Godey's Lady's Book and Magazine 1860-07: Vol 61 Iss 1

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GODEY’S Lado’s Book and Atlagasine PHILADELPHIA, JULY, 1860. SOME ACCOUNT OF MODERN COACHES. Fig. 1. Tne modern form of coach may be traced back to the days of Elizabeth, and Stow, in his Chronicles, thus relates the history of its intro- duction ; he says: ‘In the year 1564, Guilliam Boonen, a Dutchman, became the Queen’s coachman, and was the first that brought the use of coaches into England. After a while, divers great ladies, with as great jealousie of the Queen's displeasure, made them coaches, and rid in them up and down the country, to the great admiration of all the beholders; but then, by little and little, they grew usuall among the nobilitie and others of sort, and, within twenty years, became a great trade of coach-making.’’ The date of this latter trade he also gives, by which it appears to have been immediately taken up by our own manufac- turers: ‘‘This year (1564), Walter Rippon made a coche for the Earl of Rutland, which was the first coche that was ever made in Eng- land.”’ Hoefnagle, in his curious view of the VOL. LXI,—2 famous Palace of Nonsuch, dated 1582, has re- presented Elizabeth and her attendants in their coaches, looking on at a hunting got up for their amusement. This old print is particularly cu- rious, as the first engraved representation of an English coach ; it forms Fig. 1 of the illustrations to this article. It reminds us more of the tri- umphant chariots used in stage plays, with its canopy and feathers, than a sober aid to loco- motion. The body is low and heavy, and there is a clumsiness about the whole construction that we shall find common to all coaches until a comparatively modern period. The coach- man, perhaps William Boonen himself, sits with Dutch solemnity in front, driving, or rather walking his horses, by staid and solemn steps on their road, the whole looking about as active as a modern hearse. The Queen’s at- tendants sit in another coach, Fig. 2, the sides of which are perfectly open ; but it is less fan- ciful in form, having the back and front closed, 13

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—— Eg Sm =e ~ Vea GODEY’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, Fig. 2 . and an oblong canopy above, at each corner of which balls surmounted by spikes are placed as ornaments; and a similar decoration on the summit of the raised centre. In the middle of each side of the carriage is a projection capable of holding a single person, who thus sat with his back to the carriage, and which was termed the boot ; it was an inconvenient and uncomfort- able situation, and is often alluded to as such. Unlike the Queen’s charioteer, the driver here sits upon one of the horses. This coach, with less of pretension, has a more commodious and social look than the theatrical affair in which the illustrious lady sits in solitary state. When royalty and the nobility moved from place to place at this period of our history, the army of attendants and the quantity of carriages used for conveying household stuff and other things rivalled the appearance of an Eastern caravan. Harrison, in his Description of Britain, prefixed to ‘‘ Holinshead’s Chronicle,’ says: “Our princes and the nobilitie have their car- riage commonly made by carts, whereby it cometh to passe, that when the Queen’s majesty doth remove from place to place there are usu- ally 400 care-wares, which amount to the sum of 2,400 horses, appointed out of the countries adjoining, whereby her carriage is conveyed safely unto the appointed place.’’ Henry, fifth Earl of Northumberland, when on a journey, appears from his household book to have been accompanied by noless than seventeen carriages, filled with every needfu! article of household furniture, and by thirty-six horsemen. It was usual at this time to carry from place to place articles that now are always kept as part of the necessary furniture of a residence, which no one thinks of changing. When the nobility moved from London to the country, they unfur- nished the town house to make the country one habitable, and vice versa. Not only were beds and furniture of the better kind taken, tapestry from the walls, and plate from the court-cup- board, but pots, and pans, and kitchen utensils were packed up and brought at the fag-end of the procession, along with the scullions and turnspits, who found a seat among them where they could ; and, from their unwashed faces and hands, and the watch they kept on the rear, were jocularly termed the black-qguards, a name which has since been applied to others of the community, who, boasting cleaner faces, have a moral blackness less readily removed than the more innocent taint of the original holders of that name, since become odious. The sloven- liness of ancient houses rendered these removals necessary, and even during a residence in them, censers or fire-pans, in which coarse perfumes were burnt, were most necessary utensils, and always to be seen. Lodge tells us that Lord Paget’s house was so small that ‘‘after one month it would wax unsavoury for hym to con- tynue in it ;’’ and in a letter of the Earl of Shrewsbury, respecting his prisoner, Mary Queen of Scots, we read ‘‘ that her majesty was to be removed for five or six days, to cleanse her chamber, being kept very unclenly.”’ As to the etymology of the term coach, some uncertainty appears to exist. Beckman, in his ‘‘ History of Inventions,” has devoted some space to the question, and to that work I must refer the reader who is curious on that point. He inclines to think it a term of Hungarian extraction, and to have been derived from the word Gutsche, which formerly signified a couch or sofa, a curious coincidence with the early wheel-bed of the Saxons. He, however, adds: ‘“M. Cornides has lately endeavored to prove that the word coach is of Hungarian extraction, and that it had its rise from a village im the eo = © @ -eaweaais mau tin lan

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ae eee lS se ese" tf \y SOME ACCOUNT OF MODERN COACHES, Province of Wieselburg, which at present is called Aitsee, but was known formerly by the name of Aotsee, and that this travelling ma- chine was there first invented.’’ The great rapidity with which the use of coaches spread in the latter end of the reign of Elizabeth became the subject of remark with the satirist, and ultimately with the legislature. Massinger has noticed them in his ‘‘ City Ma- dam,’’ as furnished with their full amount of attendants, even when used by the richer Londoners. His Anne Frugal demands of her courtly admirer— “My caroch Drawn by #ix Flanders mares, my coachman, groom, ’ Postilion, and footman.’ And Bishop Hall asks, in one of his Satires :— “Is't not a shame to see each homely groome Sit perched in an idle chariot roome, That were not meet some panel to bestride, Sursingled to a galled hackney’s hide?”’ Parliamentary interference was asked for and obtained; but when ‘‘the Bill to restrain the excessive use of Coaches within this realm of England, was read on the 7th of Nov. 1601, it was rejected,’ and the attorney- general was only directed to look to a due consideration of the statutes touching the breed and maintenance of horses, ‘‘and that some fit bill be drawn and preferred to the house touching the same, and concerning the use of coaches.’’ Great clamor at this time was raised against them ; it was alleged that they endangered life in the streets, that they encouraged idleness and luxury, im- poverished the poor, and destroyed the trade ofavery industrious class, the London water- men. ‘So rapid was their increase in the early part of the seventeenth century,’’ says Mr. Markland, in his curious paper in the ‘‘ Ar- cheologia,’’ ‘‘that in 1639 upwards of 6,C00 coaches appear to have been kept in London and the neighborhood.’’ Their appearance at this Fig. 3. time may be seen in Fig. 3, copied by Mr. Mark- land from a very rare and curious tract, entitled | | | | | | | — or ‘Coach and Sedan pleasantly disputing for place and precedence ; the Brewer's Cart being Moderator. Lond. 1636.’’ From this print it appears that the coach was closed on all sides, and that the windows were furnished with cushions and leathern blinds to close them, which rendered them liable to all sorts of evil imputations ; the ‘‘sin-guilty coach’’ being one ; but the most popular and enduring was the coarse term, ‘hell-cart,’’ a word probably first coined for them by John Taylor, the Water Poet, a name he obtained from having originally been a Thames waterman, and whose rancor against coaches was sharpened by the remem- brance of his early career, and found vent in a satirical pamphlet, published in 1623, with the quaint title of ‘‘ The World rannes on Wheeles ; or, Odds betwixt Carts and Coaches,’’ and which is adorned with a most ungallant woodcut of the world dragged along on coach wheels by the devil and a fashionable lady. The coach of 1616 may be seen in’ Fig. 4, copied from Visscher’s curious view of London, which was published at Antwerp in that year. In 1635, the king published a proclamation, in which he declares that the great numbers of hackney coaches of late time seen and kept in London, Westminster, and their suburbs, and the general and promiscuous use of coaches there, were not only a great disturbance to his Majesty, his dearest consort the queen, the nobility, and others of place and degree, in their passage through the streets; but the streets themselves were so pestered, and the pavements so broken up, that the common passages were hindered and made dangerous, and, besides, the prices of hay and provender made exceedingly dear. ‘‘ Wherefore,” con- cludes the proclamation, ‘‘we expressly com- mand and forbid that no hackney or hired coaches be used or suffered in London, West-

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16 minster, or the suburbs thereof, except they be to travel at least three miles out of the same. And also that no person shall go in a coach in the said streets, except the owner of the coach shall constantly keep up four able horses for our service when required.’’ Such an edict as this, so insolent in its tone, so arbitrary and absurd in its exactions, enables us to measure the distance between the sixteenth and the nineteenth centuries—between English freedom as it existed before the civil wars, and as it now exists. In 1634, the first hackney-coach stand was established in London, Garrard thus de- scribes it in a letter to Strafford: ‘‘ I cannot omit to mention any new thing that comes up amongst us, though ever so trivial. Here is one Captain Baily, he hath been a sea captain, but now lives on land, about this city, where he tries experiments. He hath erected, according to his ability, some four hackney-coaches, put his men in livery, and appointed them to stand at the May-pole, in the Strand, giving them instructions at what rates to carry men into several parts of the town, where all day they may be had. Other hackney-men seeing this way, they flocked to the same place, and perform their journeys at the same rate. So that some- times there is twenty of them together, which disperse up and down, that they and others are to be had everywhere, as watermen are to be had by the water-side. Everybody is much pleased with it; for whereas before, coaches could not be had but at great rates, now a man may have one much cheaper.”’ Sir Saunders Duncombe, in 1634, brought the Sedan-chair into fashion ;* and the king granted him the privilege of letting them to hire for fourteen years, the patent declaring that * That article obtained its name from the town of Sedan, in France, where they were first invented and used, GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. the lives and limbs of his Majesty’s subjects being greatly endangered by the multitude of coaches in London and Westminster, these conveyances would be a proper substitute. The Sedan of 1636 is represented in Fig. 5, from the tract called ‘*Coach and Sedan,” already mentioned. It is a square, ugly box, with a window in front and on each side, with a sloping roof, looking altogether like the child's ‘*Noah’s Ark,’’ in a toy-shop window. These clumsy contrivances were stated to be imitations of those ‘‘used beyond sea;’’ but that the Fig. 6. latter were much superior things may be seen in Fig. 6, copied from ‘ Sandys’ Travels,” 1615, probably one of the earliest representations of these conveyances. He calls them sedges, and speaking of Naples, where he saw them, says: ‘The number of carosses is incredible that are kept in this city, as of the sedges not unlike to horse litters, but carried by men. These wait for fares at the corners of the streetes, as water-men do at our wharfes, wherein those that will not foote it in the heat are borne (if they please, unseene) about the city.’’ But sedans became, if anything, more unpopular than coaches, and we are told—‘' When Buckingham came fo be carried about the streets in a chair, upon men’s shoulders, the clamor and noise of it was so extravagant that the people would rail on him in the streets, loathing that men should be brought to so servile a condition as horses.” And the silly monarch and his min- ions were stigmatized as ‘* degrading Englishmen into slaves and beasts of burden."’ The old horse-litter was still, however, seen, particularly for state occasions, and as late as 1638, we find it in use, and delineated in La Serre’s curious print, representing the proces- an ine str sto pri

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> OT OTS re Or OSS Slr Cl ww SOME sion down Cheapside of the Queen Mother, Mary de Medicis, when she visited London, to see her daughter, Henrietta Maria, the wife of Charles I., Fig. 7. Its uncomfortable accom- Fig. 7. modation is ludicrousiy described in a bitter attack on the republicans of the Commonwealth in 1680: ‘*Can we forget that horrid accident, when Major-General Skippon came in a horse- litter, wounded, to London? When he passed the brew-house near St. John’s Street, a mastiff flew, as at a bear, at one of his horses, and held him so fast that the horse grew mad as a mad dog ; the soldiers so amazed that none had the wit toshoot the mastiff; but the horse-litter, borne between two horses, tossed the major- general like a dog in a blanket.’’ The popular clamor against coaches still continued among the lower classes, and Mr. Collier, in his curious ‘‘ Book of Roxborough Ballads,’’ has printed one called ‘* The Coaches’ Overthrow,” in which it is declared :— **Coach-makers may use many trades, And get enough of meanes ; And coach-men may turne off their jades And help to drain the fens. Heigh doune, derry, derry doune, With the hackney coaches doune! The sythe and flail, Cart and plow tall Doe want them out of toune." The author views sedans with especial favor, and thus he singsof them :— “T love Sedans, cause they do piod And amble every where, Which prancers are with leather shod, And ne'er disturb the eare, Heigh doune, derry, derry doune, With the hackney coaches doune! Their jumpings make The pavement shake, Their noise doth mad the toune."’ Notwithstanding all this, they continued to increase, and were made narrower, to suit the streets. The hackney-coachmen of the Re- storation may be seen in Fig. 8, from a curious print in the Museum; he wears a long cassock, o* | | | ACCOUNT OF MODERN COACHES, 17 and his boots are so well ruffled that his trade would appear to be a thriving one. The coach of the time of Charles II. is described by D’Avenant as ‘‘ uneasily hung, and so narrow that I took them for sedans on wheels.”? The streets were widened after the fire, and coaches again be- came broader, and were closed all round, and covered with leather, or- namented with bright nails and red took his seat on the box, covered with a ham- This seat was really a box, and a thing for necessary use, wheels. The coachman mer cloth. for in it were carried hammer, nails, pincers, rope, and other wherewith to repair the coach in case articles of accident; and the hammer-cloth was de- vised to conceal these necessary, but unsight- ly, remedies for broken wheels and panels; accidents com- mon in days of bad shivered paving and worse light- ing; when sewers were left open when under- going repairs, with no light but a farthing can- dle in a dirty lantern to give notice of danger »& to the hurrying cha- rioteer. The establishment of hackney-coaches led to that of stage-coaches, and Mr. Markland, in his valuable paper in the ‘ Archwologia,” notices, from the Diary of Mr. William Dugdale, that they were in use as early as 1659, for, under May 2d in that year, Sir William writes: “TI set forwards London by Coventry coach; he also notes various other journeys performed by the same means up to 1680; and from the Diary of a Yorkshire Clergyman, also quoted by the same author, we find that in the winter of 1682 a journey from Nottingham to London, ina stage-coach, oceupied four whole days! Wood tells us that the journey between Oxford and London occupied two days; but a conveyance, Mr. Markland tells us, was after- wards invented, called the Flying Coach, which completed the same journey in thirteen suc- cessive hours. The old-fashioned objection to these conveyances still continued, and a writer in the Harleian Miscellany, vol. 8, declares that ‘these coaches and caravans are one of the greatest mischiefs that hath happened of late towards

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| | 18 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. years to the kingdom, mischievous to the pub- lic, destructive to trade, and prejudicial to lands. First, by destroying the breed of good horses, the strength of the nation, and making men careless of attaining to good horsemanship, a thing so useful and commendable in a gentle- man. Secondly, by hindering the breed of watermen, who are the nursery for seamen, and they the bulwark for the kingdom. Thirdly, by lessening his majesty’s revenues.’’ The carriage in use by the upper classes, at the period of the Revolution of 1688, may be seen in Fig. 9, copied from Romain de Hooge’s curious print representing the entry of William Fig. 9. III. to the royal palace at Whitehall. It is drawn by six horses, a postilion sits on the fore horse, the coachman on the box. The coach is still clumsy, but unlike those of the days of Elizabeth, inasmuch as it has springs, so that the uncomfortable jolting of the passengers was saved, as they passed over the rudely paved streets of London. It is provided on each side with a boot; and in one of them sits a lady, much in the style of those seated in the carriage of the Elizabethan period, already engraved. These boots are often alluded to by the satirists ; thus Taylor says of the coach: “Like a perpetuall cheater, it wears two boots and no spurs, sometimes having two pair of legs in one boot, and oftentimes, against nature most preposterously, it makes fair ladies wear the boot; and, if you note, they are carried back to back, like people surprised by pyrats, to be tied in that miserable manner, and thrown overboard into the sea.’’ The small, narrow carriage, ‘‘like a sedan,”’ mentioned by D’Avenant, of a better class, and constructed for state occasions, may be seen in Fig. 10. It is preserved in the stables at Pens- hurst, in Kent, where it is absurdly shown as the carriage given by Mary Queen of Scots to Lord Darnley! It is certainly not older than the latter half of the seventeenth century, but it is a good example of the sort of carriage then used by the nobility. Nothing can exceed the ~__ ——— finish and beauty of the decorations ; the hinges have projecting ornaments, terminating in busts of the Roman emperors ; and the carving and Fig. 10. other ornaments have a finish ¢hat could not be excelled. Although an improvement in shape and size is here visible, there is an overruling clumsiness about the whole thing which con- trasts very forcibly with the more modern coach. At the end of the century, these conveyances took the form exhibited in Fig. 11, copied from a well-executed engraving on copper in the print-room of the British Museum, which is dated 1696. The coachman is seated on a narrow bar in front ; the carriage is slung easily upon straps, and its shape is certainly less square and heavy-looking than before. Cur- tains draw before the windows. The edges are

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ON THE RONDOUT. 19 Fig. 11. decorated with brass nails ; the canopy is orna- mented at the angles with gilded foliations, above which are decorative knobs, the body being covered with dark leather. There is a sobriety about the whole thing that accords marvellously well with the heavy cuffed, deep skirted coat and jack boots of the driver, and the equally heavy full-bottomed wig of the gentleman within. The dignified, heavy, Dutch formality of English life in the reign of William III. befitted these conveyances, and would tole- rate no other. ON THE Briantty each glowing moonbeam falls Upon thy cheek, O beauteous stream | While Naiads from their wat’ry halls Come up to drink the midnight dream, And peeping forth their sparkling eyes— Glist’ning like amethystine dew— They cause the tiny swells which rise To seem like stars reflected through. As in this drifting bark I sit, And float me slowly on the tide— Watching the shadows as they flit From off the shores on either side— I pictare, in my fancy free, An old, old story o’er again ; But rustling zephyrs, wafting me, Bear off the mem’ry from my brain. High loom the hills on every side, As floating past their feet I go, With nothing, save the breeze, to guide My tiny shallop, ’mid the flow Of rolling waters, coursing on To swell the billows of the sea; But now those waters, hushed and calm, Seem sleeping in tranquillity. *Tis so with many a human heart, Which often throbs so low and still, That from its light exterior part It seems to flow unloosed from will; But ah! beneath that shad’wy gauze, Wild thoughts and passions often roll, Which know no bound’ries, save the laws That sway the ocean of the soul. RONDOUT,* BY H. L. ABBEY. And now, as past the hills I drift, And gaze upon their frontlets high— Which seem like genii as they lift Their frowning shapes against the sky— I picture to myself the thought That I am floating down life’s stream ; While all the hills seem sorrows brought To mar the beauty of its dream. And slowly now I drift, and gaze Upon the rocky moonlit shore, Where Indian maids in other days Oft sat and dreamed their weird thoughts o'er; Or leaned perchance their bronzéd brows Upon their warrior lovers’ breast— Pledging, in accents low, the vows Which they alone could know the best. And still I fow adown thy cheek Like some lost tear, O beauteous stream ! As fancy strives in vain to seek A tide more lovely than ye seem. O stream! when in my boyhood’s days I saw my portrayed face in thee, There came no cloud to dim my gaze, But all was sweet simplicity. Sut now the face which looketh down Is traced with many a line of care, And sorrows which we cannot drown Have penned their names out plainly there, Now fading fast is every dream, But would, O God! my life had been, For me, as calm as this loved stream I'd mourn no days departed then, * Huntington's celebrated painting.

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JESSIE TURNER’S FORTUNES. BY METTA VICTORIA VICTOR. CHAPTER I. Creakina, creaking, with a most doleful sound, the sign-board of the inn at the Four Cor- ners swung dismally in the melancholy wind of an autumnal evening. The inn was a rambling wooden building of good size and age, standing at a corner where two stage-routes crossed each other, and designed to catch such stray custom as these thoroughfares might yield. A dozen or more of dwelling-houses, a store, a grocery, and some shops clustered about, went by the name of the Four Corners, and was honored by a post-office thus designated upon the list. Jessie Turner, as she sat in her little bed- room ou the first floor, looking out upon the night, did not think the creaking of the sign- board disagreeable ; it only added to the wild- ness of the darkness and the moaning wind, she thought; and she loved to indulge in fan- tastic dreams, as changeful and capricious as the flickering light which went and came in her apartment. For nearly opposite her win- dow, and just across the street, was a black- smith’s shop, the ruddy glow of whose furnace illumined the street, and, whenever its fire started into greater energy, broad dashes of crimson light were flung upon the walls of her room, or flashes of gold went glimmering through its shadows. On a dark night like the present, when the wind was abroad and rain threatened, she found beauty in the old shop, with its showers of fiery sparks, its red glow, and the wild shadow of the brawny smith as he worked at his anvil. With her cheek leaning on her hand, Jessie looked out, repeating to herself that exquisite picture of Longfellow’s :— ** And children coming home from school Look in at the open door; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing-floor.” But even this did not satisfy her vivid imagi- nation, and she dreamed on vaguely about Orion, and Vulcan, and the ancient poetry of mythology, murmuring some lines from Ho- race :— ** And here the god could take, Midst showery sparks and swathes of broad gold fire, His lone repose, lulled by the sounds he loved,” etc. 20 And so absorbed was she in the fantasies thus conjured up, and such a tumult was made by the swinging sign, the clamor of the anvil and bellows, and the shrieking of the rising wind, that she was unaware the stage had stopped in front of the house, the horses had been changed, and it had been driven on towards the village, six miles distant. Suddenly her door opened, and a man who might once have been fine-looking, but now with a red and be- sotted face, looked in, and said: ‘‘A gentleman for supper. Be quick about it, Jessie.” She went out into the next room, which was the dining-room, and where a fragile-looking lady, who sat by the fire, was putting away some sewing. ** Do not come out in the kitchen until I have replenished the fire, do not, dear mother; for it is too chilly for you there now. All the help I shall need from you will be to make the bis- cuits, and I will call you when I am ready for you.’’ And the young girl pressed the invalid back in her chair with affectionate assiduity. ‘*But how we are to get up a tolerable sup- per and breakfast, Jessie, is more than I know; the materials are not in the house.”’ ‘*There is our last chicken, you know, which Tom dressed this afternoon, and, with the bis- cuits and honey, will make a respectable tea. Don’t be troubled, mother; you will see when they are on the table.”’ She passed into the kitchen humming a song, started the decaying fire anew, and, for half an hour, flitted about busily from kitchen to din- ing-room. ‘*Now, mother, if you will just set up the dishes while I take off my apron and brush my hair,’’ she said, and in two moments thereafter the stranger was ushered to the table by the half drunken landlord. ‘*T will wait upon myself, sir; I prefer to do so,’’ said the gentleman, who did not like his company. When he first commenced eating, he seemed absorbed in thought, taking his tea uncon- sciously from the hand of Jessie, who retreated to her place by the side table and stood waiting to give such attention as he might require. Of all the onerous and disagreeable duties strewn so thickly in the daily path of the inn- ecoceceorw wR Ss Ss = col ch im tea ive has nov

