice way of getting ’em into the parlor of Mr. Little ’s promised to keep his violin over here after this, and not at the store. evenings. He makes it an excuse for staying out evenings that he’s practising; but once get his violin here, and we ’ll know what’s really going on. He ’s the handsomest young man in Pennyville —Mr. Little is. Don’t youthink so? But he says such impertinent things, and keeps the boarders laughing at things that he says, which I can’t overhear. I declare I’d give him his walking-ticket, if he didn’t pay such a good price for that front room, and if I hadn’t hopes that he ’d some time come round and yield to the fascinations which somebody flings around him. There, Dora, you needn’t turn so red; of course I wasn’t thinking of a poor girl like yourself catching Hal Little yet awhile. Mr. Barker’s got areal talent for music. You can’t think how pleased he was to discover that I He said he should He asked mo what were told Moore’s melodies; he said they were also his’n. He said he should be delighted to hear me sing sung and played the guitar. frequently join me in a duet. favorite him my songs. I ‘‘Love’s Young Dream”’ or the ‘‘ Last Rose of Wasn’t that I’m determined to carry it Summer,’’ dressed in character. a charming idea? out; though I think I should prefer *‘ Love’s Young Dream’’ to the other, as more appro- brious. soon, by making an appointment to meet me in my bodoor, and, when he enters, find me I’m going to surprise him some time sitting upon a pile of cushions, with my guitar in my lap, dressed in Oriental custom, as Moore Which would ? I’ve always describes some of his heroines. you choose, if you were me thought you ’d good taste, Dora, and I shall be likely to abide by your decision. And oh, Dora, |’ve got a secret to tell you— You can't think how queer it makes me feel to be one of the greatest secrets of my life,

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86 having auch a secret to confide, I don't know as anything will come of it, but it looks very much like it. And what makes it so delightful ia the mystery which encircles it. I don't know when anvthing so mvyaterious has ever before happened tome, Look here! I found this in the augar-bowl this morning, I waa rather late, and veral of the boarders had taken ao T don't know Waan't that a aweet deposl their places before | arrived ; who to lay it to, tory for a love-letter such an antique idea! When I took it out, IT glanced around, but no body looked the least conscientious, Mr, Little waa carving the beef-ateak aa if it never would come in two, and, in fact, it waa rather tough, Mr. Barker nothing but coffee was in his thoughts, and the was looking at me as Innocent aa if rest were just as usual, Neither do I, I didn’t venture to read it until break and I had My heart palpitated uncommonly fast Do you know the hand writin It's a nice plain hand, lan’t it? fast was over taken refuse in my bodoor, as | broke the seal, See here! it’s poetry. It seems to be a parable of ‘*The Vale of Avoca,”’ a great favorite of mine, which I was singing to Mr. Barker night before last, which guess he is the author, thou makes me h two other gentle- men were present at the time, either of which may have been the one. How But of I shall find ascertain, this evening, to a certainty whether I wish I knew! course out. I intend to it was Mr. Darker, It was one of the objecta I had in view when I invited him to a solitary duet in my bodoor to-night. It’s nearly time now, and he's very punctual; but I guess we'll It is called have time to peruse it. rik MEETING OF THE LOVERS There la not in this wide world a maiden so eweet As the one in whose bosom all gentle thoughts moet Oh, the last raya of feeling and life must depart Ere the bloom of that maiden shall fade from my heart! Yot it was not that Noture had over her epread The purest of pearl-white and brightest of red; Twas not her soft magic of beanty or youth "Twas something quite different from such things, in truth! "Twas that she, the beloved of my bosom, was near— That she made even common provisions seem dear; And I felt how the beat charma of life may increase When we have them served up by a Goddess of Grease Rweet maiden In thy bo W here should cease, Alvira, how calm could I reat door of sweets, with the one I love best, the storms which we feel in this cold world And where love and economy mingle in peace Now, some people might object, Dora, to the practical tone of what I have read you, but for my part I have ever thought that a proper GODEY'S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, It isa precept upon which I have ever acted, with one medicum was the one to be preserved, exception, to which you are better knowing than anybody ele, save the villain who caused When I've decided to my own satisfaction who placed ‘em me to make such a fool of mynelf, in the sugar-bowl, I’m going to return an an- awer in the saucer of his teacup. I've got one nearly finished now, If Mr. Barker's the one, I'll find it out before ten o'clock thia night, I thought he looked a little sensitive at the table this noon, I saw Mr, Little winking at him— yea, actually winking--although he didn't mean me tonee it, If he wasn't so provoking good looking and liberal, I declare | belleve I'd let that beat room to the first application, I wish you'd see if my guitar is in tune; you can get it in tune so muoh quicker than I can, and the clock 's striking seven now. rhere! wonder why he don’t come immediately into I hear his voice in the parlor now, I the bodoor, He and them others are in a great glee about something; I hope it isn’t about the Mr. Little said he had become so permanently corned since corned beef we had for dinner, he ’d been put upon rations, that reports to his disadvantage had already become freely circu- lated in Pennyville; and Mr. Turner said he was afraid we had all been guilty of cannibal ism without knowing it; he was confident we had been living off of Lot’s wife fora week. I shall have to have fowls to-morrow, I perceive, though I didn’t appear to hear ‘em, There, Dora, he’s pitching his flute now. I Do He's think he plays like a second Morpheus, hear how sweetly he runs up the gamut. an ostrich in himself, Oh, if it should prove to be him who wrote—Dora, dear, he’s coming this way. Hadn't you better slip down in the kitchen, and see how Bridget's doing the knives? I'm dreadfully afraid she puts the handles in hot water. And after that you may count the towels she’s ironed, and then you may—well, no matter what to, hurry, child, and shut that door securely after go to your room, if you want I'll tell you to-morrow the result of our— you; I’m getting to be dreadfully sensitive to drafts. (To be continued.) _ +2eeer | - AraBiAN Proverss.—By six causes a fool may be known: Anger without cause ; speech without profit; change without motive; in- quiry without an object; putting trust in a stranger; and wanting capacity to distinguish between friend and foe.

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= NOT The grovee were God's firat temple, Ere man learned To hew the shaft, aod lay the arechitrave, And spread the roof above them—ere he framed The lofty vault to gather and roll back The sound of anthema, in the darkling wood, Amidat the cool and silence, he knelt down, And offered to the Mightiest, solemu thanks Aad supplications HaYANT Anp would it were yet even so! Would that the groves and flelda resounded with the praises of the Infinite, as in the days of our patriarchal fathers ! ligion course the veins of the multitude; and Then would pure and undefiled re then would clean offerings ascend a holocaust to the throne of the Most High, despite the human barrier erected by the vassals of the Evil One, We look around us, and we behold rich Gothic temples, with spires reaching to the very azure of the firmament, and we are told that they were erected to the honor and glory of God; and we behold a vast multitude, robed in black gowns, said to be ministers of the everlasting Gospel(?) We hear, too, of pure and undefiled religion; but where and what is it? Religion know, places all mankind upon a level. It the spirit of Christianity—we touches the heart of the proud man, and he becomes humble as a little child; it touches the heart of the sensualist, and he becomes pure and heavenly; it touches the heart of the revengeful, and he breathes the spirit of charity ; it touches the chain of caste, and it melts; it strikes the idola of Dagon, the fetters of the slave, and they fall to the ground; it smiles upon this human wilderness, pours ita rays into the homes of the poor, and the inhabitants thereof sing with joy, even as did the ‘‘ morn- ing stars.’’ Such is the happy effect of pure religion, even as it existed in the days of the Saviour and his apostles. O sweet effulgence of the patriarchal agea! when Jubal’s timbrel sounded, and the harp of David toned the praises of the living God! But this apology of modern times! what does it perform ? or what does it portend ? “Many and sharp the mournful ills Inwoven with our frame; More pointed still we make ourselves Regret, remorse, and shame!" So sang the poet, many years ago; but we fear this false spirit of Uhristianity is doing VOL. Lx.—4 ALL “ A WAIF, AP eNEY more: it is carrying souls to the very brink of deatruction, if not to eternal damnation, Tom Paine and Voltaire-iam ia usurping the plave of that which maketh man “live,” though dead!" Fashionable religion—so to use the term—|a monopolizing that which is pure and undefiled ; in wilfully controverting the breathings of the God-man--'' The poor have the Gospel preached P and it is sacrilegiously profaning to them,’ temples said to be erected to the wor ship of the living God! Tergiversation is useless when facts speak for themselves; for, do we not be- hold men and women—mere mortals in fash ion'’s livery clad, carrying their offerings of broadcloth, silk, and perfumery to these high, towering and art-bedazzled edifices, and there bowing their haughty heads over velvet-cush- ioned pews, and clasping their hands(!) in mocking supplication to the throne of Mercy ; or seemingly hanging upon the polished elo- quence of the aristocratic preacher, while the poor, homespun-clad artisan, who earns his “ bread by the ‘‘ sweat of his brow,’’ must stand afar off, and with his eyes resting upon the gates of the temple, cry out, in the fulness of his heart, ‘‘God be merciful to me a sinner!” And yet “the poor have the Gospel preached to them.” The above picture is no exaggeration, though it is not heralded from the high places, and we believe it to be even worse behind the scenes, The Bible is belied, and a retrograde movement is put upon the wheels of Cliristianity. Are they not the Pharisees of ancient times? are they not traitors to a divine purpose? Out upon such hypocrisy! Out upen formal re- ligion! Accursed is the wolf in sheep's Pure and undefiled religion draws ‘*With the heart we believe unto justice, but with the mouth we clothing og no line of distinction. confess unto salvation.’’ Why, then, proseribe the poor the privilege of hearing the living words of Truth?’ Why deny them the blessed fruits of the Gospel? open to the poor, and why should God's earthly The gates of heaven are temples be closed against them? Let their orisons and their anthems mingle with those of their more favored brethren, and let the deep tones of the organ grate upon their ears, 37

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moving their hearts even with the power of an ‘* Blessed are the poor in spirit, for And, remember, we must Orpheus ! they shall see God.”’ become even as little children, if we would in- herit the kingdom of heaven? We cannot ride to glory on a sunbeam; neither can we sail thither in the golden chariot of Croesus, upon a sea formed of the life-blood of our fellow- creatures. Nay, verily. Poor and humble came the Son of God among the children of men, and the poor were his Think of this, O Pharisee of nineteenth century! and rather clothe your heart with the warmth of charity, than chosen people. the your body with the gaudy trappings of fashion. Cleanse your soul from the leprosy of sin, as well as your body from a perspiring eflluvium. +2ee + — MRS. GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. | | | | BOWEN’S INVESTMENT. Paint the canvas of your mind with the golden glory of heaven, Miss Flora McFlimsey, rather than your cheeks with a deceptive rouge. Give your surplus of cash to the poor, Mr. Spend- thrift, rather than expend it upon faro and fast horses. Open your hearts to God, and your purses to the needy, and do not despise the least of His living creatures. Feed the hun- gry, clothe the naked, and be a father to the This is pure and undefiled religion fatherless. before God and man ; and if you perform this, then will you merit a place in that kingdom, where No grief of to-day, and no thought of to-morrow Shall darken the brow, or bow down the head ; Where no care, toil, or trial, no pain and no sorrew Shall reach the glad heart and appal it with dread. ‘The potatoes is all out, ma’am—only two ONLY FOR HOUSEKEEPERS. BY ALICk B HAVEN. | Store is no sore.—Old Proverb. | place in which you live for a housekeeper in ) Mrs. Bowen stood in her kitchen and pon- respectable circumstances to carry pots of but- j dered, in rather a disconsolate mood. It was ter and a bunch of turnips, say, through the Monday morning in November, a large wash in streets, it is a little puzzling to arrange a meal progress, Hannah—the ‘‘ help’’—cross because to the satisfaction of yourself and anybody else, of the extra tablecloths and sheets, occasioned | especially when one dollar has to do the duty by two unexpected visitors the week before. | of five. . There was a quilt, too, that Johnny had mud- | ‘*T think,’’? said Mrs. Bowen, slowly, ‘‘I : died with unlawful climbing on the bed, and | think, Hannah, we will have some potatoes i so to an apple on the bureau, and Kate had and, and—let me see, well, turnips.’’ | slipped down and ruined Monday’s clean petti- coats, so that there were two sets for her in the wash. The tin boiler bubbled and upheaved, so did Hannah’s wrath, with every garment that she plunged into her tub, the same slow, determined, spiteful ebullition. Mrs. Bowen was making up her mind on the dinner question. meat, of course, from Sunday’s roast; but cold meat There was cold needs trimmings to render it acceptable to man- kind in general, and besides Mr. Bowen, there was his mother who was twice as particular, not from a desire to be disagreeable, but be- oause, as an invalid, her appetite was sickly and variable. Now it is comparatively easy to walk into a good market, with a boy behind you to carry the basket and no compunctions as to prices, and lay out your dinner; but when your only market is a grocery, where they decline send- ing home parcels, and it is not the habit of the turnips and a half left from Saturday. J don’t see why squash, and them cold baked beans, warmed up, won't do.’’ ‘*Mother Bowen never eats squash, you know, Hannah, and we had squash yesterday. I must make some change.”’ ‘I can’t stop and go and dress, no how!’’ And Hannah plunged into her tub after a batch of dinner aprous, and rubbed them to within a thread of their lives. ‘* Why can’t you go as you are ?”’ suggested Mrs. Bowen, mildly. ‘‘Put on a dry apron, and unpin your frock.” ‘“] 'd like to see myself going into the street looking like this! Well, I would!’’ ‘¢ Dear me, Hannah,’’ said Mrs. Bowen, driven beyond the limit of caution by this determined resistance, ‘‘ who do you suppose ever looks at you?”’ ‘“'Nuff sight better people than comes to

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— emer e MRS. BOWEN’ this house!” And the ‘‘help’’ wrung the suds from her hands with a jerk, to poke down the bubbling, upheaved garments in the boiler, **S’pose I’m going by the carpenter’s shop in an old wash-dress? No I ain’t—nor the blacksmith’s, either, with all them fellers standing ’round. If I’ve got to go, I’ve got to dress—that ’s the hull of it!” ‘* Well, do hurry, Hannah, for it’s a bad dry- most vigorously. ing day, any how; I don’t believe you will get A peck of potatoes and half a peck of turnips—oh, and, Hannah, some carrots to stew the meat with. the colored clothes out before it rains. Mother Bowen cannot eat cold mutton. Oh, and, Hannah, there’s no whole pepper for the stew either; and get a paper of cinnamon; there was none when I made those apple-pies on Saturday.”’ Hannah’s toilet was not readily accomplished. Mrs. Bowen looked at the clock, and poked the clothes, and made a faint essay at the vacant wash-tub, It took her handmaid just a quarter of an hour to prepare herself to face the carpen- ter’s shop; it was twenty minutes more before she returned—half past ten. In the mean time, Mrs. Bowen thought to save time by getting her pudding ready—a tapioca-pudding,' as Mother Bowen considered it ‘‘ nourishing ;’’? but there were no eggs in the house, and Hannah was out of call. What could be made without eggs? Baked Indian pudding? But that required so much milk—more than could be spared. Apple Apple- dumplings would take up room on the stove, and tapioca? There was not time for it. and washing-days there was none to spare. If she only had those eggs ; so many things could it seemed to her, be made with eggs, nothing, without them. The whole twenty minutes was lost in opening boxes that were either empty or nearly so, and ransacking her brain and her cook- book for something that could be made with no eggs and very little sugar, for that last seven pounds of brown sugar seemed to last no time at all. ‘*Micht have kept up the fire, at all events,’’ muttered Hannah, setting down the basket with a thump. Sure enough, the fire was ‘‘ way down ;”’ the boiler had to come off, and it was eleven o’clock before steam was got up again, and Hannah once more arrayed for her post. **Where’s the carrots, Eliza? I don’t find any in the stew,’’ inquired Mr. Bowen, when dinner was at last served, and his wife, who had been cook, sat down, flushed and worried, for it was late and the children clamorously hungry. 5 ! INVESTMENT. 89 ‘Hannah forgot to get any at the store, and I could not spare her to go all the way back again.”’ ‘*Humph! I’d like to see one of my ’pren- tices forgetting orders. Nobody ever heard of a mutton-stew without carrots. Miserable pota- toes, too.”’ ‘Yes, there was a great deal of waste in them; and Mr. Bennet charges outrageously. Hannah didn’t bring home a cent of change. I don’t think he treats us well; / wouldn't deal with him any longer.”’ ‘*Must, as long as he does with me; you ought to send him word. Turnips! 1 thought you were going to have cabbage.”’ “Cabbage is worse than turnips, James,”’ senior, feebly, ‘‘and the said Mrs. Bowen, potatoes are so watery. I don’t see anything I can eat. No, thank you, 1’ll wait for the pudding.”’ ‘I’m very sorry,’’ Mrs. Bowen began. ‘‘ Hush, Kate ! dren. The old lady pushed away her plate with an Mr. Bowen, please speak to those chil- I couldn’t make the pudding, mother.’ “It’s no consequence ; Il can When people injured look. do just as well without eating. are too old to work, they hadn’t ought to eat, I suppose. Don’t never trouble yourself to get anything for me.” ‘*T should think, Eliza, that mother might have the little she wants. I can do without myself, but my mother isn’t going to, so long as she lives under my roof.’’ Feeling all the injustice of the implied re- proach from both, and knowing, moreover, how hard she had toiled, Hannah being “as contrary as possible”’ after her interruption, an angry reply rose to Mrs. Bowen’s lips; but she caught the quick eyes of both the children raised to hers, Kate defiantly ready to take sides against ‘‘grandmother,’’ whose feeble- ness sadly interfered with the noisy play of herself and her school companions. ‘ They must not see us quarrel,’’ thought she, remem- bering the miseries of her own childhood, and how much of filial respect was lost by her from this very cause ; but her manner was cold and repellant, and the first part of the meal passed in silence. Kate sprang up willingly enough to help re- move the meat and vegetables. She was always ready for dessert, and followed her mother into the kitchen to find out what it was to be. ‘* Boiled rice and molasses! Is that all ?’’ ‘*T’m so sick of rice, it seems to me I could never taste another mouthful,’’ groaned Mother Bowen, from the next room.

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40 ‘‘It’s too bad, mother,’’ responded her son, warmly; ‘‘I don’t see what Eliza was thinking about. If that’s all there is’’—and he pushed his chair from the table—‘‘I’ll be off. I should think, Eliza, you might contrive something a little different.’’ Mrs. Bowen felt very much like breaking down into a cry, as her husband took his hat and departed for the store, without another word, and mother settled back into her rocking-chair and drew out her knitting-work. This was the result of a morning’s work and his contrivance, to say nothing of Hannah’s im- pertinent muttering; and yet, scarce as help was, she could not dispense with so neat and active a girl for one fault of temper, especially when Mother Bowen needed so much waiting on. ‘Old people ’s a dreadful trouble, I know, Eliza.’’ And the trembling fingers shook more than ever, as they untangled a knot in the yarn. ‘‘I never wanted to outlive my useful- ness—never. I’m as great a trial to myself as I am to anybody else, though. It’s very hard to feel that you ’re in everybody's way, and no use to nobody; I hope you’ll never live to be old and feel it; but it’s likely you will, though, it’s likely you will, and then you ’ll reflect—” **T think rice and boiled molasses is first-rate, grandma? Hadn’t you better have a plateful ? Give me some more, mother.’’ And Master John ‘backed up his plate’’ as he said this, so did Kate, for all her disappointment; and Mrs. refilling them, thought what a blessing strength and a healthy appetite was, Bowen, and then more particularly of the worn-out body that made a querulous mind. **It was too bad, mother, when you had set “*T was your heart on the pudding,”’ she said. as much disappointed as you was; bat it was washing-day, you know, and I did not find out about the eggs until Hannah was gone, and it Sha’n’t I go and make youa cup of tea and some milk toast ?’’ takes her so long to goto the grocery. for, doing without the pudding, milk was fortunately at hand. **T don’t care if I do have a cup of tea; I feel dreadful But don’t yourself to wait on me; eat your own dinner, somehow. trouble gone, eat your own dinner; when people get old and useless, they can’t expect to be waited on.”’ Mrs. It was often so, of late. jowen’s dinner had been light enough. What with looking to see if Mr. Bowen liked his, and Mother Bowen could eat hers, and that the children were not tablecloth, so that be up in arms, and keeping one ear in the soiling the Hannah would kitchen for breakage» and the like, she forgot | GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. that no one offered to help her, or to ask to be helped, if she happened to notice that her plate was empty As for Mr. Bowen, he was as much absorbed in business as any Wall Street financier, or Broadway jobber. The town was growing since the Erie railroad had been finished, and trade grew with it. Of late, too, he had commenced manufacturing boots and shoes for the Southern market. He was not above work himself, though he had a shop full of apprentices and journeymen; and then, too, his trips to the city for materials added the little change and stimulus that helped hii to the brisk, bustling way which told you in five minutes that he was a money-making man. ‘“ Yes,”’ marked that very afternoon, to his friend, Mr. he re- Gerry, who often dropped in to bask in the genial heat of the great cylinder stove, on the very comfortable lounge provided for lady cus- tomers—*‘ yes, Gerry, I don’t think I’d change with any man I know. I don’t believe there ’s aman outside of New York that’s got better credit than I have in the Swamp, though I say There’s Jones & Mudford, one of ‘Come right it myself. the oldest firms in the city. straight to us,’ says Mr. Jones, ‘always, Mr. Bowen, and we ’!l do as well by you as anybody can. We don’t want your money, we want your custom ; that’s what we want; I'd like to find a few more of the same sort.’ Now, that’s what I call gratifying—ha, Gerry ?’’ ‘* Very,”’ responded Mr, Gerry, elevating his feet to the fender of the glowing cylinder, and his eyes to the arabesque of boots and shoes on the wall overhead. ‘Then, too, there’s my wife; many a man’s been ruined by his wife. Mine don’t spend one cent on nonsense ; don’t catch her with flounces and furbelows. Every dollar goes right into my business ; that’s the secret of it, you see. I get the best of stock, and plenty of it, and then I can afford to work reasonable; why, there isn’t another man in Plumville can begin to manufae- ture alongside of me. There’s Toby, now—”’ “Oh, he couldn’t lay a straw in your path; he never has what a man wants. I see him coming out of here, every now and then, with a lot of findings.”’ ‘“That’s it, you see. He don’t get ahead enough to buy his stock to good advantage ; and half the time he gets shaved by some of Shiftless tuns to New York twice as those outside fellows he deals with. kind of a man. often as I do, and spends just so much time and money.’’ This little conversation having taken place

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MRS. BOWEN’S INVESTMENT. 41 in the lull of the day’s work, just before tea- time, Mr. Bowen proceeded home to partake of that social meal, in the complacent mood which is the result of recounting one’s success- ful achievements, and quite ready to overlook the failure at dinner. He expected, at least, hot biscuit to atone for it; but, on the contrary, he found baker’s bread, and he hated baker’s bread. **Flour out, hey? Seems to me fourteen pounds of flour ought to last longer than all this Not much butter to help it down with, either!’’ ** Tt is all there was in the house, and Johnny did not get home from school in time to send to the grocery,’’ said Mrs. Bowen, patiently. comes to! ** You know you never like to have us borrow.”’ ‘*No, borrow, no! Go without, twice over; but, I must say, I never saw such providing in my life.” “I had enough, I thought, but Mrs. Toby sent in to get enough for tea, and I never like to refuse her, you know; so I told Hannah to let her have it, without going to see.’’ ‘*There ’s a family that’s always borrowing ; she must be as shiftless as her husband.”’ ‘*The Tobys never did get ahead,’’ remarked Mother Bowen. ‘’Tain’t Old ’Lias Toby, now, started in business the same time in ’em, with your father, and wasn’t worth a cent when he died. Some folks just live from hand to mouth.”’ ‘* A pretty miserable way of living.’’ And re- flections on his own forethought and freehand- edness supplied the place of sauce to the scanty tea-table ; though John and Kate, whose ima- ginations, however active, could not delude them on this subject, demanded the molasses pitcher, to make up deficiencies. ‘* Not a rag of clothes dry enough to iron,”’ Hannah stated, encouragingly, as Mrs. Bowen went to inspect the progress of affairs, next morning. ‘I hung them tablecloths up in the garret, and them starched things ’round the fire all night; jist look at ’em, might as well be right out of the tub this minute. That comes of leaving clothes in the middle of the day to run to the store.’’ ‘*T know it, Hannah, but we must do the best we can. go to the door, for mother never would hear, and There ’s some one knocking ; Kate has gone to school.”’ Mrs. Bowen ‘‘ felt’? the damp garments one by one, without the least brightening of the prospect. Hannah returned presently, usher- ing in a little girl, with a deep cape-bonnet, and a quantity of school-books piled up on her arm. 4* | | | | | ‘* Mother sends her compliments, Miss Bowen, and, if it’s convenient, she ’ll come and take tea with you. Jane’s gone off again,” she added, by way of explanation, entirely on her own ac- count, ‘‘and I heard mother say to father, that when we didn’t have a girl was a good time to go a visiting, and Sallie and me could come too.’’ Now, it was not in the least ‘‘ convenient,’’ with the ironing so far behind. Usually, the clothes were all folded down on Monday night, ready to commence by nine o’clock on Tuesday, when Mrs. Bowen did the fine things and her husband's shirts; but if she should Mrs. Gerry would take mortal offence, especially in the present posture of affairs. ‘*Very well, Mary Jane, tell your mother that I shall expect her.’’ And, hall door closed on the juvenile inesselnger, she added: ‘*I must put off my ironing till to- morrow, that’s all, Hannah, and make some say 80, as the cake. You can do yours just the same, only I didn’t want to have to take you off to go to the store this morning, since Johnny got the butter and eggs; but there isn’t a bit of lard in the house, and we are out of brown sugar, He always expects some kind of meat, so you’ll and Mr. Gerry is so fond of short biscuit. have to stop at the butcher’s and tell him to send a small steak. Oh, and I used the last of the tea this morning, all but a small drawing, but it won’t be enough for all those people.’’ ‘* Bringing their young ones along,’’ said Hannah, spitefully. ‘They ’ll eat enough for Just about as much consideration as some folks have. ’Tain’t no wonder they never get a girl to stay with ’em! Well, if I’ve got to stop and go, I s’pose I might as an army. well be a-goin’.’’ Hannah’s unusual alacrity was some relief to the pressure of affairs, but it was accounted for when she returned, after an absence of twice the usual length. **T thought as the clothes wasn’t dry, I might jest as well stop to Miss Taylor’s and have my new dress tried on; and she found she hadn’t got quite enough trimming, so I just ran down to Tripler’s and matched it. Didn’t take me five minutes, and I knew I shouldn’t get out to-night, with all them people coming here te tea.’’ There was nothing to be said, and no time te send beck for saleratus or white sugar, both of which were found ‘“‘low.’? Mrs. Bowen was obliged to make her cake of the brown, and had the mortification of finding it heavy. The saleratus did not prove to be sufficient for the

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42 two pans of biscuit—there must be two pans, as the children were coming—and what with the damp clothes, and wasted morning, and the interruptions of the baking, the ironing had made slow progress when Mrs. Gerry ar- rived, punctually at three o’clock, and Mrs. Bowen felt very little like giving up the after- her entertainment. It a very fatiguing business, for the visitor was one of noon to was those ladies who never suggest a topic for con- versation, and consequently long pauses inter- vene, when the other party feels herself ex- hausted; and then, too, Mother Bowen, who was fond of company, but whose hearing was impaired as well as her digestion, requested to have each particular remark repeated in a very loud tone. The little Gerrys came from school with Kate, and made so much noise that it was next to impossible to hear one’s self think, be- sides distracting attention to the way they had of handling and looking into everything, much to the detriment of the articles so examined, Just in time, I see’’—for, with Mr. Gerry’s arrival, an ‘*Ah, good-evening, Mrs. Bowen. appetising odor of steak was diffused through the sitting-room. ‘‘I’ve saved my appetite for you; I always do when I’m coming here. I tell mother 'twould be a sin and a shame to spoil one of Mrs. Bowen’s good teas by eating any dinner beforehand. How d’ye do, Bowen, how d’ye do? Supper just coming in, you see. Where shall I sit? You don’t make a stranger of me, you know.” And Mr. Bowen, who liked his guests, and had a sharp appetite for Anywhere. **Not commonly.”’ his share of the good things provided on their account, drew the steel across the carver with an air of keen expectancy. ‘That's just what I said to mother this morning, when we proposed coming over here to-night. ‘It’s ironing-day,’ says she, ‘and I don’t know as it will be convenient for Mrs. ‘Oh, la,’ themselves out of the way for us; Bowen.’ says I, ‘they never put go when you will,’ says I, ‘such a first-rate cook as Mra, Bowen wouldn't mind; always sure to have something on hand,’ Mra. Bowen reflected on her neclected iron- ing, her hurried, fretted day, and judiciously She could not quite make up her mind to assent, with the busied herself with the tea things. cheerfulness it seemed to demand, to Mr. Gerry's statement, ‘Do make yourself at home, and pass the bisenit,”’ said Mr. Bowen, to cover this little backwardness, ‘Have a biscuit, mother? Help yourself to butter, Mrs, Gerry,’ GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, ‘‘T’ll have some cold bread, Eliza.’? And Mrs. Bowen’s worst fears were realized by the expression of her mother-in-law’s face when she said it. ‘‘It’sas much as my night’s rest is worth to tech one of them biscuit; they ’re just as heavy as lead.” ‘‘Dear me, how could it have happened !”’ Guilty Mrs. Bowen, who knew very well how it had come to pass. ‘‘Sugar and milk, Mr. I’m very sorry, and there isn’t a bit The flour was out Gerry ? of cold bread in the house. last night, and though we mixed right away the minute it came, it’s just gone into the oven.”’ ‘*T s’pose I can have a cracker, then,” said her mother-in-law, in the usual injured tone. ‘*Now, don’t say one word.’’ And Mrs. Gerry made a great show of buttering one of the unfortunate rolls. ‘‘I guess you must have got hold of one that wasn’t done. I can’t seem to make such biscuit as yours, no how, Mrs. Bowen ; father often says to me I oughter come and take lessons; and such beautiful light cake, too, as you always have. I don’t see how you Do take a biscuit, father. Sha’n’t I help you to some butter, Mr. Bowen ?”’ Mr. Bowen, having by this time distributed the steak, held forth his plate at the invitation, drew it in, tasted it, examined it, and looked manage. very much disturbed. ‘“ Bad butter again! Well, I must say, Mr. Gerry, that it wasn't miuch use saving your appetite to-day. Heavy bread and Here a porteutous glance was aimed at the tea-tray, but missed fire. Mrs. Bowen knew it was not her fault, and was determined not to take it. ‘*Seems to me you've lost your knack lately, ’Liza,’’ remarked Mother Bowen, pertinaciously. strong butter !’’ “There ain't much variety in soda-biscuit.”’ And she took one up to crumble into her tea, ‘* You don’t seem to Won't you help your- Quinces before the other with the air of a martyr. eat much, Mra. Gerry. self to some of the preserves? you, ain't they, ‘Liza? Plama on side, Do have some greengages, to help the biscuit down,”’ Mr. Gerry's well-preserved appetite seemed ready to cope with all difleulties, judging from the quantity he ate; and whether it was the assistance of the pluma or not, Mra, Gerry did not fall far behind, helping herself twice te cake, and passing her cup so often that she had finished the third before Mra, Bowen had tasted her first. The children, who were seated afterwards at the places of their respective parents, did the repast ample justice, Dut,