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JESSIE TURNER’S FORTUNES. 21 keeper’s daughter, there was nothing so repug- nant to her modest and refined nature as this necessity for serving strangers. She did it gently and readily, as she did all things, but many bitter tears were shed recently in her own little room, when some order rudely given, or the coarse stare of some bad man, hadshocked her sensitive spirit more deeply than usual. Presently the stranger, having recovered from his abstraction, began to notice the exceeding neatness of the table, and the delicate manner in which its viands were prepared. He was agreeably surprised, for he had expected, at the best, but a coarse meal at this out-of-the-way Western tavern. His surprise was heightened to astonished curiosity when his glance, from scrutinizing the room, fell upon the maiden standing, sewer in hand, by the tea-urn at the small table. She had forgotten herself for the moment, and stood with head inclined listening to the wailing cf the autumn wind. He had travelled through many countries, and, for so young a man, had gained much experience, but he had never beheld, in art or nature, a more exquisite picture than this so unexpect- edly appearing before him; for Jessie Turner was very beautiful, and she had unconsciously taken an attitude of striking grace. The plain gingham dress could not conceal the rounded loveliness of her girlish form. Her head, slightly drooped and turned away in its listening atti- tude, was nobly set upon a graceful throat ; the most of its redundant hair was knotted up be- hind, but enough curls of gleaming gold and brown were left to shade the roseate cheek and intellectual forehead. There was a refinement in her demeanor which the most fortunate lady of the land might have coveted, and which could not escape the appreciation of a culti- vated eye. The stranger forgot to eat, and stared at her so fixedly that, when she at last looked up, a bright blush breaking over her cheek reminded him of his rudeness. He immediately cast down his eyes and began hastily drinking his tea. “May I trouble you for another cup of tea ?’’ As she came for his cup, he remarked the smallness and delicacy of her hands. ‘“*Well, I should say that here was a star strangely driven aside from its proper sphere,”’ he thought. And when she handed him his tea, he spoke out, moved by something suggest- ive in the dreamy look of her face: ‘* The wind has a wild sound to-night.” “Yes,” she said; ‘I love it.” She, too, had spoken without reflection, and now was sorry that she had expressed any kind | | of a sentiment toa stranger which might pro- voke farther conversation; so she retreated to her mother’s side, who was sitting at her sew- ing-stand at the back of the room, and remained there until the meal was finished. When he entered the room, the traveller had bowed to the person who sat sewing, without particularly remarking her appearance, for he was, as we before observed, very much en- grossed in his own reveries. Now, as he fin- ished his repast and arose from the table, he decided upon the best means of gratifying his curiosity with regard to his beautiful attendant, and, with a courteous inclination to the land- lady, he said: ‘‘ With your permission, Iwill sit here a short time. The host says that I cannot have a fire in my room, and I do not like the tobacco and noise of the bar-room.”’ His request was pleasantly acceded to, and, for five minutes, he busied himself conjecturing what position the delicate lady who was po- litely answering his remarks about the weather could hold in this inn, whether she was boarder, guest, or what? When Jessie, who was flitting in and out, clearing away the table, at length called her mother, it was still almost impossible to credit that these two interesting women could be the wife and child of the stelid landlord who was dealing out liquor to his customers behind the bar in the adjoining room. ‘*Here is some romance of real life, and a painful one,’’ he mused. The conversation branched off from the wea- ther upon several topics, and he found his companion not only refined, but unusually in- telligent. He himself was agreeable and well- informed, and Mrs. Turner did not hesitate to converse freely with him. The interest was evidently mutual. In the midst of an animated conversation upon people and books, the daugh- ter, having finished her work, took her place near her mother. She did not talk much, but her bright, expressive face, and kindling eye spoke for her. The astonishment of the travel- ler momentarily increased, and he would al- most have put some questions to them concern- ing their personal history, but dared not. He learned incidentally that Mrs. Turner had come formerly from New York, where her husband had failed, and that she had lived out West but a few years. A shade of sadness upon her brow and in the depths of her eyes, which never left them, even when she smiled, told him silently of suffering of a mental kind quite equal to her physical ill-health. Mr. Carolyn was the name of the traveller. He could scarcely have been twenty-five years

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6 of age. They gathered from what he said that, after leaving college, he had made a flying visit to England and the Continent, stopping, however, a short time in Germany to complete some study there, that he had returned to his own country about a year ago, and had been travelling the most of the time, and was now going West to transact some business for his father. Jessie Turner listened to his racy and brilliant remarks, almost entirely free from the vanity and supercilionsness which young men who have travelted are apt to possess, with an admiration which spoke much more plainly from her earnest eyes than she was aware of. It was but seldom indeed that she had an op- portunity of listening to personal reminiscences of places she so wished to behold. Books had been almost her only society, and the world which to her was most real was that ideal one in which her fancy dwelt luxuriously, and which all the dreariness of her daily experience could not prevent her enjoying. She ‘fared sump- tuously every day’’ upon the unsubstantial delicacies of her dreams. Now she listened to this young gentleman who came out of the ac- tual world with that interest which one would give to a messenger from a far country. And he was a fascinating talker, not only to her, but to her more experienced mother. There was no apparent haughtiness in his manner, and still a kind of princeliness distinguished him—that noble way of speaking, looking, and acting which wins the involuntary homage of all hearts. Once or twice the fire leaped out of his dark eyes, and a smile, vivid, swift, and sweet, played about his mouth, which made him, for the instant, superbly handsome. Seve- ral times, when giving utterance to a happy sentiment, he turned to the young girl, as if instinctively looking for the sympathy which beamed from her countenance. In the midst of their conversation, loud voices arose in the adjoining bar-room. The stranger pursued his remarks as if not hearing them, for he noticed that his companions were uneasy. As the tumult increased, the face of the older lady grew paler and paler, while that of the daughter flushed with mortification ; for the voice of the landlord could plainly be heard, among others, in drunken and noisy altercation. A violeut quarrel, in which oaths, blows, and crushing benches became conspicuous, was going on, and reached such a height that Mrs. Turner, trembling and alarmed, arose and hur- ried to the door. ‘*Do not expose yourself, for Heaven’s sake !’’ 22 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. exclaimed the gentleman, springing to detain her. ** But my husband !” she exclaimed, in a voice of anguish. At that moment, there was a cry and a heavy fall. She flung open the door, and went in. Two or three men were making their escape from the room, and a couple of others were lifting the landlord from the floor. Their ef- forts and his wife’s agony were of no avail; in falling, his temple had struck so heavily against the projecting corner of a bench that he was immediately killed. If ever a delicately reared woman had suf- fered the degradations and mortifications atten- dant upon her position as the wife of one who swiftly passed down the road between a wine- bibbing gentleman and a shameless sot, that woman was Mrs. Turner. Her husband’s com- plete failure in business, six years previous to this time, was his first excuse for giving unre- strained liberty to the flames of appetite which he had hitherto smothered. His downward career had been as swift as it was miserable, until he had finally taken refuge in the occupa- tion of an inn-keeper, where he had little to do but sell to others and himself partake of the unhumanizing cup. His wife had endured the bitterness of this change with a dignity and fortitude most admirable ; her health had failed under her sufferings, and still she had not deserted him, resolved to try all that patience could do, even after love and respect were extinct. It may be that she had sometimes looked forward to the time when dissipation should put an end to a life so much worse than worthless, with some kind of hope for her daughter’s sake. If so, she had not contem- plated the shock of this sudden and awful death, in the midst of violence and hate. Let us not attempt to record the distress of that night. Lewis Carolyn, although his business was pressing, and he had expected to go on his way the next morning, could not shake off the in- terest he felt in the afflicted and almost friend- less widow and child. Although the house was crowded with the curious and some of the kind-hearted among the neighbors, there seemed no one upon whom they could rely for friend- ship or aid. However much they were to be pitied, the universal feeling was that there was no loss in the death of thé wretched man. Mr. Carolyn staid until the funeral was over; he even—for he was wealthy as well as a Christian gentleman—paid the expenses of the funeral without mentioning the matter to the widow. Sh bi ar tio up thi an otl aw at ‘ § pel ma her up¢ rew win gol cok of : prit sho her fair, the her abs« unc her ia) me | sixt smo hast H a cal with uten furn ting, rock look hear five been in ¥ oceu! its s then. old i whic

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JESSIE TURNER'S FORTUNES. She did not learn the fact until after he had bidden them a kind and earnest farewell. The parties concerned in the quarrel were arrested, but, as it turned out at the examina- tion that the deceased had forced the quarrel upon the man who had knocked him down. that the deed was done in self-defence and without any intention of serious injury, and that the other persons had merely interfered to draw away the deceased, who was much intoxicated at the time, they were released. CHAPTER II. * Ar length it is finished.”’ So said Jessie Turner as she laid down her pen and pushed away from her the heap of manuscript. The weariness which had paled her cheek passed away, so, dropping her head upon her hand, she dreamed of the future reward of her labors. She looked out upon a winter sunset sky streaked with purple and gold. The little room in which she sat was cold, for it was unwarmed by the genial heat of any fire; but she did not now realize the privation. The shawl she had folded over her shoulders fell back ; the curls which shadowed her flushed cheek were thrust away from her fair, intellectual forehead ; her eyes rested on the western sky, whose glory was reflected in her countenance. For half an hour she sat absorbed in pleasing anticipations, and that unclouded sunset could not be brighter than her hopes. ‘*My novel will bring me fame—will bring me money,’’ murmured the ambitious child of sixteen, and, breaking from her reverie, she smoothed her hair before the little mirror and hastened out into the adjoining room. Here there w_s a cook-stove with a fire in it; a carpet upon the floor; two tables, one covered with books and sewing, the other with culinary utensils; likewise all those various articles of furniture necessary in a room comprising sit- ting, dining, and cooking apartment. In a rocking-chair near the fire sat Mrs. Turner, looking very wuch of an invalid. She was hearing a lesson in geography for a boy of five who stood by her side. Little Percy had been asleep in his bed upon that eventful night in which the tragedy of his father’s death occurred, and had not been an actor in any of its scenes. Three months had elapsed since then. The family had very soon left the ghostly old inn, and, with the remnant of furniture which was still their own, had found refuge in 23 a little house not far away, and were ekeing out a living as best they might. ‘Dear mother,” said Jessie, as she entered, **T forgot that you must need your tea; I will hasten to get it. ‘* There is but little to get, Jessie,’’ was the half sad, half smiling reply. ** Enough for Percy and myself, mother, if it only were not for you. You cannot live as we can. But just bear up a little longer; my great novel is finished; that splendid work which is to bring us so many comforts by its sale! There is no doubt that we shall be rich soon, mother, and then you shall have—what do you want most? At least, you shall have dainty food to flatter that poor appetite of yours.”’ The young girl spoke laughingly, in a mock- heroic tone, as she swung a bucket on her arm and hastened out in the cold air after water with which to fill the tea-kettle. Soon she returned with purple, tingling fingers, but with glowing cheeks. ‘“‘Now, if I could only get you something nice,’’ she said, as she filled the kettle and set out the table. ‘“‘There is neither butter nor sugar,’’ said Mrs. Turner, ‘‘ but at least there is plenty of flour.” ** And no money ?”’ asked Jessie. ‘‘There are ten cents, to pay the postage on the letter which you expect from the post-office to-night. We will not begin to complain, my dear, while we have wood, water, and flour.” ‘It is not for myself I am troubled, mother; but you cannot endure privation.”’ ‘*T have endured a great deal,’’ was the quiet reply. ‘*Too much, too much,’’ murmured the young girl, as she kissed her mother’s pale cheek, with the tears in her eyes. The next moment, she was singing gayly about her work, Heaven never having gifted a poverty-stricken young thing with a lighter, happier, and more hopeful heart. ‘Come, mamma, Percy, our luxurious repast is prepared.”’ And the trio gathered about the little table. ‘It looks stylish, what there is of it,’ she continued, in the same merry voice. ‘* How fortunate that we do not take sugar in our tea, now that there is none! We have plum-sauce, if we have no butter. ‘The dark- est cloud has a silvery lining,’ which, you will observe, is very apropos.’’ Here she helped her brother to another slice of bread, and con- tinued: ‘* Do you know, I think I am just the one of all persons to be poor? I am naturally so indolent that it requires pressing realities to awaken my energies. But you do not eat,

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24 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. mamma; let me toast this bread for you.’’ As she went to the pantry for a fork, she espied a small piece of butter, enough for the slice of bread, which bread was soon browned and laid upon the invalid’s plate, who ate part of it, and gave the rest to Percy. As if no thought or fancy of her innocent heart need be concealed, the daughter talked on, half seriously, half playfully, to the kind parent who sympathized with even her romantic dreams, encouraged her ambition, and stimu- lated her to rise above circumstances, however degrading and appalling, and who, in her own broken and blighted heart, still built up a world of anticipation, in which that gifted, beloved, and beautiful child found a befitting home. As twilight deepened into night, Jessie lighted a lamp, and, after neatly putting away the tea things, brought forth the concluding chapters of her romance, and read them to her mother. Of course, the book was full of faults, with a superabundance of fancy, and a lack of natural- ness in the characters; nevertheless, it was full of the first evidences of genius which might ripen to better fruit. It was natural that the cool discretion of the critic should be lost in the fond admiration of the mother, and Mrs. Turner could not but bestow praise upon this first effort. The desire to attract the attention of the world was not half so strong in the young author’s bosom as the hope that, by the cultivation of her talents, she should some time be able to raise her dear mother above the necessity for labor, ‘It is very fine,”’ said little Percy, in a pomp- ous tone, ‘‘it is very nice indeed. When it is printed, I can have a new jacket, can’t I?’’ The sister stroked his golden curls with a smile. **T like it better than geography,’’ he continued, emphatically. There was a hero in the girl’s romance who had a surprising resemblance in many respects to the young gentleman who had so singularly formed their acquaintance, during that time of trouble, at the inn. Mrs. Turner remarked it with a quiet smile, but said nothing of her dis- covery; she was content that he should remain at present the unconscious ideal of Jessie’s art- less heart, thinking that the first better acquaint- ance with men of equal cultivation whom she might sometimes meet would do away or modify the impression. ‘*T like it as well as ‘the Assyrian come- down,’’’ repeated the boy, determined to ap- plaud. His fair sister laughed, as she arose and tied her hood, preparing to walk to the post-oilice, which was not far away, and there was a full moon. ‘The eastern mail must be changed,” she said, ‘‘and 1 am so anxious that I cannot wait until morning. Ah, precious dime’’—as she balanced it on her finger-tip—‘‘ how much worse than wasted will you be, if expended on a cruel refusal !”’ She went out, and returned soon with a joy- ous face; she had three or four papers, and a letter postmarked New York. Throwing off her hood, she sat by the lamp, and broke the large red seal with trembling hands. As she read, the light died from her smile and the color from her cheeks. The anxious parent, who regarded her, had no need to ask if the news were bad. No one, save the enthusiastic and inexperienced child herself, could realize how deep was the disappointment with which she read :— Jan, 14th, 18—. Dear Mapam: Your note has been received. The press is at present so crowded with works of fiction that we cannot make it profitable to negotiate for the novel you have been pleased to offer us. We remain yours, with esteem, Ah, well, foolish little girl, it had been an experiment of her own, Her mother, albeit she was nearly as ignorant of the details of publishing as herself, had cautioned her against too much expectancy ; and yet she had hoped. She had not learned how necessary it was to have a name or friends among those who ruled the opinions of the literary world, or money to pay for her own ventures. A little western wildwood flower, ‘‘ blushing unseen,’’ in a re- mote and discredited region—how could it chance to obtrude itself upon the notice of its more cultivated brotherhood? She felt this first disappoiutment more keenly than some weightier ones which came afterwards, when the heart had been hardened by long custom to bearing them. ‘*Oh, mother, what are we to do now?’’ were her first words. Mrs. Turner had picked up the brief letter, and read it. ‘‘To work, as we have worked, to wait, to hope, to trust in God,’’ was the reply. ‘‘My dear child, I should love to see your gifts cultivated—I should be proud to feel that by your efforts you had raised your- self to the position you are fitted to fill; yet, though it would be wrong in you to let your talents lie idle, and though ambition well- directed is ennobling, you must neither be too wo me pre rid ‘ rep try gat aw: A fini: obli one: was ing abot of a mot abo last kind sick shiv. cold, vain ing t bette with wish rally done “ce j cold,’ regan y

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~—eyawvr ClO JESSIE TURNER’S FORTUNES, easily discouraged, nor allow your mind to be- come too firmly fixed upon worldly splendors.”’ ‘It is not fame, it is not splendor, mother,’’ cried Jessie, in a low voice, ‘it is my love for you. You will kill yourself with work; day by day, I must see you ply your needle, when I feel that every stitch you take is one in your grave-clothes, and I have so blindly and fool- ishly clung to my task, and allowed you to earn the bread which I ate. ‘Stitch, stitch, stitch!’ Oh, mother, for women there is but this miser- able resource, no matter what their abilities may be. Percy, too—he cannot be educated. Ah, I was not thinking of fame!” Tears now began to stream down the face of the speaker. Her little brother stood by her side, and hugged her in his arms. ‘Don’t cry, Jessie; don’t cry, sis. I don’t want a new jacket, and I’d far rather recite to you than go to school.”’ ‘But mamma, Percy—what can we do for her?’’ ‘‘T shall soon be a man, and then I shall work for her. I shall earn a great deal of money, and buy a horse, and a house and pretty pictures in it, and mamma shall go out riding with’ me. And what will you have, sis?’’ “I will have you to get my books printed,”’ replied Jessie, brushing away the tears, and trying to smile cheerfully. So saying, she gathered up her manuscripts, and locked them away in a drawer. Although that was a sad day on which Jessie finished her first book, and consigned it to the oblivion of a drawer, sadder and still sadder ones followed in its wake. The Four Corners was but a poor place for a family to get its liv- ing by sewing, so that cold and hunger prowled about the door, Then came the greatest terror of all. Jessie awoke, one night, and found her mother ill, Overwork and privation had brought about their legitimate results. last few sticks of wood in the stove when she kindled a fire to heat some stimulants for her sick mother. Jessie put the The gray morning found her shivering, both with apprehension and physical cold, beside the couch, where she had almost vainly toiled to relieve the sufferings so distress- ing to witness. After daylight, Mrs. Turner grew better, and was enabled to give some directions with regard to her own treatment. She did not wish a physician, for she thought she should rally soon and resist the attack, as she had done many times before. ** Why do you not go to the fire? You look cold,’’ she asked of Jessie, who stood tenderly regarding her. VOL. Lx1.—3 25 ‘There is no fire, mother. What shall we do’ Percy will cry when he gets up and finds none, and you will suffer.’’ **Can you not sell that little table?’’ It was the first time the necessity for exposing their extreme poverty had been forced upon them, and the white face of the sick woman flushed as she mentioned it. The table spoken of was a beautiful but old-fashioned piece of furniture, which Jessie often referred to as their ‘‘ sole relic of former grandeur.’’ ‘* Did not Miss Goodall admire it very much the last time she was in here, Jessie? We have heard that she is to be married soon, and perhaps she will take it. She said it was unique, and that she should hope to find one like it when she went east.” Miss Clara Goodall was the daughter of the sole merchant of the Four Corners. There is no neighborhood so small nor so far to the west but that it has its ‘‘aristocracy.’’ Mr. Goodall was rich, and Miss Goodall was the shining star of the Four Corners aristocracy. She was a rather pretty-looking, not very refined girl of nineteen. She had been in the habit of petting Jessie Turner, because she knew Jessie thought her handsome, and it was gratifying to her good-natured vanity to perceive the kind of youthful admiration with which that unsophis- ticated child regarded her rosy mouth, long eyelashes, beautiful dresses, and white hands —an admiration so totally free from envy ; then it was well known that Mrs. Turner was of an ‘older family’’ than any in that vicinity, and had once been wealthy; and there were two and his wife or three—among others, Dr. G —who treated her with the respect which her birth and education merited, despite her pre- sent poverty; so that Jessie was not entirely friendless in her destitution, only that it was bitter, this first crushing of pride, this first let- ting of the world into the secrets of home. ‘*] will ask her, mother,” said Jessie, ‘as soon as it grows late enough for me to venture ” to call.”’ Percy now came for some assistance about his dressing; his little hands were blue with cold, but he repressed his fretfulness when told how ill his mother was. He went out into the road, and gathered up two or three pieces of board, and came in quite proud of his treasure ; his sister replenished the fire with them, and gave him his breakfast of bread and milk. At nine o’clock, she ventured to start for Miss Goodall’s. She found that one of her shoes was ripped, and her sense of neatness rebelled at appearing in the street with it; but duty urged, and, bidding her brother keep good

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26 watch with mamma, she went out on her un- pleasant errand. With an agitated heart, she rang the bell at the door of the stately brick house. A servant ushered her into the parlor, where Miss Clara, in curl-papers and dressing-gown, was practis- ing music, not anticipating so early a call. **It is you, is it?’’ she said, as Jessie came in. ‘Did you come to practise or to listen this morning ?’’—for she often played for her friend, and, indeed, had troubled her indolent self to give her a few lessons on the piano, ‘* Neither, Miss Clara,’’ replied her visitor, as she sat down, trying to draw her ripped shoe under her dress, so as to escape those sharp, but good-natured eyes. ‘1 cannot stay long, for my mother is sick. I came to ask—if you did not—wish to buy that little table which you spoke of the other day.”’ Miss Goodall had been reading a work upon English homes, and had suddenly conceived a passion for ancient furniture and articles of vertu. She had looked with covetous eyes upon the work-table, of solid rosewood, and black with age, whose twisted legs and elabo- rately carved ornaments had excited her newly- awakened passion for the antique; 80 she an- swered, with sufficient readiness— ** Does your mother wish to dispose of it? I shall like very much to buy it. How much does she ask for it?’’ ‘*Mamma paid sixty dollars for it.’’ ‘*But she does not expect as much as she gave for it?’’ asked the young lady, opening her eyes. “O no, no, of course not,’’ was the hasty reply. ‘* Whatever you think would be right, and are willing to give.”’ The lady went to an ebony work-box, and took out her purse. ‘I have just twenty-five dollars, and papa will not allow me any more money this month,” she said, counting the gold. “It is enough, quite enough,” answered Jessie, eagerly. . ‘* Well, take it, then. But what possessed you to think of selling it?’ she asked, sud- denly, with a rude curiosity. ** Necessity,’’ was the brief reply. ‘* Excuse me,’’ said Miss Clara, as she saw the vivid red which shot into Jessie’s face; ‘I am your friend, you know. Did you say your mother was sick? I shall be over to see her this afternoon. She is a sweet woman, your mother is.”’ “Thank you”—and Jessie smiled, for she loved to hear her mother praised—"' we shall GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINTZ. be glad to see you; do not forget to come.” And she moved towards the door. Turning around with a waltzing step, Clara caught sight of her own pretty figure in a mir- ror, not displayed to its best advantage in a morning-dress. ‘‘ Jessie,’ she laughed out, ‘don’t you think I’m handsome ?”’ ‘*To be sure I do,’’ replied her companion, earnestly. ‘* Well, just come here, and I will show you somebody twice as beautiful. Come! take a peep at her.”’ , Not guessing her meaning, the young girl came back, and Clara, snatching off her hood, forced her up before the glass. ‘* Now, you see, if my hair was out of these horrid curl-papers, and I had my prettiest dress and all my jewelry on, I should not be half so charming as you are in that faded dress. Merey! how nicely you blush! To be sure, you are almost a child yet, but in a year or two you will have all the beaux.” ‘* Why, Miss Goodall, how you talk !’’ mur- mured Jessie, trying to release herself, after casting one frightened look in the mirror, and seeing, not her own crimson face, but her calico dress and torn shoe. ‘ **What I say is the melancholy truth. Do look, you little simpleton! You are twice as fair, and the color of your cheeks ia so pretty, and your hair curls naturally, and as for your eyes, just compare them with my beadlike blue orbs. I can tell you one person who has fallen a victim to their brightness already, and that is—that is— guess !’’—(in a whisper) ‘‘my brother James! You'd make a nice sister; we should never quarrel; and, I tell you, I don’t believe you'll ever catch a better fellow than this same brother of mine. He blushes every time that I say ‘Jessie.’ There! he is coming through the dining-room now.”’ ‘* What nonsense !”’ cried Jessie, almost cry- ing with embarrassment; and, breaking from her tormentor, she fled from the house, just as James Goodall entered the parlor, Seeing a load of wood at the corner, she bar- gained for it, then purchased some groceries at the store, and, meeting the old negro wood- sawyer, made him agree to come immediately and do the job she promised him. With a lighter heart than when she left it, she returned home, found her mother some- what better, and comforted Perey, who had grown a little peevish, with the promise of a good dinner. Her mother smiled so cheerfully when she told her how much money she had received, and she felt 80 relieved from the rm of 80 sh gi Tu dr wh Ca § ode gol rele Tu me hea care the and ago) thei of a was dere and infin kind to n powe ered thirs' cont: had c

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ee UrlUMhrrOrlC US sae.mUCemlUmUCU SUC JESSIE TURNER’S FORTUNES. 27 dreadful despondency of actual want, that she scarcely sighed when Mr. Goodall’s men came over and removed the table. In a village as small as that in which Mrs. Turner resided, it would be impossible for her to be entirely neg- lected in case of sickness. Several came in during the course of the day, bringing with them various drinks, jellies, and tempting dainties, as kind neighbors in small places very properly do, It was not until she had crept into bed with her mother, who forbade her sitting up with her, the night of that day, that Jessie had leisure to remember the words of Clara Goodall about her brother James. Did they make that young heart beat any wilder and faster in its innocent nest? He was rich, he was tolerably good-looking, he had no bad habits, he was respected, he had a passable education. Was it not a splendid match fora poor sewing-girl? ‘She is mistaken,” she whispered to herself; ‘‘he would never think of a child like me, and so poor, too; Iam not so vain as to believe her. Yet, if he really should—no, never! Yet what a home I could give to my dear, dear mother!’ And Jessie Turner fell asleep, and dreamed a beautiful dream of a stranger whom she had once met, whom she remembered by the name of Lewis Carolyn. CHAPTER III. Sprixa came, with its balmy breezes and faint odors of violets, its green valleys spangled with golden buttercups, its waters laughing at their release, its sunshine and its warmth. Mrs, Turner was ill again, and dangerously. ‘Spare me to my children !’’ was still the cry of her heart to Heaven—that bleeding, bruised, and careworn heart, which, having in itself suffered the multiplied trials of an unusually eventful and sorrowful life, would now guard, with an agony of love, those young beings alike from their own untried passions and the experience of an unfriendly world, The unselfish prayer was destined not to be granted. With the ten- derest, the most constant care, Jessie watched and nursed, only to see her charge growing infinitely worse. The neighbors were very kind, but the daughter would resign her place to no one—love and anxiety gave her great powers of endurance. As the flery fever with- ered those beloved lips, parching them with a thirst no liquid could cool, as the gentle brow contracted into furrows, and the bosom which liad ever been so kind to her labored for breath, struggling, struggling with the strange tenacity of the life-principle against dissolution, Jessie almost felt willing to yield to any fate which should ease such suffering. At the close of a lovely day in May, the fever, the spasms, and all the pain of the torturing sickness went away, and Mrs, Turner lay com- posed, but very weak. She motioned for Jessie to lean over, and whispered— “God is your friend; go to Him with all your cares; trust Him in every emergency. Be a good sister to Percy always; be father and mother to him; teach him the way.” Jessie tried to restrain the rushing tears, but they blinded her. When she wiped them away, and could once more distinguish those dear fea- tures, she saw that asmile was upon them; the lips were moving, and she inclined her ear to listen. ***Come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’ Rest!’’ she repeated softly. ‘*My child, kiss me, and’ go and try to sleep; I am so much better now.” Jessie clung to her hand, and was loth to go. ‘It will please me; I do not need you now, and you have been such a darling nurse. Good- night !’’ Mrs. Goodall and Dr. G——’s wife were in the room, and the exhausted girl, who had not slept for nearly a week, crept upon a lounge which stood opposite the bed. She could see, from where she lay, that her mother appeared to be sleeping. Now that the necessity for con- stant exertion was gone, herovertasked faculties resisted no longer, and she was soon in a deep slumber. ** Poor child!’’ whispered Mrs. Goodall, “how pale and thin she has grown! Just look at her, Mrs. G ; I believe she will be sick, too.”’ “T wish that I had such a daughter,’’ replied the lady addressed, who had two sons, but no daughter, in her household, ‘So good, so de- voted, so beautiful !”’ There were other eyes than theirs regarding that pale and exquisite face. Mrs. Turner lay in such a position that her glance rested easily upon the sleeper; and oh, the unutterable love, prayer, and blessing in those dying eyes, as they moved not from her daughter’s countenance! It might have been an hour that she remained thus motionless ; the two watchers supposed her to be in an easy slumber, for the dark iashes were nearly closed upon the white cheeks; then they heard her murmur, quite distinctly, ‘*Father, I give her to Thee!’’ and, with a slight upthrowing of her hands, she fell asleep —in death,

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- 7 7 The two ladies looked at each other and at the unconscious girl, ‘Let us not awaken her; it will do no good now,"’ said Mra, G Her suggestion was attended to, and Jessie slept all night, the deep slumber of exhaustion, while the soft tramping of careful feet and the tones of low conversation went on about her. Just as the sun wheeled up from the horizon, Jessie sprang to her feet, fully awakened by his beams. The window was open; an apple- tree waved its dewy blossoms before her eyes, and a bird was singing on the very window- sill. At this moment, the attendants were all out of the room. Saying to herself, ‘My mother!’’ she turned towards the bed, Her step was arrested, for she saw the still outline of a form beneath a snowy sheet; she saw two hands crossed, patiently and helplessly, upon a rigid bosom, and a face with closed eyes and breathless lips. « When Mrs, G later, she found the young girl lying upon the bed, with her face hidden in the bosom of the dead. She thought that perhaps she had fainted; but when she undertook to remove her, a cry so sorrowful, so heart-broken, burst from the mourner that she could only sit down and weep in sympathy. By and by, she gently loosened the arms of the living from their clasp upon the dead, and, drawing Jessie’s head upon her own kind breast, she smoothed her hair, and talked to her, in a low voice, of resigna- tion and that better world to which her beloved parent had gone, Not one word did the stricken orphan hear of all that had been said, but remained tearless and silent where she was placed, until a neigh- bor came in, leading her little brother by the hand. She heard his sob of grief and affright, and felt the clinging of his arms about her neck, and answered him by an embrace and a burst of tears. She sank down upon the floor, and, taking him in her arms, the two children wept together for a long time. When the well- meaning Mrs. Goodall would have separated them, Mrs. G drew her away. ** She will make herself sick with crying.”’ **She will be more seriously ill, Mrs. Goodall, if she does not cry ; it is much better so.’’ When they had grown more composed, the sister led the boy to look upon their mother. ‘“‘Will they put my mamma into the ugly ground, and make her stay alone there all night?’ asked Percy, shuddering. ‘*They will put her body there, darling, but her spirit has gone to heaven, and become one came in, a few moments GODEY’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, of those beautiful angels of which she loved to tell us—a beautiful, beautiful angel !’’ The boy looked up through the window to the clear blue sky, with wondering and loving eyes, ‘* 1 suppose she will look out of the sky, some day, and speak to me.” ‘*I do not know whether you will ever see her face,’’ replied the sister, ‘but you will hear her often, if you listen, speaking to your heart, and bidding you be a good child; and some time you will go to her, though not fora great many years, perhaps.’’ Here Jessie, who, in trying to comfort the little one, had comforted herself, again broke down with grief, and cast herself beside her mother; clinging to those cold hands whose tender pressure nevermore would thrill her aching heart, she would not be removed, Percy, after a time, was quieted and persuaded to eat his breakfast. As far as he compre- hended the calamity which had befallen him, he was deeply affected. As soon as he could get away from those who were forcing upon his appetite those dainties which he did not desire, he stole back to the little bed-room, and, sitting in his chair beside the bed, clung to his sister’s garments in a kind of amazed sorrow. Acquaintances began to come softly in—friends—that is, friendly people, for Jessie had no friend now. The ceremonies and proprieties of life must be preserved. Clara Goodall and others busied themselves in preparing suitable apparel for the orphans. Jessie stood up, half fainting, and certainly unconscious of what she was standing there for, to be fitted with a black gown; then Clara replaced her in an ann- chair, brushed out and arranged her hair for her, and tried to persuade her to partake of food. It was Mrs. G who at last induced her to eat. ‘‘ You must eat,’? she said; but how softly she spoke the imperative ‘‘ must!” ‘*You have taken nothing for a great many hours. You do not wish to make yourself ill, for your brother’s sake; try to be brave for his sake, for you are all the one he has now to comfort him.”’ The poor child did look at him, and remem- bered her mother’s charge. She drank a cup of tea with an effort, and then flew back, like a birdling frightened from its nest, to her place by the couch. The long, dark, wretched day drew to a close. She could not have told whether it had been a day ora year. The shroud and the coffin were there; and there was a consultation as to what to do with the girl whose shining curls were ar bu

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2 Ee OS ell _ —_ me JESSIE TURNER’S FORTUNES, 29 — still streaming over the bosom of her lost mo- ther, to induce her to repose. ‘*T never saw a person take a'death harder,” said a neighbor, ina pitying tone, “She is atricken to the heart; there is no doubt about that,’’ replied Mra, G——, who had returned in the evening, to ascertain if there was not some kind office still to be per- formed. She had removed Percy, who had fallen asleep with the tears half dried on his chubby cheeks, to his cot; and she now pro- posed to give a composing draught to Jessie, which should enable her to sleep through the night. Again the softly imperative ‘* must’’ was upon her lips, as she led the young girl to her chamber, and with her own hands un- fastened her dress, and helped her upon the bed. * Now, Jessie,’’ she said, ‘let us pray.” Kneeling by the couch, and clasping one of the orphan’s hands in her own, she offered up a low prayer, the touching Christian fervor of which stole even upon the stunned mind of the mourner, and calmed the whirl of her thoughts, Before she ceased, her earthly listener was soothed almost into slumber; and when this lovely woman left her good-night kiss upon her forehead, she dreamed that it was her mother’s, and smiled and slept. Despite the slight opiate which she had taken, Jessie awoke about three o’clock. She lay some time without remembering what was the matter with her; it seemed as if the night, the black night, was pressing down upon her breast and keeping her heart from beating. Like the dash of a cold sea drenching a help- less shore, the memory of her loss broke over her. She groaned, and turned upon her couch, There was no rest there, and, after lying a short time, she arose, slipped on her dressing-gown, and stole to her mother’s room. A single taper burned gloomily on a stand ; the watchers were in an adjoining apartment, and the orphan heard them conversing pleasantly; one of them laughed a little, but checked herself, and sighed afterwards. They were young people; the loss was not theirs, end they could not be sad all night, even out of sympathy. ‘I am the one to watch with you, my mother,” whispered Jessie, kneeling by the bed, and removing the wet cloth which covered the face. “O my mother, my mother !” The watchers heard her moan, and started as if they had seen a ghost. Clara Goodall turned quite pale, and begged her brother to go in and see what it was. He slipped lightly inside the door, and saw the spirit-like form of the living kneeling by the dead, her bright 3* | | hair floating like wings upon her shoulders, her eyes fixed immovably upon the features before her. He gazed for several moments before he returned to tell them that it was Jessie; then he went in again, and knelt be- side her, saying— ‘Dear, dear Jessie, if I could comfort you!" There is no comfort,” she said, abruptly ; but, looking at him, and seeing the tears flow- ing down his cheeks, her chilled heart was touched with gratitude, and she said, more gently, At least, not now. Leave me to my mourning now.”’ He arose and went out, and she kept watch until day. The funeral was at ten o’clock. Jessie tried to repress her feelings, for she was afraid that she should lose her senses, She clasped Percy's hand tight, and led him out, where they were lifted into Mrs, G——’s carriage, who sat with Nearly all the neighborhood were in When she left the carriage and stood by the grave, her attempts to keep her mind firm and clear were in vain; overwhelmed with rushing dark- them, attendance, but she took no note of it. ness, she heard not the words of the minister or the chanting of the choir; she was conscious of nothing until the dreary sound of the earth rattling upon the coffin struck like a knife to her heart. She sank back into the arms of some one behind her, and thought herself dying; but the pang passed away, while, like one who hears sweet music in a dream, she heard clearly and distinctly the clergyman’s voice—“‘T heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, Write, from henceforth, blessed are the dead who die in the Lord; even so saith the spirit, for they rest from their labors.” Hearing no more, her thoughts flew back, like lightning **'They rest from their labors !”’ illuminating the past, and she understood, as with all her affection she had never done before, the peculiar excellencies and trials of that dear mother who, with a great and beautiful soul, had led a life unsatisfied upon earth, bearing her cross nobly, ever yearning for higher per- fection. She thought of how heavy and vexing to bear had been her burdens, and suddenly she saw her, plainly as if she stood before her face, smiling upon her with eyes of love, having fea- tures of beauty and a glory upon her forehead, robed in garments of grace, beckoning towards the sky with spotless hands. The people thought Jessie had fainted, but, as they bore her back to the carriage, she opened her eyes with a smile. ‘It is well with my mother,’’ she said to Mrs. G——, and, leaning

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30 —— - back on the cushion, shed gentle and soothing tears. Arrived at Mra. G ’s—forthere the orphans were taken for the present—she yielded to the attentions of those around her with a kind of grateful resignation. The wild regret which she had felt at bidding farewell to that adored form, the flerce reluctance to consigning it to the grave, had passed away; in its stead was the memory of that consoling vision. She had a chance now to think of her own poverty aud "What shall we do, Percy? We The child could not answer his sister's question ; his face desolation. are orphans, and have no home !’’ was turned to hers, as he rested his head upon her knee; but, in his tearful eyes, burning with childish grief, she could read no worldly specu- lations, no solution of that difficult problem, ‘What are we to do?’’ CHAPTER IV. Tuk late Mrs. Turner had some relatives, of her husband's side of the family, residing in New York—a sister, married to a Dr, Stanton, and theis children, a son and three daughters. Jessie had been acquainted with them all when a little girl; they had been often to visit at her home, but after her father’s failure and conse- quent dissipation the intercourse had decreased until all acquaintanceship had ceased between the two families. As, of late years, her mother had mentioned them only with proud pity of their selfishness, Jessie did not write to them, but had a paper containing a notice of the death forwarded to them a few days after the funeral. When this paper was received, a sense of her unsisterly conduct smote the worldly heart of Mrs. Stan- ton, and, in a momeyt of regret, she resolved to do something for the eldest of the orphans, whom she remembered as a delicate, ladylike child, She resolved to inyite her to spend a year in her family, and to send her the means of coming. This was a great sacrifice for her, as she had three daughters cf her own, and was extremely fashionable and only moderately wealthy, having nothing to spare from her al- lowance for others. Dr, Stanton very warmly coincided with his wife in her resolutions. He was a man of gene- rous feeling, very stately, very formal, but really very kind, The past neglect had hardly been his, for it had been at the suggestion of his wife that their summer excursions were al- ways to some watering-place, and never west GODEY’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, to visit the Turners. Her excuse, that it would be too trying to her nerves to meet her brother in his fallen condition, was accepted by him as the bona side reason of her reluctance. The other members of the family were variously affected at hearing the proposal to have their cousin visit them. Thomas, the Stanton ju- nior, declared that he should like to promenade Fifth Avenue with his country cousin by his side, if she was anything like as pretty as she used to be, especially if she had ‘just gaucherie enough to plague Miriam to death ;’’ however, as he should have to go back to college in Sep- tember, he supposed he should hardly get to taking cousinly liberties before he would have to be off. Miss Stanton, who resembled her mother, and was selfish and elegant without being very handsome, thought with disdain of the proposition, and silently declared herself unwilling to forego any of her own privileges on the cousin’s account. Julie, an excellent, warm-hearted girl of fifteen, was delighted with the idea of a friend not two years older than herself; while Minnie, who was but eight, thought anybody brother Tom wanted to see would be delightful. The letter was written and dispatele d. Mrs, G—— had insisted upon Jessie and her brother remaining with her a few weeks, so that when the letter reached its destination they Of course, it was at , and her Judgment solicited upon a decision, Jessie was very re- luctant to accept the offer, because of the past conduct of her aunt. On the other hand, she knew not what to turn to where she was; and yet again, the letter contained no mention of Percy, and she could not desert him, ‘IT advise you to go, by all means,’’ said her friend; ‘the change of scene and air, the in- terest of new associations will do more to restore your courage and failing health than anything else.” ‘* But Perey ?’’ questioned Jessie. ‘It is partly for his sake that you must make up your mind togo. If you ruin your health by grief, he will have no one to look to; besides, you have confided to me your hopes of some time gaining or helping along a living by lite- rary exertion; you can command friends and influences in a great city that will perhaps enable you to realize some of your plans, During the time that you remain in your aunt's house, you can be assiduously improving your time, cultivating your taste, and perhaps secure such friends and engagements as will make your wishes feasible. In that time, I were still at her house. once shown to Mra, G

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JESSIE TURNER’S FORTUNES. will take care of your brother here. He is not much trouble, and [ am very fond of him. My boys are so much older that he will be quite a pet.” Jessie was so overcome by the generosity of this proposal that she could only express her thanks by siniles and tears, She tried to stam- mer forth suitable gratitude, but her words were hushed by the good lady. ‘*Do not say nay to it, child; I offer it be- cause [ am interested in both of you, and wish you to have a fair chance to begin life. Do you not think you had better go?” ‘My aunt was not kind to my mother,” sighed Jessie, ‘Then you must freely forgive her, in the true Christian spirit, and accept this token of her remorse in a friendly manner. You can- not afford to cherish resentment against any who would be your friends, for you need friend- ship. If you love others, they will love you ; and if anything will raise you up a host of well-wishers, it will be your own darling, affec- tionate heart. You have warm affections enough to compel half the world to love you.”’ “If I thought God approved of my acta, I should not feel deserted wherever I might go,’’ said the young girl, timidly. * Dear child, I think you will be one of His He whom He loves, but only for their good, Those little hands may become brown with toil, but they favored children, chasteneth will some time be pure and white in heaven, You have but to have faith, and all will be well,”’ The very afternoon upon which she had de- cided Clara and James Goodall called to ask Jessie to walk with them. There was acharming grove, with a bit of rock, and a small caseade and brook, which was much resorted to by the young people, and hither the three wended their way. It was about a quar- ter of a mile from the Four Corners. When they had reached the place and found a seat upon a moss-grown boulder which faced the noisy cascade, Clara, most innocently, was di- verted away in search of wild violets, and her brother was left alone with Jessie. Although she had never had “ an offer,’ and was unskilled in every coquettish wile, her leart began to forebode what was coming, and she was fain to make an excuse to follow Clara, when, suddenly seizing her hand to detain her, James Goodall said :— ‘I must speak to you a moment, dear Jeasie. Believe me, hard as it is to repress my own selfish feelings, I would not intrude upon you to go enat, 81 in these first days of your mourning, were it not that I know you have no home, and I want to offer you one. I want to make you happy. If you will be my wife, you shall want for no- thing that I can procure for you; and your little brother shall share with us, and become as dear to me as he is to you.”’ Poor Jessie did not know how to reply; she was troubled, and just spoke the simple truth, without studying her answer, ‘ You are very kind, Mr. Goodall; but how can I promise to be your wife when I do not love you? Oh, I am too young to think of love or marriage; but I am much obliged to you, indeed | am, for your kind intentions.”’ , A more worldly young lady may smile at Jessie’s refusal, may be able to dismiss a lover more gracefully; but she had not contemplated her part, not enacted in fancy hitherto, ‘* But will you not learn to love me, Jessie ?’’ His face was pale, and she knew by the depth of his voice that he was greatly moved, She sincerely wished that she could answer him * Yes ;’"? but when she tried to feel it, and to school herself to it, she only felt the more the want of that spiritual element in his character which she knew that she needed to make her happy, yet could not define. A vision of a dark- eyed stranger, upon whose intellectual forehead sat the visible signet of the soul which her own responded to, rose up before her; and, though she had no thought of ever again meeting that person, or being mated with one who resembled him, yet the contrast made the young man by her side unsatisfactory, So, gathering up more firmness than she usually displayed, she an- swered him in a low voice— ‘Tam grateful, James, but I cannot promise to be your wife. It was very good of you to think of my needing a home, but I have re- ceived a letter to-day from my aunt in New York, who offers me a home in her family for a year, and, by Mra, G——’s advice, I have concluded to accept it; 1 shall go very soon. I am only a child now in experience; a year from now, I shall know myself and the world better.’’ 5 ‘‘ Ah,” sighed the young man, ‘I do indeed resign all hope of you now! If you are going to acity, to receive the attentions of the accom- plished and brilliant, I may as well give up. Well, since you will not have me, I wish you much good fortune, and am glad you have such prospects,” ‘*T shall never forget your goodness,’’ re- sponded the young girl, in a trembling tone, pained by the despondency of his accents. “I

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82 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. do not expect to be loved or flattered where I am going; I hope only to put myself in the way of being useful. There comes Clara; let us meet her.’’ They walked along, trying to dispel from their faces the secret of their conversation. Clara was going to be very gay and to rally them, but something in her brother’s face sur- prised and silenced her. On their way home, Jessie told her her plan of going to New York, and she said that she should have been very glad to hear it, if she had not rather have kept her till September, to be bridesmaid when she was married. ‘James is to be groomsman, and I’m sure I don’t know whom he will find that he will consent to stand with in your place,”’ she concluded, half laughingly. Perey was the hardest one to convince of the expediency of the step about to be taken. Several times Jessie hesitated about leaving him, he seemed so forlorn at the thought; bat one day he gave his consent, and never made any further objection. The secret of his yield- ing lay in a confidential talk which his friend James Goodall had with him, during which he was told that, if he did not wish his sister to die and be buried like his mother, he must let her go away where she would get quite well. He only stipulated that she should come back in time to help him make a snow-house in the winter. Jessie’s scanty wardrobe gave her some trou- ble. The sale of their little parcel of household furniture had provided her with a handsome black dress and shawl; the rest of the sum raised in that way had gone to make Percy comfortable for the season. Mrs. G had once been in mourning, and she had several articles that were yet good, which she contri- buted. A number of neat, plain collars and cuffs were made up at a trifling expense by Jessie’s tasteful fingers, and she then found that there was an overplus of the means her aunt sent her sufficient to warrant her in pur- chasing a travelling-dress and bonnet. At last she was all ready for the—to her—eventful journey. Her farewell visit to her mother’s grave cheered as much as sorrowed her, for she knelt beside it, and turned her pure face to heaven for the love and blessing of Heaven. She clung to her little brother, when the hour came for parting, and he cried lustily ; but the carriage awaited her which was to convey her to the nearest railroad station, and she must not delay. While thus absorbed with Percy, she had left her purse and handkerchief upon the table. Clara and James had come over to bid her good-by ; the latter now handed her these, which she was nearly forgetting. Mrs. G went with her the six miles to the station, where she placed her in the care of friends who were going in the same direc- tiou. She found these friends true to their appointment, and very willing to take charge of the young orphan so warmly recommended to their kindness. It was pleasant weather, early in June. The locomotive screamed, the train came rushing in, and, with a beating heart and brimming eyes, Jessie parted from Mrs. G . She was glad that the noise of the cars inter- rupted any conversation attempted by her new acquaintances, for she felt more like nestling in a corner and dreaming over the future than like talking. The last glimpse she had had of Perey was of his golden curls streaming over the window-sill at an upper casement, where he had gone to look after the carriage which bore away his sister. It was not until she came to pay her hotel- bill at the City of L——, where they took a boat, that Jessie discovered four gold eagles in her purse which had not been there when she laid it down at her friend’s. ‘It must have been James Goodall who did this thing. How good he is!’’ she murmured. She was sorry he had done it, but she could not help it; and he doubtless knew that a little pocket-money of her own would not come amiss when she fuund herself amid her city relatives, (Conclusion next month.) LOVE LINES. (Translated from AX ACREON.) BY M. J. P. Ow the Phrygian mountains lone, Struck with inward grief and pain, Weeping o’er her lost ones slain, Niobe was turned to stone. And the passionate unrest, Working wild within the breast Of the child of Phocian pale, Changed her to a nightingale. If the fate were mine to prove The transforming power of love, I would be a mirror bright, Resting ever in your sight— I would be the limpid wave, Brow and cheek and hand to lave— I would be, oh, lady fair, Precious unguent for your hair— For your slender waist, a zone— For your neck, a lucent stone— And the sandal, lightly prest, Where your dainty foot might rest.