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MRS. BOWEN’S INVESTMENT. 43 for all that, Mr. Bowen’s enjoyment of the visit was entirely lost, and his wife’s would have been, if there had ever been any to lose. She knew that the minute the front door had closed upon their visitors, she would be ar- raigned for the failure, and prepared to meet it with what amiability she could. ‘*Now, you know that isn’t so at all, James,’ she said, in reply to an irritated charge of ‘leaving everything to Hannah,’’ and neglect- ing her household generally. ‘‘ You know very well that I hardly stir out of the house, even to an evening meeting. When have I been out to spend the afternoon? Not since we were at Mrs. Gerry’s, and they ’ve been here three times since.”’ ‘If it had been any one but GerryyI should not have cared so much; but when I like a man, I like to see him at home in my house and treated as if he was somebody. Mother, too— I don’t believe she has had a thing she could eat for the last three days. very long to live, and it’s a pity that we can’t make her comfortable while she is here.’’ And Mrs. Bowen said it slowly, with a sigh, to think how little all her She hasn’t got **T do my best.”’ worry and care was appreciated, after all. ‘*Well, I know you do, sometimes.’’ Mr. Bowen was not insensible to his wife’s patience and uniform kindness towards his mother; be- sides, he had relieved his mind, and the reaction was beginning to change his views of things a little. that she shouldn't have anything she can touch. ‘Only sometimes it does seem fated I don't see into it.’’ ‘*T do; it’s not having the things I need right on hand,’’ ‘* Don’t you have what you want, I'd like to know? Did you ever come to me for a dollar, and not get it? though I must say it seems to me it’s pretty much every day, about as regu- lar as I come in to dinner.” **T don’t believe you 'd feel it half as much, James, if you'd get things by the quantity; and It takes just about half Hannah's time to run to the grocery ; it would be twice as conventent. and when you get things by the small quantity, My father always used to get a firkin of fall butter, anda they don't seem to go half as far, firkin of winter butter, for instanee, and a barrel of flour, at a time,’"’ ‘Flour’s seven dollars a barrel! My good ness, Eliza!l"’ ‘T guess it's more than seven dollars, get ting it as we do; and what difference dows it make whether you pay it all at once or a few shillings at a time? How do you do at the shop? the advantage there was in having a large stock I’ve heard you tell many a time about and getting the best.” “Oh, that’s quite another thing; business and housekeeping are two different things. I can’t take money out of my business, and buy up a grocery store.’’ ‘But it all goes in the course of the year. What difference does it make? If you only knew how [ hated to ask you formoney! Time and time again I go without things because | hate to ask you; and then, when I come to get dinner, they are the very things I want.’’ ‘““Where you going to keep them? I’ve heard you say more than once that you hadn't closet-room enough.”’ **T could take the small attic, and have a lock put on the door. bed-room in the I could put a barrel of flour in the kitchen, you know, and there’s plenty of cellar room for vegetables and such things. I know you could get them better and cheaper from the farmers.’’ ‘Dreadful convenient to mount boxes and barrels up two pair of stairs.’ ‘*But it would only be once a year, James, and then you could send one of the men over from the shop. If you only knew how much time and how many steps it would save, to say nothing of money.!’’ ‘*T don't see any saving about it.’’ And yet Mr. Bowen stood convicted by his own express declaration of the same principle to Mr. Gerry the day before, and the conversation returned ‘* What do you want now, s’posing you could get it?’’ ‘* Well, if we had five or six gallons of oil at rather uncomfortably to mind. once, for instance, there would not be such a bother about the lamps; and a barrel of brown sugar and half a barrel of white. Oh, I don’t know. A small box of tea, you know, just what we use every day of our lives, Don’t you believe you'd geta better quality, for one thing? Don’t you know some wholesale place in New York where you could be sure of a good article ?’’ ‘Why, yes, there 's Ladd & Coffin, Ladd is Mudford’s son-in-law; they 'd introduce ma, I guess; but I can't spare the money, and it ain't worth while to talk any more about it,”’ ‘You spare the money when you want stock," “Of course Ldo, Where would any of the bread and butter come from? I'd look pretty running New York besides, it works up to better advan well down to every #ix weeks; tage."’ By which remark Mr, Bowen lost ground on his side of the argument, and the opposition was not slow to follow it up,

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t4 ‘*Well, well, [I'll think about it,’’ was his onclusion, after another half hour of discus- ‘that What you yoing to have for breakfast to-morrow morning ion; will do for to-night. fried potatoes ?’’ ‘| don’t believe we have enough in the house. Hannah couldn't bring but half a peck yesterday, on account of the turnips; and they lon’t last us any time, the children eat so many.’’ ‘Well, ham and eggs, then; it’s all the same to me,’’ ‘* It’s too late for Hannah to go for the ham,”’ It’s since you ’ve had any corn bread, though.” ‘* Anything, anything. a good while ‘*| know it is; but there ’s always so many things we must have, that I neglect to send for meal’? ‘**Get something, then; suit yourself.’’ And, with a glimmering comprehension of his wife’s lifficulties, Mr. Bowen betook himself to repose, and left her to puzzle it out at her leisure. It was almost the first of January before he became a final convert to her doctrine, how- ever; and it cost him severe self-denial to re- frain from taking four shares in a foundry tbout to be established in Plumville, and apply the money to fill the formidable order presented by Mrs. Bowen on his trip to town. ‘** A saving in the end,’’ said she, consolingly, as she placed four pocket-handkerchiefs and two pairs of clean socks in the carpet-bag she was making ready for him. GODEY'’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE ‘*Not much saving, I guess; I give you all you can make off of this year’s expenses, next Christmas; it’s cost over three hundred, first and last.’’ Which promise Mrs, Bowen did not lose sight of; and, when the time came, claimed twenty-one dollars, accordingly, and demon- strated her right to it with pencil and paper, much to her husband's amazement, ‘It will just buy me a new winter bonnet and black silk dress, Mr. Bowen ; and it’s some time since you've had any fault to find, or mo- ther either,”’ ‘True enough, Eliza, things do seem to go considerably smoother, and [ wouldn’t have thought it would have made so much differ- ence. Mother was saying, only yesterday, that you seeméd to have found your old knacks White sugar not out yet, and all that Well, you have managed first rate ; Not to speak of how that money would have gone again. tea left? pretty near earned it, haven't you? smash in the foundry; completely fell through, Gerry says; I hate to Jose a thing, dreadfully. 1’d rather spend it twice over, any time.’’ Mr. Bowen ceased to dwell on his own good management, for a time, and made his wife’s talent for administration the theme of discourse with his particular friends, the appearance ot the black silk dress in company being the sig- nal for relating her little achievement, and, to his eyes, she had not had on such a becoming one since her wedding-day. BROAD LINE In the following subjects, Figs. 76, 77, 78, and 79, the manner in which the effect of sha- dow on curved surfaces is expressed, as in pre- Fig. 76. rious exercises, by paying attention to the comparative distances of the lines used for shading. In Figs. 78 and 79, great care must DRAWING | be used in executing the numerous details with accuracy. A little inattention in drawing Fig. 78 will produce a ludicrous distortion, and Fig. 77. in Fig. 79 want of accuracy will produce a confused mass in which the laws of gravitation will appear to have been disregarded.

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BROAD LINE DRAWING LESSONS.

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JACASSA’'S RY MARY W. JANVAIN, AUTHOR oF * pRacn,’’ ** May 30th, My Selina Bowen; I twenty-four, and unmarried; I am ‘ literary’’ name is Jacassa am that is, | have earned something of a reputa tion by writing for the magazines and popular ight literature of the day, [ was worn, physi illy, by my long winter's toil in the busy city, ind I have come down to board and spend a sea-side, I shall not rather will | resign juliet summer in this pleasant yet country farming-town of Ryefield, write much here, I opine ; myself to the influences of nature which woo sort of lazi me toa luxurious, dolce fur niente as, Which I need as a reaction to the busy, brain-tensioned past. I feel, already, years younger than I did when I came here, and I have been in Ryefleld but three weeks yesterday, There is a positive refreshment in the very iir around the farm-house, to say nothing of the quiet comfort of its serupulously neat inte- rior. The house is old and rambling, but well- cept, and, unlike country houses in general, has a long porch in front, covered with a luxu- the front will iant trained honeysuckle; and in yard, good Mrs. Huil tells me, by and by bloom ** daffies,’’ and ladies’ delight, and ‘ pi- and poppies, and hollyhocks, The entry ” ies, is spacious, and the staircase is wide and turns with abrupt angles at every broad stair, On me side, below, is the closed parlor, with shuttered windows, a carpet with ‘set’ figures, t long, wide old-fashioned sofa, a table placed xnctly under the gilt-framed looking-vlass be tween the two front windows, chairs ranged and a mourning Bat Ido ot ait often in this reom, thoudh motherly Mra, round rather primly, piece ind profile hanging over the mantel, Hull begs me to go where I like and * feel at ome,"’ for the closed windows give it a sort Instead, | often bring the { close, musty smell, of irge, sunny, pleasant sitting-room, with its rock- ur-chairs, its bright homespun carpet, green lown my sewing, an afternoon, into heerful chintz lounge and comfortable paragua-plumes and hemlock-boughs in the eplace, the tall eight-day clock in the corner, ind the polished hundred-legged table, whereon have placed a few of my books in addition to Bible, * the New Hampshire Gazetteer,’’ which lay there, 46 iw family Jaxter’s Call,’’ and THE CU JOURNAL. NTRY COUSIN,” “ Mi88 BABKINA'S DREAM," RTO. RTO, and the high mantel-shelf, ornamented with a pair of bright brass candlesticks, and a trio of gayly painted plaster images ranged after a fashion whereof L read once in an old story— **a parrot, a puppet, ashepherdess’’—"' a parrot, & puppet, a shepherdess,’’ The long kitchen, extending the whole length of the rear of the house, save the buttery at one end, is a marvel of neatness, from the care- fully seoured and sanded threshold of the back door to the red tiled hearth whereon Mrs, Hull stands on baking-days, before the open-mouthed, glowing brick oven, to superintend the incom- ings and outgoings of the great loaves of cake, tle batches of pies, and countless drop-cakes which find their way to her bountifully spread table, for my hostess serves me no meagre fare stale bread, superannuated cake, the ‘ fossil remains’’ of last week’s steak converted into minced pies, nor the beverage yelept coflee faintly colored with feeble chalk-and-water cream, such as one must be content with at city boarding- houses, Then, my own room is the spare chamber over the closed parlor, and the embodiment of my idea of comfort. To be sure, the smother- ing bed of live geese-feathers, which I tumbled to the floor, and good Mrs. Hull bore away, after farm, savored of but the white valance and fresh pillow-slips, the long my first night here at the rather too warm a welcome; snow dimity curtains swaying to and fro in the breeze that comes in through the raised window from the blooming apple-orchard below, the little round table upon which | have laid out my portfolio, writing-desk, and books, and where I am writing now; the great china pitcher crowded with pink and white apple-blossoma, whose fragrance is more delicate than Lubin’s vaunted ertraitse—do not all these bring a vision of rest and comfort to the eyes that have long been used to the crowded city street and high brick-and-mortar walls ? And then, too, away beyond the acres of white bloom in the apple orchards, beyond the farthest dark belt forest, | catch a glimpse of the blue sea of the green meadows and the fresh, the beautiful sea, that always brings me an inspiration ! The sea and the forest! Byron never wrote two truer lines than these:

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JACASSA’S “There is a pleasure in the pathless wood, There is a rapture on the lonely shore!" I have spent afternoons, in the long, bright May- time, among the woodland paths over yonder, gathering the fragrant pink and white trailing arbutus, the frail wind-flower, the pale ane- mone, and dark, glossy wintergreen ; and often, when Farmer Hull harnesses his black horse for a ride to the vicinity of the beach, I beg for a ride; and while he talks and bargains with the fishermen, I walk along the edge of the curling breakers, breathing the strong, damp sea air, watching the sea-birds dip their wings in the creamy foam, then stretch away over the cockle-shells brown ‘‘ sailors’ rattles’’ from the bare sand, **T wish I could /ive on the beach,’’ I said, waves, or gather white or the other night, to good Mrs, Hull, as I came rides with her hus- hat the strings, at the dairy door, where she was ‘ set- * Yes, I do; I wish I owned a house right there on Boar's Head, home from one of these band, standing and holding my by ting’’ the evening’s milk, where, all night long, stormy nights, I could hear the solemn music of the waves beating against the foot of the cliff.”’ **T rather guess you’d begin to feel kinder solemn yourself, a-layin’ awake two or three sich nights, and be a-beatin’ round for some place where you could git a good, comfortable night's sleep, Miss Jacassy,’’? good-humoredly said Mr. Hull, who had overheard my remark, coming into the kitchen for supper. ‘Oh, I’m sure, Mr. Hull, that the ocean would never weary me,’’ I replied, deprecatingly ; ‘1 listen to its voice forever. You don't ’* But I checked myself there, for I couldn't tell him why I dwelt so constantly on thoughts of the sea, the time comes for me to go back to the crowded could know- “T shall be sorry when city again, never to look upon the sea, save the the lonely calm and rest of the quiet sandy harbor crowded with ships, never to feel be Vf hes, **Come, come, Misa Jacassy, you forget moth er’'a nice supper’s waitin’, and your ride ought to a’ gin you a right sharp appetite. As for your goin’ back to that stived-up city ag'in, I’ve my notions ag’in that, too, and ruther guess mother and I'll have to adopt you. Hey, mother, what do you think on’t?’’ as Mrs, Hull made her appearance from the dairy. ‘Keep you as well as not, out here on the farm—no gals nor nothin’ of our own, and 'Lisha, he’s off a-lawyerin’ in jostin. I declare you have picked up right smart and rosy in jest these three weeks you've been here, and I don’t know ’bout lettin’ you | 47 go back to git pale and pindlin’ ag’in.’’ And the farmer kindly stroked my head as I sat JOURNAL, down to table, I could not eat much of the savory edibles the good man and his wife pressed upon me, for the emotions that swelled in my throat. 1 had met so little kindness these latter years of my life that the honest affection of these simple people there were so few who loved me made my heart very tender, When I left the kitchen, at the close of the meal, | overheard Mra, Hull remark to her hus- talk the beach ’Lisha; Ae allers spends band; ‘Somehow, her about puts me in mind of half his time down to the shore, when he comes home, you know, Amos. Now, I dare say she'll go and write a piece of po'try or something it, and it'll when it’s printed,”’ about read beautiful Later, that evening, when I had come down to sit with Mrs. Hull, she brought from the par lor a daguerreotype-case and placed it in my hand, I do not was anything peculiar in the face that met me 1 opened it. know that there save that it was frank and manly in expression ; but the eyes had a depth and a certain clair vovance, if I may so speak, that seemed to read my own thoughts in mine. said Mrs, Hull, with a pleased, motherly expression in her counte ‘It is ’Lisha’s picture, nance. ‘‘He brought it for a present, last sum- And it looks jest He ain't mer, when he came home. like him handsome ; jest so pleasant and good ! ’Lisha never but he’s a qood I shall allers call him boy, WAS ; boy, Miss Jacassy ! I b'lieve,”’ —lemme see, 'Lisha must be twenty-seven, this she added, smiling, ‘‘though he’s spring. They say he’s gettin’ to be a great lawyer, off there in the city. Maybe you 've heard of him; they're ‘Harlow & Meredith,’ ”’ “oy of the ‘You must be very happy in your son, Mrs, Hull,’’ I said, handing back the miniature, his pardner is Cyrus Harlow ; have heard firm,’’ I answered, ‘* Son! I told you? youngest sister's child, La, bleas you, Miss Jacassy, haven't Why, he’s Amos's nephew, his But then we took him all the and he seems jest like our when he was only seven alone in world, an orphan Amos wauted to make a farmer of him ; And so I told Amos 'twant no use to go ag’in natur’, own, but, somehow, the boy took to his books. and, if we had plenty of this world's goods, and the farm know what to do with, we'd better give 'Lisha brought in more’n we ever should a college eddication, and we did,’’

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48 ‘*But had you never any children of your own, my dear Mrs. Hull?’ I asked. She did not answer; but the hand that held the miniature trembled and snapped the spring suddenly. She left the room, and presently re- turned from the parlor with one of the profiles, cut in paper, which I had noticed in its little gilt frame over the mantel; and, when I turned to look upon it by the flickering lamp-light, I saw a tear upon the glass. The outline was that of a youthful face, plump and rounded, ** This is all I have left of poor Mary, except some of her hair in my bureau-drawer up “It was ” stairs,’’? she said, in a husky voice. taken years ago, before miniatures were in- vented. She died when she was only seven- teen; it was over twenty years ago. Oh, Miss Jacassy, you don’t know how that blow took hold of our hearts, Amos’s and mine! He can’t speak about her to this day without cryin’, though nobody ’d call Amos Hull a soft-hearted man. It was our trouble that first opened our hearts to ’Lisha, Isuppose. Deary me! I hope, if you ever marry and have children of your own, you ’ll never have them taken from you! Nobody knows, except them that’s lost ’em, the loneliness of a sorrow-stricken mother’s heart. I like to have young people in the house,’’ she added, returning from the parlor, whither she went to replace the profile on the wall—that simple outline of features which, though min- gled these twenty years with the grave-mould, still conjured to the mother’s gaze a vision of her dead and gone seventeen-year-old Mary. ‘*] like to have you here, for it seems like hav- ing Mary with us again. Somehow, you put me in mind of her every day; your laugh sounds jest like hers; though my poor Mary wasn’t accomplished, and didn’t have such great talents as you have, and couldn’t have made a verse of po’try to save her life. But she was a good girl, and would a’ been a sight of comfort to Amos and I in our old age, if she’d a lived.” For the good woman didn’t seem to think that her Mary might have left her for another home ; to her, she was still the seventeen-year-old girl whose pleasant laugh and smile cheered the farm-heuse. ‘A sight f comfort ! but God took her, and he knows what’s for the best! ’Lisha, now, Ae‘d like vour po’try and writings, I dare say,’’ she con- inued, ina more cheerful vein, ‘‘ for he’s al- ers readin’ some book or other when he’s at home. Ido hope he’ll be at home this sum- mer, if he don’t stay only long enough to go down to the beach ; he seems kind of bewitched with the sea, and, if he comes while you’re GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, here, he'll carry you there as often as you want to go.’’ ‘* Yes, indeed! and then you can pitch a tent there, and live till you’re tired,” said farmer Hull, good-humoredly, coming in then from his out-door duties. ‘‘ But look here, mother, I got some nice fresh fish down to the shore, this afternoon, and we ’ll have ’em fried for breakfast. Miss Jacassy’d better begin to larn to like fish, if she’s goin’ down to live by the sea.’’ I have written all this here because it pleases me, the honest, well-meaning kindness of these good people; and it pleases me, the life of quiet content I am leading here in this season of rest. I shall try to put off all thoughts of the future and live in the present ; to enjoy all and everything that comes to me, the fresh air, the birds and flowers, the woods, and the sea. I will lay aside my pen, now; but I may write more some other day. June 15th. I like to talk about myself in my journal, as I talk about other people on paper; so I will sit down, this soft, rainy, June day, while there is a cool, pattering sound among the leaves of the great elm at my window, and write out— as I do for my heroines—a history of my life. I have hitherto written nothing here of my antecedents, save that | am twenty-four, and unmarried, I am “ literary,’’ and my name is Jacassa Selina Bowen. ‘* * Jacassy !’ Where upon earth did I get that name ?’’ honestly queried farmer Hull, the other day ; and I will answer here, and more at length, too, than I did him then. Jacassa was for my mother, who was a Southron by birth; though I have no memory of her save of a beautiful, pale face lit by dark eyes of unnatural brilliancy, as she leaned against the back of her sick-chair, while colored nurses watched her, and my father leaned over This was in the early morning She died soon after. her tenderly. twilight of my childhood. I remember | wept passionately when they told me; and my father brought me back to his na- tive New England home, to the care of his maiden aunt, Miss Selina Bowen, who, with nobody to love or cheer her loneliness in her old-fashioned mansion, received me into her heart and home, adding her maiden name to my patronymic, with the proviso, | suppose, that I was to inherit all her worldly goods and possessions at her decease. 1 do not remember much of my father save that he possessed an erect, martial bearing, and used to gratify my

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JACASSA’S JOURNAL. girlish fancy by sometimes arraying himself in a fine uniform, ‘or he was an officer in the Ame- rican navy. When I was only six, he was sum- moned from his long furlough intoactive service ; and, kissing me good-by, he resigned me to Aunt Selina, never returned. down on the deck of his vessel in the Mediter- When the government ship arrived on our shores, a bul- From that voyage my father A coup de soleil smote him ranean, and he died shortly after. letin of his death reached us in lieu of himself, whom we fondly expected. It was weeks be- fore I[—a ten-year-old child—could mention him without a burst of tears; but afterwards, in the cheerful life of girlhood, my violent grief was subdued. I think, though, it was in those days that | began to cherish my intense Before, 1 had thought of it only as the great water whereon love and yearning for the sea. my father’s ship sailed; but, from the time they brought the news of his death, I thought We did not coast—Aunt Selina’s little estate was inland— of it as his grave. live near the but I used to go into the garret, and, seating myself at the window looking eastward, gaze away to the dark blue belt of the far horizon and fancy it the ocean, with every white speck of cloud drifting there a floating ship. So sharp the picture outlined on my mental retina, I saw the snowy sails and tapering spars—the deck where my noble father walked in his officer’s uniform, with the star on his breast—I saw the great, red, fiery sun wheel high above his head, the angry darts that struck him, his fall to the deck with his hand to his head—the sailors bearing him down into his state-room—the slow lingering—the death—the burial at sea— all this passed before me, distinct as the fea- tures of a panorama. Then, when Aunt Seli- na’s voice summoned me to some light task or duty, i pictures to be thought of till nightfall and would bear away with me the same dreamed of in my sleep. And at school, too, while the other children drew pictures on their slates, or played at ‘‘ tit- tat-too’’ or the boys aimed paper bullets at some fly-tar- when the teacher’s back was turned, get on the ceiling, I wauld turn the leaves of my Olney’s Atlas till I came to the map of Eu- rope, and, guiding with my finger an imaginary vessel's track along the Mediterranean, then threading her way through the narrow Gibraltar pass, up round sunny Portugal, and into the wild Biscayan Bay, ‘here,’ | would whisper under my breath to some confidential school- ] mate, ‘just here, in the Bay of Biscay, my VOL. LX.—95 49 father died, and the sailors tied a round shot te his feet and buried him in the sea!”’ The sea! Henceforth it was a sacred shrine to which my heart was ever turning. No won der I looked upon it with intensest yearnings —it held my father. Some would have said | should have thought of it but with terror and dread ; but not so; I loved it. | used to be- lieve that when the sailors lowered him down, in his bright uniform, and the great green waves parted to receive him, the mermaids took him in their long, beautiful arms, and sung to him as they carried him down to their coral bowers ; and I loved to fancy that one of them might have worn the face of my own dear mo- ther. It was a childish belief; but it gave me infinite satisfaction. But I will now write of other things. At fourteen, Aunt Selina sent me away to board- The dear old lady had but little book-knowledge herself, but she was pleased ing-school. that the grand-niece of her care slould have I was tall at that and I had my mother’s eyes. every advantage. age—as tall as I am now; At regular intervals for three years I went home on vacation visits; but I think I really enjoyed myself better at school with my books and companions than at the quiet mansion where Aunt Selina lived in her staid, though comfortable, way. I was a favorite with all the girls at the seminary. There was one, Elise Wentworth, my room-mate, with whom I was then very intimate. I think all young people —girls and boys in their teens—have what may properly be termed ‘‘a Platonic age,’’ when all the poetry and sentiment of their natures come tumbling uppermost, effervescing like new root beer; and I suppose I was in mine then, for I fancied Elise Wentworth and myself ‘ conge- nial.’?’ We read poetry together, exchanged rings and locks of hair, and vowed eternal friendship. (/n passant, it is over five years now since I have seen her!) I mention her particularly here, because, as you shall see presently (I am so used to writing for the good public that I fancy the ‘ reader’’ must be somewhere behind the curtain), through her I first opened the chapter in my life | am now going to relate. I have already said I am “ literary,’’ but not, like Byron, did I ‘awake and find myself famous,’’ it came gradually; but there was a dim prescience of my future occupation in my school-girl days. A poem, one of the many written in a pink-rose, sentimental mood, saw light in The Young Ladies’ Repository and Cas-

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50 ket over the unique signature of “ Jacassa,"’ éliciting the admiration of all the seminary girls; but when, one day, Elise Amantha Went- worth—lI write her name in full—brought me a number of the Yale Literary and Scientific Magazine, published monthly by a class of young juniors at Yale, confidentially imparting that her brother, Montague Livingstone Went- worth, was editor—when she brought me this, and showed me *' Jacassa’s’”’ poem copied, with complimentary remarks by the editor on ‘‘ the fair and accomplished young authoress, who, if we mistake not, will make her mark’’ (query: her 3 mark?) ‘‘on the future song-literature of her land; giving evidence thus early of having quaffed from the Parnassian spring :’’— when I read this, then, indeed, | began to imagine that the ‘‘ divine afllatus’’ was surely mine by right. ‘Oh, Jacassa, you must see my brother Mon- tague !’’ said Elise. ‘‘ He's splendid! Such an air—so distingud! just like a novel hero. Ido wish he’d come here—how the girls would envy us him! He wears his hair long, and Byron collars, and he dotes on ‘ Childe Harold (’ You and what I know you and he would be congenial ! see I’ve written him all about you; do you think, darling ?’’ and, with a mysterious air, she took from her pocket a little pink note, redolent of jockey-club, and superseoribed in a delicate, running chirography :— “To Tur Fain JACASBA, Helicon'’s Fount, By Pegasus's Express."’ And this was the commencement of my ac- quaintance with Montague Livingstone Went- worth, this pretty, flattering note, worded so faultlessly and interspersed with poetic quota- tions—a snare set by a heartless, sentimental college fopling, to entrap a silly-headed, equally sentimental school-girl. What need to enlarge here? there comes in ‘‘the smell of the shop’’ again teader—ah, —if you be a woman, who has survived the age when every school-girl fancy looms up a mirage—le grande passion—you must have re- corded on your brain-tablet similar experiences of your own; and, if you have not, please take my word—Jacassa Selina Bowen, spinster’s— for it, that you must be ‘‘the exception to the rule,’’ the ‘fone out of the hundred”’ who have escaped them. I smile now when I think how, as time passed, I loved the author of that little pink, scented note, for I did love him with all the strength of a first sentiment. I suppose it GODEY’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, was because of the intensity of my nature, | never do anything by halves; I either love or dislike strongly, unless by chance I sometimes But I will record what a devotion I cherished for Montague Livingstone Wentworth, and how, get into that negative state, indifference, after our correspondence progressed till three score or more of notes had passed between us, and the congenial Elise Amantha had accom- panied me home, when I went to spend my last vacation, and the poet-brother came down to pass a leisure week with his divinity at Aunt Selina’s, one day, in the little arbor of Aunt Selina’s ‘‘ back garden,’’ he got down on his knees, and, with his hand on the right side of his white Marseilles vest, vowed eternal fealty to ‘his peerless, genius-dowried Jacassa.”’ Well, Elise went back to school, to send me little sisterly notes weekly; I remained with dear old Aunt Selina, who was getting feeble, and ‘‘the twin of my soul,’’ who lad, mean- Alma Mater, though professing his intention some time to time, weaned himself from his write a book of poems ‘ that should startle the world returned to his native town, content meanwhile to step into his father’s shoes and country practice as a more sure foothold in this matter-of-fact world than an uncertain ride on Pegasus's slippery back, varying the employ ment of mixing pills by inditing sonnets ‘' To Jacassa’s Eyebrow !"’ and letters teeming with protestations of never-dying affection and anti- cipations of that time “in the bliss-fraught future’ which “should bring him happiness and Jacassa,.’’ And this was why—because of the jockey- club scented notes, and the flattery, and the protestations, and the sort of shy, silent bliss of because of the lock of and dreams oiled hair I kept in my writing-desk, and the reveries ring, deviced by two hearts transfixed by one arrow, I wore on the “‘ engagement-finger’’ of my left hand—because of that very natural feeling, common to all hearts, which makes us all want somebody to love and to love us, til! sometimes the glamor so blinds our eyes that we mistake the dross for the fine gold—because of all this, for one twelvemonth of my life | walked ina blissful dream along a path of roses. But the awakening came. The roses turned to commonest flowers—primroses or ‘‘ old maid's pinks,’’ at that! The day came when—but the tears arrest my jesting mood as I write now, and I am saddened, for with that sorrow began the first real experiences of my life—the day I loved her; I had brightened some years of her quiet, came when dear old Aunt Selina died.