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DESCRIPTION OF A BOTANICAL EXCURSION IN THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND, Tre University of Edinburgh has for years been known as the ‘‘ Alma mater” of many enthusiastic botanists. This is perhaps owing to the circumstance that, whilst the lecture- room is not neglected, neither are the fields, and to the almost unrivalled excellency of the botanizing grounds which exist in the environs of the Scottish capital. So much has been said about the fun and frolic of a botanical excursion that we propose to give a sketch of one in the Highlands of Scotland. medical students, The excursionists were a party of We give the sketch in the spirit-stirring words of one of the party :— ‘The place of meeting was at the village of Currie, six miles from Edinburgh ; the trysting time at the inn eight o’clock, and breakfast ready ; six, therefore, must be the time to start It was as bright a July morning arties of from town. as ever dawned upon the earth. twos, threes, and fours soon gathered, all tend- ing towards the same destination; and, before the quarter after eight had elapsed, upwards of fifty young men were gathered in the large room of the inn, eagerly looking for the ad- vent of the rolls, the eggs, and all etceteras which were to satisfy appetites sharpened by a six-mile walk. Fearful would have been the consternation of our host, had this inroad come upon him unprepared; but two days’ notice, and a previous knowledge of botanical appe- tites—by no means vegetarian, however—had served to allow ample prevision, testified by the clothes-baskets heaped full of rolls, the huge wickers of eggs, the beef and the hams. ** Almost we hear now the merry laughter of that breakfast-table, almost see the air of bon- homie with which our good Professor,* after himself diving to the kitchen, reappeared with another basket of eggs, when all were thought to be exhausted ere appetites were satisfied. Almost can we see the grave humor beaming in the genuine Scottish face of ‘Old Macnab,’ known far and wide in Europe as the skilful manager of the Botanic Gardens, the Profes- sor’s lieutenant, and whose walking powers of threescore could tire out many, if not most, of the younger limbs then present. Now and then would the laugh become doubly hearty, as some * Professor Robert Graham. laggard straggled in late, and looked ruefully around at the almost cleared board. ** But, breakfast over, then came the start for the hills and moorlands which were to be the scene of the day’s explorations. Most of the band were really practical botanists, were well shod for the purpose, wore the light shoot- ing-jacket and light cap, and carried boxes which weald hold a good store of plants; not a few with good, stout hand-spades slung to the wrist or buttonhole. Some only evidenced their novitiate by appearing in white trousers and natty boots, of whom more hereafter. ‘*A short two miles, and the first exploring ground is reached—an extensive bog, where grew not only most of our common bog-plants, but a few rarer species, one more especially of the Orchis family, the spurless coral-root, found only in a very few situations in Scotland. No sportsman can feel more eager interest than the enthusiastic botanist in search of a rare plant. The plant was soon found, but well was that bog searched over, and more than once did eagerness or ignorance lead some to venture on treacherous surfaces, to find them- selves, without warning, sunk up to the middle in the black bog-water. To the men of strong shoes and rough trousers, this was but a small calamity ; but woe betide the well-cut boot and white inexpressibles, whose luckless owner had the laughs o; the entire party to meet. ‘*By higb noon, the bog having been ex- hausted, the hills had to be breasted, and more than one covey of grouse whirred off from the patches ot the mountain cloudberry (Rudus chamemorus), to reach which formed the out- side limit of the excursion. Then, along the dry, open moorlands, gathering on our way the small white butterfly orchis (//abenaria albida), the curious little fern moonwort (Dotrychium lunaria), and many others, till we come to, in a small hill bog, the threadlike stems of the cranberry ( Vaccinium orycoccus), resting on the surface of the white sphagnum moss, and bear- ing its rose-colored blossoms and berries to- gether. ‘* But the sun of this July day has shone fiercely, and by three o’clock thirst oppresses many who have not had a sip from a pocket- flask of cold tea, or wine and water. There, on 33

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34 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, the side of ‘the black hill,’ a line of fresh green tells that a spring rises no far way up, and sure enough we find it, clear and pure as only these hill streams are—cold, too, almost too cold for safety; but many a thirsty one drinks from the ‘diamond of the desert,’ not- withstanding. Thirst quenched, ere long some- thing tells that the stomach has long since dis- posed of the ample supplies of the morning. Some had been careful enough to provide a biscuit, or to pocket a roll from the breakfast- table, and some were happy enough to own such a provident friend willing to share with them; but the supplies were sadly scanty. There is the Professor-—-his tali, handsome form was ever distinguishable—striding off to that hill farmsteading, or, rather, on Scottish ground, ‘farm town,’ and soon his hearty call is heard, He has bought up the whole of the good wife's store, and milk, food, and drink together are there for the whole party. We wonder if the good woman ever had her milk-pans so tho- roughly cleared before ; they were then, ‘*Another stretch across the moorland, a search down the narrow glen of the bonny burn which makee its way through it, in alter- nate stream, cascade, and pool, stream and cascade again, and seven o'clock in the evening finds most of the party—some few had deserted early in the day—at the scene of the morning breakfast. But alas! our host had not calcu- lated upon an evening foray, as well as a morn- ing raid, and the late furnishing of comestibles was but scant, compared with the early ; actually there was not enough. One of the party we de- | tected laying violent hands on some rather musty beef-bones in the pantry, which the host had been ashamed to bring out! ‘Then came the dispersion. Some, unused to the exertion, stopped at the inn, some lagged on the road, some stopped at the half-way vil- lage, and a few only, with the Professor and his veteran lieutenant, marched into town at ten o'clock at night, well tired, but well satis- fled, and one at least of the party to remember the day as one of those green spots in life's retrospect which, like a thing of beauty, ‘is a joy forever.’ ‘* But now the shade, Ere the next summer flowers were blossoming, some of the merry laughers of that excursion were laid low by fever caught in the study of their profession in the hospital wards; another year or two, and all were dispersed on their several roads of life—short roads to some, very short. A Weat Indian appointment with one led to yel- low fever and an early grave; one, at least, fell in the Khyber Pass, under the knives of the Affghans ; consumption and other diseases have claimed their victims, and Graham and Macnab fill respected graves, Yet many live, engaged in the successful exercise of their pro- fession, and may sometimes lighten anxious thoughts by a recall of the botanical rambles of student days.’’* * “Wild Flowers: How to See and how to Gather them."’ By Spencer fhompsen, M.D, London. 18058, —————I2S oe oe THE TWIN SISTERS. BY 6. ANNIE FROST. Two young girls sat together in a large, well- furnished room in a boarding-house in Phila- delphia. They were the only occupants of the apartment, and, as they sat in the dim twilight of a spring evening, locked fast in each other's arms, low, deep sobs were the only sounds that broke the stillness. Darkness fell, yet still they sat there, weeping bitter tears, each clasping the other fast, as if they were each other’s only comfort. At length, raising her head, one of them looked sadly round the dark room, and said, in a low, choking voice— ‘* Perhaps we had better look over the desk this evening, Gracie.” Well, we will, if you think best,’’ was the answer. ‘Gracie, dear sister, how you shudder and sob! Your hands are like ice, and I cannot comfort you.’? The speaker’s voice trembled, but, softly putting aside her sister, who was clinging to her, the first speaker rose and lighted a lamp, setting it on a little table be- side a writing-desk. ‘*Come, Gracie, we must do this together,’’ she said, drawing the table over to the sofa, upon which her sister was still seated, Grace raised her head, and, as the light struck upon the two, it was difficult to distin- guish one sister from the other. In both, there was the same peculiarity of large hazel eyes, dark eyebrows and lashes, with a profusion of light hair, whieh fell in soft curls around their = ewes. ot _4 of oO Gs Gee 6 oe aU bi

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THE TWIN SISTERS. 85 faces. Both had regular features, tall, graceful figures, tiny white hands, sweet mouths, the lips being held slightly parted, showing rows of even white teeth; both were fair, and now very, very pale, and the deep mourning gar- ments were alike ineach. Yet aclose observer would have seen an expression in Ellen which showed firmness and decision of character, while Grace's face told of that winning, gentle dispo- sition which rests so confidingly upon a stronger nature, ‘Come, Gracie, you have the key; open the desk.’’ And Ellen sat beside her sister again. While they continue their sad task, I will tell my readers who they are and what their employment was, Ellen and Grace Neville wero twin sisters, the only children of Mr. Grant Neville, a man who had held for years the position of the wealthiest in one of the largest of our Western counties, Speenlating in Western lands had been his mania before he was married, but, yielding to the wishes of his gentle little wife, he had lived in Baltimore through her short life. When she died, he had placed his daugh- ters, then seven years old, in a boarding-school in New England, and himself removed to the West. Ten years later saw him the leading man inthe flourishing town of Daiesville, living in a large, luxuriously furnished house, with his beautiful daughters, just returned from school, presiding over it—the richest, most popular, and happiest man in Daiesville. The love for speculation, like that for gam- bling, grows upon ita victim, and Mr. Neville could not rest contented with the bright pre- sent already in his grasp, but strove for a future brighter still. Tempted by flattering prospects held out to him, he risked his whole fortune on one of the popular bubbles of the day, and lost all. For months he was like one distracted; then he announced to his children that he was going to Philadelphia, where his friends would aid him; and, selling his house and what small remnant of property was left him, he left his Western home. They had scarcely reached Philadelphia when fatigue, disappointment, and despair brought on an attack of illness, and Mr. Neville, two weeks later, died of brain fever, leaving his children orphans, in a strange city, without one friendly voice to comfort them. One of the boarders in the house where they stayed, moved by their forlorn condition, had superintended the arrangements for the funeral, but he left the day their father was buried, ‘* Nellie,’’ said Grace, as she opened the desk, ‘*we will have to support ourselves now. You know father said he had nothing left.’’ ** Well, Gracie, we are not the first who have done so. We will support ourselves.”’ ‘** But what can we do?” ** We can teach French, music, drawing, and all the branches of an English education; we can sew, knit, and embroider.”’ ‘* But we have no friends here.’’ ‘We must make friends, then. We are young and healthy, and surely in this large city we need not starve.’”’ Ellen spoke cheerfully, hope- fully, though even her brave heart was dis- mayed at the prospect before them. ‘' We can stay here two weeks longer,” she continued, ‘‘ for father paid a month's board in advance ; I have the receipt. In that time we can surely flud something to do,.’’ ‘* But we do not even know the names of the streets here,’’ said Grace, again. ‘Sister,’ said Ellen, in a grave, solemn tone, taking Grace’s hand in hers, ‘‘ we are orphans, in the hands of God, He who numbers the hairs of our heads, and who does not suffer a sparrow to die unmarked, will watch over and guard us, Cast your burden upon Him, strive to do His will, to live honestly and uprightly in his sight, and He will take care of us; 1 am sure of it.”’ **Oh, Nellie, I willl’? And Grace looked up into the fair face, so pure, almost holy, in its look of perfect faith and trust. “I will try not to despond again.’’ ** Here are letters,’’ said Nellie, turning, after a moment’s pause, to the desk, ‘‘ but they are old; put them back. Here is the purse.’”’ And she poured its contents upon the table. ‘Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, ninety-five, a hundred—one, three, five, ten. Why, Gracie, here are a hundred and ten dollars, and there were nearly twenty in his pocket-book; this will surely support us until we find something todo. We must find another boarding-house first, because the board here would soon ex- haust our stock. There is nothing more here, Gracie; lock the desk.”’ It was very late that night before the sisters ceased talking, but the next day they started to find work, From a directory they had taken the directions of many schools and seminaries, and all day went from one to another, trying in vain to get a situation, Some were already supplied, some wanted references, which they had not to give; but, on one pretext or another, all declined their services. Weary and discon- raged, they returned in the evening. They Were entirely dependent upon their own re-

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86 GODEY’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, sources; their father was of English birth, and they knew nothing of his relations, and their mother had eloped from her home and held no intercourse with her family. Not a relative could they turn to for one word of advice or one particle of assistance. **Gracie,’’ said Ellen, in the evening, ‘I mean to speak to the old lady who sita beside me at table. Her room is just opposite this one, and she has always spoken to us kindly ; perhaps she can tell us what to do.’’ “Mrs, Arnold?” Yes. Come! we will go over to her room; I saw her go in, just now.” **Oh, Nellie, I am so tired.”’ And Grace’s fair head drooped on the sofa-cushions. **T will go, then, while you rest.” kissing her sister, Nellie left the room. **Come in,’’ was the answer to her timid knock. ‘Ah, Miss Neville,” said an old lady, the only occupant, looking up, as she entered, **T am glad to see you. Come in. How is your sister this evening? Sit down, my dear.” **She is well, but very tired,” said Ellen, taking the chair the old lady pointed out. ‘I have ventured to intrude—”’ And, **No intrusion,”? said Mrs. Arnold, kindly, taking Ellen’s hand; “I am glad you came. I was intending to come to you soon, but I knew that such sorrow as yours has been was better left undisturbed, and you and your sister were each other’s best comforters.’’ The tears sprang to Ellen’s eyes at the kind tone and gentle manner of the old lady, but she crushed them back, and, in a low tone, but firm and clear, she told her story, ending with—‘‘ We have nothing, and must work. What had we better do?’’ ‘‘T am afraid it is hopeless to try to get teaching to do,’’ said Mrs. Arnold, after a long pause; ‘‘every one likes to know to whom they are trusting their children, and—excuse me, my dear—you are strangers. Could you geta letter from your teacher in Boston ?”’ ‘* The school is broken up, and I do not know where to address her.’’ **That is bad, very bad,’’ said the old lady, musingly. ‘‘ You can sew, you say ?’’ **O yes, we make all our own clothes.” ‘Can you make children’s dresses ?”’ **T could if I had a good pattern.” ‘* Well, I think I can get that for the present for one of you. My niece asked me yesterday to find some one for her. try?” ‘*Wiliing! Yes, and thank you very — | ‘‘Then for boarding. You are right in thin Are you willing te ing this is too expensive a place. I know a quiet house, where you can have one pieasant room. It belongs to an old servant of mine, who has been lately left a widow. She has a small store, where she makes collars and caps, and rents one room; it is vacant now, and you will meet no other boarders; 80, you see, you can have privacy, and her age will be a protec- tion.” ** How kind, how very kind you are!” said Ellen, in a low, broken voice. **Do.unto others as ye would others should do to you,” said the old lady, gently. ‘‘I have watched you both, my child, and I have heard many a word from you which convinces me that you are good, pious girls. Do not inter- I am an old woman, and my useful- ness may not last long; let me catch every chance that Providence throws in my way. You are tired now, and need rest. In the morning, I will take you to my niece, and you can try, at least. Good-night. There! no thanks.”” And with gentle force she silenced the words of gratitude on Ellen’s lips, and, kissing her fondly, bade her good-night. Grace had fallen fast asleep on the sofa, but Nellie wakened her, to see if good news would not drive away the sad, despairing expression from her fair face. The next morning, Grace went with Mrs. Arnold to Mrs. Curtis’s, her niece, and, with hopeful, cheering words, Nellie left her there, to take another weary round in search of work. She left the schools, and tried in the milliners’ and sewing stores, and at night came home with a bundle of plain sewing, for which she had left the value of the materials in money at the store. Grace joined her early in the eve- ning, with a more pleasant face than she had worn since her father died. Mrs. Curtis had been very kind; the work was soon understood, and there was a prospect of more from some friends of the lady. The fortnight which they were to spend under the same roof with their kind old friend Mrs. Arnold passed quickly. Ellen had work from the store from which her first task came, and their kind friend cheered them both with hope- ful words. When they removed to Mrs. Allan’s, the widow of whom Mrs. Arnold had spoken, they found their situation much improved. The crowded fashionable boarding-house at which they had before lived was not a pleasant home for two unprotected girls, and even coming to the public table had been a severe trial. Now, with no one in the house excepting themselves rupt me.

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it id ua THE TWIN and the bright, active widow, who, though ad- vanced in years, retained much of the fresh- ness of youth, with a pleasant room, and the privilege of visiting Mrs. Arnold, they found much to congratulate themselves upon. Weeks passed, and nothing occurred to break the monotony of their lives; then, swift and terrible, came a great affliction. It was on a quiet summer morning, and the sun shone with unclouded splendor into their little room, and awakened Ellen. Her watch told her it was yet early, but, having some work which she was particularly desirous of finishing, she rose softly, and, without waking her sister, dressed herself, and sat down to sew. Her thoughts went back to the days at school, when she was courted and caressed as the heiress of the rich Mr. Neville; and she was contrasting her situa- tion with the present one when Grace’s voice called back her wandering thoughts. ‘Ellen, where are you?”’ ‘* Here, Gracie, by the window.” ‘*What are you doing there, in the middle of the night ’”’ ‘*In the middle of the night! eyes, lazy girl; it is fully time. I am sewing. “Sewing? Why, it is pitch dark!” **Pitch dark! The sun is pouring in here.”’ And Ellen, half alarmed, went to her sister’s Open your ” side. ‘*Nellie! Nellie!” cried Grace, in a voice of fearful agony, ‘‘I cannot see it! The sun pour- ing in!’’ And she bent forward, straining her eyes wide open. “It is dark—dark! Nellie, am I blind ?”’ : ‘Hush, Grace! hush, darling!” said Ellen, now thoroughly frightened. I will bathe your eyes, and Mrs. Allan will get us a doctor. It must be only temporary, dar- ling; there is no blindness in the family, I think, or we should have heard father speak ee.” ‘* Nellie, don’t go away.’ ‘*T am only going to call Mrs. Allan.’ Two hours passed in terrible suspense until the doctor came. Ellen had dressed her sister and put the room in order, speaking words of cheerfulness and comfort, though her own heart was sick and faint with apprehension. The doctor made a long, thorough examination, and then left the room, beckoning Ellen to ’ ’ follow him. ‘*T will come back in a moment, darling,” she whispered to Grace, and then went after the doctor. When she returned, her sister was leaning forward in her chair, her lips parted, VoL. LXL—-4 ‘*Lie down again. ° SISTERS, 87 her poor sightless eyes staring wide open, straining eagerly to catch Ellen’s footfall. ‘* Well, Nellie, well!’’ she said, as Ellen drew her into her arms. ‘Tell me quick! Any- thing is better than suspense.”’ ‘* Gracie, darling,’’ said Ellen, softly, caress- ing her fondly all the while, ‘‘it has pleased God to make me useful in this world by being eyes for my sister. May He deal with me,”’ she added, solemnly, ‘‘as I fulfil the trust.’’ ** Blind, hopelessly blind!’ moaned the stricken girl. All day did Ellen stay by her sister, breath- ing words of comfort and trust; but it took many long days and weeks to reconcile her. One great source of grief was the burden she felt she must be to her sister; but, after some failures, she learned to knit without seeing, and Mrs. Allan’s customers, touched by the simple story she told as she offered the articles for sale, readily gave orders for more. Mrs. Curtis, after waiting some days for Grace, called to learn the cause of her absence, and, after expressing her sympathy and regret, en- gaged Nellie to take her sister’s place. **There !”’ said Etlen, cheerfully, returning from the door, after showing Mrs. Curtis out, ‘‘now I can earn twice as much as before! Mrs, Curtis pays better than the man for whom I have been making shirts, and, with the money for your socks aud headdresses, we can live like princesses.” ‘**You will have to leave me all day,”’ said ‘There! never mind; I will Nellie, | Grace, sadly. not add complaints to your burden. will try to be a patient girl.” ‘‘Your gentle, patient spirit is my greatest gomfort,’’ said Nellie, fondly. ‘If you mur- mured and were rebellious under this affliction, it would break my heart to see you.” A regular routine came again. Ellen was absent all day, but passed her evenings chat- ting with her sister or reading aloud the new books with which Mrs. Curtis kindly kept he: supplied. Grace knit all day, and, as she be- came accustomed to her trial, sang softly over her work, yet listened, listened for Ellen’s re- turning footsteps. One morning, when Ellen was, as usual, sew- ing in the nursery, Mrs. Curtis’s eldest daughte: same in, with a piece of music in her hand and a troubled look upon her face. ‘‘What is the matter, Lizzie?’’ said her mother, looking up. “Mri has not marked the fingering of this musi¢,-and there is one passage here | en

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88 cannot play. The fingering is all twisted up." And she gave a little, short, dry laugh. ‘*| wish | could help you,’’ said her mother, ‘* but you know I cannot play.” ‘Well, | cannot practise it, and Mr, C And Lizzie tossed will be as cross as a bear."’ the music down with a very dissatistied air. Ellen took it up and looked carefully over the passage which gave the young lady such trouble, “T think [ can show you the fingering of this passage,” Both Mrs. Curtis and her daughter looked surprised. “If you can spare me for a few moments, and let me she aiid, quietly. try it,’’ continued Ellen, speaking to Mrs, Cur- tis, ‘' I think I can save Miss Lizzie a scolding from her teacher.”’ ‘You can go,’’ said Mrs, Curtis, and the two girls left the room together. The grand piano stood in a recess in the large parlors, and Ellen sat down facing the wall, with her back to the room, and the piece of music before her. After one or two trials, the passage was marked so that Lizzie declared she could easily learn it. “ Play something, Miss Neville,’’ she said, as Ellen rose, after finishing her task. It was a luxury not to be despised to have her hands once more on the keys of a piano, and Ellen resumed her place. Running her fingers up and down once or twice, to accustom them to the long-denied pleasure of making melody, she began to play. Lizzie Curtis held her breath to listen; she had never heard such piano music before, Great skill and execution were there, but, above and beyond that, there was a soul in the music, as it poured from those slender fingers, and, forgetting where she was, forgetting everything but the pleasure before her, Nellie played on, At the end of one difll- cult march, as the rich chords diea away in the air, & murmur of applause and a ery of ‘ Bravol’’ made her look round. Mr. and Mis. Curtis and Lizzie were all behind her; but there was another—a stranger, a gentle- man whom she had never seen before, Color- ing deeply, she rose, made a bow to all, and went up to the nursery again. Lizzie soon fol- lowed her, **Oh, Miss Neville,’’ said she, ‘how would you like to teach Lola and me music? Mother thinks she can get you plenty of scholars, and we are to be the first. You can realize more, and have more time for your sister, than by sewing.’”’ ‘‘Your mother is very kind,’’ said Nellie, gently. “Jt will be splendid! My quarter is up GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. next week, and then we begin with you. Qh, Miss Neville, is not my Cousin Ronald hand- some ?"’ ** Your Cousin Ronald ?” ** Yes, he came in while you were playing. He has just returned from Germany, been gone lle is about thirty-five, and my cousin, so IT make Ain't he beautiful ¢” seven years, and he pets me to death, him do just as I please. **T scarcely saw him,’ ‘* Well, he is coming to live with us in a few days, so I will let you see him, for he is splen- did!’ Brave, cheering news was it for the poor blind girl to hear of her sister's brightening prospects, and that henceforth dinner and sup- per, as well as breakfast, were to bring Ellea home to her, ‘* Who was the other gentleman besides Mr, Curtis ?’’ she said, after Ellen for the third time had told her the little scene which resulted so favorably for her. ‘*It was Dr. Ronald Curtis, a cousin of Liz- zie's. He has a good face, Gracie, one of those frank, intelligent faces you would instinctively trust, with large black eyes and a kind, gentle expression—just such a face as would cheer and comfort the worst of his patients.’’ ** Could you see all this in one look, Nellie’? “Yos, Gracie, for I faced him as I turned. 9 He loves music, too, for his eyes were full of tears after I played the ‘March Funébre’ we learned at school,’ “What a pity you cannot sing, too!’ said Grace, ‘*No, my poor throat would never let me sing; but you can warble for two, Gracie,” It was not long before Mrs. Curtis's influence and Ellen’s own talent gave her a full class, and her life became an easier one. Gracie, too, blessed the chance that gave Nellie time to re- turn to her side at meal-time, and, some days, to stop in fora kiss or bright word as she passed the door on the way from one scholar to another, Dr. Curtis often happened to be in the room when his cousin took her music lesson, and very frequently he was going the same way that Ellen took, and offered a seat in his car- riage to her. The offer was timidly, shyly ac- cepted at first, but the gentlemanly courtesy of the Doctor soon put the young girl at her ease, It was just a year since Mr, Neville died, and spring was opening bright and warm, when Dr. Curtis invited Ellen to ride with him into the country. She was looking pale, he said, and needed a holiday, and, after a little hesitation,

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H(t. “y er nd he nid yy THE TWIN They started early in the after- noon, and drove out of the dusty city, and I cannot tell all they tulked about, for many meetings through the she consented, were gone some hours, winter had made them old friends; but whea they drove home again, Dr, Curtis asked leave He had never visited her; but Ellen readily gave the permission, to call in the evening. It was early in the evening when he crossed the little store and entered the parlor beyond, At the door he paused; a young, fresh voice, full of power and richness, was singing the old hymnu—*' lL would not live alway.’’ There was 4 pathos in the voice, a depth of expression in the singing that made his heart ache with sympathy, and he looked in the direction of the singer.’ She was seated in a low rocking- chair, her hands crossed over a piece of fine knitting in her lap, and her eyes closed; her head rested on the back of the chair with a languid grace, and, but for the song, the doctor would have thought her asleep, A slight move- ment of his made her sit up erect, ‘**Who is there ?’’ eyes, and straining to see, for mouths of blind- she asked, opening her ness had not cured that impulse, “It is I, Dr. Curtis. Miss Ellen?” ‘*] am not Ellen,’ Do you not know me, ’ said she, holding out her hand; ‘* I am Grace, Nellie’s blind sister. Der- laps she has spoken of me ?’’ But I before the resemblance between 5 ou,”’ Often, very often. never realized “EL. len was sent for by one of her pupils, this eve- * Will yeu find a chair?’ said Grace, ning, to play quadrille musie for a children's party; but they promised to release her at half past nine ; and she commissioned me to nike her excuses, and detain you till her re turn’? Dr, Curtis took a seat very near Grace's, and looked anxiously into her face. The large dark eyes still remained wide open, **Miss Grace,’ he said, gently, taking her hand in his, I am very glad to meet you. Your sister has spoken of you so often that I feel quite like an old friend.’’ And, with his unoccupied hand, he took the lamp from the table, and held it so as to make the light shine full upon Grace's eyes, not ” “She has kindness to her, forgotten to mention your said Grace, ** and the books sud flowers you have sent to comfort my lonely hours were welcome letters of introduction.’ Talking kindly and gently always, Dr. Curtis kept his eyes fixed upon the sightless ones be- fore him, chatting of many things calculated } 89 SISTERS, to interest Grace, He was standing bending over the chair, still studying those large eyes, when Ellen returned, A quick movement of his finger to his lip checked the exclamation upon hers, and she advanced quietly to meet him, though her heart beat high with a new hope. **You must sing for Dr. Curtis, Gracie,’’ she said, after they had chatted for some time; ‘‘he is very fond of music, and, as we have no piano, 1 am powerless.”’ The white lids fell over her eyes, and his examination Grace smiled, and nodded assent. thus arrested, Dr, Curtis listened to the music, Grace had a wonderfully clear, rich voice, and singing was one of her principal guards against low spirits. Her stock of songs was large, and she sang unweariedly for nearly an hour, Then Dr. Curtis took his leave, and went home with the sweet voice still ringing in his ears. The next morning, whilst Nellie was absent on her round of teaching, Grace was seated knitting in the little back parlor when she heard a footstep. ‘Come in, Doctor,’’ she said, gayly. ‘* You cannot deceive me ; when 1 have once heard a footfall, I know it again.”’ **T called to see how you were, and to bring a few early flowers,’ said the Doctor, placing a large bouquet in her hand, every flower of which had been selected for its fragrance. ‘Oh, thank you, thank you!’’ And, witha grace peculiarly her own, Grace raised his hand to her lips. ‘* They speak of the country, of beautiful, things which I shall never see again!’’ And she sighed deeply. ‘*T do not know that,” low, hopeful tone; * blindness is not always said Dr. Curtis, ina incurable,”’ The large eyes strained open, and a look of wild eagerness came into Grace's face as she caught his hand again, and stood up beside him. ‘Tell me! tell me **T will tell you nothing while you tremble 1"? she gasped, in this way,’’ said he, gently, ae he laid his other hand upon her shoulder, and with quiet force placed her back in her seat, ‘ There, that is better, though your heart beats like a frightened bird’s,”’ ‘Oh, you would not say that to disappoint know said Grace ; some- thing!" ** You are right! to raise hopes of such a nature unless I felt strong hope myself. I looked well, last night, but I want one good examination by daylight before I speak decidedly. Shall it be now ?’’ ** Now, now !’’ said Grace. ‘Then lay your head here on the chair, and me, “you must I could not be so cruel as

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40 open your eyes. Here, drink this water first. No, you must not faint’’—for Grace's face was pallid from “My poor child, | do not wish to pain you, but you must ’ excessive emotion, be calm, or I can do nothing.’ ‘*T am quiet now,”’ said the young girl, after A moment's pause, placing her hand in his; **now look,”’ Dr. Curtis could not help admiring the self- control with which she remained perfectly mo- tionless under his examination, though he knew the agony of suspense she must suffer, It was not many minutes before he placed his hand over her eyes with a firm but gentle touch, ‘* Shut them now, Miss Grace, and, Providence permitting, you shall soon open them upon the light.’’ The tears, restrained till now, burst forth, and Grace tried in vain to speak her gratitude, Dr. Curtis looked up and saw Ellen coming in the store. Nellie stood an instant in the door- way, motionless, while the flercest pang she had ever suffered shot through her. Her sister weeping with Dr. Curtis’ hands fast clasped in hers, and he bending over, speaking in a low, ay! a tender, voice. **Miss Ellen,’ said the Doctor, ‘here is your sister crying because I promise her the terrible misfortune of an operation upon her eyes. I think her silly little heart dreads the pain. I will leave her to you.’’ And, gently disen- gaging his hands, he bowed gracefully to Ellen and left the room. Ellen, her owy momentary jealousy forgotten in her joy, quickly took his place at Grace's side. ‘**I shall see! I shall see !’’ sobbed the poor girl, as Ellen embraced her. ** May God bless him !’’ said Ellen, solemnly. With Ellen’s hand fast clasped in hers, Grace, a few days later, submitted to the operation which was to restore to her the blessing of sight. eyes, the Doctor had taken his leave, and Nellie was alone in the little parlor—alone with the bitterest struggle of her life in her heart. Until he had seen her sister, Dr. Curtis had, The bandage was placed over Grace's without one word of love passing between them, won the young girl’s warmest esteem, and, unconsciously, this had ripened into love. That he had loved her sise firmly believed, but now all seemed changed. Bound by no words, he felt a strong interest in Ellen, which, doubt- less, would have led him to woo her, had he not seen her sister. Ellen knew that she could now win him—that he stood between her and Grace, admiring both, yet loving, as yet, neither. Their strong resemblance in looks and thought GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, ——— favored this state of things, and Ellen saw that it rested with herself to win him or let Grace do sO, Should she be the rival of her sister, her own twin sister, who had suffered so much? After long self-communing, Ellen's resolve was taken, If Grace loved Dr. Curtia, she would stand back, leaving him free to choose; if not —Nellie’s heart bounded at the alternative, She went up into their bedroom, Grace lay upon the bed, with the bandage over her eyes, asleep. The noise Nellie made in opening the door disturbed, without awakening her, and she moved uneasily, murmuring, ‘* Doctor, come soon again—soon! I shall see! I shall see him!" And then she slept quietly once more, There was no mistaking the tone in which she said ‘I shall see him,” and Ellen's resolve was taken. Every day, Dr. Curtis called to see his beau- tiful patient, and lingered, sometimes, whole hours together, talking with her, scarcely know- ing which to admire most—her gentle patience, or the intelligence and information her con- versation displayed. Carefully Ellen kept away from home at the hour she knew he would call, and in the evenings, which she had made ita point of duty to spend beside her blind sister, she accepted invitations from her pupils, leav- ing the two she loved best on earth alone together. The old cheerful light was gone from her eyes, and the buoyant spring from her step; her voice was low and subdued, and sometimes bitter sighs took the place of light, gay laughter. But Grace's heart was preoveu- pied, and she did not notice the slow step or languid voice. “We may take this off to-day,’’ said Dr. Curtis, touching the bandage on Grace’s eyes. ‘* Wait till Nellie comes,’’ said Grace, arrest- ing his hand, ‘I want her to be here.’ ‘* Hers shall be the first face you see, if you desire it,” said the Doctor, in a low, meaning tone. Grace colored, and there was a little nervous quiver round her mouth, but she did not answer. Ellen came home at dinner-time, and started on finding Dr. Curtis with her sister, ‘“My patient would not have this remdved till you came,” said he, rising to meet her. ‘* Shall I take it off now ?”’ ‘*Yes,’’ said Grace. ‘‘Come close to me, Nellie; I want to see you.”’ In another instant the handkerchief fell into her lap. One quick glance at Nellie, and then her eyes rested on the Doctor’s face. ‘I see! I see!’ she cried. ‘*Oh, how can I ever thank you or show my Cy of tiv en, sh. na str fly Th wh pie KOC fro dar

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ed er. ne, unit ick on pil. my SUGGESTIVE NOTES ON gratitude ?’’ And she stood up, stretching out both hands to him. He took them in his own, drew her close to him, saying, in a low, deep tone, ‘ Nothing less than the power to call you all my own can thank me.” Her fir head fell upon his bosom, and he bent her. Nellie crept away, bitterly conscious that neither of them The sacrifice was made! over missed her, ‘fen years later, we look in upon a parlor scene, and find there Dr, Curtis, his fair wife, their Over the and two lovely children, who inherit mother’s dark eyes and golden hair, piano is bending the counterpart of the fair Mrs. Curtis, teaching one of her little nieces, Nellie had gone South, as a governess, for five years after her sister’s marriage, and then yielded to the urgent invitations of the Doctor Her independence she would not sacrifice even to and his wife, and came to their home. them, and she continued teaching. Many offers of marriage were made to the lovely young musician, after she stepped into society as the sister of Mrs. Curtis, but she declined all. The first love of her youth, put aside as a sin, had taken with it all the fresh hopes such love calls forth. Unhappy she was not, for she was in a cheerful home, with a large circle of loving friends, her time occupied ina pursuit she liked, Loved by her young nieces, she gradually let them take and her conscience pure and clear, the place of her other pupils, to the great de- Jight of both Grace and the Doctor, and Aunt Nellie is a bond of strong love in one of the happiest homes in Philadelphia. ———? = ee & —_ SUGGESTIVE NOTES ON GRE PAINTING. BY MR&. EK. CIAN OIL CUSTARD. Amone the engravings usually selected for firecian Oil Painting, there are great varieties of quality; good, bad, and indifferent. The posi- tively bad are of thin paper, the lines in the engravings sometimes hardly discernible, the shades of the intensest black, the margins so narrow that no room is left to paste to the stretcher withont cutting off the picture, and fly marks and damp stains in various places. The least spot on a lithograph leaves a blemish Which cannot be removed without injuring the picture, no matter what the seller declares. A good lithograph has a wide margin, is clean from spots and stains, the shades but moderately dark, the lines clearly defined, and the paper is 4* | GRECIAN OIL PAINTING. 41 French litho- graphs are generally the best. The effects of the varnishes and colors on these different kinds of paper are very observable ; scarcely two present of fine texture, thick and sinooth. the same, Some spot more easily than others, some give very different tints to the same color when applied on the back of the cleared picture, and some paper tears in the effort to fasten it to the stretcher and gives way as soon as dry. In painting gold and silver ornaments, spec- tacles, ete., a very brilliant effect is produced by touching them on the outside with Grecian or mastic varnish, and then immediately dipping the brush into gold or silver bronze and apply- ing it to the part varnished, When the picture is completed, set it away free from dust and flies until your colors are perfectly dry. If cracks are seen, fill in with When perfectly dry, frame it with the stretcher as in oil paintings, a coat of the same paint. and cover the back with a piece of white canton flannel, nap side next the paints, and have it boarded securely. A picture painted in the modes we have de- scribed, is executed according to the style of the French school, and presented one of the brilliant ornaments of its kind. The choice of a frame adds greatly to the effect ; a poor frame rendering even a good picture dull, Flowers and landscapes are not as well adapted to this style as engravings which represent heads, birds, small animals, etc. They also require more time, labor, and attention; yet some have been painted which were really beautiful. Taste is the guide in executing these, and no rules would be of service where this is wanting. A teacher who is familiar with the practice would be necessary to those who are novices in the art. There are other modes of painting in this style, some more subdued in tone of color, or- naments, ete., but these various modes can be adopted or rejected at pleasure by one who has acquired the principal rules of the art and has had the requisite practice. oa 2723 evo Men or Tastr.—There are some men who stand on the debatable ground between talents and genius without belonging to either; they have a strong love for all that is beautiful and great, without the power of producing them. Instead of all the radii of the mind tending, a in men of genius, to a single point, they stand in the centre and send forth rays in every di rection, but these antagonist forces destroy each other.

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BROAD LINE DRAWING LESSONS. Fig. 93 om -” —— ———= we Ge) =" 2 [a \ — ——_— = —— = : So aS —$— “2. a ) ai =F: , Pa i | — = HALT 7 a) Tur view of a fishing boat, hauled up and | the whole expression depending on the accu- lying on the beach, with the sails hanging racy with which these curved lines are copied, loose, Fig. 93, will be found a profitable exer- The sails afford a rudimentary exercise in the cise on the careful drawing of curved lines, | drawing of drapery. Fig. 94

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Cul ed. the VV maa f int loko biases OLD LETTERS. 43 Fig. 95. a ae = — A similar exercise on curved lines is afforded pictures of a loaded canal boat, Fig. 95, anda in the picture of a neat, useful boat, with bar- yawl, moored to a post in the river, Fig. 96, rels in it, and a broken and abandoned boat are easier of execution, lying on the same beach with it, Pig. 94. The Fig. 06, -77eeo OLD LETTERS. BY WILLIK BE PABOR, TAKK them from the darkened niches False, you say. Your hand, my brother; Where you placed them, years gone by ; Such experience was mine; Once, they were your mental riches ; But the fire one life did smother Now, least precious in your eye Burns upon another shrine Tn each one was some sweet token Ay! burns brighter and burns purer Treasured for the thought it gave ; For the lesson, learned of old; In cach one some sweet hope spoken, Do you feel yourself the poorer Shining still in mem'ry's wave When the fire has tried your gold? Take them fondly in your fingers; Place them back, then, tn their niches; Onee you held them thus, you know; Set a guard upon your speech ; Tn them still the perfume lingers Once, these unto you were riches; That embalmed them, long ago. Now, their coinage you impeach Do you say these written traces Read the true thought of the poet, Have no meaning, now, to you? * Better to have loved and lost Nothing of familiar faces ? Than not to have loved'’—you know itt, Nothing of a heart once true? And your own heart knows its cost “" True,” you answer, scornful, “ nover; Born in cot or bred in palace, She was false when in her power; | In disgrace, or high in fame, For she vowed to love forever, | Few but taste the bitter chalice And forever meant—an hour.” Of the sorrow born of shame Speak not scornfully, Remember | Courage, then, Be bold and fearless, We are children, all, of fate Let the coming seasons ylold Roses bloom in bleak December Harvests cheerful and not choeerless Unto those who watch and walt. From affection's ripened fleld

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fr NONIE’S Tr was curious to see Archibald Lenox buying sugar-plums like any schoolboy. It would have seemed a strange proceeding to those who knew him as the acute and patient lawyer, the learned member of the Historical Society, the author of those excellentarticles on Continental Literature in the ‘‘ Ultra Marine Review.’’ The pretty French girl behind the counter at Malliard’s, who snapped her wonderfully black eyes—all to no purpose—as she gave him the change, knew him only as one of her regular customers, and thought it the most natural thing in the world that he should walk in three nights out of the week and inquire for chocolate créme and those delicious little rani//é pulls that were fresh for the evening parties served by monsieur, her em- ployer, atthat hour, “ He is the good onc/le,”’ said she to herself in one of the long mirrors that reflected her braids and flounces—and she nodded thoughtfully to those black eves shining out of the plate glass upon her—‘‘or grand- pere—who can tell? He have some leetle vons !”’ She was wrong in her conclusions. Archi- bald Lenox passed three evenings of every week in the parlor of his step-mother, Madam Lenox; and on the sofa, the wide old haircloth sofa that filled up half of one side of the room, he usually found a little figure stretched at full length, wrapped in a shaw! at this time of the year, though the large grate, with its brass ornaments, glowed again. ‘You are so late, Brother Archie, I thought you would never come !”’ Why should he be required to place this im- patience to the score of the dainties he carried? Of course, it was only the crémes she cared about, but still to think that any one watched for him, for any reason whatever, sent a quickened pulse through the whole frame of the grave, unim- pressible man before her. His life had been so verylonely! Ever since he used tosteal intothat very room when a boy, and gaze with awe and wonder on a picture that had long since been removed from its place of honor over the man- tle—the picture of his dead mother, with the far off unchanging smile upon her lips—his life had been one long solitude, broken only by one love, and that was in the past now, shut up in the dreary vault that had stolen his mother 44 n CITOICE, HAVEN, from him. He remembered when his step- mother came, and what a stately, handsome woman she was, for all that she was not in her first youth ; stately now, when almost as many and the shadow She had always more years had passed away, of a great loss compassed her. been kind and generous towards her husband's son; but the tall, shy boy needed wooing to unfold his heart to her, and she did not under- stand that, any more than she did the caprices of the child lying on the sofa there now. **You have one of those wicked headaches again, Nonie.’? And he stooped a very little over the prostrate figure. ** Yes, all day; Iam almost distracted with it. Give me your hand—there, see how hot my forehead is. Smooth it for me, there’s a dear old fellow, won't you?” Wouldn't he? She little knew how happy he was to draw the lumbering mahogany chair between her and the light, after his due saluta- tion to Madam Lenox, and press his long, slen- der hand, soft as a woman’s, on her aching brow, or smooth the silken bands of soft brown hair, while she lay so still, and the closed eye- lids threw a shadow on her white face. How round, with what a bright wild-rose flush it was when he first saw it, three years before! How nervous and ill at ease he felt when he He wanted to love her, for Gorden’s sake, he hoped came to be presented to the young bride, she would not be repulsed by his solemn un- couthness ; for Gorden, his step-brother, was all the world to him, and though he had made up his mind bravely to give up the best place in his affectionate heart, he did not want to be wholly cast out. ‘*She says you are a good old bear, Archie” —and the young man enjoyed his child-wife’s “That’s what she said about you last night, old fellow.” He was old—thirty-five his next birth-day— and looking quite forty, from the height of his pointed shirt collar and the ancient style of hair- dressing which he still patronized. He felt like Gorden’s father, and indeed he had been such the last ten years, father and brother both ; the boy was the light of his eyes, as he had been the delight of his shy, silent youth. ‘ Gorden’s wife!’’ Little she knew how richly endowed sauciness, as he repeated it. th Le wi de en er go th: mt he! Ar hot

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ep- The er ny Ow ays d's to ler- ces hes ttle rith my lear ppy air uta- len ing own pye@- low h it re! 1 he He yped un- s all 2 up e in » be hie” ife’s what ay— f his hair- like such - the been len’s ywed NONIE’S CHOICE, 45 with love and tender watch-care she was when she became such; for when he brought her from her fair Southern home and young bro- thers and sisters to this stately but dreary house, she felt that, but for the sunshine of her husband's love, she should have frozen into a statue as still and as chill as those that looked out from their niches in the library. ‘*And they will have children, dear, curly- haired little ones, as Gorden was when I first came home from college, and I shall be god- father and uncle, and have some object to work for—to settle some of them in the world, and so grow old with warm young hearts around me, and leave them all I have,’’ mused Archi- bald Lenox. But this was not to be. courtly congratulations of old friends ceased, and the sharp pang of a mother’s jealousy, at finding herself no longer first, died out, when Scarcely had the death came, and left the bride a widow’s gar- ments for her wedding garland, and the mother childless. ‘*Keep Nonie with you, mother; she is a part of me. Nonie, you will not leave my poor mother.” theirs in solemn compact. And the stiffening hands closed upon With the young ‘wife the slightest wish was as a law, and though there was little outward warmth with the mo- ther when this sudden end of all her hopes benumbed and paralyzed every faculty, she would have kept with miserly tenacity every- thing that had belonged to him—his watch, his books, the very gloves he had worn, and of course the wife that had been called by his name, She seemed to rally first from the shock, though there was hereafter nothing for life to give, while Nonie, for whom this early hope might have ‘set into sunrise,’’ lay pros- trate, inconsolable, weeping out her youth and strength in the closed chamber where he had died, or stealing like a shadow from room to room, whence every ray of sunlight was ex- cluded. No wonder that she ‘ dwined’’ into the fitful, capricious, aimless child that Madam Lenox wondered at, yet softened towards, for were not those wild bursts of wailing for her dead son? And if she was strangely inconsist- ent at times, in longing for sunshine and lib- erty, or foolishly set on dainties that were not good for her, Gorden had told her from the first that she was only a self-willed child, and they must have patience till she came to womanhood. ‘Such an ogress!’’ complained Nonie, to her fast friend and confidant, the grave brother Archie she had been so afraid of at first. ‘‘Our housekeeper, Butler, you know—she will not cm have a solitary bit of dessert, except fruit sometimes, which is all very well in its way, but when one is longing for a currant pudding, or a miile fruita! She says | must eat solids, if ever I wish to be strong again; but oh, brother Archie, if she knew how I long for a macaroni even, sometimes, it would melt the heart of a stone! If you could only see one of old Mau- mer’s pound-cakes, or fruit-cakes, either!’ ‘*And where do they get such things, Nonie? At the baker’s ?”’ **No, you dear old soul, at the confectioner’s, Once’’—he knew very well when it was, by the pause—‘‘ when I first came here, you know, we used to go almost every evening, after the opera or a concert, to that nice Malliard’s; but mamma never eats confections—she was never young, you know—and, though I look and look at every such place when we are driving out, she never seems to see.’’ “If that is all, you shall be made happy, Nonie. myself.”’ ‘But that is not all. Butler interferes with everything, and at home I always had all my There! that is a speci- I will bring you some of those things own way, you know. men’’—as the door slowly opened, and an ancient face, with silver-rimmed spectacles, appeared and withdrew; ‘she has come to let you understand that it is time you went away. She does not like me to sit up a minute after mamma has gone to bed, I sit up, and sit up very late, | know. I cannot bear to go through those great gloomy passages, and my room is just like a haunted chamber, Those high posts to the bed, and the curtains, and those great, heavy wardrobes—I always imagine there is a man inside, and yet I don’t dare to look, for fear there should be one, and so I creep into bed, and lie staring at the wall, if it is moon- light, and listen to the creak, creak of some door, or the rattle of the stair window, till I I think the shadows are blacker in this house than any- am ready to scream with fright. where else !”’ Kind old bear that he was, he could not con- quer her terror, but he did what he could; hence the bon-bons. The room was very dusky, for all the glow of the fire-light—no gas; Madam Lenox in- veighed against it, as ruinous to the eyes—and the tall astral lamp, with an antique female in bronze supporting it, failed to do more than light the centre of the wide space in which it stood. The high ceiling and heavy cornices, the closed mahogany folding-doors, with heavily carved pillars, which shut off the library, were