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JACASSA’S JOURNAL. lonely life; and of late I had strengthened the feeble, groping steps which, day by day—though I did not know it then-—were drawing nearer heaven. I felt a strange, sad loneliness when they pressed the sod over her coffin in the little village graveyard, Were my feelings prophetic? Kighteen, and kinless! But when a letter came from Montague, expressive of love and sym- pathy, I could but strive to banish my sadness, and, though tenderly cherishing my kind old aunt’s memory, imagine that the world held some brightness, after all. After that, there were strange revelations. Everybody at Eastlake thought Aunt Selina in ** comfortable’ circumstances; and though I had known that the keen-eyed, ferret-nosed lawyer, Esquire Lynx, had ‘let’? my aunt some moneys, which she had expended in re- pairs on the place, giving notes for the same, yet from my soul I could not believe but those were fraudulent ones he brought in against the estate at the executors’ settlement, covering, Yet her as they did, nearly the whole property. there Aunt cramped, old-fashioned hand, was Selina’s signature, in Surmises, if in- dulged by others, were withheld from me; so, that squire Lynx's ( laims covered the W“ hole home- when affairs were settled, it was found place, and the bequest of ‘Selina Bowen, spin- ster,’’ of her whole property to ‘her beloved ” niece, Jacassa Selina Nowen,"’ resolved into my receiving but the paltry sum of a few hundred dollars, as residue of the sale of said ‘ pro- perty,’’ ‘‘when outstanding debts were paid.” To say that I was surprised at this state of affairs and my sense of utter dependence would hardly express my feelings; 1 was confused, blinded, not knowing whither to turn, From having never known a want, from being the petted child of Aunt Selina’s adoption, who, certainly, if in the straitened circumstances the settlement of her estate showed, was never parsimonious towards me inthe matterof money —from this to being thrown, as it were, on my- self for a time completely unnerved me. It was weeks before I could fully comprehend my position. Meantime, as the executors’ sale had taken place, off at public the family of the village minister, a worthy had been a firm friend of and the homestead had been bid auction, I had gone to board in man, whose wife Aunt Selina’s. The venerable man only sighed and shook his head, when the place was sold to the highest bidder; but good Mrs. Dean said, in her cheery, comforting way: ‘‘ Never mind, my dear, don’t cry. It won’t be long before you'll have a house and home of your 51 own, and, what is better, somebody to love you, if all we hear of that fine young gentleman Fo keep up a good heart, Jacassa! Trials are sent us by One who ‘doeth all things well.’"’ I did not betray my feelings in the kind-hearted who used to come to see you Is true, woman's presence, but when alone | could not restrain the heart-sick tears, for I had received no letter from Montague for a long time. Had he gone, too, with the rest—Aunt Selina, home, and fortune? But, afterwards, these salt tears left me calmer. ing thought; something of the old spirit that There came a mood of search- made me, in childhood, seek out on the map for the spot where my father’s dead body went down into the deep, sent my mental vision searching the great the future to lay my finger on the spot where the Was for, when unknown ocean of corpse of a dead love should be buried. I think so; days and weeks went by, bringing me no word my gaze prophetic then? of affection, no visit from one who, in the past, had asked permission to guide and share my future—when the ‘‘congenial’’ Elise (who, in the days of my reputed heiress-ship, had searce allowed a week to pass without some dainty note, commencing ‘pet’? or “ darling,’’ found its way to Eastlake) also placed the antipodes of silence between us—then I felt a fine scorn rise up in my heart against these summer friends of fortune, who ‘‘ stood afar off’ when the rough hand of adversity swept over my head, 8o, one day, with a strength that surprised myself, I enveloped the pink, scented love-notes, the ambrosial lock of hair, the deviced ring, and all to Montague Livingstone I hope it gave him no more pain returned them Wentworth. in the receiving than it did me in the sending, After that, I settled down for a season into a quiet sort of life. I suppose my heart wasn't dead, only benumbed, for I felt its presence yet in the gratitude I had towards kind Mr. and Mrs. Dean, who, when I told them what I had done, said: ‘* Never think of him again, dear; he is not worthy of you. You are our child But I think such an experience as I the suddenly waking now.”’ underwent in that time- from a love-life to find one’s self walking hence- forth alone, bearing the memory of ‘not a broken heart, but a broken dream”’ make one distrustful, reserved, old before their I felt little outside the —tends to I know it was so with me. interest in anything home of my kind friends; I shunned society, and, when Frank Dean began to solicit my company to the village lectures, and to mani- time. or any one fest a growing sentiment warmer than friend-

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ship, I knew that the refusal I felt compelled him came from a heart which would not And then my to give soon again listen to man’s love. pride and natural independence of character tuok alarm; I must not stay in that home to pain these good people by refusing their son’s iffection; I must go away at once—but whither? ] began to cast about for some means of sup- port, for | wished to leave intact the few hun- dreds, my all, which good Mr. Dean had placed for Could 1 teach? I thought strongly of this plan at first ; then another idea in trust me. occurred, I should have written that, in the veal that intervened between my leav ing school and Aunt death, I] had penchant for literary pursuits by the writing Selina’s followed my and sending some tales and poems to popular periodicals, for which the honor of “‘ seeing my name in print’ had been considered ample com- pensation; and now, bethinking of the many who follow the pen for a livelihood, I inclosed to a publisher my first article for which I asked returned to an equivalent in money. It was me. ‘*It possessed considerable merit, but, owing to the press of watter, obliged to de- cline. Very sorry not to be able to use,”’ ete. etc. Soran the accompanying note from the publisher. I was disappointed, but not crushed. 1 do not think I am egotistical by nature, but I article knew the was not devoid of merit, and J re-enveloped it to another publisher of whom 1 had heard favorably as an encourager of young authors. I waited days, poised between hope If Mr. G—— decided against me, I But he did remitted me a liberal price for my manuscript; and fear. should grow despairing. not; he he also sent a kind, encouraging letter—* he would be pleased to hear from me often in the future.’’ I read that letter with tears in my eyes. I felt that my path was marked out for me; literature should be my profession and the means of my livelihood. Another piece of good fortune came. The editor of a ladies’ magazine published in a metropolitan city, for which | had often contributed during that year of lei- sure, addressed me, stating that he had need of an assistant lady editor. ‘‘ Pleased with my sprightly, piquant style, could I be engaged to edit a certain department and contribute a cer- tain amount at a stipulated price?’’ This, in no wise conflicting with my desire to contribute to Mr. G——’s publication, as it left my eve- nings at my disposal, I hailed as a perfect God- answer; I Now, I was comparatively independent. I rend. I dispatched an affirmative would be in the city by a given date. indeed, bade my kind friends good-by ; 1 returned the Zz GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, honest shake of Frank Dean’s hand, and pro- mised to remember him with sisterly affection ; I went to the scene of my labors. That was six years ago. I have found friends —some few valued ones, foremost among whom are the kind editor and his gentle lady wife ; but I do not go much into society. I write constantly ; not so much from the love of the calling, or its reward—though there is rare joy in meeting face to face your own brain-children coming out from their birth-realm, Fancy-land ; rare fascination in weaving now a sunny, now a sombre tissue, warp and woof at Imagina- tion’s loom!—not so much for these, as to banish, in the busy present, memories of the And there being constantly employed. is a satisfaction in No idle hours of clouded past. lady-like ennai, no wearisome moments hanging I thank God that He gave me this intense brain, this working nature ! on my hands! Sometimes there come visions of another life —a blessed home-life—where some strong ann holds me, and stems back the heavy tide of that hard where some strong, true heart shelters me and circumstances press against me; will not let the storm beat on my naked head. I hear a deep-toned voice say, tenderly, ‘My own, my wife!’’ I feel the clasping arms and dewy lips of little children climbing on my knees ; garnitures which refinement can gather around I see a home made beautiful by all the me; but that mood is resolutely crushed back, and Iam again alone, writing, writing, in my little boarding-house room, with the saddened heart and weary brain—alone, alone ! And yet, why sigh as I write these words? I should be content ; my lot is far happier than I do not envy the finest pallid lady to whom satins, many—the wretched, the sin-stricken. and velvets, and liveried equipages cannot bring freshness and happiness for the world-weary heart throbbing listlessly under her silken bod- ice. Iam young and healthy, and I am happy. The long autumns and winters in the close city are more than compensated by these country sojournings, upon which I enter in the spring- I was at Eastlake, last year; the Deans Frank met me time. were glad to have me there. with kindly heart and hand, and introduced me, with a conscious pride, to his wife and the toddling Frank at her knee. But I do not think it good to stop always in one place, so this sea- son brought me to quiet, country, yet sea-side, Ryefield. Mrs. Hull and the kind-hearted farmer. glad there is little so-called ‘society’’ here. I am quite at home here, with good I am There are two or three hotels down at the shore,

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THE WONDERS but I have no friends there; and I am glad, for they might think it necessary to draw out the literary lady from her self-imposed chrysalis state, and I would not like to be lionized, even in a small way. By the way, I have omitted to write that I read, a year or two since, the marriage of Mon- 1 liked to have His bride’s cognomen was Nancy tague Livingstone Wentworth. forgotten it. Maria Hopkins. the Seminary—the daughter of a wealthy re- tired The scholars used to speak of her as ‘‘ gawky.”’ I remember her—she was at tallow -chandler. saucy younger THE WONDERS Tue pebbles on the beach are stones with sermons inthem. Their rounded forms are the effects of the pounding against each other, by which the ocean extracts from them the che- mical ingredients which, in solution, form sea- water. The metaphor is not too bold on which we venture, when we say, that the dashing of the waves is a species of mastication, in which the ocean grinds down the materials which it dissolves and assimilates, and, we had almost salt The muriate of magnesia, muriate of lime, sulphate said, digests. There is in stones. of soda, and chloride of sodium, the ingredients of sea-water, are found in the rocks; and the the actions which precede their chemical solution. movements of the waves are mechanical The destruction of the sea-coasts by frosts and thaws, the corroding of rocks by the weather, and the weakening and splitting of them by perforating shell-fish, are all parts of vast pro- cesses by which the vegetable and animal in- habitants of the sea are supplied with the pro- visions which sustain them. Ariosto poetically called the waves the herds of Neptune, the god of the sea :— “Neptune's white herds, lowing o’er the deep ;”’ but it would be nearer the prosaic facts of sci- ence to say, the white herds were chewing the eud of their geological and mineralogical pro- vender. Of the great ocean which covers three- fourths of the surface of the globe, those por- the fresh water of great rivers, and whose stormy tions are saltest which are farthest from breakers can chew immense blocks and boulders weighing many tons. *O sea! old sea! who yet knows half Of thy wonders or thy pride!” is the exclamation in which a poet melodiously OF THE OF OCEAN. 53 She had red hair and a nez retroussé, and had a habit of putting her finger in her mouth when she missed her recitation. I wonder if Montague Livingstone dowried her with the lock of Ma- cassar-oiled hair and the deviced ring ’—I am doubtful concerning the poetical love-notes, for I remember that, at ‘‘ par’s request,’’ ‘* Nancy at the Seminary—I suppose he did—as he did also with himself—for Nancy Maria’s father is dead, Mariar’’ was excused from ‘‘ composition”’ and she inherits fifty thousand dollars won in the tallow business. (Conclusion next month.) —@7eoe + —_ rm ‘ hb ru T rHE OCEAN. echoes the feelings of ignorance and mystery with which the ocean has always been regarded by mankind— ‘What hid'st thou In thy treasure-caves and cells, Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main?” The truth is, the ocean expresses glorious mean- ings in a language of which we are compara- tively ignorant, and by symbols, only a few of which we can decipher. “The gentleness of heaven is on the sea; Listen! the Mighty Being is awake, And doth, with his eternal motion, make A sound like thunder—everlastingly.” Science, however, is daily, by little added to little, discovering more and more of the secrets of ‘the world of waters.”’ The ocean is many-colored, Geography men- tions the White Sea, the Black Sea, and the Red Sea. green, blue, and milky seas. Poets and voyagers have described Water is color- less in small quantities ; but in deep columns in the crevasses of ice of the Alps, or in the profound soundings far from land, it displays an azure hue, and is ‘‘ darkly, deeply, beauti- fully blue.”’ The colors of the bottom give their names to the Black and White Seas. Salt naturally a reddish tinge, but the ocean has in rocks has nowhere salt enough for a reddish hue to be given to it by evaporation similar te the blue The Red Sea derives its color from a singular blood-red tinge displayed by congealed water. plant, which consists of hair-like filaments united in the shape of small bottles or boxes, and which is found covering immense regions of snow and sea. A young and intelligent voy- ager to China, Mr. Henry Grafton Chapman, has recently described the Milky Sea, one of 5*

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a | the rarest aspects of the ocean, an appearance life. In the Ocean, near the Island of Christmas, on the which is due to animal Indian Ist of August, 1854, when the wind had fallen, the moon gone down, and amidst deep darkness, the sea began frothing and effervescing around When a bucket of water was drawn up it was full of the vessel like a glass of Seidlitz water. animals, which seemed like vermicelli, yellow, alive, and phosphorescent, The white edge which the breakers display in their spray has been ascribed to the lime in the globules, which is made apparent, for a moment, by the force and shock of the wind and The are of different tide, pebbles and beach. ocean is made of globules, which temperatures, the warmer and lighter ascending to the sur- | | GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, face. We have often watched the thin films of the globules of spray when they have decom- posed the sun-rays into the simple colors, as the drops in the clouds do in making rainbows, and have thus seen every breaker for an instant crested by an iris. Of a summer evening, after dark, when somewhat belated on the sea-beach, the lounger may often see the breakers flashing phosphorescently. The glories of phosphores- cence on the tropical ocean have been compared to the northern aurora in the skies. Coleridge, in the ‘Ancient Mariner,’ says of the phos- phorescent animals :— * Within the shadow of the ship I watched their rich attire; Blue, ¢ They ¢ Was # flash of gol may green, and velvet black, jiled and ewam; and every track den fire,” 40eeF COUSIN ANNIE HY VIRGIBIA Tue dave of thie dving vear ar void over my heal, dear Cousin Luey, with thet pallid, death-atruck faces, Their voice ive low moan i And mutterings of wits They have ne wifia of beauty, no breaths of frayranee, no sound of songs, only what every mortal must have who falla into the winter of lift old Age, decay, death! till, by all the uiftes of glad ess, and beauty which this year brought te me in the days of its youth, in the strength of ite manhood, e, I and tender, in the glory of its ripened it cling to it with memories grateful The leap of its running brooks is in my heart; its embroidery of flowers, its fluted sunrises of pe arly gray and pink, its sunsets, like great halls with crimson hangings and silver pillars, are still before my eyes; its spring, its summer, its autumn are pictures hung up on the parlor walls of my memory. The smile, the sensible, half amused smile, that is dawning around your lips, as you read this rhapsody, rises before my eyes; but I do not dread it, oh, kind and tender heart, whose very rebuses were to me caresses; and, having paid my acknowledgments to the year, | will now pay something better to your- self, Well, it is decided I shall pass the winter here at Rydal Hill; I am not sorry now, though I was a little when the doctor said my lungs would not be strong enough to inhale a draught of sea **T shall not allow Miss Hastings,"’ he said; and, God willing, I think his words air before next May. you to leave me better, but well | HASTINGS’ r TOW Rae AH will be fulfilled, for, looking in the mirror, I Am hardly able to lentify meeell It does not seem Asif theme rotnidled obese bem with the bloom on them which is born of moring walks, could belong to te, or this light, rapit figure the slow, feeble one | brought here, You pity ne, dear heart, because you think | must be lonely, away offinthe hill country,” a hundred miles from New York and the appliances and excite life, Not one bit of it, We have quite as choice society as | ever found in the ments of city cultivated men and women, who have not ‘lived’ it, has grown clearer, and whose experience has the city only seen life, but and whose vision nourished and expanded their souls—in calm of the country, Uncle and Aunt Stebbins have grown to look upon me as their own child, and I feel towards them much, I believe, as an adopted daughter should—a daughter who knows both her parents are in heaven, It isn’t ‘‘gloomy”’ here, either; and you are fretting yourself quite needlessly, I do assure you, over my state and condition. Every pleasant day brings some advent of agree- able guests to the ‘‘ house on the hill.”’ Then we have frequent rides, and parties, and all sorts of amusements, From my heart, I am happy! Just now, the house is a little too lively for me, for Uncle Joshua was nominated county sheriff last week, Aunt Jemima, dear, kind, motherly soul, was considerably gratified with the honor, albeit she said, with a little anxious shake of her head and the snowy cap thereof: ‘‘I don't

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COUSIN ANNIE know what you ’ll do when farming-time comes, Joshua, with all this business on hand.”’ ‘Oh, we must give up all private cares for the good of the public, you know, mother.’ And lowed, which always reminds me of our old Uncle Joshua’s deep, hearty laugh fol- Saxon fathers, with their flagons of ale. I, too, have been laughing this morning, a Jaugh made up of many emotions, not all glad ones; or, perhaps, the laugh was the ebullition of the topmost emotion, underlying which lay many deep and solemn ones, This morning, Deacon Walters’ wife and Mrs. Dr. Parsons called to see aunt, and of course I had to be duly marshalled into the parlor. and | for want Something summoned aunt away, was obliged to entertain the ladies; and, of something better to converse about, | went into the sitting-room in quest of a cover I had just been knitting for Unele Joshua’s arm-chair, and, as the door was a little ajar, | overheard Mrs. larsons say to Mrs, Walters ‘' llow very fas reeable she is, jati't elie?’ ani old me ai | ehould itt “Oh, very, bit, then, she Mra, Walters : have Bhi iid it itt just the tone eid, blitih, or dun, of jhe’? i toe of hall wondering pity and sympathy, whieh we five to the ¢ ) clally afflieted and itfortunate of our race, Bo, when the eood ladies took leave, | ran ip stairs, atl these Walters'scame withme, There's doubt they were the well beloved My last birthila three, amd nobody that words of Mi : no solemn t uth, Lucey, ade the thirty will Attetupe to controvert the faet this entitles me to that most ob HOXLOUS Appr llation, however much my tre nds Assure me that denies that I Wy Aappeararice Ain twenty-lve, Yes, I am an ‘fold maid,’’ and, what is more, I have no wish, hope, or expectation of ever You know | aay this from any false ideas of womanly deli- changing my condition, do not cacy, and that I should not write it without it settled and you have acuteness enough to fancy this was an earnest, conviction with me; determination was not reached without some You are right, Lucy ; and new that our hearts have cause or experience which produced it. crown 80 closely together, now that, for six years, we have known and loved each other with a love which I find is not often given to sisters, | feel that herein I owe you my confi- dence. If you have ever suspected anything of iny secret, you have never attempted to pene- trate it. Delicately, persistently, during all our intimacy, you have respected the ‘innermost’ HASTINGS’ LETTERS. 55 of my soul, and now you shall pass—where no other ever will—over its threshold. Do you recall a visit we made together, some four years ago, to a certain picture gallery, where several valuable paintings just received from Italy were on exhibition for a few days? stood before the beautiful, touching face of a ‘‘ Magdalene weep- As we rapt in admiration, ing amid her hair,’’ a voice startled us both— **Miss Hastings, is it possible?’ We turned round, and confronted a gentleman—I say this in such meaning as Tennyson or Kingsley would, a gentleman by the grace of God! He was not tall nor handsome, but his face and figure were manly and forcible. I think he appeared glad to see me, more 80 than | did him, I remember the deep, steady eyes searched my face with something of wonder, and doubt, and curiosity, which I could altogether comprehend; and I think you, with your quick intentions, felt there was something of embarrassment and concealed feeling in this sudden interview, thotiah that liipression may now have passed quite out of your mind What we esaid-ethe gentleman and | 1 lave qitite forgotten, | prestine it wie a few commonplace remarks about the weather, the estate of our health, and some feneral iiformation as to our reepective lncal ities Il think | must have remembered all the courtesies Of the occasion, for l remember pre senting him to you as a former friend of mine, Lieutenant Kdward Neieh While we. were couversing, you may recollect that a gentle man friend of his came up, stating that the train started twenty minutes earlier than they had supposed, and it was now quite time to he going, I thought the gentleman took leave reluctantly, I thought if he eould have fur nished any reasonable excuse, or if my manner had invited it, he would have remained over that train; and he made his adieux with that impressive courtesy which no art ever conferred on Kdward Reigh, You turned round to me, Cousin Luey, with your earnest eyes—‘'! like that man, Annie ; I like his face, I like his manner. Who is he ?”’ ‘* Tle was the son of the second wife of a cousin of my father’s. I used to know him when we lived at Weyburgh.”’ ‘*And never spoke to me of him. He a man once seen not to be isa man to impress one ; easily forgotten. Was he married then ?”’ Tt} No.” “Why, Annie, you are white as a ghost! ” **And dizzy and sick, too, Lucy. I must be going.

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56 GODEY'S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, You were so alarmed for me that you forgot all about the gentleman, You remember I was ill for a week afterwards, and that the doctor insisted I had a fever hanging about me. Lucy, that man whom I met and parted with so quietly, was the betrothed husband of my youth, and the only man whom my heart ever has, or ever will love. You are growing pale, I know, as you read these words, and my hand is shaking while I write them, and my heart is saying to me it is best to tell the story quickly. 1 was twenty when I first met Edward Reigh. He was thena student at West Point, and he came with his invalid mother and step-father, to pass a few days at our home. The relation- ship of our parents, and the very warm friend- ship which had always existed between them, furnished a basis for a cousinly freedom of in- tercourse, and Edward and I were soon on the best footing. They were pleasant days, Lucy, in the dear old home at Weyburgh, for papa was not so much of an invalid at that time as to excite any serious alarm on my part, and we had walks, and rides, and sails, among the grand old hill and lake scenery with which you have had the great joy to become acquainted. Edward was only twenty-three then, but his mind was remarkably mature for his age, and the extent of his reading and his general obser- vation quite amazed me. He was full of humor, too, that bright, playful, sparkling humor which is the joyous effervescence of a strong, deep, large soul in its health and its youth. For the first time in my life, I was thrown into the so- ciety of a man of real power and muscle, of mind and character—a man who had, by gift of nature, true dignity of soul ; a man whose will was, in its first youth, a nerve of iron, but whose heart was tender as a little child’s ; and whose kindly, chivalrous bearing towards all with whom he was thrown, was no social at- tainment, but the outward expression of inward grace and courtesy. It was impossible to know ** Cousin Edward Reigh”’ without admiring and respecting him; at that time, I did this. One night, the last but one that our guests were to be with us, I went into the parlor and arranged some volumes on the table which had been dis- placed for our reading during the day. Cousin Edward followed me in a moment, and, play- fully drawing my hands away from the books, said, ‘‘ Come and sit down on the sofa with me, Cousin Annie; I want to talk with you.’’ He looked in my face with his deep-set, searching eyes, not darting but steady in light. ‘*T want you to speak, not to look at me so,”’ I said, at last, in that outspoken way you will readily understand, though the gaze did not annoy—it only puzzled me. “What do you want I should say to yon, little Annie?’’ and somehow the voice, that clear, strong voice of his, seemed to caress my name. ‘*Tell me what you were thinking about, then.”’ **About you; and whether you will grant either of two petitions I have to make to you!’’ You do not look like one ” **T guess I shall. who is used to having your petitions denied ; and I smiled in the young, manly face. ‘*The first is, that you will give me this; and he drew out of his vest pocket a small da- guerreotype likeness of myself, in a green vel- ” vet case. ‘*Why, Edward Reigh, where in the world did you get hold of this ?”’ ‘* Your father was just showing it to mine, saying it was much like your mother at your age. Shall I keep it, Annie ?”’ ‘‘It is not mine. You must ask papa.’ **T have, and he said I might retain the pic- Now, Annie, you ’ ture with your consent. won’t refuse me.” **T can’t very well, Cousin Edward.” “Then give it me—please ;’’ and he laid the picture in my lap. And I placed it in his hands, thinking to my- self he would never do anything like anybody else. ‘*And now the other petition, Cousin Ed- ward.”’ ‘* You will write to me occasionally, when I have returned to my studies f’’ ‘*T will answer any letters you send me.” He leaned down and kissed my forehead, a slow, tremulous kiss ; then there was a summons at the front door, and a few moments later com- pany entered. I did not have another oppor- tunity for private conversation with Edward teigh during his visit. Three years passed before we met again. Cousin Edward had been graduated for two of these, and travelled in Europe the remainder with his mother, whose health was rapidly sinking. She was a gentle, interesting woman, though I fancy Edward inherited the fibre of his character from his father. My own was at that time in declining health, though I did not yet apprehend he was in serious danger. It was summer time, again, and the light was on the hills, and the glory over all the earth. Edward and I met, cousins, friends, scarcely lovers, though I certainly thought more of him than

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COUSIN ANNIE HASTINGS’ LETTERS, 57 We had correspond- ence regularly once a month, during these I did of any living man, years ; and if | had been as old and as wise as lam now, 1 should have read more than the words said in those letters. But 1 was young for my years, Cousin Lucy. Edward Reigh came back to us his old self, improved and enlarged somewhat by foreign travel. He brought his mother with him; they remained at our house three weeks. Oh, Lucy, by all the joy, and light, and radiance of those days, every one of which afterwards turned a traitor that pierced my soul with great wounds, I cannot write of that time! One day—he had been at our house about two weeks then—we went out to ride. You know what a coward I am behind a high-met- tled horse, and this was a young one, scarcely broken in. Edward was a skilful driver, but we had not gone more than two miles before the animal suddenly took fright. It was very foolish for me to be so alarmed, for his driver could control him; but, before Edward saw what I was about, or before I comprehended myself, I had leaped from the carriage. Fortu- nately, I alighted on a little bank of grass on one side of the road, and I escaped with only a slight graze of the arm. In a moment, Ed- ward had reined in his horse and dashed up to me. He was white as death, and the reins were clutched tightly in his hands, as he sprang from the carriage. Do—do forgive me, Cousin Edward!’’ And | burst into **O no, no, I was only frightened ! tears—tears of nervous excitement. le sat down by me on the grass, and the horse stood subdued and panting before us. ‘* You were very imprudent to do this, Annie. Thank God, it did not kill you !’’ He took off his hat, and bowed his head reverently, as he spoke the words. “It might, mightn’t it, Cousin Edward? Yes, thank God; for what would have become of papa?” ‘* You don’t say what would have become of another, Annie.”’ **Oh, well, you wouldn’t have been to blame, Cousin Edward.” ‘Yes, but what would have become of me ?”’ He repeated the words over several times, looking in my face, and yet his strong, muscular frame shivered from head to foot. ** Why, Edward, what would have become of 9? you?’ Larticulated, in amazement, scarce know- ing what I said. “‘The life of my life would have been gone out !”’ The steady, strong, glancing eyes looked straight into mine. I understood, The rest, Cousin Lucy, is betwixt God and us; asd not even for the glance of your loving eyes can the seals of that hour be broken by Anyig Hastinos. GRAFTON, December 11, 1°57. Goop-morrow to you, Cousin Lucy, though it is a day with pulse low beating, clammy, I have fallen upon times of which 1 must write briefly, pallid, death-struck, like its sisters. and your quick, deep intuitions will tell you much that my pen does not. I went home that night the betrothed wife of Edward Reigh. Dean, I loved him as you can divine I would I loved that man; oh, Lucy love the man whom I had first respected and reverenced, who was the interpreter of all that was highest, and strongest, and noblest in man- hood. Edward remained a week longer at our house. Oh, hours embalmed in fragrance radiant with life’s sunshine, melodious with its music. Of such was it not written, ‘‘The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away ?”’ My father was more than satisfied with my engagement; and when Mrs. Reigh took me to her heart, and called me the daughter of her old age, I felt that in a very little while I should soon have another mother in heaven. It was settled that we should be married the next September, my favorite season, just at the bridal of the summer and the autumn, and while the woods were kindling their crimson and yellow for the year’s great wedding festival. It became necessary for Mrs. Reigh to go to New York to consult her physician, and her son accompanied her. He intended to have been absent only a couple of weeks, but these were as many months. When Edward returned to us, his mother did not come with him. She never went with him anywhere again; but I love still to think her last message to me was a blessing on our betrothal—a prophesy that we two should come to her there! Newton Gray and his sister Sybil were at our house st the time of Edward’s arrival. I was sorry for it—human love is usually selfish. You have heard me speak of Newton Gray. Because his mother and my father had been old and warm friends, the latter consented, at her earnest solicitation, to receive him for two years into our family, when he was a youth and in delicate health; so he was a sort of pupil and protéyé of my father’s, and we were all attached to him, for he had a fine intellect,

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58 a warm heart, and very winning social gifts. We were like brother and sister; and—I may be excused for saying to you what a woman has not often the right to say of a man whom she has not accepted—we might have been more than this. But, with all his fine qualities of head and heart, there was something lacking in the character of Newton Gray. I fet it then, | perceive it now. He lacked muscle, fibre of character; he had not a powerful will. Here ] was stronger than he, and this unconsciously prevented my loving him; there would be no element of reverence in my affection for him, Yet he was, I belicve, stronger, less governed by impulse than most men. Sybil Gray was just my age, and we had previously exchanged visits with each other. She was an exceedingly pretty girl; she had bloom of complexion, and vivacity of expres- sion, and rare grace of movement and manner; she was bright, sparkling, attractive, a favorite with her own sex, a greater with the other. I liked Sybil Gray, and she professed a warm attachment for me. Her character was sus- ceptible, reflective, but I did not know her well enough to perceive that it lacked fortifying principle—that it had no strong basis of truth ; in short, though full of warm, quick impulses, she was still thoroughly selfish. I believe she was interested in Edward the first time she met him, and she had acuteness enough to perceive the relation existing between us. One day—it was the fourth after Edward’s arrival—he had gone up to his room to answer some letters, and I was in the back parlor, read- ing a book. Suddenly, Newton Gray entered the room, and, dropping down on the floor be- side me, laid his head in my lap, saying: ‘*My head aches, Annie. Won't you soothe it as you used to ?’’ It was an old habit of his during the two years he had resided in our family; and I had by passing my fingers over his forehead, often soothed the pain in his head, but now I started at this brotherly freedom. ‘Oh, Newton, you forget we are no longer boy and girl !’’ ‘* But we have the old hearts, Annie; at least Il cannot believe yours is so changed that you will refuse to quiet these throbbings with the old soft touch of your fingers !"’ What could [do under such circumstances? He laid his head back in my lap, and I pushed iway the dark hair from his temples and passed my fingers over them, We were so engrossed in our conversation that we did not hear fout stepa in the hall—footsteps that paused before GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, | | the door. These were Edward’s, and we did not see either the look of surprise and displea- sure which darkened his forehead and com- pressed his lips. But Sybil Gray did; for a moment later, she wandered in from the garden with her apron full of freshly gathered flowers. As Edward's eyes met hers, she read the thought which troubled them, and she silently beckoned him to follow her out into the garden; and there and then Satan entered into the head of Sybil Gray. ‘You are surprised to find my brother and Annie so intimate; but you know old lovers have privileges.’”’ ***Old lovers!’ I do not understand you, ‘e? 9? Miss Gray ;’’ but the man’s lips were white. ** Don’t understand me!’’ with a pretty start. ** You surely know that Newton and Annie—”’ the soft, white fingers played with the tassels of her apron. ‘*Go on, Miss Gray.’’ ‘Well, promise me you will never divulge what I say to you; as, under any other cir- cumstances than these, I should not betray Annie’s confidence.”’ ‘**T promise.”’ ‘* Newton and she are engaged.” ‘*Kdward Reigh, hearing these words, gave no sign. What more passed between the two that afternoon, I never knew. I only know they talked long together, and that Sybil Gray was an artful woman, and she did her work well. We all met at teaas usual; and Edward informed me he must go to New York the next day. I hardly regretted this, for [ supposed ne would return the following week, and then my guests would be gone. Not that I was in the least degree jealous of Sybil; I had very little knowledge of the evil in human nature, and my faith in Edward was too near my faith in God. We had company to stay over night, so I had no opportunity for any private conver- sation with my betrothed, and therefore could observe no change in his manner. Two days after Edward left, Sybil Gray pre- tended to have received letters from New York which rendered her immediate return neces- sary. She left in the care of one of our neigh bors, and her brother remained. Lucey, Lucy, my heart aches, my brain bursts; I cannot write of this time! I know little about it, too, It is enough that I eha//, when the books are opened up) there, know all the foul wrong which you did to me, and which seared your own soul with a sin at whose hideousness I shudder, Mybil Gray !