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46 Archibald looked around him, after Madam Lenox had retired, the evening of all in shadow. the cruel headache, and remembered what a dull, ghostly room it always was to him in early éife. Nonie, the child, was sitting up by this time, and the warm, soft shawl was thrown buck. A slight, undeveloped figure, in a close black dress, with that pale face, and eyes a little sunken, though large and blue as the sky. ** Just look at that old cabinet, and that great screen in the corner, and the two chandeliers in bags. Did they ever have candles in them? Did you And that black inside all the picture-frames! 1 sit and shiver They followed him about the room. ever see them lighted? rim here nights, and, when I make myself go to bed finally, I fly through the hall as if some awful shape followed me; and when I get to my own room and lock the door, my heart beats so fast, and I think that I am stifling! Do you know, I almost asked Bridget to sleep inmyroom! If I only had a dog I could speak to, when I lie there alone in the night !”’ **Poor little dove !’’ He put out his arms involuntarily, and she fluttered up from the sofa, and perched ppon his knee, ‘*It’s no wonder I have headaches, is it, brother Archie? I often feel, in the morning, as if | had not closed my eyes, and, when I do, I have such horrid dreams! I see, I see Aim, you know, so very, very ill, or lying here dead —not dead, only going to be buried alive, and I cannot make people understand or believe it—no one but you. ‘Do 1, Nonie ?”’ ‘Yes, but they won't listen to you, either; Oh, it is You always seem to.”’ but go on, and him horrible! I should die if it wasn’t for you, Archie!’ And she broad shoulder, and cried in such a still, patient carry away. nestled back against his way that the drops seemed to flow in and chill his heart. It cast a great struggle, but presently he “Tt is We shall have to give you up, and let you go back anid: too much for you, Nonie. to your own home again,”’ oP “Ono, no! I promised Gorden! ‘*IT know, but he wished only your happi- ness. He did not mean to sacrifice you to us.”’ ‘* But mamma—she would miss me, | know, for all she is 80 quiet. She would have no one but Butler to speak to, and now we talk about him, sometimes, and all he did and said when he was a boy, and how you loved him, and how ’ good you always were to him,’ ** Does Mrs. Lenox say that?’ He did not GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, know that she had ever seen, much more, ac- knowledged his devotion to her idol. ‘*O yes, and how good you were when his father died, and how you helped him on in business! Why, what else makes me love you so, Archie ?”’ ** Do you love me?” There !’? And kissed his cheek, of her own free wiil, the first kiss she ** Dearly ! she had given any one since that last unheeded pressure on her dead husband’s brow, ** Gor- den told me I must love you, before I came here, and, before he left me, he told me often to go to you with everything that troubled me, and that you would always take care of me.’’ ‘*T will, I will, Nonie! Whom else have I to take care of?’’ ‘*It makes me so quiet to sit here. I am not afraid of anything now; I wish I could always feel so brave; but this house always had such a still, gloomy look. It was summer, you know, when I came home, but I shivered when Do you believe in presenti- I came into it. ments? I think it was because Gorden was going to go 80 soon ; but when you are here, it seems ditlerent. The minute I hear you open the front door and come through the hall, I stop looking around so, over my shoulder.” She gave a backward glance, and her eyes dilated, as a child ‘Why can’t you always stay ?”’ looking into darkness. Struggle as he would against it, as he had many a time before, the wish that he could stay, that he had the right to shield her always, rushed into his mind, and he could not drive it forth, for all it seemed like treason to his dead brother, and selfish treachery to the trust- ful, unworldly child whose head rested against the strongly beating heart that cried out for her. Even if she would listen to him, he had no right to use his guardianship to lure her to the dull, dreary fate that life with him would be. She was so young, she would forget the past, and marry some one nearer her own age, and bloom out once more into the freshness of her early life. Poor child, what a sorrowful blight it had been! ‘‘out of the shadow into the sun ?”’ ‘* Nonie is far from well,’’ he ventured to say to Madam Lenox, the first time that he saw her quite alone; ‘she needs some change, | think.’’ And he looked away from her face, while he handed her the deed he had brought for a signature, ‘* You are mistaken, Archibald.’’ How often had that quick, decided utterance driven back some plea for his own larger liberty! ‘ She has llow could he bring her lis he flu in pa HT jor £0 fro hi seo TO)

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ul er ld he re, of ul ay er he on ck us NONIE'S CHOICE, 47 an occasional headache; no wonder, with all the trash she eats. I must say, you are not judicious ; 1 thought better of your judgment. Some miserable French confection enters when- ever you come into the house.”’ ‘The barest trifles. You forget that she is only a child, madam; she must have some in- dulgences.”’ ‘She is almost nineteen. It is time she ceased to be considered a child.” * And what is before her ?’’ ‘*T do not understand you.”’ ‘* What can be offered her for the unthinking aimlessness of her present life? Will you have teachers for her ?’’ ‘*She does not care to study. She reads all day; she has taken down every book in the library.” ‘She must have society, sooner or later.” ‘Why necessarily ?’’ The tone was so cold and indifferent—though, poor lady, she was far from feeling so—that it stung the usually guarded man to a retort. ‘““Why? Because she is not to be sacrificed to a memory, holy and dear as it isto us! This is no cloister. She will forget the past. Re- member how short their acquaintance was. Is one year to cloud a lifetime ?”’ “Hush! Not yet, Archibald!’”? And she waved him back, as if his very presence dis- tressed her. Neither her dread nor the cold- ness it counterfeited had saved her from the shock, She had been fearing this for days, knowing that he was right, too, and for this reason trying to shut her eyes to the truth. He would not press her further then; he was sorry he had said so much, so sat down in the old leathern arm-chair that had been his father’s, as she went out of the room, and took a volume from the bouk-case beside him. He could not read, though; books had lost their old spell of late; time had been when they could enchain him mm forgetfulness of all things, but now he listened unconsciously for the light step that he hoped would enter, and seemed to feel a fluttering touch upon his shoulder. The pencil in his hand moved idly along the margin of the page, while an old rhyme came and went to a measured music, Why had fate marked him for such a solitary, Why had Gorden received that good gift, the power of winning love every- where, from his very nurses in the cradle, joyless life? from the rigid old housekeeper, so severe to him, from this young heart, that clung to him scarce knowing why, and taking the tribute royally, as his due, so little appreciating it, making so little return? What if any one had ever loved him, if his father had, to begin with, so that he had not felt repelled, and as if un- welcome in the house, until he withdrew to the set of chambers where he had busiedehim- self with his books! this house instead, and it had been his happy fortune to bring a wife here for his father's blessing before he died, and then it would not have been so bitter to lose him, for perhaps his wife would have won for him the affection he never could call out. He would never have left the old house, nor would it have been dull He would have studied—O yes, If he had remained in and solitary, but not so exhaustingly. When languor began to steal over him, there would have been a dear presence hovering around to win him awhile from his books, and then children, perhaps, dear little rosy faces to press to his rough cheek, and shrieks of baby laughter, as his strong arms tossed the venturous, but half frightened child as far as he could reach, and a boy with open brow and large blue eyes—he did not stop to trace the likeness—leaned upon his knee, and asked thoughtful, stirring ques- tions of the heroes he had worshipped in child- hood ! Ahme! Hedrewa long breath, and the vision faded—faded into the dim, solitary library, with its russet-bound volumes, where he sat all alone, quite alone in life. He took up his hat, and went out. Nonie was on the stairs, but he did not care to see her just then, and she entered the library with a childish pout of disappoiut- ment. ‘Tle might have waited one minute, I shou! think.’’ come there in the daytime; everything was in It was so very unusual for him to formal routine about the house, even his visits, and it was a pleasant surprise to hear from Bridget that he was in the house, ‘He's been sitting here reading, I declare, and dying to have some one to speak to! It’s too provoking !’? And she took up the volume he had just laid aside. ‘*Making notes, as usual” —for the book opened, in the most obliging way, at the very page he had been scribbling upon. But it was no dry annotation on the ‘Philosophy of the Conditioned.’’ She saw that it was a rhyme, and she puzzled out the crabbed lawyer’s hand, “Time, you thief, who like to get Sweets into your list, put that ia, Say I'm weary, say I'm sad, Say that health and wealth have missed me, Say I'm getting old, but add— Nonie kissed me!"

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48 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. ‘* So he liked it, dear old bear !’’ she thought, with a little thrill that was quite new to her. It was a dreadfully wicked thing to do, but the little lady was famous for rash and sacri- legious exploits, in Mrs. Butler’s eyes at least— she deliberately tore out the leaf, although it was a fine library edition she was rifling, and the abstracted pages contained the sum of a valuable argument, folded it nicely, and be- stowed it where all young girls carry their treasures. The only tyranny that could master her was stealing over her again, and presently Nonie crept back to her room with both hands pressing her throbbing head, and lay there all the long afternoon in physical torment, with the light shut out. But a pleasant thought came now and then, for all the pain, and when the lamps were lighted, she took up her old place on the sofa, although Mrs. Lenox did not come into the parlor with her, but had the fire replenished in the library to look over some papers discolored by time and filed with the exactness of legal documents. Nonie lay listening for the footsteps on the stairs, and a satisfied feeling that she should have Archie all to herselt when he did come ; but sleep stole over her unawares, and when he came it was to find her quite unconscious of his presence. He sat down quietly in his old place, at the head of the sofa, and ventured to She felt the touch even in her dreams; her eyes half lay his hand lightly upon her head. opened, and she murmured something dreamily as she reached upwards for his hand, and, clasping it in both her own, with a smile of welcome that had a new depth and fondness in it, slept again, pressing his hand closely. Once she turned, nestling down closer to the pillows, and he bent down his head to listen. He ex- pected to hear her husband’s name, but she murmured, ‘‘ Dear old Archie !’’ and, low and broken as the utterance was, it set his whole soul in tumult, that and the close clasping of his hand against her innocent heart. He had not meant she should ever know what power her very presence had over him; but, sitting there so still, with only the shaded lamp and the glow of the fire-light, looking downward spell-bound upon the dear face, and feelingevery throb of that lonely little heart, how could he check the rising tide of feeling that rose and beat against the barriers he had set for it? It was a long, refreshing sleep, and she woke with the same new smile upon her face, looking up in his eyes as she said :— “I slept so sweetly ; it has rested me so. I was not afraid of anything ; I felt all the time that you were here.’’ **Oh, my child,’’ he said, passionately, ‘“‘ why may I not watch you so always? Why must I ever leave you to suffer alone? I lie awake thinking of your terror at night, and I long to gather you so, so—close to my heart, and drive away any shade, any phantom of terror.”’ ** Archie! you frighten me now.’’ And she shrank a little, it was so unlike anything she had ever seen in him before. ‘Dol, darling? Forgive me! I never meant to tell you of it, but, sitting here to-night watching you, I have forgotten myself. Nonie, I cannot help loving you. I believe 1 must have loved you from the moment you came to us; but purely, Nonie, purely, God knows. It never would have come to this, but you are the only friend I have; the only woman’s hand I Let me love you; ” have ever touched is this. I do not ask you to love me. ‘* But what if I do, Archie?’ and she re- placed the hand he had released. ‘* What if I want you to stay with me always?’ And she looked up into his eyes with a sweet, un- troubled glance, but meeting his they changed, and faltered, and fell again. ‘*Do you think he would care if he knew I loved you? he always asked me to. I think it would have made him happy, if he knew you cared for me so much. Mamma could tell us; shall we ask her ?”’ He passed his arm around her, as she sprung up from the sofa, and held her closely to him one moment with all the love of a lifetime in that mute caress. ‘‘Oh, if you are deceiving yourself, child! if I am suffering you to do it! God forgive me. It is a terrible tempta- tion !”’ No wonder that Madam Lenox, usually so calm and unmoved, looked up with a start as they appeared before her. The papers secat- tered over the desk were her son’s letters, and letters addressed to him in his college life ; they had unnerved her. ‘*We want to ask you something, mamma,” Nonie said, simply. ‘‘ Archie wants to stay with us, always; he loves me, | know; he loves me a great deal more than I deserve, or than any one else ever will. Don't you think that it would have made the one we all care most for very happy if he had known it would have been so, and that we should stay together always, and Archie would overlook my foolish- ness, and try to make me good and wise as he is?’ She looked up to him very proudly, ae a ee @ & ow em es Te —

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ng ium in ng do ta- 80 as nd ey i ” ay he or nk ire ud ier sh- he ly, NONIE’S CHOICE. 49 with an almost wifely confidence, more assuring than many words, when he felt so humble and so unworthy, too! “Yes, it is betterso! If you can love him enough to be happy, Nonie.’’ And though her lips trembled, and her brow was knit with an inward pang of jealousy for the dead, better so than to see her given to a stranger. ‘*You forgive me, mother! I never meant this; I did not plan this selfishness; I did not dream of it, even to-day, when I talked with you.”’ “Tl believe you, Archie.’ She had never called him so before, or spoken in such a soft- ened tone in all those long years. ‘I can un- derstand impulse, even in you—and myself, too,’’ she added, smiling fainiiy. ‘ All these have been pleading your cause’’—and she pointed to the letters. ‘I have never known before how much I have owed you for saving my boy.’ He understood ; he remembered the threat- ened disgrace, that neither would bring them- selves to speak of, now he was gone, and in Nonie’s presence, too. “Then I may love Archie, mamma; you will say yes for him?’’ And Nonie put her hand quietly into his; he did not dare to claim it, now that the first excitement had passed away; he could only wonder at his boldness, and dread self-deception on her part. “Oh, Nonie, I dare not take you!’’ He sank down into the chair that Madam Lenox had left (for, though she could speak gene- rously, she could not see them together just yet), and, drawing away from her, covered his face with his hands. ‘‘ You do not know your own heart; it is only because you are unselfish, and wish to make me happy.”’ ‘*No, Archie, you don’t understand; I want you to make me happy.’’ And she drew his hands away, and perched herself upon his knee wilfully. ‘*I want you to make them give me my own way, and to keep me from being afraid of my shadow, and to put your great arms around me always, and love me as you did just now, and I shall love you this way ;’’ and she showered little fluttering kisses about his face. Then a more quiet, womanly mood stole over her: ‘I want you to teach me and help me to be all that I know I ought to be. 1 shall mind you, always, for I know that there is no- body so wise, or so good, or so noble in the whole wide world, and I do love you with all my heart; and I shall be so proud, so very proud and happy to be—your wife.” A part of his dream came true; for the rose- VoL. Lx1.—5 flush came back to Nonie’s cheeks with the new energy and purpose of her life ; and, shall | we acknowledge it? with the abstinence from Malliard’s dainties, which she forgot to hunger after, now that Mrs. Butler’s rule was abolished, and she went about like a steady little house- keeper, looking after all manner of unromantic affairs. The sunshine seemed to steal after her her into every nook and corner of the old house, as one blind after another was unfolded, and the frosty rime of years and conventionali- | ties melted from the heart of Madam Lenox, | until she followed her fight footsteps with a blessing. So all three came softly and thankfully ‘‘out of the shadow,” and lived a new and more | blessed life in the sun of a cheerful household love. DO SOMETHING. Ir is truly a melancholy spectacle to see so many drones in the great and busy hive of hu- man life. We daily see young men of educa- tion, and who possess more than ordinary natu- ral gifts, lounging about as listleasly as if there was nothing in the boundless universe worthy of their attention. How utterly lost to manhood are many sons of wealthy parents! No ambition, no hope, no ardent desire ever spurs them on to leap from obscurity into the broad daylight of lasting renown. Their lives, which should be full of noble achievements, are dawdled away in unholy dissipations. If such is to become the universal effect of wealth on the rising generation, it were far better that poverty should forever be the handmaid of our sons and daughters. In the name of common humanity, we call on all young men to do something. Do not sneak from the cradle of infancy to the coffin of oblivion without, at least, one great effort to prove you have not livedin vain. Re- member that fame and honor are never achieved with folded arms and ‘‘ masterly inactivity.”’ When the sublime wisdom of common sense taught Columbus there was a new world, he did not preach his belief with idle hands and lacklustre eye. The wonderful discoveries in science and art were not made by men who re- garded life as a holiday of idleness. If you would achieve fame, if you would win the ap- plause of your fellow-men, if you would gain your own self-respect, then, in the name of all that is good and sacred, we call on you to go to work and do something.

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WONDERFUL Tur dagger of Raoul de Courcy, of which a re- presentation is included among the above group, is an interesting relic, and its authenticity can be relied upon, Raoul de Courey, according to the old French chroniclers, was a famous knight, the lord of a noble castle, built upon a mountain that overlooks the Valée d'Or, and the descendant of that haughty noble who took for his motto— ** Neither king,nor prince, nor duke, nor earl am I, but I am the Lord of Courey’’—in other words, greater than them all. The glove shown in the engraving is said to have been presented by the un- fortunate Queen Mary, on the morning of her execu- tion, to a lady of the Den- ney family. The embroid- ery is of tasteful design, and may be useful as a contrast with many of the patterns for needlework at present ia fashion. More- over, the sight of this memorial brings to recol- lection a few particulars 1. Dagger of Raoul de Courcy. of Scotland, on the morning of her execution, to one of her attendants. 3. Spauish Dagger of the sixteenth century. 4. Ring, with inscription, “Behold the End,” formerly the property of Charles I, 5. Silver Locket, in memory of the executiou in connection with this somewhat important part of both male and female costume. The ancient Persians wore gloves, and the Romans, towards the decline of the empire, began to use them. In England, they seemed to have been introduced at a very early period. In the Anglo-Saxon literature we meet with glof, a covering for the hand, and in the illumi- nated MSS. of that period the hands of bishops and other dignitaries are shown encased in gloves which, in many instances, were orna- mented with costly rings, while on the tombs of kings and queens, etc. the hands are shown almost invariably covered. 50 ‘ of Charles L THINGS. 2. Embroidered Glove, presented by Mary, Queen It is related of the patron Saint of Brussels, who lived in the sixth century, that she was distinguished for only two miracles. One con- sisted in lighting a candle by means of Ler prayers, after it had been extinguished; tle other happened in this way: The fair saint being in a chureh barefooted, a person near, with respectful gallantry, took off his gloves and attempted to place them under her feet. This comfort she declined, and, kicking the gloves away, they became suspended at some height in the church for the space of an hour. hi, da

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SPEAK ee On opening the tomb of Edward I., some years ago, in Westminster Abbey, the anti- quaries assembled on that occasion were sur- prised to find no traces of gloves. It has been suggested that, in this instance, linen or silk Aoves had been used at the burial of the king, but which are supposed to have perished with mere. The practice of throwing down a glove as a Giallenge is mentioned by Matthew Paris, as far buck as 1245; and a glove was worn in the hat or cap as a mistress’s favor, as the memo- rial of a friend, and as a mark to be challenged by an enemy. At a time when the Borders were in a state of incessant strife, Barnard Gilpin, who has been so justly called “the Apostle of the North,’? wandered unharmed amid the confu- sion, On one occasion, entering a church—we believe that of Rothbury, Northumberland— he observed a glove suspended in a conspicuous place, and was informed that it had been hung up as a challenge by some horse-trooper of the district. Mr. Gilpin requested the sexton to remove it, who answered, ‘‘ Not J, sir; I dare not do it.” Then Gilpin called for a long staff, took down the glove and put it in his bosom, and, in the course of his sermon, said, ‘‘I hear that there is one among you who has, even in this sacred place, hung up a glove in defiance ;”’ and then, producing it in the midst of the con- gregation, he challenged them to compete with him in acts of Christian charity. Gloves, in former times, were common among other gifts offered to friends at the new year, and they were received without offence by the ministers of justice. It is related that Sir Thomas More, as Lord Chancellor, decreed in favor of Mrs. Crooker against the Earl of Arun- del. On the following New Year’s Day, in token of her gratitude, she presented Sir Thomas with a pair of gloves containing forty angels. ‘It would be against good manners,’’ said the Chan- oellor, ‘‘ to forsake the ladies’ New Year’s gift, and I accept the gloves; the lining you may bestow otherwise.” The custom of the presentation by the sheriff of a pair of white gloves to the judge on the ovcasion of a maiden assize is still in vogue; aad, judging from the reports in the news- papers, such presents appear to be of frequent occurrence, **Gloves, as sweet as damask roses,’’ were highly prized by Queen Elizabeth, and, in her day, formed such an important item of a lady’s expenses that a sum was generally allowed for ** glove money.”’ LOW. 51 The old-fashioned gloves have now a consider- able value amongst the curious. At the sale of the Earl of Arran’s goods in 1759, the gloves given by Henry VIII. to Sir Anthony Denney sold for £38 17s.; those given by James I. to Edward Denney sold for £22 4s. ; and the mit- ten given by Queen Elizabeth to Sir Edwar1l Denney’s lady for £25 4s. The Spanish dagger formerly belonged to a governor of Castile, in the sixteenth century, as is shown by the perforated fetterlock on the blade; and, although the initials are engraven there also, we have not been able to discover any particulars of the original owner. The workmanship and style of the dagger are of great beauty. The little ring, with the inscription ‘‘ Behold the End,’’ was once the property of Charles I., and was presented by him to Bishop Juxon, on the morning of his execution, The silver lockets, on which are the emblems of death, were extensively manufactured and sold after the execution of Charles I. They generally bore the date of the king’s death. —- -~~wooer - SPEAK LOW. BY HELEN M. L. WARNER. Sprak low—for white-winged angels hover near, Aud restless hands are folded quiet now ; Pale lips are mute, and no sad mother’s tear Hath fallen softly on the marble brow, For, draped in garments pure as falling snow, Is a slight figure sleeping—then speak low. Speak low—in gentle, whispering voices, And close the white lid softly o'er the violet eye; In its fresh spirit-light an angel host rejoices, While welcoming the seraph stranger to the sky ; Orphaned no longer—mothers, would you know The bliss of this dear meeting? then speak low. Speak low—for a strange monody of pleasure Fills the still air, a soft and rippling strain ; The first called comes to bear her early treasure Back to the glorious sheltering fold again ; Now weary, tiny feet no longer come and yo, And little lips are silent; then speak low. Speak low—enonugh that the kind hearted Have smoothed the pathway to the silent shore; Enough that buds of love, so freshly started, Have withered round those fostering hearts once more ; A spirit taper burneth with perpetual glow, Lighting the sighing upward—then speak low. Speak low—the flower by strangers watered Has withered, severed from the parent stem ; The proffered love, that never failed or faltered, Meekly yields up the opening bud to them ; The dead ones, gathered from life's woe Back to the Father's mansion—then speak low.