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, - COUSIN ANNIE HASTINGS’ LETTERS. 59 I have every reason to suppose that Edward wrote me once or twice, as I did him more than this. His letters never reached me, mine probably never did him. Both must have been intercepted. Two months later, Edward Reigh and Sybil Gray were married. The next day my father went home. You remember the long mental and bodily paralysis which makes the next yeara blank tome. Ah, Lucy, they all thought this was because I had lost my father—I had lost another dearer than he! Well, dear heart! I owe it to your tender, constant watchfulness, added to that of your father’s and mother’s, that I lived to write this letter. but never take up the song of its youth again. My life came out of its great sor- row ; it was another life then—it could You remember when our old nurse, Hannah, came to see me at your house, some two years after papa had left me; I then discovered all I have ever known respecting Edward’s conduct to me. It was enough to exonerate him en- tirely from blame—to exalt his character to its old place in my estimation. Perhaps he was rash; but he was neither mean nor unjust, he was true to himself. It is barely possible that I should, at that time, have taken some means to reveal the truth to him if I had not learned that, a little while be- fore, a new name had been granted to Edward and Sybil—the name of father and mother. I not call down sorrow and shame on the They shall “Grow together like the tares and wheat, Till God's great fire!"’ could fair young head of their child. I know that Edward, sooner or later, must pene- trate some of Sybil’s disguises; and I know that the hour he ceases to respect that hour he will cease to love her. But he will have peace in his household; for his own manliness, his own true dignity of character will compel this. Sybil will always fear her husband, and she loves and respects him. I think her conscience must sometimes smite her for the great price she paid to secure Edward; but of this I, of course, know nothing. Newton Gray is married. I have seen him but twice since that visit. And once you re- member we came upon each other suddenly at the Fair. I then, he something of his sister’s deed by the grieved, was convinced, knew shocked expression of his eyes when they rested on me, Sybil, of course, had to invent some reason the engagement to satisfy her husband for being broken, which he supposed existed be tween Newton and myself; and it probably became necessary for her to partially acquaint her brother with the true circumstances of the I can well divine Newton’s astonishment Yet he would not be apt to disclose it to her husband. I hardly know whether he would be strong case, and horror on learning his sister’s sin, enough to do this, were he convinced it was simple justice he owed to me; and he would probably reason himself into the belief that it was now too late for the wronged to be righted. So, Lucy, sweet Couvin Lucy, for the first and the last time | have unlocked the “ secret chamber’’ of my heart, and you have passed in, and coming out, your face filled with the solemn awe of one who has read *‘ the handwriting on You ’ know now The ‘*sweet the wall’’ of another’s soul. what has made me an ‘‘ old maid.’ song of my youth’’ can never be struck up again in my heart, and its fairest, stateliest, But the joy, and fragrance, and glory of life closed holiest chamber is closed forever. is all to me, because this one love is denied me? God forbid! united to that of some man as weak, it may Simply because my fate is not be, as full of human frailty, and passion, and prejudice, and narrow vision as myself, shall I conclude my life is a failure, without work or message? Never, while the sweet days fall into solemn nights, with all their mysteries of glory and beauty. Never, while the goodly seasons rise out of the year, and walk before me, their lips full of God’s messages, their hands of His gifts. Never, while there are books to nourish my soul, and poetry, and music, and painting to gladden and exalt it. Never, while there are human hearts to be strengthened, and healed, and saved. Iam an “old maid,’’ cousin; the dignity of wifehood, the joy of motherhood will never be mine; but may I not have tender and holy friendships? may not my days be springs of joy, and gratitude, and peace? may I not, too, have ‘‘the simple, loving heart which is con- tent to go wondering and awe-struck all its days, and find in that mood peace, and strength, and wisdom?’’ You know, too, sweet heart, that I could never love a man I could not re- Many women, I know, do this. Thank From the hour I spect. God, I am not one of them! ceased to reverence my husband, I must cease to love him; and becanse of this I am what eall My judgment must always indorse my affections, or these you exacting, fastidious, are only torments till T tear my soul away from them, So, Lucey, happy in the belief I am bh ippy knowledge Lam an ‘old maid,” in the

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60 GODEY'S that I shall die one. Very few wives dol know this hour with whom I would exchange posi- tions. Is not matrimony, to most of them, a mistake and a disappointment ? that I love Edward Reigh still, but not with vain dreams, and regrets, and pinings Be aAlure —with a love such as the living give to those hath taken.”? And then, if our her wills it, we shall be together through ‘‘whom God Fat all « ' Shall I not be content to be sepa- I have no theory of sternity rate in time? However, herein not mis- apprehend me unions in in my God, and this is my lamp, my anchor. I have only faith sure and steadfast I know that He who created my soul, with all its needs and longings, will satisfy them in His own time and His own way, plentifully, abun- dantly ; but it is not for me to forestall either. My duty here is to serve Him, to trust and the confidently. The The doctor has forbidden my writing by and | over my p iper. lim, future I leave in His hands, joyfully, **The Judge of short d the earth will do right.” y is fading into night. lamp } light, must not longer strain my eyes Cousin Lucy, I have locked the door, and laid away the key of the chamber where we have walked together; and when we meet we will neither of us speak of what I have written. Cousin Lucy, the Lord give thee peace and quiet, the Lord lift up the li nance upon thee, prayeth, of her love, ht of His counte- Your cousin, Annie LAstines. 71 eer - LADY CLARE. BY FANNIE STEVENS BRUCE. O Lapy Christabel Clare, of Clare! Turn from the festive hall to-night! Deafen your ear to its music and sor Deaden your eye to its magical light Come to this close-curtained chamber, I pray! Come and stand for a while by m Fling back the braids from your olive-hued brow u see? And tell me, proud lady, what do y A low couch pure as the drifted snow, With milk-white lil and there? A youthfal form lying calm es strewn here -9o calm, Half veiled by a glory of nut-brown hair? Trembling! my lady, why is this so? And where is the rose thy soft cheek wore? And why that start That anxious g! as of sudden pain, ance towards the close-shut door? She will not harm you, the tender one! She could not, lady, had she the w For, see, there's no light in those pale brown ¢ hat breast is rigid, and cold, and still; LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, —————eeeEEEE————E—Eee lard and still as the unhewn ice, And colder far thaa the north-wind's breath ; Queen of beauty, and life, and bloom, Suy, do you fear her, the Bride of Death? 0 Lady Christabel Clare, of Clare! Weep, ay weep! you have cause for tears! Tears relentless as lava-tide, Which never falls but it wastes and sears. Weep, ay weep, till that stern heart bleeds! Weep, till the midnight stars grow dim; Years of anguish, and sobs, and moans, Can searce atone for this fearful sin! This is what life was until you came— Came with your soul-bewildering smile, Came with your woving, meteor glance, Came with your tempting, accursed guile!~— A sun-bright dream of a cloudless day, When winds and waters unite in tune; When beauty freshens with every hour, While May clasps hands with the rose-crowned June, What is Aw it now but a dull, cold void? ld sea dashed on a barren shore? A withered flower, whose bloom has flown *Neath the spoiler’s hand to return nu more! And what am / but a helpless wreck! frail reed, bowed by the tempest’s blast! And where are the blessings I called “ my ow n,”’ In the holy years of the solemn past? O Lady Christabel Clare, of Clare! Gaze once more on that beautiful face ; Then haughtily gather your rich robes up, And turn aside from this lowly place. Go to the festive hall, if you will, And join once more with that thoughtless band ; Laugh when they laugh, but never forget That blood stains crimson your dainty hand! You took her heart, it was pure and true And mine, its hopes were wondrously sweet! You crushed them both in your jewelled grasp, And And she lies there, in her simple shroud— flung them, bleeding, beneath your feet. Her shroud with virgin flowers o’erstrewn ; While I stand here in my wretched pride, Breathing a wronged man’s hate and scorn / And She cannot be yet, my worshipped Madeline May! lost to me, I know; Though angel garments are hers to-night, And an angel's crown is on her brow. Still is she mine, as in days gone by; I shall meet her some morning fresh and fair; So I wring the hate from my weary soul, And I do not curse you, Lady of Clare. TO MY BROTHER. BY JULIA SOUTHALL. Do you remember, love, when twilight stealing In softened shade around my forest home, When the young crescent moon, her form revealing, Tipp'd with her silver light the yellow broom— When the tall pines, their fragrant odors blending, Sighed wently to the rocking of the wind— How far our gypsy feet, the footpath wending, Left dwelli i? iz-house and cabin far behing Do you remember?

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ii | el POETRY. 61 Can you forget how, hand in hand, we wandered Through flelds of waving wheat and tasselled corn, Or gathered fox-grapes where the brook meandered, Aad only called home by the dinner-horn? Then the old mill—how well we loved its clatter !— And its great wheel, with steps so like a stair? And how my hand the flowing wave would scatter In sparkling drops upon your soft brown hair? Do you remember? Do you remember, love, the maples, drooping Their brilliant blooms above our dear old spring? The graceful fringe-trees’ snowy tassels, stooping, Their trembling shade upon its breast to fling? And the steep hill-side, with the green moss spreading Its velvet cushion in our favorite nook? While I reclined upon its bosom, reading, You fished for minnows in the quiet brook. Do you remember ? And when the green and scarlet leaf had faded, And the sweet wild-flowers long had ceased to bloom, When leafless boughs no more our footsteps shaded, And murmuring pines dispelled their light perfume, How would we wander, then, so blithe and merry, Through rustling leaves and naked, pathless wood, Seeking the holly, for its scarlet berry, Or “solemn seals,’ with balls as red as blood. Do you remember ? But when the winter nights came, cold and snowing, And, gathered round the blazing hearthstone warm, We heard the whistling winds so roughly blowing, And listened to the howling of the storm, We played at ‘‘club-fist,’’ by the fireside, nightly, Or told our wondrous goblin-tales of fear, Building our corn-cob houses strong and tightly, With light wood torches for our chandelier. Do you remember ? Five years have gone since then, and I am sighing Vainly for joys that can return no more; The friends and pleasures once so fresh, now dying, Are but a wild, sweet memory of yore. Brother, thy young heart still retains its childhood ; Will you forget the paths we used to roam, In the green flelds and through the summer wildwood That circled round our early forest home? You will remember EVA LEE. BY MRS. M. M. HINES. DARLING, sweet-voiced Eva Lee is dead! I sat by her side and saw her die; My bosom pillowed her drooping head, Upon my lip trembled her last low sigh. Kissed I the spray from her forehead damp, As, aweary, she paused by that voiceless shore, liushing my heart to the muffled tramp Of the guide who had come to lead her o’er. Fragile and tender, she could not stay Where the clouds were dark and the winds were shrill; And, smiling, she bade him lead the way, Nor faltered, nor shrank, though the mists were chill. Thus passed she afar to a land unknown, And I weep, I cannot be comforted, For I know that henceforth I must wander alone— My darling, sweet-voiced Eva Lee is dead! VOL. LX.—6 EVENING BSBHADOWS, BY MABEL GRAY. 'Trs a beautiful night, and with calm delight I gaze on the glorious scene ; The sun goes to rest ‘neath the crimsoning west, And leaves me to poader and dream. All glowing and bright, the landscape in sight, As far as the vision extends, Is tinged with the gleams of his golden beams, Ere behind the green hills he descends. The bright happy hours have fled to their bowers, Till now the stern past has the day; And twilight comes down over country and town, Wrapping each in its mantle of gray. And now as I gaze on the purpling haze Of night, dotted o’er with each star, Bright Venus, the queen of night's regal scene, Appears in the heavens afar. To my tranced ear, as I wondering hear Are wafted melodious strains, As angelic choirs with golden lyres Were treading the glittering plains. Even so, then I thought when life’s work is wrought, And the sunset of life appears, ‘Twill be tinged with the gleams of hope’s glowing beams, To brighten the last of our years. When life’s evening sky appears to our eye, And the mantle of twilight descends, If ‘tis woven all o’er with good deeds done before, We shall welcome it then as a friend. And oh, may the lyres of angelic choirs Ring sweetly to cheer us the while, As we cross the dark river, forever and ever To dwell in the light of God's smile! TO MARY. BY @. BR. CALVERT I Loven thee, Mary, ay, I worshipped thee ; As one who hath no God I bowed me down In adoration; light and hope, to me, Were in thy smile, and darkness in thy frown. Wealth was enticing, honors only sweet, When the proud thought did all my soul beguile, That I might lay them humbly at thy feet And poorly purchase one sweet, sunny smile. But they have glittered, and have passed away, These golden hopes of an o’er ardent youth ; As on the mountain dies the sun’s last ray So faded romance on the sombre truth. Ambition’s self hath fled me in my strait; Life hath no jewel that the mind can crave, While the poor heart, contending yet with fate, Sinks, sadly sinks, into a living grave. I have, fair girl, but one request to make: That in thy sadness thou'lt remember one, Who fain would gladly all thy sorrows take Upon himself, and make them all his own Mayst thou a nobler, worthier being find, Although he love thee only half so well, As he, who, by the glittering teardrop blind, Bids thee a loving, long, and last farewell

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A DIRGE, ny vain “ 4 praaor Let her rest Par down below the tossing surge rhe billows shroud her gentle breaat, The wild winds aing her dirge Low lies ahe now, the gentlest, beat Let her reat, let her reat Let her sleep Where mermaids watch her coral bed, And ocean's guardian spirits keep Their vigils round her head No more those cold sealed eyes will woep-- Let her sleep, let her sleep She's at reat No more the mad turmol! of life, Ite anxious cares, ita wild unrest And fevered toll and strife, Can rend this «till and pulseless breast— She's at reat, she's at reat Lone she alee ps, Unheeding anguished hearts that thrill, And loving eyes that wildly weep For her who pale and still, While o'er her maddened surges sweep, Lonely sleeps, lonely sleeps Yet not alone Princes and kings around her reat, Proud fleets that sunk to slumber down Beneath the billows breast; And lord and knight are round her strewn; She's not alone—no, not alone She calmly sleeps; Earth has no prouder resting-place Than coral halls in the grand old deep, Above which wild waves chase Each other with a proud, free sweep, And here she sloepa—yer, calmly sleepa, Then gently rest; Affection may not know the spot Where sleeps the form its prayers had bleat— No, love may find it not; But long thou ‘lt live in memory bleat, Then gently rest—yes, gently rest SONNET.—WISSAHICKON. RY WM. ALEXANDER Witnp Wissahickon ' Where weeping willows hang their pensive head, thou romantic stream, And where, erewhile, the cautious beaver fed, And red deer drank beneath Sol's brightest beam Upon thy waters sailed the bark canoe, And nigh thy margin red men's wigwame atood, Sheltered beneath the venerable wood, Where the young squaw, unto her lord so true Sang songs of love, while she red wampum wove But, ah! the hunter's happy voice is hushed Where thy clear waters have so often gushed, And merry warriors did in wildness rove No more thy waters nor thy listening grove hear the war-who r the Indian's song of love Shal P GODEY' 8S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, Cnigmas, ANSWERS TO CHARADES, ENIGMA, AND RIDDLE IN DECEMBER NUMBER 16, Glow-worm 17 18, Base 19 Court-ship To-day ANSWER TO ASTRONOMICAL ESIOMA Aurora Borealis, Northern Lights CHARADE ! TWO PICTURES, ! Tue lists are set; the warriors met; The heralds volees loud proclaim: My frat will here, with brand and spear Do battle for his ladye'’s fame!" The course ia run; the combat done; It recks not which hath won the day Though my fret yield, yet, from the fleld My frat rides victor in the fray! The day is set; the tribune met; The culprit’s life hangs on a thread! With hand of fate the magistrate My second dons—his doom is sped! Black are the akies the morn he dies; Trembling he mounts the scaffold stairs; The death-bells toll: God shrive his soul! My second o'er his face he wears ENIGMA, 2. When, by the great Creator's hand The sea was parcel'd from the land, And this revolving sphere had birth, I was, and still am, first of earth! Ay! first of earth, yet last of life! Mute in the grave—the end of strife Unknown to Adam, yet, believe! Doubly a friend to Madam Eve (Perchance, in spite of time and change, You may not think that very strange; For e’en in modern husbands’ lives Such myatic friendships hap to wives.) I share the end of every knave, Yet catch the last sigh of the brave; Prone every ev il to begin, Yet am a stranger to all sin; In fine, the mystery to mend, I'm the “beginning of the end!’ RIDDLE 5. Trere 's not a creature lives beneath the sky, Can secrets keep as faithfully as 1; All things for safety are to me consigned, Although I often leave them far behind ; I never act but by another's will, And what he should command I muat fulf

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GOTHIC COTTAGE. 63 GOTHIC COTTAGE, [From the original design of SAmvKL SLOAN, Architect, Philadelphia, } PRINCIPAL FLOOR, FECOND STORY, A. Closet; B, Kitchen; C. Dining-room; D, Hall; E. Closet; F. Porch; G. Parlor; H. Porch; I. Closet; J. Chamber; K. Chamber; L. Hall; M. Passage; N. Closet; 0. Roof; P. Chamber; Q. Bulcony

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64 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. NOVELTIES FOR JANUARY. Fig. 1. Fig. 1.—Fichu for dinner-dress ; an entirely new and excellent shape. The material is Swiss muslin, and the embroidered edge is wrought on the same. The trimming is of black velvet ribbon, figured in blocks and stripes. Figs. 2 and 3.—New shape and style of em- broidery for collars and cuffs, The points in front, and the single spray of work in the cor- ner, with a neat row of stitching about the edge. Material, linen or cambric; the same style is made up in muslin, with an edge of Valenciennes. Fig. 4.—To oblige our industrious and do- mestic lady readers, who still ‘‘make shirts,’ Fig. 2. we give the latest, that is to say, one of the latestand best styles. The shape of the sleeves, cults, eollar, and general model of the garment, will be found unexceptionable. Where upright collars are preferred, they are straight and narrow, rounding at the chin. Figs. 5 and 6.—Styles of combination, black and white lace, much used for dress occasions. (See Chitchat.) Fig. 7.—Child’s street sacque ; material, cash- mere; trimming, braid and narrow fringe, lined with marcelline, to give lightness and warmth.

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NOVELTIES FOR JANUARY. Fig. 7 Ss G a! r Tin, EAD, A @ Be’

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66 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, A BABY’S SHOE, EMBROIDERED IN CHINESE KNOTTING, Materiala.— White cashmere or fine white flannel; quarter of a yard of white silk, for lining; a skein of yellow or white silk, or loosely twisted purse silk, or batton hole twist; two yards of white narrow sarsnet ribbon; a small piece of tracing or silver paper; a skein of fine white, also one of yellow sewing-silk. Wirsa a piece of paper double the size.of the engraving, and with a quill pen and ink, trace off the outline of the boot, and the embroidering portion also, then on the other part of the paper draw a second part like the first, then cut out in stiff paper, doubled, the outline of the toe and leg of the boct ; then cut out the shape in the material. Tack the tracing paper, on which is the pattern of the embroidery, on to the cashmere, and with fine yellow sewing-silk run neatly round the outlines of the pattern and af- terwards tear the paper away. For the Knotting, which must be within these lines of silk, tie a

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WORK DEPARTMENT. 67 knot in the end of the silk, pass the needle up through the material, hold the silk loosely under the left hand thumb, place the needle under the silk which is thus held down, with the needle twist the silk over the latter and pass it down nearly close to where the silk was drawn through. Pass the needle up again and repeat the same, but do not draw these knots very tight—they should be quite flat. When the embroidery is finished, tack the cashmere on to the lining, then make up the boot, working the button holes very neatly with white silk. BOSOM FRIEND, OR SONTAG, . Materiale.—Three and a half ounces crimson double zephyr, twoand a half ounces white, half an ounce black, small bone or wooden needles. Cast on thirty-five stitches, knit five stitches forwards and five backwards, thus forming the blocks ; knit five lines in this way, widening one stitch at the commencement of each line. Knit the second row of blocks alternate with the first; knit eighteen blocks, then divide the blocks so that five are left in the middle and an equal number on each side. Bind off the five middle blocks, and knit up one front, nar- rowing one stitch on the inside every fourth line for six blocks; narrow every other line for the next six blocks; then narrow every line till you come to a point. For the border, cast on twelve stitches, knit plain ; for the neck, ten stitches in widiu. The spots are darned on with black, in imitation of ermine. A loop is put on one end, in front, and a but- ton on the other, it crossed over and buttoned at the back; the back is fastened to a cord and tassels passing round the waist and tied in front. FOR SLEEVES. Materials.—One and a half ounce of white single zephyr and small bone needles for puffs; half an ounce of crimson zephyr and a pair of steel needles for bands. Cast on seventy-two stitches, loosely, on steel needles ; knit two stitches forwards and two back for eighteen rows, making a band. The bands are all alike. For the puffs, wrap round twice, take two together backwards ; — knit sixteen lines in this way for the first puff; for the second puff twenty lines, and the last thirty-six lines ; sew the sleeves up.

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68 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, TIDY FOR A LOUNGING CHAIR IN CROCHET. Materials,—Nos. 10, 12, or 14 of crochet cotton Tuts design is of ample, but not extravagant size; and by using a coarser or finer cotton, ac- cording to the dimensions of the chair for which it ia intended, it may be made to fit any one in ordinary use. The foundation chain is stitches, and the greater part is done without any decrease, A small piece of crochet, some- what deeper than the sloped part of this, and done in a set pattern, should be made for the back of the chair, and to keep this in its place. They should be joined together, by working on both a row of single crochet; then, along the sides and tops, do a narrow edge, thus :— lat row,—* 2 do in 2 atitches, 4 ch, 1 de in same stitch as the last, 1 de in next; miss 4 in the straight parts, but only 3, or even 2 some- times in the curves, to make it set perfectly flat *; repeat to the end, 2d.—* 1 sc, 1 do, 1 te, 1 de, 1 se, * under every chain. Along the foundation a handsome bead border is to be worked; and this edging uiay be carried around it, also, if agreeable, a 9O5 ave | too ee eet bad eteen + ’ 4 + fringe being afterwards knotted over every set of missed stitches. Se GODEY’S OFFERING FOR NEW YEAR'S. (See plate printed in colors in front.) Nos. 1 and 2.—Designs for bags or amoking- caps; to be done in crochet. Gold-colored purse twist or silk, or gold thread can be used with the various colored silks. No. 3 is a short purse, worked entirely in tight crochet, except at the top, where there is one row of the long stitch or »pen crochet to run the cord which draws the purse together. No. 4 is a fancy crochet bag in tight crochet except the upper part, which is made with the open or long stitch. The tassels are made by crocheting over round balls. No. 5 is the basket purse; the basket part of it is worked in tight crochet over a cord, and the upper part is worked in open crochet. Scarlet and gold-colored silk make a beautiful contrast, but any colors can be used,

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WORK DEPARTMENT, 69 . 1 aoe “ull ets aitit stile a F eee ieteleindelelelesetedes i oe : 7 ] rs a as ak ak ie NUGLLVd UATdKVS “AUACIOUUNA NI AVTIOO §,1100 “SQNG1Ud ONOOA UNO AOd NECK-TIE, OF SILK OR VELVET, BOUND WITH A DIFFERENT COLOR,

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GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, ARTICLES LONG PURSE IN KNITTING. Tue colors should be dark b‘ue, white, and lavender color. Tassels to match, with steel headings. Steel rings. — ~2eee INFANT’S SHOE IN CROCHET. Knit the shoe in plain crochet stitch, alter- nate stripes of white and blue worsted. Make a strip of loops, and cut them through for the ankle of the boot. It is warm, and suitable for a young babe to wear in the street. FOR PRESENTS OR FANCY FAIRS. CHILD’S CLOTH GAITER, BRACELET IN CROCHET. Crocuet medallions of black silk, placing a black bead on every stitch. When suflicient are made to encircle the arm, knit them to- gether, as in the engraving, joining at the top with two medallions larger than those forming the rest of the bracelet.

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WORK DEPARTMENT. ~ — A BORDERED NET FOR SLEEPING Materials.—Nos. 16 and 20 cotton; two meshez—one flat that will measure in width three-eighths of an inch, and a round mesh that will measure the same in a piece of string put round it. LaRGEsT mesh, 16 cotton; net on a founda- tion of 16 stitches, 32 rows or 16 diamonds counted perpendicularly ; cut the foundation away, do not cut off the end of cotton; tie a piece of string in the centre of this square of netting ; now net all round the square, being careful not to net two stitches into any corner loop; net twelve rounds or 6 diamonds; do not fasten off. For THE BorpErR.—With 20 cotton and large mesh, net three loops in every stitch. Small mesh, 3 rows. Small mesh, 6 stitches in each alternate loop Small mesh, 2 rows. Small mesh, net 5 stitches, miss the connect- ing loop between the two groups of stitches, net 5, miss the loop again; repeat. Nert row.—Net 4 stitches, miss the loop over the same loop as in last row, and repeat. Next row.—Net 3, w'ss the loop as before. Last row.—Net 2, m is the loop as before ; there will now be one di unond over each group or o of stitches. SOCK. WINTER (See engraving, page 9.) Materials. —Six ounces of lambswool; 4 pins, No. 18 Cast on 38 loops on each of three pins. Knit two plain, one pearl in every row. Knit till the work measures nine inches, nar- rowing five times in that space by knitting two stitches together on each side of the back seam ; divide the loops in half, and form the heel thus: Place one half of the loops on one pin for the heel, the remainder on the two pins for the instep. Knit the loops on one pin for four inches, narrowing twice; knit to the back seam, divide the loops and cast off. Pick up the loops at each side of the heel, knit these with those for the instep. In the first round make a stitch after every third on the two side pins ; in the next round, narrow by knitting the last on the side pin and the first on the instep in one; repeat at the other side of instep. Next round, plain. Repeat these two rounds four- teen times; then knit about eighty rounds ; after which, narrow for the toe. Narrow three times at each side of the pins in every other round, till the whole are narrowed off the sole of the foot, and the last sixty rounds must be plain knitting.

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72 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. THE ART OF ORNAMENTAL HAIR-WORK. No. 18.—Banpep Puair. Two rounda to left, $0, 2, lo, 3: i | thy 8. Two rounda to right, Ll and Zu. Bb and 4, Iw this plait, whieh ta completed every fourth round, the frat and second are both worked to the left, while the third and fourth are both worked to the right. When the frat round haa been completed, and the groups have been rearranged for the second round, It la to be commenced by working with the group at the , and then with each group ih atieceasion to the left, to be begun with the group to the right of the X, After regrouping, the third round ta while the fourth round ia to be commenced with the group at the X, taking next the group to the right of It, and so on to the completion of the round, Thia plait has a remarkably soft, silky ap- pearance, Srv Fe vids Gay No, 1),TBaoan Wavy Phare, (Same Dingram aa No, 18) , jo, 2, Vo left, Lat round 1 and 3 0, 2 and 4, To left, 2d round l and 20, 3 and 4, Su, 2, To right, 3d round 1 and 2u. 3 and 4, | To right, 4th round 1 and 3 u, 2 and 4, This ia the most troublesome of all the plaita to do, but its beauty well revays for the dif culty of learning how to do it, for it is decidedly the richest and handsomest plait we know. It will assist the recollection to notice that in the rounds to the right the plaits only differ from those in the rounds to the left in going under instead of over; so that, having once committed to memory the first half of the first three lines, 8, 1 and 3, 1 and 2, the worker will scarcely fail to remember that, if going round to the /eft, these stands must be put over the strands with which they are asso- ciated in the rule, while, if going round to the right, they must pass under them, It will be found no hard task to remember “9S. 1 and 3,1 and 2;"' and when this ja learned by heart, tovether with “left over’ and “right under,’ the rule is conquered, and no further diMoulty remaina, 7 ef & KNITTED BERRIES AND FRUIT, HOLLY AND (TH AKRKKINA, Kenny. —Cast on twelve atitches on three neodion (No, 20), four on each needle, with a bright shade of China silk, wound double, or rather fine purse twist single; knit eight or nine plain rounds, broax the silk a fow inches from the work, gather all the atitehes with a sewing needle, make on a double wire a little ball of searlet wool, about the sise of a pea, in- troduce this ball in the knitted berry, draw tight the silk with which the stitches are ga thered, and fasten it at the top upon the woollen ball, Gather the atitehes of the other aperture round the wire, draw the silk tight, passa the needle through the berry #0 as to bring it to the top; fold a plece of black flowm silk in two, place It acroas the top of the berry, corona over it the allk threaded in your needle, pasa the needle back through the berry from the top to the bottom, draw it tight, fasten off neatly, and cover the little stem with brownish red silk or wool aplit, LRAV EM, quired to make a handsome branch, lowing receipt is for a middle size leaf; Two needles, No, 19.—Cast on one atiteh with Several shades and alses are re- The fol- good alze purse twiat, let row.—Make one, knit one, 2d,—Make one, purl two, bd. —Make one, kuit three,

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WORK DEPARTMENT. 78 4th.—Make one, purl four. 5th.—Make one, knit two, make one, knit one, make one, knit the remainder of the row. 6th.—Make one, purl the row, and continue in alternate knitted and purled rows, making one stitch the middle stitch in the knitted row, and one at the be- before and one after ginning of every row, knitted or purled. When you have about eighteen or nineteen stitches on the needle, after the purled row, cast off five stitches in the beginning of the next front or knitted row, and as many in the Then the alternate knitted and purled rows, increas beginning of the purled row. resume tremity, increase to twenty-six or twenty-eight stitches, and cast off six or seven on each side. the larg- Then split in three Four scallops are generally enough ; est leaves may have five. a needleful of the same quality of silk, but a brighter and more yellow shade, cover a wire with one of the threads, and with another sew it neatly round the leaf, making the scallops as sharply pointed as possible. Sew another wire folded in two, and also covered with silk, along the back of the middle nervure; then across this from the point of one scallop to the ex tremity of the opposite one, a bit of leto, not covered, the ends of which you allow to pro ing as before, As the scallops of the middle of tride a little, in imitation of the pricks of the the leaves are larger than those of wither ex- Holly. *ee@ GENTLEMAN'S GAITER, WY / , \ \ \ \ D \ \ D \ _ \ \ a \ . | Turan are made of cloth of any color or of atrongly fastened with leather Atripa stitehed leather, The pattern vr prements those fastened down, by a steel spring, which can be purchased at a the hardWare atores, They are made in the same shape when fastened by buttons, omitting NITIAL LETTER the apring, The lining should be of very atrong material, and cut so that the atull will run the f 7 ¥ . same way asthe cloth, Make the parts marked J}! | \A\ A the diaa way of the material, the eloth and | Ay ( | ] | da lining separate, uniting the whole gaiter with I { / the atitching round the edge, The dotted lines | \ represent the outside of the gaiter, When the hp 7 ‘ \ \ oY \ pieces marked A are united, fasten the two ( i} \) marked B, and it ia then ready for the fasten \ yy) rs ! ‘ ‘J y ing, either with the spring on buttons. If the \ n~ _S f ; spring is used, it must be very carefully and VOL. LX.—7

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INVALID CUSHION IN CROCHET AND COLORED WOOLS. (See 7 late pr inted in tint in Sr ynt of Book.) TneEseE cushions are easily made, and are very pretty. To commence the part which is worked in crochet, make a chain of one hundred and fifty loops, or twenty additional if the cushion is required larger than a medium size, on which work five long stitches into the third loop—one short stitch, leaving two between; work five long stitches into one again, leaving two be- tween, and repeat to the end of the row. The next row, chain five, k op in to the centre of the last five long stitches, five chain again, and re- peat to the end. These two rows form the pattern, and must be repeated until the required GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. width is attained. The material in which these cushions are always worked is German wool. They look very pretty when the shaded wool is used, or many shades of different colors in about four rows of each shade have a very good effect ; or two colors which contrast well; or continued rows of one color shaded from black, is, perhaps, as pretty as any arrangement, but this depends on the taste of the worker. The cushion must be made of soft wool and covered with silk or satin, to show through the open crochet. The ends are drawn up either with a cord and tassel or a ribbon bow, and a cord or ribbon is attached to each end, and goes over the cushion for the purpose of suspending it to the back of the chair. PATTERN FOR A CHILD’S PARDESSUS. SLCEVE, _ ON a any, a add

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f } ; RECEIPTS. 75 wy . . Aeceipts, We. ARTICLES FOR THE KITCHEN. WE purpose list of articles that a giv from time to time an illustrated »wanted forakitchen, In furnish- ing a kitchen, there should be eveTything likely to be Round Boiler. Oval Boiler. required, but not one article more than is wanted. Un- necessary profusion creates a litter; a deficiency too often sacrifices the perfection of adish. There should be a sufficiency, and no more. In the course of our Stewpan Opright Saucepan. illustrations, many new articles will be presented that probably are unknown to most of our readers, but which are of great value to the housekeeper. We may even get out of the kitchen to other apartments of the Turned Tenkettle, Dr ip Handle. Upright Sancepan, with Lips These drawings are made from articles that can be furnished by Messrs. E. W. Carry! & Co., 714 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia. house. STEWING AND STEWS. STEWED MEATS. Fricandeau of Veal.—Cut a large piece from the fat side of the leg, about nine inches long, and half as thick and broad ; beat it with the rolling-pin; take off the skin, and trim off the rough edges; lard the top and sides, and cover it with fat bacon, and then with white paper; lay it in the stewpan with pieces of undressed veal or mut- ton, four onions, a carrot sliced, a fagot of sweet herbs, four blades of mace, four bay-leaves, a pint of good veal or mutton-broth, and four or five ounces of lean ham or } gammon; cover the pan close, and let it stew slowly three hours; then take up the meat, remove all the fat Keep the fricandean quite hot, and then glaze it; and serve with from the gravy, and boil it quick to a glaze. the remainder of the glaze in the dish, and sorrel sauce in a sauce-tureen 1 cheaper, but equally good Fricandeau of Veal.—With a sharp knife cut the lean part off a large neck from the best end, scooping it from the bones in lengths about that of the hand, and prepare it the sa.ne way as in the last receipt. Three or four bones only will be neces ssary, and they will make the gravy; but if the prime part of the leg is cut off, it spoils the wh: Ragout Breast of Veal Tak breast of veal, cut off the two ends, and fry the centre in butter to a good brown; then put it into a stewpan with l gravy and a few small bits of bacon; cover close, and stew till nearly done enough ; take it out, and strain the gravy through a sieve; skim off all the fat much of the liquor as is required, and thicken it with flour and butter, and flavor with lemon-pickle or juice, walnut and mushroom catsup Harricot of Veal.—Take t) cut the bones short, but leave it whole; put it into a best end of a small neck; stew pan, and just cover with brown ge ivy when it is nearly done, have ready a pint of boiled peas, six cucum- bers pared and sliced, and two cabbage-lettuces eut into quarters, all stewed in a little good broth; put them to the veal, and let them simmer ten minutes veal is in the dish, pour the sance and vegetables over it, and lay the lettuce with forcemeat balls around it To Stew Lamb's Head.—B« the head three of an hour, the liver a quarter of an hour, and the lights an hour or rather more; rub the head with the yolk un egg; add some parsley, ler ! a very sma quantity of thyme, pepper, salt, nutmeg, and sor bread-crumb; grill it, make brain-cakes the same as for calfs head, or forcemeat, and serve in some very ric rravy ; and, if itis not thick enough, add a little flour and butter just before taking it off the fire BTEWED POULTRY, GAME, ETC. —Stew the fowl To Stew Fowl with Rice in some clear mutton-broth well skimmed and seasoned with onion, mace, pepper, and salt; about half an hour before it is ready, put in a quarter of a pound of ric well washed and soaked ; simmer t tender, then strain from the broth, and put the rice on a sieve before the fire; keep the fowl hot, lay it in the middle of the dish, and the rice around it, without the broth The broth will be very nice to eat as such; but the less liquor the fowl is done with, the better. Gravy, whit parsley and butter for sauce To Stew a Turkey or put it into @ saucepan, with cabba turnips, celery, and onions, all cut very small; add salt and pepper, with a bunch of sweet herbs; then ist cover with water, and let it stew as sl This mode of cooking is chiefly adopted for an oid fowl. To Stew Pigeons.—Take six pigeons, eut the flesh from one, and, with the livers from ind a good slice of fat bacon, beat all together well in a mortar; then take few sweet herbs and a little shallot, and mix with the above to stuff the p ns; cut off their legs and ] ns stew the bones and trimmings to make gravy, and add a little mutton, required ; then put the y nto tl) gravy, when cleared of al breasts downwards, turning them caref vt they are Add a little port wine, thicke done butter, and put in a little walnut pickle To Stew Giblets.— After very nicely cleaning goose or duck-giblets, stew them for several hours with a small quantity of water, onion, black pepper, and a bunch of sweet herbs, till nearly done; season them with salt and pepper and a very small piece of mace Before serving, ve them one boil with a cup of cream and a piece of butter rubbed in a teas] nful of fine flour

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~] we To Stew a Duck or Goose.—Half roast a duck or goose; put it into a stewpan with a pint of beef-gravy, a few eaves of sage and mint cut small, pepper and salt, and a small bit of onion shred as fine as possible; simmer a and skim clean; then add near a quarter of an hour, quart of green peas; cover close, and simmer near half an hour longer; put ina plece of butter and a little flour, and give it one boll; then serve in one dish BILLS OF FARE Tur following bills of fare are introduced as a guide to housekeepers in selectin dishes for the table They can be varied to suit themselves JANUARY Pen soup, Remove.—Bolled rabbit smothered in onions, Mashed Stewed potatoes celery Roast leg of mutton, Bread-and-butter pudding Mince ples, Stewed pears Brace of partridges Minced mutton, browned, Fried potatoes, war nished with Broeoll plain boiled potatoes Cod's head and shoulder Remove Sirloin of beef Pumpkin pudding Preserved fruit ia tard glasses Hot apple tart. Glasses of cus Oyster ple. Jerusalem Potatoes, artichokes, mashed Leg of mutton Ground rice pudding Minced mutton, Sweet Mashed potatoes Pp statues Btewed beef-steaka, Remnant of pudding Hot apple tart PRESENCE OF MIND AND COMMON SENSE “Tr aman faint away," says /lall's Journal of Health, ‘Inetead of yelling out like a savage, or running to him to lift him up, lay him at full length on his back on the floor, loosen the clothing, push the crowd away, so ax to allow the air to reach him, and let him alone, Dashing water over @& person, in a simple falnting fit, is a bar barity The philosophy of a fainting fit ia that the heart falla to send the proper supply of blood to the Draln If the person ia erect, that blood has to be thrown up hill; bat if lying down, it has to be pro- jected horizontally, which requires leas power, as is apparent Ifa person ewallow polson deliberately or by chance, luestead of breaking out into multitudinous or incoherent exclumations, dispatch some one for the doctor Mean GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, while, run to the kitchen, get half a glass of water in anything that is handy, put into it a teaspoonful of salt and as mach ground mustard, stir it an instant, catch a firm hold of the person's nose, the month will soon fly open, then down with the mixture, and in a second or two up will come the poison, This will answer better, in & large number of cases, than any other, If, by this time, the physician has not arrived, make the patient swallow the white of an egg, followed by a cup of strong coffee, because these nullify a larger number of poisons than any other accessible articles, as antidotes for any polson that may remain in the stomach “If a limb or other part of the body is severely cut, and the blood comes out by spirts or Jerks, be ina hurry, or the man will be dead in five minutes; there Is no time to talk or send for a physician; say nothing, out with your handkerchief, throw it around the limb, tie the two ends together, put a atick through them, twist it around tiwhter and tighter until the blood ceases to flow But to atop it does no good, Why ? Because only a severed artery throws blood out In jets, and the arteries get their blood from the heart; hence, to stop the flow, the remedy must be applied between the heart and the wounded spot—in other words, above the wound If a vein had been severed, the blood would have flowed in a rewular stream, and, on the other hand, the the should be applied below the wound, or on the other aide of the wound from the heart, because the blood in the veins flows towards the heart, and there ls no need of so great a hurry." CAKES, ETC. Sunewencery Cakes.—Take a quarter of a pound of butter, well worked, mix it with a pound of brown sugar, one eeg well beaten, and as much flour as it will take to make it stiff. Roll it; then ent it with a tin mould, and bake the cakes in a slow oven, GiNGERBREAD.—One pound of flour, one pound of mo- lasses, & quarter of a pound of sugar, a quarter of a pound of butter, and half an ounce of ginger. Mix them well, drop on well buttered tins, and bake in a quick oven Jumoies.—Take a quarter of a pound of flour, a quar ter of a pound of powdered loaf-sugar, two ounces of butter, rubbed in the flour, two ounces of currants, two ecu, and @ small quantity of brandy. Drop them on Rice Buwa,.—Take a quarter of a pound of loaf-sugar, and beat well with two ewgs; then add a quarter of a pound of ground rice, and favor with any essence pre- ferred, Bake in drop tins Veny Nice Tart.—Boll apple as you would for puff; and boll, also, an equal quantity of pumpkin, and mash them well together. Add a few currants, and sugar and nutmeg to taste Bake with a light crust top and bot- tom. The pumpkin must be strained as dry as possible CALEDONTIAN CREAM. —Two teaspoonfuls of white sugar, one teaspoonful of raspberry jam, two whites of eggs, juice of one lemon; beat for half an hour, Serve up sprinkled with fancy biscuits Geaman Purva.—A quarter of a pound of almonds beaten very fine in a mortar with rose-water, «ix eggs well beaten, leaving out two of the whites, two spoon- fulx of flour, two ounces of butter, a little nutmeg, and eix ounces of sagar, all well mixed with a pint of cream, baked in buttered patty pans, served up with wine sauce

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RECEIPTS. PLAIN DINNERS FOR WINTER CunistTMas Dinnen.—Roast turkey, cranberry sauce, boiled ham, turnips, beets, Winter-squash ; mince pies New Year's Dinnen.—A roast goose with apple-sauce, a boiled turkey with oyster-sauce, smoked tongue, tur nips, cold-slaw, winter-squash; plum pudding Boiled ham, cabbage, beets, cold-slaw, hominy; ap- ple-ple. Chicken-ple, cold ham, turnips, beets, hominy; boiled batter pudding Pease soup, beefsteaks, onions, turnips, beets, cold slaw; baked rice pudding Roast goose with apple-sauce, turnips, beets, winter- equash; cranberry-ple Pork and beans, stewed fowl, winter-squash, turnips ; Eastern pudding, Salt codfish with onions and eggs, paranips, pigeon apple-ple Pickled pork with pease pudding, hominy, winter- dumplings, turnips, beets aquash ; molasses-ple Roast turkey with cranberry-sance, turnips, winter squash, saleify; custard pudding Pork ple with apples, oyster fritters, turnips, stewed pumpkin; boiled bread pudding Round of beef stewed, parsneps, kale-canon, carrots, turnips; baked Indian pudding Fried rabbits, cold beef, turnips, winter-squash, ho miny; bolled batter pudding Pot-ple, winter-squash, turnips, beets; pumpkin pud ding Boiled corn pork with Indian dumplings, stewed pumpkin, turnips; baked bread pudding Bean soup, beefsteaks, onions, turnips, winter-squash ; squash pudding Boiled stewed pumpkin, hominy ; leg of mutton with nasturtion sauce, turnips, pumpkin pudding Bolled ham, cabbage, winter-squash, hominy; dried peach-ple Roast fowls, turnips, winter-squash, salsify; cran berry-pie Roast-beef, horseradish, winter-squash, turnips, cold slaw pumpkin pudding Family soup, veal cutlets, turnips, winter-squash, parsneps, dried apple-ple Roast pork, apple-sauce, turnips, stewed pumpkin, parsneps; baked rice pudding Beefstenk pudding, fried ham and eggs, turnips, win ter-equash ; rice cust urd Bolled Carrageen | fowls, oyster fritters, turnips, winter-squash ancmange COOKERY FOR THE SICK Ir may be necessary to premise that a choice should be made of those things moat likely to agree with the patient, and, as invalids require variety to Indulge thelr appetite, frequent changes should be provided, but great simplicity observed in the preparation Perhaps jellies and meat brotha, together with various kinds of farina ceous food, are the lightest on the stomach, as well as, the most nutritions the sick ia and many who possess all the goods of fortune have at generally speaking A really good cook for rarely met with; tributed the first return of health to an appetite excited by what is called good kitchen phyate There is nota better occasion for charitable comm\isera A bit of meat or pad 7 * tion than when a person is sick ~IJ “I ding, sent unexpectedly, has often been the means of recalling A Goop & long-lost appetite four Lay them JRLLY Souk twelve snanke of mutton hours, then brush and scour them very clean in a saucepan with three blades of mace, an onion, twenty Jamaica and thirty or forty black peppers, a bunch of sweet herbs, and a crust of bread made very brown by toasting, Pour three quarts of water to them, and set them on a hot hearth, close covered; let them simmer as gently as possall for five hours, then strain it off, and put it in a cold place I} ive the ad dition of a pound of beef, if flavor Itisa remarkably good thing for people who are weak Sheep's heads and trotters are also good restoratives savory jelly may also be made in t caine manner, Without lemon, wine, or sugar, | flavored with ham and «piles Pork Jen.y.—Take a leg of wel I pork, just as ent up; beat it, and break the bone sot it ver a gentile fire with three gallons of water, and simmer t n Let half an ounce of mace and the same of nutm tew in it Sirain through a fine selve When cold, take off U fut Give # teacuptful the fret and last th noon, putting salt to taste, Baorn or Beer, Murrox, and Vira Put two pounds of lean beef, one pound of serag of veal, one pound of acrag of mutton, sweet herbs, and ten peppercorns, into A xancepan, with five quarts of water; simmer to three quarts, and clear off the fat when cold Add one onlon, if approved Soup or broth made of different meats ls more support in us Well as better favored To remove the fat, take it off when ¢ 1, as clean as possible and if there be «till any remaining, lay a bit of clean blotting-paper on the broth when in the basin aud it will take up every partich Or, if the broth ts wanted before there is time to let it get cold, put a plees of cork up the narrow end of a funnel, pour the broth into it, let it stand for a few m te and the fat will rise to the top; remove the cork, and draw off into a basin as much of the broth as is wanted, which will be perfectly free from fat Croicken Baorn may be made of any young fowl! which is afterwards to be brought to table; but the best sort to be procured from an leock or hen, which ta to be stewed down to rags, with a couple of on acasoned with salt and a little whole pepper; «kim and strain it und of emall es and set Ee them on with Baorn,—Clean half a px three pints of water, some par ley one slice of onion, a few peppercorns; let them simmer till the eels are broken, and the broth d, or reduced to a pint and a half, Add salt, and strain it off. It is very nutritious Beer Tea,—Cut one pound of fleahy beef in thin elicon; simmer with a quart of water an hour and a half after it has once boiled and been skimmed Season, if ap proved ; but it wants generally only a little salt An ewg beaten and mixed with a basin of milk, Kuae broken into a cup of tea, or makes a breakfast more supporting than tea alone Ik and white beaten An ewe divided, and the y nep rately, with a little wine put to each, will afford two very Wholesome draughts, and prove lighter than when taken together Kuwus very little boiled, or poached, taken in «mall quantity, convey much nourishment the yolk, only, when dressed, should be eaten by invalids

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MISCELLANEOUS, Soaps.—The best Windsor soap is made of about nine parts tallow to one of olive oil and soda lye. The scents or perfumes are al ways added during the melting. Lard is used for some kind of toilet soaps; they are very white and smooth, and frequently preferred for shaving. There is a great variety of soaps of this class with names, colors, and scents to please all the fancies of customers. Some of them are made with olive oil; and others are improved in appearance by being pounded in a mortar after the first process of making, and made up a second time. Soft soap is made with potash, lye, and oil. Soda is the alkali always used for hard soap, potash for soft soap. In this the lees is not separated after boiling, as with the other; and it is said that the making requires greater care and is more difficult. Two hundred pounds of oil, seventy-two pounds of potash, and the lye will The rank- est sort of oil is generally used, and the figlike appear- produce nearly five hundred pounds of soap ance of soft soap is caused by a small quantity of tallow being mixed with it and forming into small grains during the boiling. For the best sorts pure oils are used ; among them are poppy, linseed, cocoa-nut, almond, and olive oils. To CLraniry Drippine.—Set it on the fire in a clean pan, and, when melted and just going to boil, take it off and pour it into another pan half filled with boiling hot water; stir the two well together with a broad wooden spoon, and then remove the pan into a cool place till the next day, when the clarified dripping will be found floating on the surface of the water. BARLEY.—The best sort is that called Scotch barley, from which only the husk is removed. It is to be pre- pared in the same manner as rice, but takes much longer time to boil. It will not be properly tender in less than two hours, and another hour will not injure, but im- prove it. If plenty of time is allowed for boiling, a smaller quantity of barley will suffice than would be required of rice—say about one-third difference. To Cirayse GLoves witHovut Wertine.—Lay the gloves upon a clean board, make a mixture of dried full- ing earth and powdered alum, and pass them over on each side with a common stiff brush ; then sweep it off, and sprinkle them well with dry bran and whiting, and dust them well; this, if they be not exceedingly greasy, will render them quite clean; but if they are much soiled, take out the grease with crumbs of toasted bread and powder of burut bone; then pass them over with a woollen cloth dipped in fulling earth or alum powder; and in this manner they can be cleaned without wetting, which frequently shrinks and spoils them. To Scour Trick Corton CounTerPanes.—Cut a pound of mottled soap into thin slices, and put it into a pan with a quarter of an ounce of potash and an ounce of pearlash ; poura pail of boiling water on it, and let it stand till dissolved ; then pour hot and cold water into a scouring tub, with a bow! of the solution; put in the counterpane, beat it well, turn it often, and give it a second liquor as before, then rinse it in cold water; now put three teaspoonfuls of liquid blue into a thin liquor; stir it, and put in the counterpane; beat it about five minutes, and dry it in the air To Crean Goin Lace.—Gold lace is easily cleaned and restored to its original brightness by rubbing it with a soft brush dipped in roche alum burnt, sifted to a very fiue powder GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. To Scovr Carpets, Heartu-Rv@s, etc.—Rub a piece of soap on every spot of grease or dirt; then take a hard brush dipped in boiling water, and rub the spots well. If very dirty, a solution of soap must be put into a tub with hot water, and the carpet well beat in it, rinsing it in several clean waters, putting into the last water a tablespoonful of oil of vitriol to brighten the colors. OporiFEROUs WATER.—Take essence of ambergris, one drachm ; essence of musk, one drachm; essence of berga- mot, two drachms; oil of cloves, twenty drops; spirits of wine, six ounces; orange-flower water, four ounces ; distilled water, four ounces. Mix all together, and let them digest for a few days, at least a week, frequently shaking; then filter for use. To make Hominy Breap.—The hominy having been properly soaked, drain off the water, and add of fresh water seven and a half pints for each pound and a half of hominy, as weighed before soaking ; let this simmer for four hours—if boiled rapidly, it will become hard and never swell; the hominy will then be fit for stir- about or bread. For bread, mix it gradually with the flour, making the dough in the ordinary way, and add- ing yeast in rather more than the usual proportion. This bread will keep moist and good for a longer time than if made entirely of wheaten flour. To Preserve Eoas.—Fresh-laid eggs should have the shells buttered all over; then put them into a pan with layers of dry salt or bran between each layer. The small end should be downwards, and all must be closely covered to keep out the air, The eggs will be good for several weeks. Copyine Ferns.—The most perfect and beautiful copies imaginable of ferns, etc. may be made by thoroughly saturating them in common porter, and then laying them flat between white sheets of paper—without more pressure than the leaves of an ordinary book bear to each other—and let them dry out. CONTRIBUTED RECEIPTS. To Dress Rice.—A lady recommends the following: Soak the rice in cold salt and water for seven hours; have ready a stewpan with boiling water, throw in the rice, and let it boil briskly for ten minutes; drain it in a colander, cover it up hot by the fire for a few minutes, then serve. The grains will be found double the usual size, and quite distinct from each other. For a Covan.—Procure a small quantity of Peruvian bark at a chemist’s where you have reason to believe a genuine article may be obtained, and, on the very first symptoms of irritation of the throat, and disposition towards what is termed “ hacking,’’ chew a piece about the size of a bean; this will at once relieve; and, on re- currence of the symptoms, apply the same remedy. Two or three doses will cure. By always keeping a piece in my pocket, I have, throughout this winter, pre- vented a cough from proceeding beyond a day's growth, though I have been much exposed to the weather and evening air. SALTED Fisn.—A glase of vinegar put into the water you lay your fish in to soak will fetch out most of the salt. A Pian Crostarp.—Boil a pint of new milk, keeping a little back to mix with a tablespoonfal of flour; thicken the milk with the flour, let it cool a little, then add one egg well beaten: sweeten to taste; set it on the fire again, and stir until the egg turns, but do not let it boil. A little lemon or almond may be added wet y,

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ae ae ges Evitors’ Gable. We have reached another milestone on the great tho- roughfare of Time, and the round number 1860 is the new inscription on the title-page of our Book There is one—pleasure, we were about to write, but it is something better and sweeter than that word can express; it is the mingled sentiment of gratitude to God, who has thus blessed our efforts to do good, and love to our friends, who have cheered our hearts by their sym- pathy and support, that we enjoy while wishing our myriad readers a happy New Year. One very gratifying result of periodical literature is the relations it establishes between those who sustain it. It brings editors and readers into a closer com- panionship with each other than is ever felt by the authors and buyers of books. We are the confidential friends of our subscribers; we feel sure that those who, every month in the year, gather to our “ Table,” and press around our “ Arm-Chair,” would welcome us with heart and hand to their own happy homes, and that from every part of our land there will come to us a hearty cheer of response to our New Year greetings We need not, therefore, enter into any particulars Our friends require no promises for the future; they know that performance is sure, that the Lady’s Book is alwaysin the present tense, and that this number typifies the monthly issues for the year. But we may, without vanity, call attention to the engraver’s art, exhibited in the plates ; and as these pictures represent the ideas that govern the course of all the departments, we will give a short description of the intent of our illustrations. May those who admire their artistic beauty imitate the beauty of character those ideals are intended to portray, and, when the seasons have gone round, find that the lessons learned from our Book have made them better, as well as happier. Then the year 1860 will be to us and to our readers a glorious record of Time improved for ETERNITY. “THE PRESENTATION PLATE” AND “THE LIGHT OF HOME.” To dazzle let the vain design; To raise the thought and touch the heart be thine. Pope. Have you ever seen a lovelier group than the centre of our Presentation Pate exhibits? It showsa family of our friends. See Lady’s Book. of his wife and daughters ; how warmly they welcome the The father sympathizes in the pleasure the little girl has forgotten her doll in the excitement of the new pictures; and even the pet dog seems to know that some happy event has occurred, which he must not disturb. The scenes in the medallions at the four corners, repre- senting the four seasons, show woman in the innocent enjoyments of life, while still remembering her duties. Thus she is shown tending flowers in the spring, read- ing in the leisure hours of summer, gathering the ripe fruits in autumn, and bestowing charities that smooth the cold and bitter lot of poverty during the reign of winter. And then in Tre Licur or Howe is seen the perfection of womanhood. There isthe wife and mother, the centre of the family, the magnet that draws man to the domestic altar, that makes him a civilized being, a social Chris tian. The wife is truly the light of home, and if she will do faithfully the duties God has imposed on her condition, He will bless and sustain her. She is the teacher and inspirer of her children, and angels share or sympathize in her daily tasks Improvement and enjoyment are also the aims we fol- low in our editorial duties, seeking so to combine the utile dulci that both entertainment and profit may be found in our pages. This, the rule of our Book, we would propose as an aim in forming the character and guiding the pursuits of our sex Let there be a solid foundation of serious thought and firm principle, but be careful, at the same time, to cultivate that taste and re- finement which embellish life. It should be woman's part to soften the dark hours of gffliction and brighten the happy days of joy. God has gifted her with finer sensibilities and quicker fancy than are needful or suit- able to the harder and stronger sex. Women, therefore, step out of their own path when they attempt to encroach on the proper masculine pursuits; and, in doing so, they lose their own advantages, which are great—for God has been kind to His daughter, the “last, best work”’ of creation—and forsake their own duties, which are of paramount importance in society, without being able to perform those belonging to man. They thus become unhappy, undignified beings. It is for man to ‘shake the senate and the field,” to act his part before the world. Woman, at home and in the social circle, can be the inspirer and the exemplar of the most heroic virtues, and thus fit him and send him forth to his noblest work, the vindication of good, the suppression of evil, and the performance of high, heroic deeds. As an example of this last, the history of the Arctic expeditions in search of Sir John Franklin fur The history need not be repeated They know that, for the last eleven years, a succession of nishes ample proofs, here; it must be familiar to most of our readers efforts have been made by strong, brave men, and the greatest hardships and sufferings endured, in the peril- ous search over the frozen ocean of the North to find the lost commander and ships of that ill-fated expedition. But have they ever reflected on the important agency of Lady Franklin in those wonderfal scenes? This de- voted wife it was who, by her tender, faithful, self- sacrificing love, awakened and sustained the sympathy of the world in the fate of her husband. Not only her own friends and the British Government were moved to the search by her hopeful energy and constant efforts, but our nation responded to her earnest appeals, and the heart of the American people was stirred to its utmost depths by the gentle entreaties for help which a lonely woman, in her home beyond the Atlantic, breathed in her prayers for the restoration of her lost husband, Sir John Franklin. Obeying this noble impulse of sympathy with the heart of woman in her most sacred duties, our young countryman, Dr. Kane, performed those prodigies of daring action and calm suffering which have set his own name in the annals of imperishable renown. Yet

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80 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. his herole deeds were inspired by the heroic duties of Lady Franklir It was by the holy light which her truth in « wal love kindled that he was incited and led in the noble career of humanity which has made In short, the history of all the expeditions in search of Sir John Franklin, when justly written, will show ut Lady Franklin, the devoted wife, was the motin f r so to speak, which sent men forth to perform d ls of daring adventure and endure perils that exalt manl l And the last, the conquering voyage, was it not undertaken solely from sympathy with this faithful wife, wi has thus exemplified what power woman may timately wield in her own sphere It istrue thatan opportunity of such public recognition 1 ior to faithfulness in conjugal love will seldom occur, Great and dazzling qualities belong to but a mall number of the human family It is, however, in every Woman's power to be a comfort and help to her family Ss} can, if married, be a good wife, and make her husband a better and nobler man than he would be without her If a mother, she can form t character her na, nerve them with principles of ] y, patriot m, and honor, and send them forth in the world to do battle for the right, and take their places int tations in life where her physical weakness and moral tender- ness would unfit her to appear Every woman can, if she sincerely wish it, contribute to make the home in which she lives pleasanter and better for her presence, Let her cultivate what is agree ind cheerful, as well as exercise the sober duties of er position, and bear in mind that “the fruit of the Spirit [or piety] is love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentle ness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance.’’ Then she will be a mighty agent in promoting the beat good of society, and may join with angels in the sweet song of Peace on earth,.”’ FALSE PRETENCES LA Fowrtarne’s fable of the daw in the plumage of the peacock has lately been illustrated in the f y of a pre- te vider to the poetic art, who has sought to gain a place for his own name in the Lady's Book In the November number we inserted a poem entitled The Golden Ringlet sent us as original by a Mr. B H. Keyes A friend of ours, well qualified to judge, had examined the MSS., which, from ill health, we had not been able to read, and pronounced this poem—‘' The > Golden Ringlet’’—very good Indeed it is beautiful, but had we read it, we should have known the authorship, as it was written, years ago, by the late Mrs. Ameli Welby. What makes Mr. Keyes’ foolish attempt to gain celebrity an almost incredible act of stupidity as well as dishonesty, is that the poem in question may be found in the copy of ** Poems, by Amelia,"’ published by the Appletons, in 1850. He must have known that his false pretences would at once be discovered, and his stolen plumage torn off, like the daw’s inthe fable. We can- t imagine any motive, except that of such ardent ad- ration of the “Gol en Ringlet,’’ that, like the woman who, “out of pure love for religion,” as she said, stole ‘Tillotson’s Sermons,”’ he was incited to the theft by his love for the Poems of Amelia Poor man! thus to attempt covering his donkey head with the laurels of a woman's genins! Little did he foresee what a storm of wrath this sacrilege of the la- mented dead would call forth from her friends and ad mirers who shrine her memory in their heart of hearts We American women are all prond of the genius of our ‘“‘AmMeLIA;" but, very naturally, those of the South d West, where she had her birth-place and her home, may feel that they have the right to guard her poetic fum Still the whole country claims her, honors her, as the many letters sent us from every point of the compass, complaining of the indignity done to her memory by this theft of her poem, would prove. We should like to make extracts from these impassioned letters, showing how poetic genius is loved and honored, and how widely the writings of Mrs, Welby are circulated ; but we have not room, Still we must say that we cannot “ agree with these fair champions in calling this an ‘at- tack’? upon ‘ Amelia’’ or her fame. On the contrary, though the affair be a shame to E. H. Keyes, it is, in fact, a homage to Mrs, Welby. It proves that the flowers of her fancy, wherever they are dropped, arrest attention by their beauty, and are at once placed in a situation to be admired, that time does not fade them, that their value does not depend upon a name, but that, even thrown out at random, they are carefully gathered up and placed among the proudest and most beautiful pro- duections of American genius. The editress of the Lady . Book is glad of this opportunity of repeating the opinion she expressed years ago, in her work on woman*—that Amelia’ ranks among the first of American poetesses, There are poems of hers possessing, with the graceful ease and perfect finish of the best writers, such exquisite tenderness of feeling that they would move the heart of the most prosaic reader to the love of her poetry, This poem of “The Golden Ringlet’’ has such touches. In short, Mra. Amelia B. Welby possessed the high gift of poetic genius, united with refined delicacy of taste and the loveliest attributes of a living woman. THE LADIES’ MOUNT VERNON ASSOCIATION, We make one more appeal on behalf of this Union Association, The question now is, shall the Women of America take possession of Mount Vernon, which they have purchased, and keep it in the condition that will do honor to our country? A lady of Massachusetts, who has labored arduonusly and successfully in collectiug funds, thus states, clearly and sensibly, her opinion concerning the course to be pursued in future collections, She calls on the rich Fifty thousand dotlars are needed, The interest on this sum, safely invested, would be snfficient to enable the Regent to sustain the charge of Mount Vernon, and, on a very moderate scale, go on with the most necessary improvements, We quote from the lady's letter:— ** At all events, the purchase-money has been collected for Mount Vernon; and if the last payment is not made by Miss Cunningham to Mr. John A. Washington, it is because that lady is unwilling to take on herself the re- sponsibility and expenditure of possession, without the requisite funds to begin necessary repairs, some slight alterations only having been attended to during the past season, with the permission of the present incumbent. ‘What is lightly won goes lightly, it is said; but the purchase-money of Mount Vernon is associated with personal sacrifices on the part of those women who have acted as collectors, so great as to insure its prudent use and careful keeping. It has been gathered in Massa- chusetts from the hard-handed laborer and the school- child—from the old woman ‘who remembered Washing- * “Biographical Dictionary of Distinguished Women, ete.’’ Published by the Harpers. TO i atedioc teen oI