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MISS BY THE AUTHOR OF **“THE SLIMMENS’S BOARDING-HOUSE. TALLOW FAMILY.’’ (Continued from page 536, June number.) cer guen ie XVII. RIDING ON THE CHAPTER ** pLEss US! THIS IS PLEASANT, RAIL.”’ I've come to ask a very great favor of you, Dora, if you feel equal to the task. I’ve been so poorly ever since that dose of rat poison that I took by mistake, Doctor Burton recommends sea air ; I’m afraid I’m a-going into a decline. he says he knows of nothing but a change of air that ’ll do me any particular good, and I’ve about made up my mind to go to Newport fora couple of weeks. It’s a very expensive place, I know ; sence I came into this house, and a young lady ought to see something of the world outside of but I’ve made considerable money her native village—’specially if she anticipates ever making agood match. We often hear that “Distance lends enchantment to the view,” and it may be that I shall be more properly appreciated in a new spear than I am in Pen- nyville—particularly if it’s discreetly given out that Miss Slimmens is a beauty, a blue, and an heiress! I’ve made up my mind to afford the money for the tower; but I don’t know Ca- turah ’s handy, and Susan’s got so she can go ahead as well as I can; and if you’d just trouble to have an eye to the sugar, and the tea-caddy, and a few little things, I don’t know but what I might trust My family’s un- commonly small now, and they won't have much to do, Thank you! Much obliged. But it’s just like you, Dora; you're always ready to do a for anybody that asks it. I felt what to do about them everlasting girls. ‘em. turn ro va good ruther delicate about de any care on you, at present, though I don’t ask of you to doa thing but to keep the keys. Yes, 1 do ‘need the change ;’’ I realize it myself. I can hardly drag about the house this warm weather. And now that the matter’s settled, what shall I wear? that’s the great question. I expect my ward- robe ‘ll cost me more than all my other expenses put together. I must dress genteelly, or I sha’n’t stand any chance tomake an impression. That white satin I got the time the Professor boarded here will do for one ball-dress, and my pink silk for another. I’ve got a handsome watch and chain, you know, and considerable jewelry, and if you’d lend me that pearl set Mr. Little gave you on your birth-day, I’d take good care of it and consider it a favor. You won't be going out much this warm weather to need it, and it just suits my style, don’t you think so? Probably you’d never have had it if it hadn’t been for my good-will, making a match between you and George ; so you see I consider I’ve asort of claim on it. He! he! I think a new white muslin, flounced to the waist, with blue trimmings and your pearl-set, will be sweet for another evening toilet. I’m going to take my new gray more-antique for a travelling-dress. I expect it will get ruined ; but, considering that I’m going for the benefit of my health, and to see a little of genteel so- ciety, I guess I can afford it. There ’s nothing like making an astonishing impression at first. I hope those darling hats, with lace around the brims, and ribbons flying, will be the fashion again this season at the watering-places; they ’re so bewitching, and they'll be so be-

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'_ Sse ee Ft naa ae '’™s = ee te A ae ee, ee oe | he i MISS SLIMMENS’S coming to my long curls. Ringlets, flowing from beneath a broad-brimimed straw hat, can- not fail to impart a coquettish appearance. I think I shall wear one during my promenades, whether other ladies do or not. I have hardly decided whether to adopt a playful or pensile demeanor ; but, considering my delicate health, and that I am unaccompanied by an escort, I shall likely decide in favor of the pensile. How soon? About a week, if I can get the dress-maker to hurry up my things. I shall ruffle the white muslin myself. I guess I’ve been out of the millinery business so long there won't be any odor of brimstun follow me to Newport. I intend to pass myself off as a young lady of leisure, of only the most literal pursuits, who inherited my estates in Penny- ville by contract. I wish I knew some agree- able person who was going along at the same time ; 1’m such a timid creature, and shall feel so unprotected in the cars. I sha’n’t sleep much of nights till I’m ready, and the start is over; I feel so flustered by the prospect and the hurry and ail, my nerves are quite unstrung. Taking that exterminator was one of the worst things I ever done. I shall send, to-night, by express, to Boston, for a new set of curls and braids, and—shut the door, Dora, please—and l’ve nigh about concluded to order a wig, and done with it. i think that poison took the color out of my hair, it’s certainly getting gray. I might color it, of course, as I’ve been doing for several years ; but it’s so thin and harsh. A nice, thick, glossy wig of shiny false hair would be better, and not half the trouble. Quly don’t tell anybody; for I wouldn’t have it get to Mehitable Green’s ears for a fortune. I pulled hers off once, you remember, and L’ve no doubt she ’s waiting for me to get to wearing one, to return the compliment. You'd like to know what I received in that box that came froy Boston, by express, this morning? I’ve no objections to satisfying your curiosity, Mr. Little, nor that of any of the gentlemen whom I see before me, gathered round the convivial board. That box con- tained ruches to sew around the flounces of the white tarletan you saw me making; which ac- counts for its being so light. Hey? What’s that you remarked? A “ perverse and wig-ged generation!’ You ought to be ashamed of yourself, George, punning upon Scripture— hadn't he, Mr. Bethuen? You don’t intend to insinuate I'd tell an up and down wrong story about a trifle. 5* ts BOARDING-HOWSE. 53 “* Trifles, light as hair, Are, to the jealous, confirmation strong As proofs of Holy Writ.’ Oh, George! clear out with you! You're the greatest pest and bother that ever sat down to a boarding-house table. Dora, if you don’t put a stop to his nonsense, I’1l have to take hi in hand myself. What’s that ?— * With all my false, you love me still?" He! he! Well, a body might as well stop a mill-race as to stop your propensity for quiz- zing, only I trust the rest of my family will not take your insinuations in earnest. How? There goes Mehitable Green, and you must overtake her, and inform her of the arrival of a box of Russias from Boston? If that fellow hasn’t actually caught his hat, andrun! Do you suppose he really intends to tell her any- thing, Dora? Only wants to teaze me? He'll be the death of me yet, with sume of his prac- ticing jokes. Have you any objections to my occupying this vacant seat, sir? The cars are so crowded I am impelled to sit by somebody, and I have selected you because I feel certain you are a clergyman—now, have I not guessed aright? Oh, I judge by your white cravat, and your general appearance, sir, but mostly by your countenance ; your countenance speaks for it- self. I’m a great observer of physiology; I flatter myself I can read a stranger at a glance. The study of the human face divine is my par- ticular fort, and, brief as my experience with mankind has thus far necessarily been, I am seldom mistaken in my judgments. To New- port, for my health, sir. And, as I am impelled to travel without an escort, I have taken the liberty of placing myself under your temporal protection for the period of our mutual journey. I shall not undertake to explain, even to my- self, the feelings which prompted me to select you out of all these people. There are mes- meric mysteries on earth which I seek not to unfold ; I simply resign myself to their guid- ance. Your clerical‘ air, doubtless, had some- what of an influence; but -that was not all, I am certain that was not all. Married? Not yet; time enough for that yet, sir. I’ve ever been opposed to early marriages, which has induced me to refuse the offers I have thus far received; though I feel that I am now arriving at an age when it will be safe for me to make achoice. Yet, while not a believer in early marriages, I have ever been a believer in love at first sight. What is . a

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or + your opinion upon that much-disputed topic, if | may make so free as to inquire? Have you never yet realized the sensation experienced by the poet, when he says, ‘‘ Oh !—’’ mercy! how terrified I was! I thought there had been a collusion, certainly, there was such a jolt. I:xcuse me for the unpremeditated manner in which I threw myself into your protecting arms. I knew not what I was about until I felt your breath fan my cheek, which revived me from my trance of terror, I’m excessively timid ; the wild fawn of the forest cannot be more so. I am afraid I have mussed your shirt bosom, sir. d ought never to attempt to travel alone. What were we conversing about? You are right; it was about love at first sight, and you had not yet given me your opinion, You are a firm believer in it? I knew you was; I could tell it without asking, Is it not curious that /, clinging as I am, have never yet beheld the being in the shape of man to whom I shonld be willing to yield up my affections ?—that is, never until recently—indeed, I may say, quite recently—within an hour, My retired and thoughtful life has been mostly given to medi- tation, music, and poetry, and to the dispensa- tion of that fortune which was mine into the channels of benevolence. Like the sensitive plant, I have shrunk from the touch of man. What! do you really get out at the next sta- tion? Then we have only met to part. I feel as if this was hardly to be the terminus of our acquaintance, so pleasant, upon my side at least. Ah, thanks! you flatter me. You are sure you are the greatest gainer by our meet- ing? Perhaps you will not object to an inter- change of cards; here is mine, with my address in full. Providence may again throw us to- gether. If you should be in Newport during the next two weeks, I shall have the pleasure of renewing our delightful intercourse. Ah! the cars progress more slowly—they pause. And must you go? Iam much obliged for the protection you have afforded to a sensitive female. Farewell, till we meet again. Baggage? Yes, lots of it. S’pose a lady is going to Newport without any baggage? I’ve six trunks, and all of ’em packed tight. Want my checks, do you? Sure you're the check- man? I’m not to be imposed on, if I am a female ; I’ve been to Boston before. Oh, I’ve no doubt it’s all right. Here they are in my pocket. But great goodness, where’s my purse? Ive lost it, for it isn’t in my pocket, and I felt it there only a little while ago—just before that gentleman left me, at the last station. He must have stolen it; nobody else could have done it, GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. for it was on the inside, next to him. And he looked so genteel and benevolent! What? A regular swell? Thought I might have known? I didn’t—oh, I didn’t! I thought he was a clergyman. Fifty dollars gone, out and out! Ha! the greatest gainer by our meeting, in- deed? I shouldn’t wonder. It’s a mercy I didn’t have all my money in my pocket; I'd sense enough to put the most of it in my bosom, pinned and sewed to my stays. Fifty dollars, hard-earned cash, and all my suscepti- bilities thrown away besides! Fifty dollars! That ‘ll cut just so much off my stay at New- port, for I sha’n’t spend a cent more than I laid out to. It’s too bad! I'll renounce him—I’ll renounce him to every police-officer in Boston, I'll leave a full description of his person at head- quarters. I'll offer a reward for his reprehen- sion. Yes, I'll give a hundred dollars for the pleasure of confronting him ina court of justice, and being the means of consigning him to the State’s prison. I'll make it my first business to go to the telegraph office, and have him tele- graphed for. It’s a burning and acrying shame when an unprotected female cannot travel upon an American railroad without running the risk of being robbed by genteel-looking men in white cravats. It’s bad enough being smashed up pitched down precipices, but to be robbed at every step by the nicest-looking— My watch is gone, too! broke right off from the chain! O dear, I believe I shall turn round and go home, I feel so sick and disheartened! I would not have parted with that watch for a hundred dollars. Here we are inthe depot. Policeman! policeman! here! show me to the telegraph office right away, and take my disposition. I’ve been robbed—shamefully robbed! my journey begins in this way, I don’t know what it’ll end in! LIonly hope the degecting officers will secure that villain. Describe him? Picture to yourself a wolf in sheep’s clothing, going about seeking whom he may devour—a— I must be more identical, must I, in my description? Well, then, a black coat, and a white cravat, and a large diamond on his left finger, and a pious-looking mole on the left of his nose, and a sanctimonious voice, and a meek look of the eyes, and black whiskers, and a ministerial air, about six feet tall, with small feet and a modest smile. Think you know him, do you? Famous gambler and pick- pocket? O my! and to think that I sat beside him, that I confided in him, that I gave him my card! Only to think, me, Miss Slimmens, of Pennyville, giving my card to a gambler and Humph ! a pickpocket ! O dear, if

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MISS SLIMMENS'S CHAPTER XVIII. EPISTOLARY FROM NEWPORT. Dra&r Dora: As Tam confined to my apart- ment by a very unfortunate accident, so also by being too indisposed to go out, I have plenty of time in which to write you, as I promised. This is the eleventh day of my arrival in New- port, and about time for me to be starting for home, for two reasons, one of which is, my means are giving out, owing partly to being robbed, and the other is the accident to which I referred in the beginning. curious to know what kind of a time I have had; and though much of it has equalled my most sanguinary anticipations, there have been I suppose you are a few drawbacks to that unalloyed happiness which is never ours on earth, and which I will confide to you, Dora, on account of your un- common discretion for a woman, never talking about what'll make other folks trouble—so diferent from that Green and those Pea-Podds, whom I detest, as well as many other Penny- ville people. For a mean, gossiping, scandaliz- ing place, [think Pennyville will hold its own with the best. I never bought a little innocent box of pearl-powder, or dropped a remark about a neighbor, that it wasn’t scattered to the four winds all over that village. * One sickly sheep infests the flock, And poisons all the rest," Mehitable Green is that ‘‘sickly sheep,’ to speak in a meteor—a talking old maid, a pest But what on earth I’m writing about her for, when I’ve got other topics for my pen, is more than I know. Yes, Dora, I was robbed ; before I had even reached Boston, I was robbed of my beautiful watch that I bought the time I expected to marry * A. de M.,”’ and fifty dollars, good bills, which were in my purse. If you’d see the man that done it, you’d have no more confidence in mortality. I was certain he was a minister of the gospel. He was one of the most respect- to the whole community. able-looking persons I ever met; and, although being a stranger, I of course endeavored to keep him at a distance, yet, when he offered me his protection in the cars, I did not feel the least hesitancy in accepting it. We even ex- changed cards at his earnest solicitation. But he'll suffer for it! I’ve the consolation to know that he’s safe in jail, and I’ve got my watch back, too; the money will have to go. He ‘ll have the comfort to find that some women cannot be imposed upon with immunity—not only robbing and deceiving them, but taking their cards to keep in the vest-pocket of a gam- BOARDING-IOUSE. 55 — - —_—-—_ ___ bler and a pickpocket. I acted with my usual promptitude in immergencies. I didn’t rest till I’d got the police on the track, and tele- graphed to New York and other places, and they knew him by the graphical description | gave of him, and he was arrested with my watch, and my name engraved on it, in his possession, so they sent me the watch by ex- press; and I shall be very careful, going home, to keep all my money in my bosom, and not to let anybody, not the bishop himself, or the President, sit on the same seat. It was one of the sweetest moments of my existence when I heard of his arrest. If there’s anything I pride myself upon, it’s my discrimination, and [ hate to be fooled. A person that can wind other people around their finger as easily as I can, don't relish getting tricks played on them, ‘specially by sharpers and impositors upon the community. I’ve made some capita! out of that fifty dollars besides, total loss as it was, for it is currently reported in Newport, and especially at the hotel where I am stop- ping, that I lost a thousand dollars in money and a set of diamonds worth fifteen hundred, besides a draft for a large amount, upon which I have ordered the payment stopped. It has served as a very good subject for a great many I had the advantage of appearing upon the stage as a lioness immediately, besides the felicities it afforded for circulating the rumor of my being an heiress. Jest how it got started that I had lost so much, I of course can’t say, but I have not contradicted it. The old agate that ‘‘a rolling stone gathers no moss’? ain’t true with regard to stories; they roll up faster than a ball of snow, and | shouldn’t wonder if, before I left this place, it was currently reported to be ten thousand dollars and enough jewelry to set up a jewelry store. You know I never was troubled with diffidence, and, being used to doing business for myself, I wasn’t a bit em- barrassed to arrive here without an escort, I thought it fallacy to take just as good a room as I durst to, which I did. The very evening of my arrival at this house, there was a hop, as they term it, and I made up my mind to attend, if I did have to enter the ball-room hanging, meteorically speaking, upon my own arm. I wore my Rew w-g—don’t let George see this letter—and the curls were beautiful, I used a quarter of a box of Mean-Fun, and spent jest an hour an my eyebrows and cheeks, besides taking a tablespoonful of cologne-water to make my eyes bright. I took out all my dresses, and looked at them over and over. persons introducing themselves to me.

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56 GODEY’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, My choice hung between the white satin and the white flounced mull with the ruches. I finally decided upon the mull. I wore five starched petticoats over a full-sized Douglas & Sherwood, and the flounces set out sweetly. My waist didn’t look bigger than a churn- dasher, and was encircled by a blue festus. Your pearl set capped the climax, Iam cer- tain I never appeared so well, which imparted an airy gayety to my spirits, and enabled me to enter the ball-room with a fairylike vivacity. I was conscious of becoming the ‘ sinecure of neighboring ayes ;’’ everybody looked at me and whispered, and looked at me again. I overheard some of their commentaries, ‘‘She doesn’t appear at all depressed by her loss; she must be very wealthy, to bear it with such composure,’ said one. ‘Those pearls are quite pretty; I suppose she wears them because all her diamonds were stolen. Did you hear about it?’ said another. ‘‘ Whom can 1 get to introduce me?’’ I heard a lovely young gentleman inquiring, in the most agitated man- ner, ‘Oh, she's so exclusive she knows no- body, and so independent she goes wherever she's a mind to,"’ was the answer. ‘I know we should have a game time, if we could only got introduced,’’ said he, again, Jest then he met my eye, and I had a good notion to bow and smile, but concluded I'd better seem more reversed at first, even if I didn’t feel so, I was jest wishing, with all my heart, that I did know somebody that would ask me to polka, when I saw the ladies hopping and flying around like a parcel of robins learning to use their legs and wings, now on one foot, now on t'other, and then fluttering round and round so delightfully, supported by the elegantest men I ever beheld, with moustaches, and gaiters, and apy-glasses suspended around thelr necks ¢ was jest wishing and feeling as if I could »-‘ remain in my seat another instance, when—oh, Dora, whom should I behold at the other side of the ball-room but—guess who, You never could guess if you should strive for a week, I actually turned faint and thought I should go over, when I realized who it was. Everything got dark, and the music buzzed like a spinning- wheel; but I got over it in a minute, and then my, how mad I was! My blood boiled in my veins! Lforgot the heavenly part, everything except that horrid letter; you remember it, Dora—‘‘dear old girl!’’ Yes, Dora, it was actually Adonis de Mountfort that I saw stand- ing and conversing with the very young gentle- man whom I had overheard wishing to be intro- duced to your humble servant! They had been looking at me, | know, though Adonis turned his eyes in another direction as quick as he could —but his name isn’t Adonis, or De Mountfort either, but Albert D. Morton—and pretty soon he looked back again, and stared right straight at me; and I presume he saw how mad I waa, and that | was going to have him arrested for embellishment, false pretences, and breach of promise, I looked him straight in the eyes— oh, Dora, do you remember what beautiful eyws he had ’—without flinching, and said to myself, ‘Old enough to know better?’ Ha, young man, you'll get your pay for that, now!" when what should he do but jest take that other gentleman by the arm, and come across the room, and hold out his hand to me with the sweetest smile, and say, as cool as a cucumber, ‘My friend Miss Slimmena, is it possible this is you? I am delighted to meet you here, in this congenial scene. How are you? Not married, | suppose? Never been able to meet a suitable spirit yet, ah, in this etherial world? Allow me to take the liberty of presenting to you my particular friend Mr. Bowser. He was dying to make your acquaint- ance, and was very much pleased when he learned from me that you and I were old Jriends, my dear Miss Slimmens.’’ I folt as if I should choke with surprise and rage; ard l couldn't hardly be mad at him either, he looked so innocent and unconscious, so I just bowed, and was wondering what on earth to do or say —whether to rise up there and ory out Thief,” or to pase it by till to-morrow, which would give him a chance to oscape—when he bent over and whispered in my ear: My dear friend, let be bygones! You don't want it under- wore that you are a retired milliner, nor ow you came to lone seven hundred dollar me; you've come here to make a match ; 1'H help you, I know everybody and every- thing, and all about them, The young gentle- man I just introduced to you is a rich young Southerner; all the girls are dying for him, You will be the most envied of your sex, You say nothing, and I'll say nothing, and it'll be just the thing. I can get you a large circle of admirers in less 'n two days.’’ Before I could reply, Mr. Bowser was pressing ine to danve, and I was standing on the floor before I knew it. He danced splendidly. I enjoyed it exces- sively, in spite of my rheumatiz, and, after ft was over, I was introduced to several others, and, before the evening was ended, I had the gratification of feeling, Dora, that Miss Slim- mens, of Pennyville, was the belle of the ball, the observed of all observers. I retired to my Madi} ken on | ter The lees wt | does ride ever: visit Wate Do forgi ain 0 We I thir a wi rathe any o tiona spygl The

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MISS SLIMMENS’S BOARDING-HOUSE. 57 room Without a single regret for the robbery, and in such a state of flustration that sleep did not visit my pillow till broad daylight. The next day, | made more acquaintances, Some of the ladies were very polite, and con- soled with me for my loss, which I told them, carelessly, was of no consequence, as my jewelry was not the gifts of friends, except the watch, which I should be glad to get back. I found myself getting along so well, and had already tle case of the pickpocket to attend to, I made up my mind it was fallacy to let Mr. Morton (dias de Mountfort) go, and not have him arrested for a swindler—at least, for the present; and, on the whole, I’m rather glad [ took the course I did, With so many chances thrown tight in my face and eyes, as it were, I pre- ferred keeping it a profound secret that L’d ever ldvached bunnits for a living. You know I al- ways had a remarkably genteel air, which has een in my favor; and the way I’ve pulled and hauled Susan and Caturah around has been of mivantage to me in ordering the waiters, who are killingly attentive, in expectancy of what I'll give ‘em, which won't be much, if they only knew it. I goto the table after almost every- body is there, and L never fail to create a sen- sition, I see it out of one eye, though I don't pirtend to, gln the early part of the day, | generally pass my tine inthe reception-roome ; aid | always have a book, and generally a gold pencil and a piece of paper with me, and | filopt a pensile air, suitable to a literary person, aa well as something peculiar in my dress, as The gentlemen are very fond of conversing with me magularity ia considered a twark of talents, on Intellectual topics. However, as you are not literary, Dora, Lauppose you don’t care to hear, The politest person in the house to me has leon Mr, Morton ; wt reverence before everybody, aud says and Ile 's taken me out to he treata me with the yreat- does the nicest things, ride twice, and we've been down on the beach every day to see the feminine portion of the visitors bathing; but | wouldn't go in the water myself, for reasons—you know, Dora, Don't think, from what I've said, that I've forgiven him; I haven't, and I never shall! I mun only acting from fallacy, and so is he, and we understand each other. The acquaintance I think most of is quite another person, He's a widower; I should say about thirty-five; rather small, but dresses more sweetly than any other man in Newport; his dress is excep- tionable, from top to toe, and he handles his spyglass like a person ‘‘to the manger born,’’ The oyly imperfection in his appearance is a slight, a very slight limp, which I suppose is rheumatiz, and which prevents his dancing, which is a great pity. I've understood he has no children, and is worth thirty thousand dol- lars. I suppose he reckons I’m worth full as much, and I sha’n't take any particular pains to undeceive him, He hasn’t actually declared himself yet, but I’m expecting every day when he will; at least, as soon as he learns that I am about to leave, which I must do right away, Dora, for it costs even more than I reckoned; what with Unpudent chambermaids that won't hook up a lady's dress without they get a halfa dollar a time for it, and a quarter for a glass of ice-water, and a dollar a day to the hair-dresser, who differs the arrangement of my w-g (burn this, when you get through, if you ever do, which is doubtful), each time, and makes it just like a real head of hair, It takes money, and nothing but a good match can repay my outlay. However, I think the sea air is doing me good, and I trust soon to get over the lin- gering remains of that exterminator. If he don't declare himself before I leave, I shall invite him to visit Pennyville; though I'd rather the matter would be settled before, as he would see, then, just what I was worth. What would you say, Dora, to my coming home Poor Timothy Bethuen would scarcely Ie prepared for the best; i bride? stand the shock, aud tell Musan to bake some pound-cake, But speaking of the hairdresser, and my weg, and Mr, Morton, and bathing, brings me to the aceldent which I spoke of in the beginning, and to the most serial misfortune which has befell me since T left home, Oh, Dora, it makes me sick to think of it, Juat when I waa get- ting along so ewimmingly. If ['d have stuck to my first resolutions, it never would have occurred, I aaid you would understand that I had reasons for resisting all Inducementa to go a bathing in the turf, Of course, you, being acquainted with the little secrets of the femi- nine toilet, know it would have a very dilatory effect upon paint, false ringlets, etc,, to get them wet, I didn’t think I should come out of the trial quite as glowingly as the young girls, with red cheeks and plenty of their own hair blowing about, that laughed and frolicked, as independent as fishes, all around. Mr. Mor- ton often solicited me to venture, and I always told him I was too much of a coward. Well, yesterday, we was standing watching the rest, and he said to me, so persuadingly: ‘Come, my dear Miss Slimmens, do try it. . There's nothing like it for renewing the blood and mak- ing people get fat—good, substantial flesh. Sea-