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rer ene EDITORS’ ton,’ and from the young girl who sacrificed her vanity on the altar of feeling. Occasionally, and in response to personal appeals which could not gracefully be set aside, the gifts of the wealthy cheered the dim prospect; but, in general, the purchase-money may be said to be the gift of the poorer classes—certainly of persons of limited means and with heavy demands on their purses. ‘With physical suffering and destitution calling daily on their sympathies, it cannot be expected that appeals for all objects purely patriotic will fall otherwise than coldly ontheear. The portion, possibly the tithe, which they have set aside for charitable purposes they do not choose to encroach on for other uses ; and, after receiving the mites of such persons, it is as unsuitable as it is use- sess to ask them for more, even for the purpose of pre- nerving theirown gift. There is also a certain diffidence, or, it might be called, a sense of propriety, which makes it difficult to ask funds for an object, the worth of which would seem to be equally clear toall. Yet we must and ought to count on the generous impulses of the rich in cases like this, From those to whom much ts given it is required that their gifts be cast freely into the treasury of patriotism, taste, and gratitude. “The grave of Washington is bought. His house and home are the property of the American nation. That nation delights to honor the name of Washington, to celebrate him, to erect statues of him, to eulogize him It loves his memory Will it be contented to call those ‘walls salvation and those gates praise,’ while the tan- gled grass lies dry over his grave, and the walls moulder? Will the country be willing to own Mount Vernon only asa ruin?” Thus earnestly are the rich entreated to sustain this patriotic enterprise of the Women of America. Will there be a warm response, and the necessary funds con- tributed? We hope so; but lest the ladies should be disappointed in this, we will make an appeal to our own friends,* the Free Masons, in the following :— THE FREEMASONS’ HYMN, WRITTEN FOR A MASONIC CELEBRATION, Revised and now Dedicated to the Freemasons of the United States on behalf af the Mount Vernon Ladies’ Associa tion of the Union, We've met the mystic bond to own, And hallowed rites to goodness pay, Father of light, before Thy throne, Oh, may our prayers ascend this day! We praise Thy power—it was Thy word Formed this fair world, and bade man live; We bless Thy mercy when he erred, That Thou couldst ransom and forgive. And Thou the light of Truth has shed To guide the wand'rer’s steps to Thee, And wide the page of Wisdom spread, And breathed the charm of charity. Oh, welcome as the smile of spring, And pure as tear of summer eve Is Charity, whose hand doth bring A healing balm for hearts that grieve. * The editress of the Lady's Book feels she may ad- dress as friends the Order with whom her husband was associated, and by whom he was honored. Mr. Hale was, at the time of his decease, Master of a Lodge, an officer in the Grand Lodge of New Hampshire, and a member of the Order of Knight Templars. TABLE, 81 And we are pledged a Brother Band To love her law, to do her deeds ; We've vowed, and palsied be the hand That hoards its gold when Misery pleads The world beholds, with curious gaze, The jewels of our ancient fame ; But Virtue lends the brightest rays That keep from death the Mason's name And one--the world will ne'er forget His glories gained, his duties done— One peerless name with ours is set, The immortal name of Washington! To woman's love his dust is given; His patriot virtues would we share, Our Country, Union, Faith in Heaven— Be these our Anchor and our Prayer The rainbow spans the gloomy cloud, W hile fearful hearts the token bless; And thus, above life’s jarring crowd, Our arch should ever whisper ** peac: SARAH JosePuA HALe Wasninaton Nationa Monument, now in course of erection in the City of Washington We have re ceived a well-written communication on this subject, and shall devote special attention to the matter next month, Miss 8. J. Haue’s Boarnpina and Day Scnoorn ror Youna Lapres, 922 Spruce Street, Philadelphia, reopened on Monday, September 12th This school is designed to give a thorough and liberal English education, to furnish the best facilities for ac quiring the French language, and the best instruction in music and the other accomplishments, An accom plished French teacher resides in the family, and also an excellent teacher of music, who gives her personal attention to pupils while practising. The moral train ing and the health and physical development of the scholars are carefully attended to References } Mra, Emma Willard, Troy, N. Y.; Henry Vethake, LL.D., Wm. B. Stevens, D.D., Wm. H. Ash hurst, Exq., Louis A, Godey, Esq., Philadelphia; Charles Hodge, D. D., Princeton, N. J To ovr Cornresponpents.—The following articles are accepted; “Marian May"’—To Louisa’— “A Tale of the old Church Bell'’'—‘‘ Art Thou Watching o'er Me, Mother ?"’—* Enigmas—Two Pictures’’—‘‘ Moral Seed- Sowing"’—* Evangeline’’—* Charade’’—" Early Dawn" —*The Dead Dove'’—“ I Love Her’ —* Will I ever For- get Thee?'’— By-Gone"’—*" Poetry of Common Life’'* —‘'*My only Lover’’—and “ Cosmolia."’ The following articles are not needed at present: ‘To Nellie, of Baltimore’ —“ Versification’’—‘* Winter” — ** Life’s Sorrows’’—" The Dying Boy"’—** Home's Bright Visions’’—** A New Year's Dreams’'—* The Sea”. —"* The Snow-Storm’’—‘‘ The Pet Bird’’—*“ Shadows are Gather- ing’’—** My first Love’—‘‘ A Long Time ago”’—* Loving * We should like to hear again from “ Enul We should also like to hear from the author of ‘“‘ By the Graves of my Kindred,” and see his promised story The author of ‘The Maiden’s Home” and the printed poems accompanying it has a happy talent of versifica tion, and a cheerful, hopeful spirit, She needs to study her subjects more; but this she will do, if she continue to write. Her articles will be returned, if stamps are sent,

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too Well The Last Survivor’’—“ Tales of the Square Table not all chivalric) —“ Truth in Little Things’’— Great | ts are before us’’—*‘* Winter is Here and I Beehive.”” We have other articles on hand that w bet rted next month Mrs, C. O, B.—They appear to be liked, Health Department. BY JNO. BSTAINBACK WILSON, M.D. Intense Mentan Application. Liont tense ay cation of the mind interrupts free breathing, | prevents full expansion of the lungs. Hence, writers i literary persons should sedulously use every means caleulated to counteract the tendency to contraction of t chest and consequent diminution of vitality. And ild be remembered that imperfect respiration is not only the result of abstruse investigations, but also species of light reading so common among ladies, In this kind of reading, the feelings are skilfully wrought p to a high state of excitement, by the writer, until the breathing is almost entirely suspended by anxiety, sus- pense, and other emotions awakened by the thrill story, in which the mighty passions of love, anger, re- morse, revenge, ete. are so vividly depicted as to steal way our consciousness and make us forget that it is all a dream of fancy. Bap Posrrioxs.—These are often associated with in- tense mental application, and they are then particul: arly i trious. Persons who are in the habit of writing or reading with the body bent forward, are exposed to the combined influence of two causes of deformity and con- tracted chest that no constitution can long withstand These bad positions prevent the free expansion of the ungs by compressing the chest and interfering with the DinecTions FoR THE SEDENTARY.—Those who are ne- cessarily compelled to sit much should, ij f possible, have intervals devoted to exercise: and this exercise should be as prolonged and vigorous as their bodily strength will allow; and, if it be so that they cannot spare any considerable and fixed time for exercise, they should frequently arise from their seats and bring the muscles f the chest and abdomen intoaction by widely extend- ing thearma, by elevating them, by moving them rapidly d foreibly backward and forward, and by throwing the shoulders back, at the same time inhaling as much ras the lungs can possibly contain, and then “ breath ir mat’? slowly Running upa flight of stairs, at the aan time | ling the breath, is a most excellent and vailable mode of expanding the lungs, recommend: by Dr. Ha n his late excellent work, ‘‘ Health and Another mode of expanding the lungs, sug ested by the same writer, and one acceptable to all, is t blow up” or fill life-preservers, bags, ete., by blow- nto them In the absence of any such things, the t might be very wel nflated by drawing in the breath f land long, and then tI “ w into the « ed hand The advantawe of these mod ethat the lungs are very powerfully distended by t expansion of the . lraw to th 1, the t ' cy of heat rhis r irt urivitr f the rus g p-stairs mode whi we ¢ ler a most happy idea The above d GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. vital importance to health of well filled and well devel- oped lungs. N part of the sedentary, arises more from indisposition to exertion, than from want of time and opportunity. In such persons this indisposition is almost insuperable ; giect of these simple and accessible measures, on the and nothing can overcome it except a firm, ever-present conviction that health and life are the prizes to be ob- tained by breaking the fatal spell of indolence. The fact is, where one is subjected to unavoidable disease from confinement, there are hundreds of thousands who igno- rantly or wilfully neglect the means of counteracting the evils to which they are exposed from the nature of their occupation DIRECTIONS FOR THOSE WHO HAVE MORE LEIsuRE.—The above directions are intended more particularly for the sedentary and for the toiling millions who have to labor for their daily bread. Those who have more leisure may exercise the muscles of the chest, arms, and abdo- men, and thus increase the breathing capacity, by throw- ing weights, by grasping something above the head and then raising the body by the arms, ete. The latter is a most excellent mode of exercising the breathing mus- c , and it should not be rejected because it may look a little unladylike for a grown woman to hang herself up by the arms, child-fashion. Every one can have a small ladder or something of the kind in her room, and, in the absence of anything else, she can suspend herself by grasping the top of the door, These motions should be practised every morning at least; and those who take but little outdoor exercise, and who are so fortunate, or, rather, unfortunate, as not to be compellea to labor, will find these lung-expanding and health-promoting exercises much better for them, in every way, than any piano practice. In addition to these special means of expanding the chest, every woman who desires health and happiness should take as much outdoor exercise as circumstances will permit. WomEN SHouLp Not SupMit TO RestRAInts.—No false notions of gentility or propriety, no unreasonable sub- serviency to public opinion: should deter any woman from engaging in sports or exercises that will increase the size of her lungs, and fill them with an abundance of pure health-giving and life-sustaining air; for, after all, many of the restraints imposed on women are absurd, id and should therefore be disregarded ; for what if upper- unreasonable, at structive in their effects on health, tendom does sneer, and what if moustached, Frenchified dandies do call you vulgar! You have a natural and inalienable right “to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,"’ and the danghters of the heroes of '76 should sternly resist any tampering with their birthright, and especially by a brainless set of fools and simpering jack daws, who would sacrifice life toa shoe-buckle, if fashion so decreed ¢ to stem Should there be any who have not the cour the tide of fashionable folly, and to seek health at all hazards, we particularly commend to them the special means of developing the breathing muscles, which may be used in private Yet we must be permitted to add that no compromise should be made with error, and that no woman who takes a proper view of things will make any concessions, when the senseless requisitions n confiict with the high and sacred of fashion come bligations of health. Better, far better to be considered unfashional snd even vulgar than to spend a few sad ed misery, and then to sink into an early Li

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LITERARY Witerarp Dlotices. Books BY MAit.—Now that the postage on printed matter is so iow, we offer our services to procure for our subscribers or others any of the books that we notice, Information touching books will be cheerfully given by inclosing a stamp to pay return postage. When ordering a book, please mention the name of the publisher. From T. B. Pererson & Brorners, Philadelphia :— LIZZY GLENN; or, the Trials of a Seamstress. By T. 8. Arthur, author of “‘ Love in a Cottage,” “ Love in High Life,” ete known as a writer of the most excellent moral and in- Mr. Arthur is already so universally structive tales that the simple announcement of a new book from his pen is sufficient, without adding a word incomment. The world is greatly indebted to him and others of the same class for light literature of so pure and high atone. Price paper, $1 00; cloth, $1 25. THE OLD STONE MANSION, son, author of ‘“* Kate Aylesford,” “* Cruising in the Last War,” “The Valley Farm,” ‘Grace Dudley,” ete. A very interesting and readable book, as all of Mr. Peter- By Charles J. Peter- son’s are. Mr. Peterson is a modest, but zealous con- tributor to the literature of his country ; his having for its object the faithful and just representa- tion of the national characteristics, in public or private life. Price $1 25. PETERSON’S EDITION FOR THE MILLION OF THE WRITINGS OF CHARLES DICKENS. No. 9. * by “Boz.” We again call attention to this series, one number of which is issued each week Contain- ing ‘Sketches,’ nl Price 25 cents a number, or $5 00 for the complete set of twenty-eight parts. AMERICAN NOTES Peterson are untiring in their endeavors to place good By Charles Dickens. Messrs. reading within the reach of all. This is one of a series of fourteen v all the works of ** Boz.” ylumes, each complete in itself, containing Paper bound, 50 cents, From Harper & Brorners, New York, through Perer- s0oN & Broruers, Philadelphia:— WOMEN ARTISTS IN ALL AGES AND COUNTRIES By Mrs. Ellet, author of ‘‘The Women of the American Revolution,” ete. This volume contains sketches of the lives and the works of more than two hundred female artista, commencing with the daughter of Dibutades, of Corinth, who lived about the middle of the seventh cen- tury before Christ, and concluding with a biography and some account of the works of Miss Hosmer, in 1858 Price $1 00 HARRY LEE; or, Hope for the Poor. With eight illus- trations, This book was written in aid of the friends of humanity, who have exerted themselves in finding homes in the West for the newsboys and other abandoned and neglected children who lead a precarious and dissolute life in the city of New York HARPER'S LIBRARY OF SELECT NOVELS. No. 213 SWORD AND GOWN: A Novel Price 75 cents By the author of “Guy Livingstone Price 25 cents From D. Arpieron & Co., New York, through Perer 60N & Broruens, VPhiladelphia:— REYNARD THE FOX Aft Goethe By Thomas James Arnold Esq With illr trations from the Dp nus of Wilhelm von Kaulbach er the German Version of every effort of NOTICES. 83 This is an elegant volume, printed on hot-pressed paper, splendidly bound, and filled with quaint illustrations LOSS AND GAIN; or, Margaret's Home By Alice B Haven. The readers of the Lady's Book are familia: ¢ with the writings of Mrs. Haven. Therefore, it is almost needless to say that she ranks among the first lady writers of the day. Her characteristics are truthfulness and simplicity of style. Price 75 cents THE CHILDREN’S PICTURE GALLERY from one hundred Paintings by eminent English Artists, Engraved adapted for the Young. We have not seen a prettier gift for the holidays than this The pictures themselves are not in the finest style of art, but they will, neverthe- less, afford many hours’ entertainment to the little ones Price $1 50. From Dexsy & Jackson, New York, through Prrer- son & Broruers, Philadelphia :— THE MINISTER'S WOOING. By Harriet Beecher Stowe A tale of early New England lif It has al- ready gained popularity in the pages of the Atlantic Monthly. Price $1 25. From Rupp & CARLETON, New York, through Prrer- son & Brornenrs, Philadelphia POEMS, By Susan Archer Talley, of Virginia. This sinall volume compr s many meritorious productions, while some of the pieces are really poetic gems THE ADVENTURES OF MR. VERDANT GREEN By Cuthbert Bede, B. A one With nearly three hundred numerous illustrations by the Three volumes ir author, This book is bound to become popular in this country. Its success was great in England, having there met with a sale of nearly ninety thousand copies. Price 75 cents. From GG. Evans, Philadelphia :— A BUDGET OF HUMOROUS POETRY; comprising Specimens of the Best and most Humorous Productions of the Popular American and Foreign Poetical Writers of the Day. By the author of the “ Book of Anecdotes’’ and “Budget of Fun.’”’ This is really a valuable col- lection of poems. It contains selections from the works of Hood, Moore, Southey, Saxe, Holmes, and others of equal celebrity. Price $1 00. From James CnaALuen & Son, P HISTORY OF INDEPENDENCE HALL, from the Ear- liest Period to the Present Time Embracing Biographies of the Immortal Signers of the Declaration of Indeper hilade Iphia — ence, with Historical Sketches of the Sacred Relies | served in that Sanctuary of American Freedom By D W. Belisle every lover of his country and reverer of the names and Price #1 25 A book that will commend itself at once to memory of its fathers, From Hamweuin & Co,, Philadelphia :— WILD SCENES ON THE FRONTIER; or, Heroes of the West b, Emerson Bennett, author of Clara More land,’ ** Prairie Flowe1 “The A « ection of stories of border life, neatly printed and Artist's Brid ete, ete finely illustrated From CuHaries Scripnern, New York, through J. B Lippixcort, Philadel phia:— GOLD FOIL; Hammered from Popular Proverbs. By Timothy Titeomb, author of * Letters to the Young,” et This is a collec fessays on moraland t us #ut ‘ which will be read w pleasur |

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54 EDITH, THE BACKWOODS GIRL. A story for Girls. By Mrs. L. C. Tuthill, author of “ Queer Bonnets," “ 1"! be a Lady ete. The plot of this book is rather singu lar, and, we might add, somewhat improbable; but the story is interesting, as all of Mrs. Tuthill's are From G. P. Putyam, New York, through J. B. Lirpiy- coTt & Co., Philadelphia :— AT HOME AND ABROAD. A Sketchbook of Life, Scenery, and Men. By Bayard Taylor. Toa great ma- jority of readers this will prove the most attractive of Bayard Taylor's productions, as it embodies the more interesting events of his career as a traveller, from early youth tothe present time. In fact, it is the condensed autobiography of a gentleman who occupies a position in the world of adventure and literature not often at- tained Price $1 25. From Suetpon & Co,, New York, through Samve. Hazzanp, Jr., Philadelphia:— LIFE OF JULIUS CASSAR. By Henry G. Liddell, D. D., Dean of Christ Church, Oxford Another volume of the neat and convenient household library of which Messrs. Sheldon & Co, are the publishers, and Mr. O. W. Wight is the editor Price 50 cents LIFE OF VITTORIA COLONNA. By T. Adolphus Trollope The book is of the same size and style as the one last mentioned, and, like it, belongs to the *‘ house- hold library’ of biographies of great men and women. Price 50 cents From T. 0. H. P. Berxuam, Boston, through Samus. Hazarp, Jr., Philadelphia :— SELP-EDUCATION ; or, The Means and Art of Moral Progress. Translated from the French of M. le Baron Degerando. By Elizabeth P. Peabody. Third edition, with additions, Price $1 25, From J. E. Tinton & Co., Boston :— LIFE’S MORNING; or, Counsels and Encouragements for Youthful Christiana, By the author of “ Life’s Eve- ning,”’ “Sanday Hours,” ete. ete. The excellent advice and fervid admonitions of this volume cannot fail to make a deep impression on the hearts of all well-dis- posed Christian readers. We commend it for its simple and uny ending excellence, for its sincerity, and its consistency with the meekness and the charity of the Gospel Price $1 00. From Ticknon & Fienps, through Samcrt Hazarp, Jn., Philadelphia THE MONEY-KING, and other Poems. By John G, Saxe. This ia a handsome volume, containing more than forty of the author's varied productions, This is all we feel bound to say in favor of a book, the author of which in so Well Known and appreciated as a man of genius, from Maine to the shores of the Pacifie Price 75 centa, From Marnew & Baxen, Boston, through Gaui & Vornmen, Philadelphia THE SEA OF ICE; or, The Arctic Adventurera, By Percy LB. St. John. This book was published in Eng land, under the title of the “Arctic Crusoe,”” and we think it would have been better had it been allowed to retain that title, the author having taken the idea of his work from the old “ Robinson,” which he has carried out mont successfully, but with “new scenery and deco ratio The volume has many illustrationa, and will, bo doubt, be popular among youthful readers and stay GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. at-home explorers of the northern regions. Price 75 centa, From Gou.p & Lixcony, Boston :— LEADERS OF THE REFORMATION; Luther, Calvin, Latimer, Knox, the Representative Men of Germany, France, England, and Scotland By John Turloch, D.D., Principal and Primarius Professor of Theology, St. Mary's College, St. Andrew's, author of ‘* Theism (Bunet Prize Treatise), ete. The work before us is re- plete with interest; familiar facts are here shown in their important consequences, and thus invested with new importance. Those who desire to get valuable in formation on the subjects of this book will find it a mine of instruction, A COMMENTARY, EXPLANATORY, DOCTRINAL, AND PRACTICAL, ON THE EPISTLE TO THE EPHE- SIANS. By R. E. Pattison, D. D., late President of Wa- terville College. This is a work of much importance at this time, and seems calculated to do great good, in set- tling some of the questions which have perplexed the minds and consciences of many earnest Christians in our land. The nineteenth Lesson, on the * Duties of Servants and Masters,”’ ought to be read in every family. The spirit and execution of the work are eminently catholic and evangelical, From Browy, Loomis & Co., New York :— CHANTICLEER; a Thanksgiving Story. By Corne lius Mathews. This is a very interesting and amusing story ; adapted to the season, and really deserving of its place as the pioneer volume of the “ Illustrated Classics, which the publishers are now adding to the “ Household Stories,’ already popular. The author of this * Thanks- giving Story’ displays warm patriotism and playful fancy, uniting wisdom and wit, and a knowledge of character which only genius and true feeling can giv: The book is handsomely got up; the colored frontispiece is a gem of its kind, We have learned to welcome the packages of the Pro TESTANT Eptacopant SunpAY Scnoon Unton, assured that all their publications are useful, and many of them have rare merit. Asa holiday gift suited to school-girls, we notice ELLIE RANDOLPH, by Miss Kitty J. Neely, a volume approaching the single tales of Miss Yonge in size, and which has for its purpose the illustration of the trut! that those who choose “the good part’ with Mary a complish, by their quiet and consistent lives, more than Martha with her busy spirit and many cares, It is a story of Southern life, the characters well drawn, the aim of the book gradually unfolded, and the scenes touching or spirited, as the occasion demands, The whole tone of the book is admirable, Miss Neely is the sister of Mra, Bradley, whose Bread upon the Waters" and “ Douglass Farm" are known to many of our readers CHRISTMAS VIGILS and CHRISTMAS EARNINGS are two excellent little stories for younger children With some of the HYMNS FOR A CHRISTIAN CHILD our own little people have before this been made fami liar, They are intended for quite young children * Little children must be quiet, When to holy chureh they go," “The Christmas Hymn," and “Do no Sinful Action,” are among thelr favorites LITTLE FOOTPRINTS ta the suagestive title of « tonching little story of the life and death of ‘a Chria- tian ehild,”’

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GODEY’'S Goden's Arm-Chair, Gopry ror Janvary.—We need hardly say that we We did the same we do it for every number in the year. Our object is to excel, not in one have done our best for this number. for December ; We can't help it. number alone, but in every number. We have given in three consecutive numbers nine steel engravings. There is no other publication that gives more than six, and this is the way that we mean to carry everything above our contemporaries for the whole year. Please compare the engravings, both in number and quality, with any other magazine in America, England, or France. They have nothing like the Lady's Book, either here or across the water. One such plate as our tide—which is an original design, as is also the first plate—would be enough for many magazines the whole year; and then to think that we give one as good in every number, and sometimes Is it any wonder that the circulation of the Lady's Our two! Book exceeds that of any magazine in the world? “ Title’ and “The Light of Home’’ surpass by far any- thing that has appeared in the English annuals; and heartache our fashion, ‘The Bride,’’ will be a certain to bachelors. Then, the plate of purses, etc. cannot be equalled, The “First Fall of Snow” is singularly at- tractive and appropriate to the season Over Lrreratrre.—Marion Harland, author of “ Hid- den Path,”’ “ Alone,”’ ‘‘ Moss Side,”’ ete., who writes for contributes to this Miss Slimmens, that delightful old maid, again appeals to her no other magazine, number friends, and we are sure that all our subscribers will wish that her boarders may continue to the end of the year. Mrs, nothing that not be printed in letters of gold, greets her friends with Haven, who writes might a new story. Miss Janvrin and Miss Townsend, both decided favorites with the readers of Godey, also appear in the January number, with many others that our readers may see at a glance are worthy of their notice. We wish our 150,000 subscribers, one and all, the com- pliments of the season and a happy and prosperous New Year. For thirty years have we sent this, our annual greeting. Let every one now subscribe toGodey. The present will be the great year; Godey culminates in 1860. Such en- There can be no magazine We ability to make the best magazine, we have always done Look cravings and literary matter! that will in any way compare with it. have the it, and we mean to maintain our proad supremacy. at our terms, Wr ask attention to the advertisement in this number The plate of ‘Shak- speare and his Friends’ is really superb, and worth at least $10. They ordered, having an immense number of plates printed in advance; and we don't know any better way—al ways excepting @ subscription to the Lady's Book—of invest- ing $3. of the Cosmopolitan Art Union are prepared to send off now as soon as Taert or “Tae Go_pen Riva.er,’"’—Our readers will Ond this subject discussed in the Editors’ Table Towns, County, aAxp Stats.—Do not forget to put all these in every letter you write. You do not kaow how much trouble it would save us, VOL. LX.~ ¥® ARM-CHAIR, 85 A LIST OF ARTICLES WE CAN SUPPLY Goner's Bijou Needle-Case, containing 100 very superior Diamond Drilled Eyed Needles. Price 25 cents, and one three cent stamp to pay postage, except to Califoraia, Ore gon, or the British Provinces; for either of these places a ten cent stamp must be sent Godey's Pattern-Book of Embroideries Fresh Fruits all the year round, at Summer Prices, aud Price 25 cent« how you may getthem. Price 12 cents Every Lady her own Shoemaker. With diagrams, Price 60 cents. Thirty of the most approved Receipts for Summer Bev« rages. Price 12 cents Gallery of Splendid Engravings, from Pictures by the first Masters. Price 560 cents each; four numbers now ready The Book of the Toilet. Price 25 cents, How to Make a Dress. Price 25 cents The Nursery Basket; or, a Help to those who Wish to Help Themselves. With engravings. Price 50 ceuts Mrs. Hale's new Cook-Book ings. Price $1 00. Mrs. Hale's 4545 Receipts for the Million. Twelve in a box With numerous engray Price $1 25 Godey's Curl Clasps. Nos. 1, 2, and 8. Price 75 cents, which covers the postage, except to California, Oregon, or the British Provinces, The price to cover postage to either of these places is, on No. 1, $1 20; on No. 2, #1 30; on No. 3, $1 50 Godey's Hair Crimpers. Each box contains twelve, of various sizes. Price 75 cents a box, which covers the postage, except to California, Oreyon, or the British Prov- inces. The price to cover postage to either of these places is $1 20 Godey's Copying Paper, for copying Patterns of Embroi- Price dery, ete. Each package contains several colors. 25 cents A ten cent stamp will be required to prepay postage on this to California, Oregon, or the British Prov- inces. BoarpMAN, Gray & Co. have taken another premium at the New York State Fair, at Albany. Their cottage pianos, which they furnish for $150, took a special first premium. These are really superb instruments. Tre best #3 00 and the best $2 00 monthly are offered one year for $3 60—Godey'’s Lady's Book and Arthur's Home Magazine. Dr Grornata.—The press throughout the country are noticing the admirable Joun 8, Witsox, or CoLumera, health articles that this gentleman contributes monthly to the Lady's Book We under- stand the Doctor is about to bring out a work, “The Woman's Home-Book of Health.’ It will be the beat work on the subject ever published, They are very popular Tuene seems to be but one opinion on the part of the press, that the Lady's Book js the most proper present to make at this season of the year from a husband to a wife, a father to his daughter, or a lover to his lady-love. In- deed, the Port Byron Times goes farther, and says :— “Any man, in easy circumstances, who will refuse to take this book for his wife, his daughter, or his sister, is not a good husband, father, or brother It is the only book in the Union #o thoroughly adapted to, and designed for, the interest and benefit of the lt tw * The Book of the Nation, and the Arta Union of America.'" lady reader Ovurnagnors.—The hoops worn by girls who work in factories, They outhvop all; they are really atrocious

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86 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, Ovr Mostc, and Musicat CortrarsvtTors.—We are glad to know that the music in the Lady’s Book gives greater satisfaction at the present time than ever before in its history. The high standard we have adopted is widely appreciated ; as the talent which we have called in to our aid is of the very first character. We have only to say that the music for the new year will be even supe- rior to any we have yet published. For the February number we have a novelty in pre- paration; a beautiful Italian Barcarole, “‘Invito al Mare,”’ with English adaptation by C. Everest, Esq., arranged expressly for the Lady's Book. Will our lady readers please bear in mind that this little gem cannot be purchased at the music stores at any price? The English words to the title, “In My Swift Boat Come, Dearest,’’ will give the piece a double attractiveness. Professor Edward Ambuhl, whose classical composi- tions are now among the recognized features of our mu- sical department, will furnish the piece for the following month, “The Mingo Polka.” This will appear in March. For the April number we have in hand a delightful little song by a well-known composer, who, however, now makes his first appearance in the Book. It is en- titled “O’er my heart a sadness stealing.” Words and musi¢c written and composed by J. H. McNaughton, Esq. The following pieces we are compelled to decline: “Spring Birds’ Carol,” “The Godey Quadrilles’’—not quite up to the standard, and deficient in any special new musical idea. “I do not ask thy love’’—move- ment good, but most wretchedly written out; and we have not time to correct it. Have written the author. “The Ingle-Side,”’ newly arranged. We prefer music that has not before been used, and would like to see one of the songs, Mr. P.’s own composition. “Stars in the Midnight” is too long, by half. A single forethought might teach any one that we cannot crowd six pages of music into two; neither can we take time to condense or correct, as we are often asked to do. The words, “Gently Flow, Neshamany,”’ we have handed over to cne of our best composers, capable of doing them justice. The result will duly appear in the Beok. Other pie-es are deferred to next month. J. Stark Ho.itowar. CrANetne Prom OrneR Macazines.—Of course, it is gratifying to us to receive subscribers who prefer the Lady's Book to the “one We have just given up,” and we feel grateful for their kind praise, but we cannot allude more openly to the magazines they exchange from. They are, we know, naturally indignant at the impositions that have been practised upon them, but then the consolation is that they have bought their experience. La Prerre House, Par.ape.pnia.—This continues to be the leading hotel in Philadelphia. If it were twice the size, it would constantly be filled. The Messrs. Ward are very popular, and most deservedly so, for they are emphatically gentlemen. PortaBLe Hayp-Booxs or Games :— Moxpur'’s Match Games; being a full and accurate account of his great success abroad. By Charles Henry Stanley. Price 38 cents. Elements of Draughts; or, Beginner’s Sure Guide. Every principle separately explained. Price 38 cents. Chess-Player’s Instructor; or, Guide to Beginners. By Charles Henry Stanley. Price 38 cents. The above are published by R. M. De Witt, New York, and are excelient works on their respective subjects. —$—. Make UP rour Ci.uBs.—Remember that the Lady's Book is the best work for ladies published in this country. We have more than one thousand private letters testifying to this fact, and the press throughout the country is unanj- mous in saying that the Lady’s Book is the best magazine of its kind in this or any other country. The difference jp the club price of the Lady’s Book and that of other maga- zines is only a few cents, and for these few cents you get nearly one-third more reading and engravings, beside other more expensive embellishments that a low-priced magazine cannot afford to give. Clubs must be for the Lady's Book alone, with one exception, and that is “Ar thur’s Home Magazine.”’ One or more of that work can be introduced in a club in place of the Lady’s Book, if desired. Any person, with a very little trouble, can get up a cub for the Book; we have frequently been so informed by ladies—the work is so popular. It is but to call and geta subscription. Clubs are always in time, as we areableto supply numbers from the beginning of the year; yet we like them sent in soon, to know how many we shall print Remember, that a work with 150,000 subscribers can give five times as much as a work with only half that number, and the embellishments can also be made of a very supe rior character. Our terms are made plain and explicit, so that they may be easily understood. We are often asked to throw inan extra copy. In no instance can this be done, as our terms are so low to clubs that it ¢annot be afforded. A shop keeper would look amazed, if a purchaser should ask him to throw in an extra yard because she had purchased And yet we are asked to add an extra copy be It cannot be done. twelve. cause twelve have been ordered. Paper Suiet-Cot.ars.—Have any of our subseribers heard anything of this new, beautiful, and useful ap pendage, or, as they are more properly called, “patent enamelled collars?” Well, they are all the rage here now, for several reasons: they set so well, and they look so well, and they are so cheap. Wo effort of the jroner can produce such a collar as the patent enamelled, and then they are a saving to young men in the way of washing, for the price of # collar is not more than ont half as much as would be the expense of washing it There are the D'Orsay, the Byron, the English, and hosts of others. We anaex two engravings: WeB Lockwood, 236 Chestnut Street, is the man who ba them. “Tue Recror’s Wak. ‘is the name of an elegant new picture just published -y Messrs. J. E. Tilton & Co. Bor ton. It is a sweet iace of the heroine of the new Bpiscops! story, so popular, “*The Eeetory of Moreland,” drawn by Barry, the artist of - The Motherless.” It is a crayon por trait, nearly life-size, a fac-simile of the drawing, sud beautiful representation of the lovely girl. Cuve Trrms.—These are so very low that no lady whe wants the Book, and does not wish to be a borrower, @# refuse to subscribe. of | seril livel elub “ Mu Wonder the pu Both ¢ tumbe: * Miss | Pere: tow res tan be | the che copie Ler i for who: able tot that soli lisher, |

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GODEY’S ARM-CHAIR. 87 We give extracts from a few out of the many thousands of letters we have on hand. We want our new sub- scribers to see in what estimation we are held by those who know us. Letter with a club of $25. I shall soon send another club. The reason I take so great an interest in precuring you subscribers is I be- lieve yours is the only Lady's Book published; I am anxious that all should take it. R. E. H., JU, Club of $10. Feeling that your Lady’s Book is superior to any pe- riodieal of the kind now in circulation, and taking a lively interest in the success of the same, I have raised a elub of five. A., Mich. Mr. Gopry: Piease receive my thanks for the enjoy- pent I have-received from your unrivalled Book. It still retains its unexceptionable purity ; quite different from many of the magazines that give abundant prom- jses of much fruit, but wither in the bud. I think, for ladies, the Book is the best work now published. I have been taking it for several years, and, if life lasts, I expect to take it many more. I have some lady friends thatare good at borrowing; and, in order to save my Book, and do you a kindness, I have gotten up a club of nine, whose names are as follows. G., 7U. Club of $10. I took your magazine last year, and was much pleased with it. I have regretted that I have not had them the past years ; but it is too late to repent now. I thought lI Would not let another year pass without it, and now send youa club of subscribers. 2... & = Mz. Goper: I have taken the Lady's Book six years that have lived South, and Iam sure I could not do without it. My mother has taken the Book since it was first published. I receive it and welcome it as a dear old friend. My husband says I could not keep house without the Book. The numerous receipts I have taken from it have proved excellent, and a great help to young housekeepers. I have been marking a great deal from the fancy letters, for they are beautiful. In fact, the Book is a treasure to me, M., Geo, $16 club. Mz. Goprr: After having been a constant reader of your “monthly,’’ for the past two years, I am led to wonder what lady in the land can live without it; for this reason I have made an extra effort to obtain and remit you the above amount, notwithstanding the hard ames. J. T. “Miss SLimmens’s Winpow.'’—The fifth edition of this Wonderfully humorous work has been put to press by the publishers, and the fourth edition of “ Beulah.” Both these works were advertised in our November tumber. For an evening’s an. 1sement, to be read aloud, “Miss Slimmens’s Window” is the book. Pererson’s bound edition of “Waverley Novels” is tow ready, and a superb library set it is, and the whole tan be purchased, beautifully bound, for $6 00. This is the cheapest edition offered in this country, and the ‘ales of the Messrs. Peterson amount to many thousands of copies a day. Ler it be distinctly understood that we have no agents for whose acts we are responsible, and we are -nly account- tbie to those who remit directly to us. We have no agents that solicit subscribers. Money must be sent to the pub- lisher, L. A. Godey, Philadelphia. THE GREETING OF THE NEW YEAR TO GODEY. I Love not loud nor frequent public greetings ; With friends the dearest, in my pleasant meetings, The silent pressure and the noiseless sealing, When lips are pressed, my friendship best revealing. Yet times there are when louder cheers are fitting, And, having waited for the Old Year’s flitting, I, the New Year, with earnest acclamation Present to Godey greetings from the Nation. Through me they hail you, all your friends and patrons, Both old and young. both little maids and matrons, A “Happy New Year’’ with such large heart-shouting, The gladsome voice no room shall leave for doubting. Long has your hand in friendship been extended With stores for us not sparingly expended— Kind words and pleasant truths in many guises, Prepared to yield us monthly new surprises. Coming, with rich engravings, choice designings, Stories whose ‘‘ clouds” have always “silver linings,” Poems, charades, a Tuble richly laden With food prepared to please the choicest maiden— Tender farewells with every Old Year bringing, Glad bells of welcome with each New Year ringing ; And never, though we may have sadly tried you, And with substantial kindness not supplied you, In quick return, no words have e’er paraded Our past delinquencies, much less upbraided. Even your “Clubs” we learn to shun no longer, They only serve to make our friendship stronger. Year after year thus coming, "tis no wonder (Indeed ‘twere an unpardonable biander!) If we, the New Year's offer lightly treating Should fail through him to give this public greeting. KRvya. Harm ORNAMENTS. — Ladies wishing hair made into bracelets, pins (which are very beautiful), necklaces, or ear-rings, can be accommodated by our Fashion Editor, A very large number of orders have recently been filled, and the articles have given great satisfaction. We give the prices at which we will send these beauti- ful articles :— Breaatpins, from $i to $12. Ear-rings, from $4 50 to $10. Bracelets, from $3 to $15. Rings, from $1 50 to $3. Necklaces, from $6 to $15. Fob-chains, from $6 to $12. The Charms of Faith, Hope, and Charity, @4 59 Hair Studs from $5 50 to $11 the set. Sleeve Buttons from $6 50 to $11 the set. Arthur's Magazine, as far as a high rank of literature is concerned, is decidedly the best two dollar magazine.— Middletown Rainbow. Arthur's Lady's Home Magazine.—The best of the two dollar moathlies.—Riehmond Religious Herald. Arthur's Home Magazine.—This still gives new and additional proof of being the very best of the two dollar magazines.—Rushville Times. Home Magazine.—This is the best two dollar magazine published.—Henopin Tribune. We could fill pages with notices to the same effect. A Lapy wishes a receipt for making Johnny cake—the South Carolina Johuny cake, she says.

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88 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. A VatuaBLe Book ror Lapies—Art Recreatioxs.—A Complete Guide and Help to Pencil Drawing, Oil Painting, Crayon Drawing and Painting, Paper Flowers, Moss- Work, Papier Mache, Cone-Work, Feather Fiowers, Hair-Work, Potichomanie, Leather-Work, Theorem Painting, Gilding and Bronzing, Taxidermy, or the Art of Preserving Birds, Grecian Painting, Antique Painting, Oriental Painting, Wax Flowers, from the crude wax, to the beautiful and perfect flower, fruit, ete.; Sign Painting, Shell-Work, Painting on Ground Glass, Magic Lantern, Imitation of Pearl, Sealing-Wax Painting, Panorama Painting, Em- broidery, Coloring Photographs, Water Coloring, The Aquariam, etc. With valuable Receipts for preparing the materials, ete. it will inform the inquirer in every branch of Fancy Work, as perfectly as they can be taught by the most ex- perienced teachers, whose charges for all the styles taught in this work, receipts, etc., would amount to perhaps some hundreds of dollars. The Publishers have spared no expense in making this valuable to the Teacner and Purit by procuring valuable information from the best teachers and artists in Eurupe, and ia this country. Price $1 50, 12mo., cloth. Splendidly illustrated. Sent by mail, post-paid, and for sale by all booksellers. J. EB. Tilton & Co., Publishers, 161 Washington Street, Boston. “ Ametia; orn, A Youre Lapy’s Vicissitvpes.""—The best novel that the late Miss Leslie ever wrote. There are but 100 copies of this work for sale, and those in the posses- sion of the publisher of the Lady's Book. Price 25 cents, which covers the postage. Beston’s CELEBRATED GoLpEN MeTALuic Pex, well tempered and smooth, will not corrode, and unsurpassed in finish and beauty. They are good pens, and most beautifully put up, almost equal to the gold pen, and certainly more economical. PHILADELPHIA AGENCY. No order attended to unless the cash accompanies it. All persons requiring answers by mail must send a post-office stamp ; and for all articles that are to be sent by mail, stamps must be sent to pay return postage. Be particular, when writing, to mention the town, county, and State you reside in. Nothing can be made out of post-marks. Mrs. L. B. W.—Sent pattern, &c. October 18th. Mrs. M. E. W.—Sent pattern 18th. Mrs. J. 8. G.—Sent pattern 18th. Mrs. W. E. K.—Sent headdress 18th. J. E. K.—Sent hair breastpin, bracelet, and ear-rings 18th. Miss A. E. 8.—Sent cord and tassel 18th. J. FP. R.—Sent pattern 18th. Miss 8. C. H.—Sent embroidery cotton 18tb Mrs. E. A. M.—Sent cotton, &e. 18th. Mrs. B. G.—Sent hair ring, &c. 18th. B. A. M.—Sent cotton, &c. 19th. Mrs. G. M.—Sent silk 19th. L. G, F.—Sent silver and dress material by Adams’s express 19th. M. J. H.—Sent slipper pattern, hair breastpin and ear-rings 19th. Mrs. R. H.—Sent ribbon, &c. 19th, H. B.—Sent articles by mail 19th. Miss L B.—Sent box by Adams's express 19th. | | ] | i Mrs. F. A. N.—Sent clothing by Harnden’s express 19), Mrs. J. C’ K.—Sent materials for paper flowers 20th, Mrs, J. G.—Sent patterns 20th. Mrs. E. A. M.—Sent patterns 20th, Miss 8. D.—Sent patterns 20th. Miss 8S. P.—Sent hair charms, &c. 20th. L. A. D.—Sent pattern 20th. Boscawen, N. H.—Our correspondent will please a» cept our heartfelt thanks. Mrs. E. C.—Sent hair ring 25th. Mrs. L. G.—Sent patterns 25th. Mrs. M. M. 8.—Sent cloak by Harnden’s express 2} Miss A. B. S.—Sent cloak by Harnden’s express 2th, I. M. P.—Sent zephyr, crimpers, clasps, &e. 26th, F. M.—Sent embroidered slipper pattern 26th. Mrs, C. G. W.—Sent pattern for infant’s hood 27th, N. G. H.—Sent patterns 27th. Mrs. J. H. E.—Sent patterns for boy's clothes 27th, Mrs, J. P.—Sent trimmings for bonnet 29th. Mrs. J. H. D.—Sent infant's cloak and blanket patien 29th. Mrs. Y. L. G. H.—Sent box by Howard's express 2th, Mrs. M. E. McC.—Sent cloak pattern 29th. Mrs. L. H. R.—Sent hair bracelet 29th. E. A. B.—Sent buttons 29th. Miss M. E. B.—Sent hair ring 29th. Dr. 8S. W.—Sent hair pin and necklace 29th. F. B. N.—Sent working cotton 3lst. Mrs. Dr. W. H. 8.—Sent patterns 3ist. Mrs. H. A. 0.—Sent waist pattern, liquid glue, &. ly Adams's express 3st. Mrs. W. G. F.—Sent hair breastpins November 24. Miss M. J. C.—Sent bracelets 2d. Mrs. H. R.—Sent patterns 2d. Mrs. 8. F. P.—Sent stockings, hood pattern, &e. M1. C. W. F.—Sent bonnet by Adams’s express 34. J..M. 8.—Sent infant's wardrobe by Harnden’s & press 3d. Mrs. C. A. M.—Sent infant’s cloak pattern 4th. Mrs. E. O.—Sent girl’s cloak pattern and needles 4h. I. R. 8.—Sent black lace barbe 5th. Mrs. A. D. 8.—Sent blue silk and hair net 5th. E. D.—Sent hood pattern Sth. Mrs. I. G. W.—Sent second mourning pearl card-cas 7th. 8. G. H.—Sent hair ring 7th. 0. P. B.—Sent black silk velvet mantle by Adams's express Sth. C. M.—Sent white crystal beads 8th. Miss M. F. J.—Sent package 8th. F. H. M.—Sent artificial rose-buds and dress trimming by Adams's express 8th. Box 37, Sullivan, Ind.—No stamp, no name, aad of course no answer. Miss A. 8.—Sent lead comb 10th. F. Q. A.—Sent Alsatian cloak pattern 10th. Mrs. S. McG. B.—Sent woven extension ®kirt by Adams's ¢x press 10th. L. J. G.—Sent shawl border, chenille fringe, and pat tern 11th. P. @. R. 8.—Sent hair charms 12th. Mrs. B. J. De G.—Sent silk embroidery patterns 12th D. V. W.—Sent pattern for morning gown 12th. Mrs. Dr. I. W. 8.—Sent patterns for boy’s clothes and apron pattern 12th. Mrs. W. M. W.—Sent pattern for infant’s drawers 14th. Mrs. C. E. L. W.—Sent pattern for infant's clothes 14th. Mrs. H. A. 0.—Sent wool 14th. W. B. D.—Sent shirt collars by Adama’s express 14 OVER nationa accumu mind t had tiz prove ¢ what w under-t do not |

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ll CENTRE-TABLE GOSSIP. Centre-Gable Gossip. OVER-DRESS. OveR-DRESSING and over-furnishing are among our national sins against good taste. The generation that accumulates is the generation that also spends ; and the mind that has been bent upon money-getting has not had time for the cultivation of the taste which alone can properly direct its disbursement. That which will prove our standing—that is, our income—at a glance, is what we choose, rather than the elegant and the becom- ing. Over-dress is, to the cultivated, ever a token of under-breeding, more commonly called vulgarity. We do not know of any more healthy rebuke to the parade of dress one sees in all but the best classes of society, than the description of Mrs. Arthur Martindale’s visit te her old home, in Miss Yonge’s charming novel, * Heart’s-ease :'’— “They were to retrace one of their memorable walks by the river-side in the afternoon, but were prevented by the visit—expected all the morning, but deferred to that fashionable hour—of Mrs. Albert Moss, who sailed in resolved that the honorable Mrs. Martindale should find one real companion in the family. “Those fluttering silks and fringes seemed somewhat te stand on end at finding themselves presented to a slight, simply-dressed figure in a plain straw bonnet; and the bare-legged, broad-sashed splendors of Miss Albertine Louisa stood aghast at the brown Holland getdening suits of their London cousins. “*In training for the Highlanders!’ was Arthur's mischievous aside to Octavia; and he continued, as they stood half and half out of the window, ‘There’s Helen patronizing her! I hope she will take her down to the sand-heap where the children have been luxuriating all the morning.’ “Oh, how can you?’ “*Tt is my father’s great principle of education,’ said Arthur, solemnly, ‘to let them grope in the dirt. I never rested until I had seen my boy up to his ears in mud!’”’ Itisthus that good sense ever discovers pretension, and meets it, if not with sarcasm and ridicule, with in- Voluntary pity and excuse. Those whose position de- pends upon their dress have at best a poor footing, and the richest toilet, if in actual good taste, is made ridicu- lous oftentimes by an improper time or place. Children, for instance, may be dressed like French dolls, to be set up ata showy drawing-room window for the admiration of passers-by, or to be taken out in a showy carriage, a part of the family display; but for “the bare-legged sad broad-sashed splendors” of Broadway and Chest- but Streets, give us the plain merinos, worsted stock- ings, and stout shoes, that will secure sufficient warmth for the outdoor exercise that all children require, and is ‘itong enough to meet the “rough and tumble” of hearty childish play. A MODERN HEROINE. Taos who have lately read the touching story of the obsequies of Garibaldi’s wife, at Ravenna, will be glad “know something of the life that entitled her to be so mourned and so honored. The history of their first Meeting is thus told by Garibaldi himself:— “Tone day cast a casual glance at a house in the Burra (the eastern part of the entrance of the Jayuna, South America), and there observed a young female whose ap- 5* t 89 pearance struck me as having something very extraor- dinary. So powerful was the impression made upon me at the moment, though for some cause which I was not able fully to ascertain, that I gave orders and was trans- ported towards the house. But, then, I knew of no one to whom I could apply for an introduction. I soon, however, met with a person, an inhabitant of the town, who had been acquainted with me from the time of ar- rival. I soon received an invitation to take coffee with his family, and the first person who entered was the lady whose appearance had so mysteriously but irre- sistibly drawn me to the place. I saluted her; we were soon acquainted ; and I found that the hidden treasure which I had discovered was of rare and inestimable worth. But I have since reproached myself for remov- ing her from her peaceful native retirement to scenes of danger, toil, and suffering. I felt most self-reproach, on that day when, at the mouth of the Po, having landed, in our retreat from an Austrian squadron, while still hoping to restore her to life, on taking her pulse, I found her a corpse, and sang the hymn of despair. I prayed for forgiveness, for I thought of the sin of taking her from her home.” The rest of the lady’s story is soon told. She accom- panied her husband in his dangerous adventures, fought by his side on sea and land, received a ball through her hat, which cut off a tress of her hair, and travelled alone from Carritabani to Lages, sixty wild miles. “ Anna passed that dangerous way by night, and such was her boldness, that the assassins fled at the sight of her, de- claring that they had been pursued by an extraordinary being. And indeed they spoke the truth, for that cou- rageous woman, mounted on a fiery horse, which she had asked for and obtained at a house on her way, where it would have been difficult for a traveller to hire one, she galloped in a tempestuous night, among broken, rocky ground, by the flashes of lightning. Four of the enemy's cavalry who were posted on guard at the river Canvas, when they saw her approaching, were over- whelmed with fear, supposing it to be a vision, and fled. When she reached the bank of that stream, which was swollen by the rains to a dangerous mountain torrent, she did not stop or attempt to cross it in a canoe, as she had done when passing it a few days before in my com- pany ; but, dismounting, she seized fast hold of the tail of her horse, and, encouraging him with her voice, he dashed into the water and swam, struggling through the foaming waves, dragging her with him. The dis- tance which she had thus to pass was not less than 500 paces, but they reached the opposite side in safety.” Four days’ hard riding and only a cup of coffee! with her husband from the Austrian army, after the great French treason of 1849, she landed with him at Meoda, and died exhausted on the beach. A MISCELLANEOUS CATALOGUE. THERE is a wide range of books suited to young people from the ages of eight to fourteen, when they usually begin to nibble at the “food for the mind,”’ prepared for their elders and betters. Stories of giants, and fairies, and genii we do not consider objectionable, inasmuch as they cultivate the imagination, and those things that may approach impropriety as a general thing make no impression whatever on the minds of children. The Child’s Own Book of Fairy Tales, published by Hazard, Philadelphia, has all the popular stories, ‘* Puss in Boots,”’ “‘ Hop O’'my Thumb,”’ etc. ete. Popular Tales, from the Norse, are grotesque and ex- tremely fascinating. (Appleton.) Flying

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90 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. The Harper’s have the best illustrated edition of that great nursery classic, Arabian Nights. Robinson Crusoe, the next most epchanting volume. Miss Edgeworth's Parent's Assistant is the most charm- ing collection of stories even now. 90 cents. (Harper.) Miss Edgeworth’s Moral Tales. 2 vols. 75 cents. Abbott's Rollo Books. l4 vols. 38 cents a volume. Mayne Reid’s Plant Hunters, etc., books of adventure, are published by Ticknor & Co., Boston. The Lelia Books. Svols. 75 cents a volume. herd.) Swiss Family Robinson. 2 vols. Sequel to Swiss Family Robinson. each. (Harper.) The Young Maroouwers. (Martien, Philadelphia.) Aunt Kitty’s Tales. By Miss McIntosh. (Appleton.) Meta Gray. By Miss McIntosh. (Appleton.) (Shep- 624 cents each. 2 vols. 75 cents Home Books. By Cousin Alice (Mrs. Haven). 7 vols. 62 cents each. (Appleton.) Harry's Vacation. By W.C. Richards. 87 cents. Cousin Kate’s Stories. 4 vols. S0centseach. (Ran- dolph.) Miss Warner's Rutherford Children, ete. S3vols. 75 cents. Miss Warner’s Pond Lily Stories. $1 75. Abbott's Story Books. 12 vols. $leach. (Harper.) Marryat’s Masterman Ready. 63 cents. Settlers in Canada. 63cents. The Mission. 63 cents. (Appleton.) Ministering Children. 87 cents. Mrs. Tuthill’s Juve- (Scribner. ) 14 vols. 38 cents each. nile Tales. 75 cents each. Howitt’s Juvenile Tales. Elizabeth, the Exile of Siberia. Madame Cottin. 31 cents. Grace Aguilar’s Tales. 4 vols. 75 cents each. Stories of an Old Maid. 75 cents. Bertram Noel. 75 cents. (Appleton.) Miss Sewall’s Amy Herbert. 75 cents. Loneten Par- sonage. 75cents. Close Hall. $1 25. (Appleton.) School Journal. $1 00. Miss Yonge’s Beecheroft. 50 cents. Castle Builders. 75 cents. Two Guardians. 75 cents. (Appleton.) Ticknor’s Catalogue of Juvenile publications, inclu- ding Grace Green wood’s graceful books for little people, ®& very reliable; nor must we forget to mention the best juvenile serial of the day, since the discontinuance of the Schoolfellow, Grace Greenwood's Little Pilgrim. We have by no means exhausted the list, but we have noted many of the modern popular favorites, and must leave the little people to their enjoyment. NOTES AND QUERIES. 1. How to Quilt on a Wheeler & Wilson Sewing Machine. —Have the tension loose, set a 244 needle not as low as for stitching, use the lapboard to hold the work, and roll it up as you proceed on the side opposite to you. The under thread may be cotton in quilting, as it does not show, and will be found a great saving. It is best to purchase silk spooled for the sewing machine ; it is much more even, and the continuous thread is an advantage. The ordinary cottons will do quite as well as glacé. 2. Low Spirite.— Depression is as often the result of the atmosphere in which you live, or of an inclination to dyspepsia, as of any real grievances or troubles. It is sometimes constitutional. The natural tendency of the mind is to brood, until “a scratch becomes a wound, a slight an injury, a jest an insult, a small peril a great danger.” A sound, cheerful, elastic spirit is one of the best gifts of God’s providence, and, wanting it naturally, the disposition is to be cultivated by all means. Apart ———$—— from reason, the best antidote to care is to look at alj things—unless incurred directly by our own wilfulness or rashness—as coming from a wise and loving Father, whose wisdom cannot err. 3. To Remove Marks of Rain from a Cloth Mantle We know how extremely annoying it is to be caught in a shower, and feel that every drop is telling on your new and expensive cloak. It is said, although we haye never tried it, that to take a damp cloth and damp the place marked with the rain, then take a hot iron and iron the mantle all over, will remove it. It would be best to make the trial on something of less consequence to begin with. 4. Paint upon Velvet.—This can be remedied by can- phene without injuring the pile of the velvet or cavsing & grease-spot, as camphene will do on some materials, 5. Miss Hosmer’s Works.—The best known are “The Beatrice," “‘The Puck,”’ “The Sailor and the Miner,” The last two are companion statuettes. The “ Puck” is described as “‘ perched on a mushroom, with a nettle ia one hand, and a lizard in the other.” The “Cen¢,” mournful and despairing, flung on a couch in utter prostration, the night before her execution, her rosary trailing on the ground, scarcely held by the listles hand. 6. Complaining of One's Husband.—“ With a wifes husband's faults should be sacred,” says an admirable authority. This is not forbidding the possibility of ad- mitting that a husband is not faultless, on proper and dignified occasions, to those who have a right by agear relationship to point them out to our notice for gentle correction. But to go even to one’s own family witha uncalled-for revelation of his weaknesses and foibles, or even vices, is violating the promise to ‘“‘honor” madeia her marriage vow. No wife can be too careful of he husband’s character, as it is said “her own heart should be the tomb of his shortcomings,’’ unless life or health, ora good name is threatened by them. We always sr pect that person of selfishness who complains to unin rested people, or even to her confidants, ‘“‘ my husband is tyrannical, or mean, or quarrelsome, or jealous, # unreasonably obstinate.”’ Fashions. NOTICE TO LADY SUBSCRIBERS. Havixe had frequent applications for the purchased jewelry, millinery, ete., by ladies living at a distance, Me Editress of the Fashion Department will hereafter execule commissions for any who may desire it, with the charged a small percentage for the time and research required. Spring and autumn bonnets, materials for dresses, jewelry, envelops, hair-work, worsteds, children’s wardrobes, mal tillas, and mantelets, will be chosen with a view to ecoi® my, a3 well as taste; and boxes or packages forwarded by express to any part of the country. For the las, distinct directions must be given. Orders, accompanied by checks for the proposed exper diture, te be addressed to the care of L. A. Godey, Esq. No order will be attended to unless the money is fot received. Neither the Editor nor Publisher will be accoumb able for losses that may occur in remitting. Instructions to be as minute as is possible, accompanied by a note of the height, complexion, and general style of the person, on which much depends in choice. Dres goods from Levy’s or Evans & Co.’s ; cloaks, mantillas, # talmas, from Brodie’s, 51 Canal Street, New York ; bor af? | Maw and sid medall Cloak ¢

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"és ¢ Sel 7 a ee ae mn Se i ee eae) > A ? Farr * as & a eaetasek FASHIONS. 91 nets from T. White & Co.’s; jewelry from Warden's or Caldwell’s, Philadelphia. When goods are ordered, the fashions that prevail here govern the purchase; therefore, no articles will be taken back. When the goods are sent, the transaction must be considered final. DESCRIPTION OF STEEL FASHION-PLATE FOR JANUARY. The Bridal Toile.—Gored dress of thick white silk, sloped to the hips, the only ornament being flat bows of white satin ribbon, fastened by pearl buckles in the cen- tre; these extend from the throat to the hem of the skirt. Veil of thulle. Wreath, mounted in the coronet form, of fine dowers, jessamine, and rose-buds. RECEPTION TOILETS. Fig. 1.—Dress of queen's purple moire; the skirt full and plain, ornamented by a tablier trimming of black Chantilly lace, placed spirally on each side of the front breadth, and following the opening of the corsage around the throat. From the waist line to the hem of the skirt is placed a row of rosettes (see Chitchat), of silk and lace. Sleeves quite tight at the shoulder, and widening a little to the parement or turned back cuff. Undersleeves and chemisette of point lace. Bonnet of white therry velvet with white plumes. Fig. 2.—Dress of steel blue and black Bayadere stripes ma white ground, suited, at this season, only to dinner, evening, or dress receptions. The sleeve is new, and extremely pretty ; corsage plain, and in double points at the waist. Bonnet of white crape, with wreaths of blush toses outside and in; strings of rose-colored ribbon. Fig. 3.—Dress of Azof green moire, made en surplis, or tending decidedly to one side, in the arrangement of the trimming, which consists of Jappet ornaments in black lace; corsage open after the style of a vest, or en gilet. Fig. 4.—Robe or pattern dress, of steel blue silk, with s border and tablier front of velvet, a light shade of groseille, with a raised figure in black, and tassels of groseille at the end of each bar. The sleeves are quite tight (see Chitchat), with caps and cuffs of the velvet. Bonnet of white crape. Clotilde veil of blonde. DESCRIPTION OF LATEST STYLES. (See engravings, pages 1, 4, 5.) THE OLIVARES. Maytie of rich black velvet; the pelerine, epaulets, tnd side trimming of rich guipure lace, as are also the medallion ornaments on the plaits. SULTANA CLOAK. Tue extremely elegant effect of the Sultana Opera Cloak cannot fail to strike the observer. The graceful, tasy flow when on the figure is pleasing to the eye, and exhibits symptoms of most successful taste. It will be seen that the folds fall ina totally different direction to the generality of opera cloaks. Instead of draping from the shoulders downwards, thereby creating an unnatural Miffness in the figure, they assume 6 semicircular form, fall gracefully into the waist, and produce a becoming fulness in the skirt otherwise unattainable. The hood, or rather semblance of a hood, is very recherch-, aad or- hamented with tassels, manufactured expressly for the cloak from a design obtained from one of the internal decorations of the principal court of the Alhambra. It is fastened in front with a loop and buttons to correspond a tassels, and affords unusual protection to the THE DIEGO. Tue peculiarity of this elegant mantle is the combina- tion of colors, the yoke and skirt being gray, the scarf plaited on the shoulders and falling thence in easy ful- ness, of a dark shade of brown. It gives style to the figure, and is a very comfortable garment. LADY’S HOOD FOR A SEA VOYAGE, SLEIGHING, OPERA, ETC. (See engraving, page 7.) Tue material may be any dark, rich silk, though in the design before us we have black velvet. Its distin- guishing novelty is the round crown piece, into which the front is gathéred. The facing which turns back, with a ribbon ruche of the same shade, should be of some pretty contrasting color. CHITCHAT UPON NEW YORK AND PHILADEL- PHIA FASHIONS, FOR JANUARY. As our plate has suggested bridal-dresses, we give one or two other styles verbally, as being seasonable and useful hints :— First, a robe of very rich white satin; the skirt is ex- tremely full, and ornamented with a trimming formed of a plaiting of satin, set on so as to present the effect This plaiting is carried up each side of the The corsage is The sleeves are of a tunic. corsage, and finishes at the shoulders. plain and pointed in front of the waist. formed of two puffs at the upper part of the arm, and below the puffs there is a frill, edged with a plaiting corresponding with that on the other part of the dress. Collar and undersleeves of Honiton point; the collar fastened at the throat by a pearl brooch. The front hair is disposed in bands, which fall backwards from the face and join the knot of hair under the cache-peigne at the back of the head, the ends falling in ringlets at each side. The brida: wreath is composed of white hyacinth and daisies. Scarf veil of white thulle, fixed by pearl pins at the top part of the head, and flowing over the shoul- ders and back part of the dress, so as to descend nearly to the bottom of the skirt. Book muslin, the favorite evening-dress of the past generation, is coming again into favor, as will be seen by the description of a wedding outfit, recently fur- nished by a celebrated French establishment. We quote the whole trousseau, as interesting to all young ladies, whether brides or bridesmaids :— First, the wedding-dress of book muslin and point lace with alternating flounces, the bride’s veil of point lace, and handkerchief to match. Then an open dress for the day after the wedding, of white and blue striped moire, with bows in front and rosettes at the side. A green silk dress for visiting, quite covered with flounces and accompanied by a scarf of the same, which has an elegant effect. A sky-blue moire antique dress trimmed with Alengons, and another of pink silk trimmed with blonde. For the same wedding Mme, Alexandrine supplied the following bonnets :— One of white crape, with a branch of white lilac on the front, and a diadem bandeau of the same inside across the forehead. Another was a Tuscan, with a curtain arranged in somewhat irregular flutes, and, as trimming, a velvet torsade with a straw cord. This tor- sade comes down on the right side quite under the cur- tain, and ends on the left hand side about the middle, where it is fastened under a large poppy with great buds swaying on their slender stems. luaside, a flame-

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92 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. color ruche is terminated on the right hand by a branch of poppies just like those outside. A bonnet of white thulle embroidered with black has a wide border of felt-gray crape and a gray silk ribbon all round the cruwa. A Chantilly fall, fastened on the left edge of the front by an elongated tuft of red daisies, is passed slantwise across the bonnet and ends like a scarf on the right side, above the terry velvet curtain, which is laid in flat plaits at top, and has a bias piece in the middle. The bandeau is composed of bunches of small black fruit and tufts of red field daisies. Strings of narrow piuk ribbon are sewed on over the wide ones of felt gray silk. For the wedding-ball, which would be the prelude to several other large parties, Mme. Bonier-Cherre supplied some very beautiful articles. Her Alma coiffure of white lilac in very small branches, mixed with roses, and forming a bow at the side, from which escaped two un- equal branches of lilac foliage; and her Aigsa coiffure, composed of two garlands of rose-leaves, one of which lies on the forehead, the other on the back hair, the second row ornamented at the side with a long tuft of mixed roses, and the first row—that on the forehead— having merely on the right a very small bunch of rose- buds. These two creations, quite new and exquisitely graceful, will be worn by two cousins of the bride, who bear one of the great historical names of France. Other coiffures, still more decidedly oriental, are: A gold diadem, with a large tuft of red roses and coffee- berries. A bow of flame-colored velvet and caraib fruit mixed up with gold lace and velvet poppies. The book-muslin brides of the last cycle of fashion would have been sadly at a loss as to the use of all this finery ; but nowadays, in anything like fashionable city life, an equal, if not more expensive, outfit is considered necessary for the receptions, the parties, and other fec- tivities that a bride is expected to attend. Happy they who, in the narrower circle of country life, can subside more noiselessly into the calm of domestic quiet. Even the bride’s friends, with us, are expected to prepare for the great occasion, for a morning reception requires almost a full dress toilet, the dress itself to be rich and light, the scarf a shawl extremely elegant, and the bonnet as light and effective as possible. We give a costume which is considered suitable for such an occa- sion :— Robe with double skirt, of pale manve-colored silk, without any trimming ; the corsage high to the throat. Collar and undersleeves of lace. Bonnet of white terry velvet, with a small plume of white feathers on one side ; under-trimming of blonde and white roses ; strings of white terry velvet ribbon. Shawl of India cash- mere, with a white ground, and border of a rich ara- besque pattern. For an evening reception, a dress suitable for a young lady is composed of white and pink tarletane, wort over aslip of pink silk. The skirt of this dress consists of white tarletane, and is trimmed with nine gauffered flounces, five of white and four of pink tarletane, dis- persed alternately. Another very pretty dress consists of manve-color tarletane over silk of the same color. There are two skirts of tarletane, the lower one trimmed with five narrow gauffered flounces. The upper skirt is open in the tunic form, and is bordered with a gauffer- ing of mauve-color silk. A dress of light green tarle- tane over silk of the same tint is also extremely pretty ; it has three skirts, each trimmed with a light ruche, edged with blonde. For plainer dresses, the great novelty is the introdue- tion of tight sleeves, as in the gored dress of October number, and demi-tight, as in the fashion-plate of this, We consider the sleeve in Fig. 2 one of the best of this style, which has certainly come into favor astonishingly. Fig. 1 differs from it only in being without the puffs at the top of the sleeve. The parement or mousquetaire cuff is almost universal, and takes away from the stiff. ness of the narrow drapery. When the sleeve is quite close to the arm, it has often a jockey, puff, or short flounce at the shoulder, flat bows, or macaroons, going from the wrist half way to the elbow. Demi-tight coat sleeves, with a seam on the back as well as the inside of the arm, are in very good taste. The pointed corsages are the favorites for thick stuffs, the points very long and sharp; but many silks, especially for young ladies, are also d la vierge, plain on the shoulder, and gathered into a rounded waistband. These are intended to be finished by a sash or belt. There is little doubt of the decadence of side stripes, double skirts, and nearly all robe patterns for skirts, and in their place flounces of every depth and style have come in, together with the spirals of lace and ribbon, and the oval ornaments of silk and lace, called macaroons, which are disposed in various ways on the skirt and sleeves. Flounces have a heading usually, a braiding of the same silk. They may be graduated regularly as to width from the hem to the waist, or be set on in groups, or a group of narrow ones—rufties they might be called—are sometimes placed as headings of a single deep fall, and the sleeves made in correspondence. Striped silks, the stripes being from four to six inches wide, and alternating in color, style, etc., are smong the richest figured materials for street-dress, as a stripe of dark green satin, with the alternate stripe of silk, igured in some pretty floral design. Alternate stripes of black silk and velvet are very elegant. Moire antique is wert rather more than the past season, the favorite colors being royal purple and emerald green. The broché silke are in fact the real brocades of our grandmothers, broel meaning only embroidery—a rich black or gray taffeta ground is sprinkled with small sprays or bouquets of flowers. These are much worn forevening-dress. Fawn, green, mode, ashes of roses, etc. are among the shades used as a ground, the flowers being in their natural colors. Black, deep purple, maroon, and deep bie taffetas, figured with black yelvet, are, perhaps, the most expensive dresses. In furs, Genin’s is the only house that has introduced decided novelties. The deep cloaks, in sable, mink, ete, are relieved from their stiffness by a sleeve somewhat after the Raglan fashion; they are much more comfort- able than the round cloaks. The three-quarter size, for Victorines, those coming half-way to the waist, are de cidedly the most in favor. The cuffs and muffs have little change; they are still quite small. Genin also manufactures to order the Charles the Second, or Cava lier collar, in ermine, with quilted satin points, sam rounded by a rich cord, each point finished by an ele gant tassel. The cuffs and collar make a set, and, for their style, are very moderate in price. No more elegant finish for a velvet mantle could be desired. They a especially suited to our Southern friends, who can order them through us. The ermine scarf, or scarf-shaped cape, of ermine, is much in demand for full, carriag®, or reception dress. In less costly furs, Siberian squirrel is the most ladylike; the Cavalier collar in this is in excellent taste, the tassels, satin, ete. being of the shade. For embroideries, slippers, shawls, etc. see next month. FasHion. - tion peri Al subse: Maga; Until |

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ie a i De a ne ee ee ee oe ee a ee au VT one FF | S| =F & rT FF Se SO ve Ne a i i Arthur’s Home Magazine for 1860. TRE LADIES HOME MAGAZINE. Wolumes SV and S=vti. EDITED BY T. S. ARTHUR AND VIRGINIA F. TOWNSEND. Devoted to Social Literature, Art, Morals, Health, Fashion, and Domestic Happiness. The Publishers, in offering their programme for 1860, have the pleasure to announce the comple- tion of a series of arrangements, by which the Home Magazine will be rendered valuable and attractive far beyond precedent, and placed still further than heretofore out of the reach of competition by any periodical of the same price. ELEGANT STEEL PLATES, Engraved expressly for this work, from carefully selected subjects, will be given regularly. These will form a gallery of New axp Exquistre Home Pictures, each worth the price of the number containing it The Magazine for 1860 will be considerably increased in size, thus adding to its value by a large addition of reading and embellishment. In the January number will be commenced a new Story, by T. 8. Arntuur, entitled— “ec i, AFTER THE STORM.” Miss TowysEnp will continue to furnish, regularly, those charming stories and exquisite picture- sketches, which have heretofore been the delight of so many readers. While WRITERS OF THE FIRST TALENT AND REPUTATION will give their best efforts to the pages of the Home Magazine, which ever aims at the highest excel- lence. Besides its carefully edited LITERARY DEPARTMENT, a portion of the Magazine is de- voted to subjects of special interest to the Home circle. It has ‘ A HEALTH DEPARTMENT, A BOYS AND GIRL’S TREASURY, A MOTHER’S DEPARTMENT, A HOUSEKEEPER'’S REPOSITORY, 4 TOILET AND WORK-TABLE DEPART- A REVIEW DEPARTMENT, MENT, Ete. etc. ete In order to meet the wants and wishes of a very large number of ladies, particular attention is paid to Toilet and Needle-work matters. BEAUTIFUL COLORED STEEL FASHION PLATES, appear in every number. Also— From six to eight pages of Needle-work Patterns, Drawings of Cloaks, Mantles, Robes, Capes, Bonnets, Caps, Collars, Slippers, Headdresses, Undersleeves, Children’s Dresses, elc. etc. etc. Thus furnishing Styles of Dress and Patterns for Embroidery in an almost endless variety, to the extent of more thana hundred pages during the year, and including several hundred different designs and figures. From the beginning, the aim of the Publishers has been to furnish, at the lowest possible price, a Magazine that, by means of a choice literature, should do a good work in homes and social circles everywhere, and their success, so far, is of the most gratifying character. It is seen, as well in the warmly outspoken words of approval and cheer that come to them from all directions, as in the steadily increasing circulation of the magazine from year to year. The price to Clubs is made so low that there is scarcely a family in the land that may not receive the regular visits of the Home Magazine. Four persons, by joining in a Club, can procure the Home Magazine for a year at the trifling cost of $1 25 each. TE rp Ss: TWO DOLLARS a year in advance. Two copies for one year, $3. Four copies for one year, $5. All additional subscribers above four at the same rate, that is, $1 25 perannum. Where twelve subscribers and $15 are sent, the getter-up of the club will be entitled to an additional copy of the agazine. > Those who send smaller clubs, will be entitled to the extra copy by making additions thereto Uutil the number reaches twelve. i It is not required that all the subscribers to a club be at the same Post-office. Specimen numbers sent to all who wish to subscribe, or make up clubs, CLUBBING. Home Magazine and Godey’s Lady’s Book, one year, $3 50. Home Magazine and Harper’s Magazine, one year, $3 50. Home Magazine and Saturday Evening Post (one of the best weekly papers in the country), $3 00. G&S The January number will be ready, as a specimen, by the first of December. Address T. 8. ARTHUR & Co., 323 Walnut St., Philadelphia.

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COSMOPOLITAN ART ASSOCIATION. THE Cosmopolitan Art Association. As the time is fast approaching for the annual gratui- tous award of valuable paintings, sculpture, ete. amons the subscribers of the “Cosmopolitan Art Association,’ we devote much valuable space in giving full particulars of the institution, which is now in its sizth year of un- paralleled success. Any lady or gentleman desirous of securing a superb work of art to make their homes at- tractive, or who wish to make an elegant holiday pre- sent, we would recommend a subscription to the ‘‘ Cosmo- politan.” Any person can become # member by simply paying Three Dollars, for which they will receive what is equivalent to Bight Dollars, viz: The superb en- graving of “Shakspeare and his Friends’—which we have seen—is worth Five Dollers; the beautifully illus- trated Art Journal is fully worth Three Dollars; besides which a free admission to the Galleries of Art is given to all members when visiting New York; and, in addi- tion to all of the above, a large collection of valuable paintings, statuary, and other works of art are distributed among the subscribers free. It will be remembered that one of the subscribers to Godey— Mrs. Gillespie, of Brady's Bend, Pennsylvania—subseribed to the Associa- tion some three years ago, and was awarded ‘‘ Powers’s Greek Slave,’ which was afterwards sold by her for $5000. The following description of the engraving which is furnished to every subscriber we cut from the New York Bvening Express: — Faed’s celebrated painting of “‘Shakspeare and his Friends” has been engraved by a brother of the painter, and the plate purchased’ by the ‘Cosmopolitan Art Asso- ciation,” who will furnish it as a premium to their sub- seribers for the current year. How they can give a quarterly journal worth fico dollars, and this magnifi- cent engraving, which is worth f«n dollars, for three dollars, is one of those arithmetical mysteries that we cannot po sibly figure out; but that is their business ; it is ours sumply to express the strongest admiration of this beautiful production of art, and the enterprise and liberality of the Association who are about to afford all the world an page A to possess a “ perfect treasure.” The engraving strikes the eye as a ‘‘ perfect work ;”’ like a sweet accord in music or a beautiful flower, i satigfes. The picture contains fifteen figures, in standing and sit- ting postures, the “Immortal Bard’ forming the centre and soulofthe group. He is represented as discoursing to the “Club,” composed of Ben Jonsony Sir Walter Raleigh, Bacon, Beaumont, Fletcher, Seldon, Sylvester, Earl of Dorset, Camden, Downe, Earl of Southampton, Sir Robert Cotton, Dekker, and Daniel. We long to hear what he is saying. That the theme is exalted and the inspiration glorious the artist tells us in every lineament of the listeners, as well as of the speaker. Itisaltogether a magnificent work—genius paying tribute to genius; and let us hope that, through the agency of the “ Cosmo- politan Association,” it may, before another New Year's Day comes round, grace at least a hundred thousand American homes. We pity the man, woman, or child who can look at this picture without a thrill of pleasure. [Prom the New York Herald.] Among the engravings recently sent us is a splendid proof impression of “‘Shakspeare and his Friends,” painted by John Faed, and engraved by James Faed. This is one of the most effective drawing-room pictures that we have ever seen. [From the New Orleans Delta.} A mare Enoravine.—“Shakspeare and his Friends” is the last new art-herald of the “Cosmopolitan Art Association,” now in its sixth year. The engraving is now ready for delivery. [Prom the New York Tribune.} Tae Cosmopotitas Art Association.—The picture that has been prepared for presentation to the sub- seribers to this Association for this year is the most valuable gift the managers have ever yet made to their patrons. It is a superb steel engraving of ‘‘Shakspeare and his Friends.” Persons desiring to subscribe to the Association will address . A. DERBY, Actuary C. A. A., 546 and 548 Broadway, New York. 94 OPINIONS FROM HIGH SOURCES, Nothing more pers beg ey the prosperity and increasing favor with which the “‘Cosmopolitan ar Association” is received than the kind expressions of and encouragement given by the Governors of the States and by other persons of eminence. While we hesitate to repeat their generous compliments and volunteered praise, we still feel that duty to the Association requires that the public and patrons of the institution should know the degree of consideration bestowed upon it by the leading men and women of the country; and we therefore = from the great number of letters before us a few of their good words :— Governor Packer, of Pennsylvania: “The success of your Association affords the highest evidence of the in- tegrity of its management, as well as of its utility and beneficence. The superb engraving—‘Shakspeare and his Friends’—is worth more money than you ask for an annual subscription for membership, to say nothing of the other valuable advantages accruing to subscribers, On the score of economy, therefore, your institution com- mends itself to every lover of the arts.” Governor BisseLt, of Illinois: “Thus far, each sue. cessive engraving furnished by the Association, in work- manship and beauty, surpasses its predecessors. The one now furnished is of itself worth four times the amount requisite to secure a membership. Every patriotic maa must, I am sure, rejoice at the success of your enterprise, it has done more already to awaken among the masses of our people a love for art, and inspire a taste for its excellences, than all other means for the last fifty years.” Governor Bra @ of North Carolina: “I shall be much pleased to have my name enrolled as a member of an institution which is doing so much to promote the cause of the fine arts in this country.” Governor Wetuer, of California: “I will take great pleasure in doing all I can to advance the interests of your admirable Associution.”’ Governor WILLARD, of Indiana, ‘assures the Directory of the Association of his warmest regard and considers tion.” Governor Burrox, of Delaware, “presents grateful acknowledgments, and hopes that the Association may meet with that liberal encouragement which, from its design and labors, it so justly merits.” Governor Morriti, of Maine: “The engraving cer tainly is one of the finest ever published. I desire to make my acknowledgments for it,’’ ete, ete. Governor Wise, of Virginia: ‘‘ The engraving will be gratefully accepted and appreciated as a compliment of great value.” Governor BuckrnenamM, of Connecticut, “ presents his grateful acknowledgments to the Association, and his sincere desire for its success in promoting and increasing a love for art.” Governor Moreneap, of Kentucky, “extends his sin- cere and best wishes for the success of your truly excel- lent institution.” Mrs. Prrenre says: “ Accept my thanks for the ex site engraving of ‘Shakspeare,’ which I highly value, and which will adorn the walls of my Southern home, The objects of your Association are very dear to me; I would gladly promote them by any means in my power. You have my earnest wishes for your ever inc success." Madame Lx Vert writes: “The engraving is superb, and the exact resemblance of many of the faces to the original portraits | have seen in England is admirable, Iam happy to know the Association is so prosporous, and earnestly hope each year will add to its influence and its resources.”’ Mrs. SigouRNEY writes: “The engraving of ‘Shak- speare and his Friends’ is truly a magnificent one. It has been the theme of unqualified admiration from My- self and all others who have seen it. You have my best wishes for the prosperity of the noble Association which has already exerted so powerful an influence in uplifting and refining the taste of our native land.” [4a See Prospectus on next page] Th afore supe! —thi hung alwa Noth show “Cos mone to it for o1 ings, a cert paint ceive mem! gravi secur The engra aclul specil Sub Sist « sixth amon Ac elegal be ser desiri colun Cos: ings, « the al the el seribe John This 1 Teally suppl; Art Je chane: subser tion in & class be int pictur mand One in the: Associ supert Frien¢

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~~ hh 7, S237 oS 2 ee eq" |} =o & COSMOPOLITAN ART ASSOCIATION. THE HOLIDAYS! There is no more suitable present, or one calculated to afford more pleasure to one’s friends, than the large and superb steel engraving of ‘‘Shakspeare and his Friends” —thirty i thirty-eight inches in size—which, when hung on the walls of the parlor, library, or office, will always remind one of the generous friend who gave it. Nothing could be purchased that would make so much show for the money as the above engraving. The “Cosmopolitan Art Association,’’ for the sma! sum of Three Dollars, will send to any person, on receipt of the money, not only the above fine picture, but in addition to it a copy of the beautifully illustrated Art Journal for one year, also & season ticket to the Gallery of Paint- ings, 548 Broadway, New York, and last, but not least, a certificate in the award of premiums by which a superb painting or other work of art of great value may be re- ceived as a gratuitous gift. TO CLUBS.—Any person sending $15 for five memberships will receive a sixth membership, with en- graving, etc. free. Thus, any lady or gentleman can secure a membership without money or price. The best plan to get upaclub is to send $8 for the engraving. Art Journal, etc. to show as a specimen, and aclub could then easily be formed. The $3 sent for the specimen can be counted in as one of the club. Subscriptions will be received until the evening of the Sist of January, 1860, when the books will close for the sixth year, and the award of premiums will be made among the subscribers. Address C. A. DERBY, Actuary C. A. A., 546 and 548 Broadway, New York. Acireular of special terms and a specimen copy of the elegantly illustrated Art Journal—price 50 cents—will be sent on receipt of 18 cents in stamps or coin. To all desiring full particulars of the Association, see next column. [From the Philadelphia Atlas.} CosMOPOLITAN ArT AssoctaTion.—This Association is literally an “institution,” radiating into the remotest rts of the North American continent and the West aodies. It was founded in June, 1854, and chartered in 1355, and has ever been in a most prosperous condition. It has all the leading features of the Art Unions of Europe. The subscription price is only $3, which en- titles the subscriber to the Art Journal quarterly and to an engraving worth four times the amount. For the resent year, the Directors have purchased from Lloyd rothers, of London, the beautiful engraving of “‘Shak- speare and his Friends.’’ The plate is an important one, in size thirty by thirty-eight inches. Shakspeare, repre- sented as the central figure of the group, sits at a table, surrounded by fourteen of his most illustrious contempo- raries. This beautiful engraving is the result of five Years’ labor, and cost the sum of $10,000. It will be appreciated by every lover of art throughout the world. [From the Baltimore Sun.]} CosmoPoLITAN ART AssociaTion.— As the time ap- proaches for the annual award of the numerous paint- ings, engravings, and other works of art pertaining to the above institution, we have a graceful reminder in the elegant engraving which has been provided for sub- scribers Itisasuperb copy of the celebrated painting by John Faed, representing ‘‘ Shakspeare and his Friends.” This fine picture is alone worth, we should have sup- posed, more than the price of subscription, and it is Teally a matter of surprise how the Association can supply each subscriber with a copy, together with the Art Journal, a large and handsome publication, and a chance for one ofy:he numerous prizes, for the price of subscription, only $3. The picture is worthy of a posi- tion in the most exclusive collection, and will constitute 4 Classic ornament to the parlor walls wherever it shall be introduced. The grouping and accessories of the Picture challenge the most critical skill, and will com- mand universal admiration. [From the St. Louis Express.) One of the greatest and most praiseworthy institutions in these United States—we mean the Cosmopolitan Art Association—on Monday last laid on our table a very Pues, steel ehgraving, entitled ‘“‘Shakspeare and his ends.” PLAN AND OBJECT Or THE Cosmopolitan Art Association. The Cosmopolitan Art Association was organized June, 1854, and is designed to encourage and popu'arize the Fine Arts and Literature. It is ander the supervision of a council of members, whose services are honorary, and who receive no compensation. To accomplish a truly national object, uniting great public good with private gratification, at small indivi- dual expense, in a manner best suited to the wants, habits, and tastes of the people, the Directory has adopted the following plan :— Any person may become a member by the payment of Three Dollars. The money thus obtained, after paying necessary ex- penses, is applied— Ist. To the production of a large and costly Steel En- graving, a copy of which is furnished to each subscriber. 2d. To the purchase of Paintings, Sculpture, etc., to be given to subscribers, and to the publishing of the Cosmo- politan Art Journal, which is also furnished to members gratuitously throughout the year. 3d. To a free admission for a season of two months to the Art Galleries of the Association. The great success attending the Association during the past five years has made it universally popular wherever its plan and objects are known, enabling, as it does, all classes to make their homes attractive by the aid of Scuipture, Paintings, Literature, etc. The subscription-books of the Cosmopolitan are now open, and subscriptions are daily being received in a ratio unparalleled with that of any previous year. The collection of works of art to be given to subscribers exceeds in number and value that of any year since the founding of the Association. Terms of Subscription for the Sixth Year:— Every subscriber of Three Dollars will receive— Ist. The superb steel engraving, “Shakspeare and his Friends.” 2d. A copy of the elegantly illustrated Art Journal one year. 3d. A free season admission to the Galleries, 548 Broad- way, New York. In addition to which, over siz hundred valuable works of art will be given to subscribers, comprising choice Paintings, Sculptures, Outlines, etc. by the first American and foreign artists. The beautiful Engraving which every subscriber will receive, entitled “SHAKSPEARE AND HIS FRIENDS,” is of a character to give unqualified pleasure and satis- faction. It is of very large size, being printed on heavy plate-paper thirty by thirty-eight inches, making a most superb ornament, suitable for either the walls of the parlor, library, or office. It will be sent to every subscriber immediately on re- ceipt of their subscription. The Engraving is sent to any part of the country by mail with safety, being packed in a cylinder, postage prepaid. Subscriptions for the sixth year will be received until the evening of Tuesday, the 3lst of January, 1860, at which time the books will close, when the works of art will be given to subscribers. No person is restricted toa single subscription. Those remitting $15 are entitled to six memberships. Subscriptions from California, the Canadas, and all foreign provinces must be $3 50 instead of $3 00, in order to defray extra postage, etc. Persons wishing to form clubs should send for a circular of terms, etc. The Art Journal is the most beautiful magazine pub- lished in America. Price 50centsa number. A specimen copy, containing full particulars of the Cosmopolitan, will be sent to any person on receipt of 18 cents in stamps or coin. Address C. A. DERBY, Actuary C. A. A., 5646 and 548 Broadway, New York. 95

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THE SECRET OUT; 10O00O Tricks with Cards, AND OTHER RECREATIONS. ILLUSTRATED WITH OVER S00 ENGRAVINGS. AND CONTAINING Clear and Comprehensive Explanations how to Perform, with ease, all the Curious Card Deceptions ana Sleight-of-Hand Tricks extant. With an endless variety of Entertaining Experiments in Drawing- Room or White Magic, including the Celebrated Science of Second-Sight. Together with a Choice Collection of Intricate and Puzzling Questions. Amuse- ments in Chance, Natural Magic, §c. §c. &e. ¥e. " By the author of “The Sociable,” “The Magician’s Own Book,” “ Parlor Theatricals,” &. Large 12mo., Cloth, Gilt Side and Back. Price $1 00. | ‘THE SOCIABLE; if ? i | CONTAINING : Acting Proverbs, Dramatic Charades, Acting Charades or Drawing-room Pantomimes, Musical Burlesques, Tableaux Vivants, Purlor Games, Games of Action, Forfeits, Science in Sport and Parlor Magic, : and a Choice Collection of Curious Mental and Mechanical Puzzles, §c. §c. : ILLUSTRATED WITH NEARLY 300 ENGRAVINGS AND DIAGRAMS. . THE WHOLE BEING A FUND OF NEVER-ENDING ENTERTAINMENT, By the author of “ The Magician’s Own Book.” Nearly 400 pages, 12mo. Price, Cloth, Gilt Side Stamp, $1 00. THE CORNER CUPBOARD; : ’ Facts for Erverybpody. By the author of “ Inquire Within,” ‘‘The Reason Why,” &e. Large 12mo., 400 Pages, Cloth, Gilt Side and Back. Price $1 00. Zilustratedcdi with ower 1,000 Emsgravings. Embracing Facts about—I. Things not generally known. II. Things that ought to be known. Ill. Things worth knowing. THE CORNER CUPBOARD IS A Complete Practical Confectioner. A Complete Gentleman’s Book. A Complete Practical Cook. A Complete Boy’s Book. A Complete Family Doctor. A Complete Girl’s Book. A Complete Practical Gardener. A Complete Master’s Book. A Complete Father’s Book. A Complete Servant’s Book. A Complete Mother’s Book. A Complete Family Book. A Complete Lady’s Book. A FRIEND AT EVERYBODY'S ELBOW IN TIME OF NEED. Whether in the Parlor or the Kitchen, the Chamber or the Boudoir, at Home or Abroad, it may be very appropriately called the FAMILY’S READY ADVISER. Copies of either of the above Books sent to any address in the United States free of postage. Send eash orders to / DICK & FITZGERALD, No. 18 Ann Street, New York. 96

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THE MODISTE.

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CHILDREN’S DRESSES.— (See description, page 191.) »* la > es i chit oy “— ot “ ier «9 ; eae

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“210M B] Oony 098 ON} [Ns eo]Op vIA ousM][e 110M 0007, 408 01/03 BsVgG— “anOHD “OSSIq@ UN O99], vy 1m Oplis0 GoW ‘818 OO1]o; UNIU egg ossy BY OUNSEP [I Oss “S}1A B] OATA Omorsul 14013 10 04g ‘omeds oy 28403) Ip BT ¥IIWOL BlOs! OYyoTENe? ‘OF Om OAUM OY) 19.0 OIG ‘£403 08 opts [ptm yauq ang ‘ m01q sezeoig 0g} Apuey ‘£|qornb ‘ceprum 4eems weg) em0Q—sau0Hy *sfhvp Zujuyemes ano |v ‘oansvojd a: puods jj1m om pay fs£¥] [njs00y0 uy Zusm0r ‘sn 300M [f1M OA] Om Guy) spudig “00G) 405 UByos | Yo!ym Uy ‘ Oq 7¥0q qims fw puy Wom qrveq fm jnjyfor ‘Barprms oy) oes ynq | pynog - sngo 30,9 OGM = 99 - Of @A - Op vl - - Uo] Pe 8 swez-o, Of Opli fim Yyavq ang sez - ooaq 043) «= Auep Cote _ of a am JoJ-u0d 8 - W- us 10 - yomb ‘ue > aq ~ PIV Ul jo0ms8 ‘ueq) omg sed- ma - 9 ! ° - 09 %i-sp ou y *eaoq - eouw - 4 -_" = == =: ee - JO W,A¥vey 1¥q) MoI 4UuEg a = a a ree try SF = , ait >

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Break 4 - ae @l mM 3 ss Ne m mh 4 ‘ On gh - Tet Thee : pat ui lf a> i t AOA up pos a o> oe TY ts SUB Us Oe SN ahs gD in ll] \ m. eS (See description, page 191.) m m pa a ° & za _ z fa > a

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ate oh THE ARRAGONESE. [From the establishment of G. Broprs, 51 Canal Street, New York. Drawn by L. T. Vorer, from actual articles of costume.) Tus pardessus is made of heavy black silk, being an inter-season garment. The sleeves are the most striking tovelty. It will be seen that they are made by reversed plaits on the upper arm, but fall in a flow of drapery below ; ia front, they are looped up by a cord with tasselled ends ; tassels also decorate the angles at the bottom of the sleeves. The berths trimming is a bouillon of the material itself, and is ornamented with a crochet fringe, which, graduated, employed also at the bottom of the garment; a neat passementerie heads this, and is placed at the edges, and trims the ingide of the sleeves as well as their exterior face. The skirt is laid in plaits, all round, excepting at the fore front. ge 101

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FOR SILK EMBROIDERY. Tuis cloak is made in gray cloth, and bordered with plaid trimming, which is now much in favor The hood is drawn up with a bow of the same. The sleeve is one of the leading peculiarities of this cloak; it is large, and the fulness is set in with double French plaits. These cloaks are quite # frequently bound with black velvet; and more especially when they are made in striped cloth, # which material they are also especially fashionable, the stripe meeting at the seam, which runs ere wise down the back, from the neck to the hem. 192 Cu: sion ay ew a. with a

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EMBROIDERY FOR A CHILD'S SKIRT. Cor the shape of the cape in black net, and cover it with alternate rows of puffings of black illu- sion and quillings of black lace, without any edge sewed on it; but if a more dressy cape is desired, ¥ 4 narrow lace edge on the quilling. It is fastened at the throat by a large bow of black ribbon, with a white edge. 103

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vinwe s@ase we FANCY CAPE. x SAS << ‘ RA \

Tns cape is inte of spotte.l lace, and trimmed with black and white lace, velvet, and bugles. A belt of ribbon prsses round the waist, and is fastened in front by a quilling of ribbon and a bow finish the neck of the cape. 104 large bow with ends. A

N side ribbo Ni only Streay of ve roll a N and | prett, N tibbo

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HEADDRESSES NECK-TIE, AND FANCY CUFF. No. 1.—This headdress is quite novel ; it is formed of ribbon, about an inch wide, drawn on on side to form a ruffle, and then seWed on in the style given in the engraving. For the bow, a velvet ribbon is required, and the drawn ribbon is placed on the edge of it, producing a very pretty effect. No. 2.—This is one of the latest styles of headdresses, and is exceedingly simple, being formed only of loops of black velvet and some fancy-colored ribbon, with @ large bow at the back, and one streamer of black velvet and one of ribbon. This headdress fits on the back of the head; but a ro!! of velvet rests on the front part of the head, and directly in wads of it a bow is placed. This roll and bow can be omitted if it is not becoming, and still the L will be very pretty. No. 3.—This is a fancy neck-tie, now all the rage in Paris. composed of ribbon, lace, velvet. and beads. It is worn of all colors; scarlet ribbon and black velvet with jet beads make a very Pretty bow or tie. No. 4.—Fancy cuff made of ribbon worked with beads, and finished at the wrist by a quilling of ribbon, 105

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EMBROIDERY FOR PILLOW-CASES. MACAROON PATCHWORK IN SILK AND VELVET. (See description, page 163.) ff | : U7 Hi)

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page 191.)

description,

(See

LADY'S NIGHT-DRESS. zi °o _ io) mn = oO a _ [our A a a - < 6 pa <

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(*saqunu himmuny most panuruo,) ) ‘SHLLLAT AONVA JO LAXVHdTV