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aes Bs ay 58 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, bathing is famous for fattening folks ; it is the only charm in which you are lacking. Allow me to whisper that I understand something of feminine objections, and that I will insure you against accident. We will venture in but a little ways; I will support you; the bloom of your cheeks and the beauty of your curls shall not suffer in the least. I will take care of them. Gio, prepare yourself; you will look charmingly in a Turkish bathing costume.’’ I wanted to try it so much that I allowed myself to be per- suaded. I entered one of those shanties, or camps, or whatever they call ’em, and got ready. My mind misgave me as I set foot in the water; but he assured me so firmly of his protection that I allowed myself to be led on. There was hundreds of people all about us, giggling, and shivering, and frolicking, and some of ’em ducking and letting the turf roll over them as if they were so many fishes. We only went out a little ways, for I wasn’t very firm on my feet, and I was afraid one of those big waves would come up too close to us; but either Mr. Morton is very deceitful, or else the ocean is, for, just as I was standing there look- ing at the rest, and feeling the pressure of his arm about my waist, and only a little over knee-deep in water, along came a monstrous roller—and the next thing I knew I was gasp- ing, and floundering, and smothering. I thought I was drownding. I never had such a fright but once previously, and that was when I took that arsenic. When I came to my senses a little, Mr. Morton was wiping my face with his handkerchief, and, of course, taking off every speck of artificial there was on it. ‘‘I’m very sorry, Miss Slimmens,’’ said he, ‘‘ that you ’ve got wet. I’d no idea that breaker was so extensive. It almost took me off my feet, and I’m an old bather.”’ But I didn’t realize a word he said. I felt a cold sensation about my head ; I put up my hand—oh, Dora, imagine my emotion—my w-g was gone. At the in- stance I made the discovery, the turf came rolling back again, and there, upon its foaming crest, floated my beautiful, my beloved, my ex- pensive w-g. ‘‘Save it!’ Ishrieked. Adonis made a lurch for it—but it was too late; it was gone—forever! Doubtless at this moment it is wildly tossing upon the cruel Atlantic, satu- rated with brine, its glossy ringlets torn into a million separate hairs, while I sit here writing to you and deploring its loss. That isn’t the worst of it, either. I looked about—horror of horrors !—every one was looking at us and laughing, even the children. I know that I nust be a ridiculous figure. ‘‘Take me out; get me back into the camps, quick!’’ I ex. claimed, and Adonis—it ’s second nature to call him by that name—assisted me ashore, looking as grave as a judge. I dressed as quick as | could; but when I came to tie that charming hat, so becoming to my long curls, upon my head, I felt that my glory was departed, Yet I was impelled to go to my hotel, and enter it in broad daylight in the face and eyes of a hun- dred staring men. If ever I realized the worth of a veil, it was then. I would have given all the money in my trunk for a yard of brown barége, but I had nothing of the kind along with me. The fright, and the embarrassment, and everything, has made me fairly sick; be- sides, I can’t stir from my room until my hairdresser has completed another, which he is doing as fast as he can. Several ladies have knocked at my door, to inquire after my health, but I Lave not admitted a soul. My only con solation under this afflicting dispensation is that my admirer, Mr. Hopkins, the widower, was not among the spectators—at least, I do not think he was. He was not on the beach, and from the hurried glance I cast at the win- dows and piazzas, as I entered our hotel, I com cluded he was taking his noon nap. I trust I shall be myself again by to-morrow, and that something decisive will then take place. I must leave here by the day after, as my funds will be exhausted by that period. So you may ex- pect me to follow my letter up pretty close, If it should be a Mrs. Hopkins, instead of a Miss Slimmens, you are called upon to welcome, do not be surprised ; curiouser things have hap- pened. Pull Caturah’s hair if she don’t mind you. Tell Mr. Bethuen I’m convinced there's a great deal of sin and wickedness at watering- places. And be sure that Susan bakes that cake, and frosts it. Don’t let George see this letter. For a brief space yet, your affectionate friend, ALVIRA SLIMMENS. P.S. Don’t tell Mr. Bethuen about my dano- ing the polka; it’s scarcely consistent with my position as a professor, and I suppose I hadn’t ought to; but the temptation was irre- sistible, and if the folks at home don’t get to talking and scandalizing about it, there ’ll be no great harm done. I’m going to repent of it as soon as I get married, and settled down, and get things off my mind a little, so’s I can have an opportunity to compose my reflections. I intended to be sorry for it when I done it, as soon as I had a good chance. P. P. 8. I hope Caturah hasn’t got into them purserves on the top shelf of the pantry. Keep an eye on her, please. no! eve of | sio! thi sho nat wor cree crus may eno W relat ernn W the s kind. tione but t cords the 3 colors us to come to eve of we 39th « cence | by the in the display magnil Priest,

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COSTUME Costeme and fashion are not synonymous terms. Fashion is often regulated by caprice, and its changes are so frequent that we keep a monthly record of them, The laws that regu- late costume are less mutable; they depend on the progress of the arts and on the climate aud policy of countries. The subject of costume is associated with the well-being of mankind, and, on a nearer con- sideration, we shall find it also connected with very important questions, particularly with those that relate to social improvement and to national liberty. When, in the eighth century, Charlemagne passed a law restricting the working classes to a certain style of dress, he became the author of a decree that, while it tended to render the classes of society stationary, checked many noble aspirations. The mind is influenced by everything that affects the body, and the garb of servitude produces a corresponding depres- sion of spirit. In China, the most remarkable things in the costume of the women are the shoes, that would only fit the infants of other nations. But why do they fit the Chinese women? Because a barbarous policy has de- creed that the feet of female babes should be crushed and dwarfed, so that in after life they may easily be detained prisoners, and never enjoy freedom of action. We need say no more, in order to prove the relation our subject bears to the policy of gov- ernments. We perceive that, very shortly after the fall, the skins of beasts furnished clothing for man- kind. Very different clothing is, however, men- tioned before the end of the Book of Genesis ; but then we must recollect that this Book re- cords the events of two thousand years. In the 37th chapter, we read of the ‘‘coat of many colors’? given by Jacob to Joseph. This leads us to suppose that the Hebrews had then be- come acquainted with that art so all-important to everything that relates to costume, the art of weaving. In the Book of Exodus, in the 89th chapter, we read of a degree of magnifi- cence in costume that could hardly be surpassed by the potentates of the present day. It was in the sacerdotal robes that this splendor was displayed. We may form some idea of the magnificence of the dress of Aaron, the high Priest, merely from he following record of the IN ALL AGES. number of stones with which the breast-plate was enriched; ‘‘ And they set in it four rows of stones. The first row was a sardius, a topaz, and acarbuncle; and the second row anemerald, a sapphire, and a diamond; and the third row a ligure, an agate, and an amethyst.’’ In the same chapter, we are made aware of the fact that embroidery existed at this early period, for we find it stated—‘‘ And they made upon the hems of the robe pomegranates of blue, and purple, and scarlet, and twined linen. A bell and a pomegranate round about the hem of the robe, and a girdle of fine twined linen, and blue, and purple, and scariet, of needle-work, as the Lord commanded Moses.”’ The Hebrews had probably acquired many of the arts connected with splendor in apparel from the Egyptians, during their sojourn with them; and, turning from sacred to profane his- tory, we find it was from the same wonder-work- ing people that the Greeks, and consequently the Romans, derived a knowledge of the arts that civilize the world. Of course they imitated their masters in costume as in other particulars. Classical costume, like that of some eastern nations of the present day, consists principally of drapery—formed of the material as it comes from the loom—thrown gracefully about the person. In the beginning of this century, elassical costume was introduced with slight modifica- tion into England, France, and other European nations. Tired of the stiffness that characterized the dress of preceding reigns, the belles wel- comed a reaction, and the freedom of classical attire was adopted. But the change that took place in the costume of the ladies was slight to the revolution in that of the lords of the creation. The Quaker Franklin, fresh from the new republic of the United States, arrived in Paris, towards the end of the last century, clad in the well-known sombre garb. This garb an imaginative people associated with the idea of liberty, and soon from admiring they proceeded in some degree to imitate. No more full-dress swords or cocked hats—no more rosettes at the knees, shoe-bows, or bright buckles. Justaw corps and flapped waistcoats were laid aside, with cravats and ruffles of Mechlin lace, with wigs and periwigs of every description. The ladies no longer endeavored to captivate 59

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60 in jewelled stomachers, and brocade, and high- Simplicity was the order of the day. Ina picture of a belle of fifty years ago —of the beautiful Madame Récamier, for in- stance—the costume nearly resembles that of a Grecian statue. But this style, though well suited to the people and the age in which it was adopted, was by no means appropriate to modern times. It was attended with more serious inconveniences than the high heads and large sleeves that followed, or than the tiny bonnets and ample skirts that are adopted by modern belles, who think, of course, heeled shoes. * That, from the hoop's enchanting round, The very shoe has power to wound.” But the classic style of dressing the hair may be adopted with perfect propriety in the pre- sent day. It is quite in harmony with our tastes and fashions, and seems as well suited to the ladies of 1860 as to the Sapphos and Cornelias of ancient times. In the remarks we purpose making from time to time on the costumes of different periods, it will appear that the costumes of the classical ages, in which human taste was most pure, and the perception of what was proper and becoming most correct, have constantly been the models for imitation, Even at the present day, we see in the picturesque dress of the Highland clans a striking resemblance to the military costumes of those Roman warriors who not only subdued by their courage and dis- cipline all the nations with whom they con- tended, but carried into the remotest regions of the world then known to them their manners, habits, costumes, and arts of civilization. THE FINE ART OF PATCHING. To patch—how vulgar is the term! yet it is an operation requiring far more skill than does the making of a new garment, and, when well executed, may save the purchase of many a costly one: the most expensive robe may, by accident, be torn or spotted the first day of its wear ; the piece inserted in lieu of the damaged one is a patch. If a figured material, the pat- tern has to be exactly matched; in all cases, the insertion has to be made without pucker, and the kind of seam to be such as, though strong, will be least apparent; the corners must be turned with neatness. Is not this an art which requires teaching? So of darning, much instruction is necessary as to the number | | GODEY'’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, of threads to be left by the needle according to the kind of fabric; then there is the kind of thread or yarn most suitable, which requires experience to datermine. Where the article is coarse, the chief attention is directed to expe- dition; but a costly article of embroidery on musliu can only be well darned with ravellings of a similar muslin. Such particulars do not come to the girl by inspiration; they must be taught, or left to be acquired by dearly-bought experience. The third mode of repair is well understood and practised abroad, though rarely in this country. The stocking-stitch is neither more difficult nor tedious than the darn, yet how many pairs of stockings are lost for want of knowing it when a hole happens to be above- shoe! Practice in lace stitches is still more desirable, particularly for repairing lace of the more costly descriptions. The deficiency of a single loop, when lace is sent to be washed, often becomes a large hole during the operation, and thus the beauty of the lace is destroyed. Indeed, lace, when duly mended, on the appear ance of even the smallest crack, may, with lit tle trouble, be nade to last twice or thrice the usual term of its duration. So the shawl- stitch is not sufficiently taught, though, by employing it with ravellings from the shawl itself, the most costly cashmere can be repaired without a possibility of discovering the inserted part. Proficiency in such useful works might well merit as much approbation as is now be- stowed upon crochet or other fancy works, and might be considered as equally desirable quali fications in a tradesman’s governess as musie. In populous places it might well answer to establish schools where the art of mending apparel should be the chief object of instruction; a month or two spent in it might be sufficient for the damsel, already a good plain needle- worker. It must further be observed that, with- out a practical knowledge of needle-work, no young lady can judge whether her servant has or has not done a reasonable quantity of it ina given time ; and if this be true as to the plain seam, it is stil' “.ore essential in regard to mending of all kinds. === ANSWER TO CHARADE IN JUNE NUMBER. Sky-light. ANSWER TO RIDDLE. Eye. ANSWER TO MIBCELLANEOUS ENIGMA. Miss Lydia S. Brown, Beechwood, Mansfield, Pa.

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ra Ff Foc + ® le th- has na ain | to NOVELTIES FOR JULY. NOVELTIES FOR JULY. Fig. 1.—Headdress of lace, ribbon, and flow- ers. The cap has a flounce which forms the Fig. 1. curtain; a knot of ribbon on the top, and a bouquet of golden coreopsis, with streamers of ribbon, make sufficient trimming. Fig. 2.—Nell Gwynne cap, for breakfast, ap- proaching the once fashionable mob cap ; a lave Fig. 2. piece, gathered just on top of the head, where a bow of violet-colored ribbon is fastened. Fig. 3.—A girlish and tasteful fichu, intended for dinner dress at the springs, or home wear, to be worn with organdies, tissues, or any deli- cate fabric, with a low corsage. The material VOL. LXI.—6 is Swiss muslin; the narrow plaits are laid in | pairs; a corresponding trimming surrounds the neck, which is cut square, and edged by narrow needle-work. Two rows of narrow black velvet | Fig. 3. ribbon cover the seams, and extend down the front on each side of the hem; a broader velvet ribbon is caught on the edge of the fichu, just above the needle-work border; and a bow of the same at the waist gives it a pretty finish. This fichu is easily made, aseam on the shoulder insuring the fit, and it will be found very ser- viceable. Fig. 4 Fig. 4.—Full habit shirt, to be worn with the vestes Algerien. The shirt is of clear muslin,

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<The me

62 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.

or cambric; the collar, which is a particularly good and fashionable shape, of linen lawn, or fine cambric, with a spray embroidered in each corner, and an edge of needle-work.

Fig. 5.—Different style of collar and habit shirt; the collar is of lace ; rosette of narrow velvet ribbon, a dark blue. Fig. 6.—Style of undersleeve for the open dress sleeves now so fashionable. The trim- ming is on the forearm, and consists of a puff crossed by a narrow inserting, through which a narrow black velvet ribbon is passed. Fig. 7.—Muslin and lace sleeve, for the flow- ing draperies of organdy and tissue. (See Lady’s Book for June.)

Fig. 6.

Fig. 8.—New style of bow to fasten the col- lar. It is very simple, being only a rich ribbon passed through a very large jet buckle. Fig. 8.

Fig. 9.—Macaroon, or rosette button, at pre- ; Fringe and ribbon are very often sewed round sent the most fashionable style of trimming. the button instead of the lace.

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vd NOVELTIES FOR JULY. 63 Fig. 10.-—Glove top, composed of white illu- a very narrow black velvet and Valenciennes sion puffed on net, and the ruffle finished with | lace. Fig. 10.

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64 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. » —— — i ( NEW STYLE OF DRESS. (See Diagram, opposite page.) Tue illustration which has been selected for this number is one of the most favored in Paris, as well as being one of the newest. The ma terial which it represents is black silk, sprin- kled over with bouquets of colored flowers. The skirt is single, and without trimming; the body is low, being crossed over the front with two broad bands, laid in full plaits, being con- fined with a waistband and finished on one side with a large bow, the whole being of its own material, with long wide ends. There is no sleeve of the silk, but a very small epaulette, the great effect of the style consisting in the dress being worn with large white muslin sleeves, and chemisette of the same, the last of which is composed entirely of tucks, and trimmed round the throat with a narrow lace. Ladies who do not wish to incur the expense of one of these flowered silks will find that either a black, a steel gray, or a chestnut brown—all fashionable colors—will make up in this style with almost equal elegance. EMBROIDERY FOR A CHEMISE BAND. OOOO OOCOOO a. Pill sail ag Nii "

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WORK DEPARTMENT. 65 DIAGRAM OF NEW STYLE OF DRESS, SLEEVE FOR A CHILD’S SACQUE, OR TALMA,

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66 GODEY'’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, FANCY PEN WIPER. Taxe the head of a doll and dress it with pieces of bright cloth, as represented in the en- graving. Fig. 2 represents the size and shape of each leaf, Pieces of flannel should be sewed under each leaf to wipe the pen on, #0 that the beauty of the pen wiper may be preserved, though in constant use, THE EUGENIE CUSHION, (See blua plate in front.) Tum Cushion is worked in a combination of beads and Berlin wool, and is extremely effect- ive. It will be seen that two six-pointed stars form the centre of the design. The inner one has an outline of gold beads filled in with clear white; the outer one has an outline of steel filled in with chalk white. The long bars twisted at their ends which interlace through this star, have an outline of black beads filled in with turquoise blue, The ground within these bars is maize color. The ground within the interior star is a pale scar- let; the ground within the outer star is adark scarlet. The flow- ers in the six divisions are worked, three in gold outline, filled in with clear white beads, with gold centres; three with steel outline, filled in with chalk white, and steel centres. The leaves are in shades of green, each shade filling in one of the divisions as marked in the engraving, observing that in each alternate compartment the sort of green is to be varied, making three of the one and three of the other, to accord with the two sets of flowers, The grounds of these six compartments are each in a different color of Berlin wool, namely, blue, orange, pale groseille, green, violet, and nut brown. Each section of the border is bounded with a line of black in Berlin wool. The scrolls have their entire outline in gold beads filled in with black beads, and the ground is in maize color crossed with floss silk. Beyond all this, it will be necessary to work about half an inch all round in black wool, as a quilling of satin | PEN WIPER. ribbon is attached to the outer edge, and it would injure the effect if this were permitted to obscure the work. The color of this ribbon may be either violet or a dark groseille. At one of the points a large bow of the same is to be affixed. We recommend this cushion to ladies who may be intending to undertake an article of this kind, in confident assurance that it will well reward their labor. —__“sVeeoro - GLOVE BOX. (See blue plate in front of Book.) Matertale.—Perforated card-board, No.6, Berlin wool: clear white O P. beads, ruby and garnet beads, No. 2; ribbon, card-board, and sarsenet. Tuis very brilliant-looking little box is formed of five pieces of perforated card, worked in wool and beads. In the centre of that which forms the top is the word cioves, in ruby and garnet ro ar th ro ro

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“d ol 18 et WORK beads; the rest of the pattern is squares worked in Berlin wool, with lines of O. P. beads between them. Be sure to select card-board of the proper size, as the boards cannot be properly arranged on any other. Line each piece with thin eard-board and silk, and bind them all round with ribbon. Sew the silks to- gether, form them into a box, with a plain plece for the bottom; and finish with rows of ribbon, A handkerchief box should be made to correspond in design, but be square instead of oblong. KNITTED BERRIES AND FRUIT. STRAWBERRY AND IT® LEAF, Four needles (No, 20) are required, The strawberry may be knitted in two different ways ;* in plain rounds, or in the following manner, more exactly con- form to nature :-— Cast on an even number of stitches, from thirty to forty, in scarlet Berlin wool, not split, or better in purse twist, rather coarse, of a bright shade, lst round.—Knit one, purl one; throughout the round, 2d.—Purl one, knit one; throughout the round. Continue in this manner, beginning alter- nately with the plain and the purled stitch, till you have worked about half the length of the Then decrease one stitch on each When three stitches only remain on each needle, gather these, and fasten off. Fill the strawberry with emery, and fasten off tight the second aperture, after hav- ing inserted in it a stem made of double wire, covered with green wool or silk. The next piece is the calyx ; two needles only are used :— Cast on six stitches with a bright shade of green wool or silk, Ist row.—Make one, knit one; throughout the row. strawberry. needle every other round. 2d.—Purled. 3d.—Make one, knit two; throughout the row. 4th.—Purled. 5th.—Make one, knit three; throughout the row, 6th.—Purled. * It may also be shaded or all scarlet, according to the Variety which you have selected for model DEPARTMENT. 67 SIZE AND SHAPE OF LEAP OF PEN WIPER. Next row.—Make one, knit two, turn back, purl the same stitches. Repeat the two last rows three times, then decrease one stitch, knit one, purl together the two last, break the wool or silk a yard at least from the work; thread with it a rug needle; pass the needle through the loop of the last stitch, and bring it to the next stitches on the needle by sewing neatly with it the left edge of the little leaf just made. Work the next two stitches in the same man- ner, and repeat the same operation till all the stitches are worked in small leaves, united at their base. Edge them with wire covered with green wool or silk; place your strawberry in the middle; fasten together strawberry and calyx, and, if you like, add a leaf made as fol- lows :— Lear.—Cast on one stitch. lst row.—Make one, knit one. 2d.—Make one, purl two. 3d.—Make one, knit three. 4th.—Make one, purl four. 5th.—Knit two, make one, knit one, make one, knit the remainder of the row, and con- tinue in alternate purled and knitted rows, making one stitch before and one after the middle stitch in every plain row till you have seventeen or nineteen stitches; then purl one row, knit one row, without increase; purl the

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68 next row, and at the beginning of the following row knit together the two first stitches ; break the wool about a yard from the work; pass the needle through the loop of the last stitch, bring it to the next stitches on the needle by sewing neatly with it a stitch or two on the left edge of the little scallop just made; knit plain the remainder of the row. Purl together the two first stitches of the next row ; pass the rug needle through the loop just made; bring the wool along the edge of the little scallop to the next stitches on the needle; purl the remain- der of the row, and continue the same process till all the stitches, except the three middle GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, ones, are worked in small scallops. Then slip one stitch, knit one, turn the slipped stitch over the knitted one; purl together the two remaining stitches; fasten off; cover a wire with green wool, sew it neatly round the leaf, making the little scallops as sharply pointed as possible. As the strawberry leaf is composed of three, make this the middle one, and work two more in the same manner, but a little smaller; say with two stitches less, and place them on each side of the first. N. B. The little seeds on the strawberry are embroidered with golden-colored floss silk when the strawberry is finished. BRAIDED SLIPPER. CHILD'S : ‘ of | of «

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ip ch vO are WORK DEPARTMENT. 69 ARTICLES FOR PRESENTS OR FANCY FAIRS, ORNAMENT FOR A LAMP. TaKE a round piece of card about four inches in diameter, another strip five inches wide, and long enough to completely encircle the round piece. Thread the beads on a strong thread, and begin in the centre of the round piece. Carry the string round four times, then take white beads, four rows; this comes to the edge of the round piece. Make then six rows of blue, seven of white, six of blue, and two of white. Fasten off strongly. Line with blue silk, and finish with a tassel of blue silk, with a white bead at the end of each thread of silk. Put this ornament over the wick of the lamp, through the daytime, as a pretty disguise for the smoked wick. PURSE. Take crimson and lavender-colored purse silk and steel beads. Crochet in the pattern given u the engraving, making the top and bottom of lavender-color, plain stitch, and the middle of deep crimson, the beads being knit in to form the bars. Run a cord of the two colors in at the top, and finish with a tassel, with a heading of steel beads, to form the diamond at the bottom. Line with crimson silk, making the lining a separate bag, to be renewed when soiled. FAN IN SILK AND CHENILLE, Take purse silk, two shades of rose-color, black, and white, and chenille the same colors. Knit nine medallions of silk, white in the centre, rose-color next, black, and white again on the Stiffen each one by iron wire passed through the outer stitches. Take the chenille, edges. and make loops of the four colors alternately round the knitted work, excepting at the end of each one, fastening the chenille securely at each end of the loop; then cut it, to form the fringe. Make a circle of light wood, cover neatly with white silk, and with small tacks fasten the nine medallions securely, in the shape given in the engraving. Make of the silk a fringe thick and wide enough to cover the wood on each

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I rts ees 95 ew 70 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. side, and in the centre place a chenille rosette. Finish with a handle of carved ivory. ALLSPICE BASKETS. The allspice berries should be steeped in brandy for some time, in order to soften them, and then perforated with a small borer, The berries are strung on a slender wire, sufficient to form the circumference of the bottom of the basket, and the ends are neatly twisted together with a pair of pliers, and then formed into a round or an oval, at discretion, Wrought gilt beads strung between the berries very much improve the general effect of the basket. The interior of the bottom is composed of wires strung with the berries, and crossing each other so as to form diamonds, or any more fanciful shape. The first row for the sides con. sists of a series of small arches, fixed at their bases to the bottom circle by twisting one wire round the other. The second row consists of another series of arches, the bases of which are fixed in a similar way on the summits of the first row. A third row, in the same man- ner, completes the height of the basket. A series of semicircles, or bows of wire, strung with the berries, is then fixed to the top row, so as to project over the sides of the basket; from the extremities of these are hung festoons of the berries strung on silk. The handle is made of two wires, strung as the others, and crossing each other so as to form a succession of diamonds. It is proper to string the berries as the bending of the wires proceeds; and where the wires cross each other, or appear to do so, a larger gilt bead should be introduced. The interior of the basket is lined with doubled satin, gathered at top and bottom, and pulled in puffs through the arches in the sides. The whole is ornamented with ribbons and bows, according to fancy. —- “7rerr CORNER FOR A POCKET HANDKERCHIEF, FOR CHEMISE YOKES AND SLEEVES, OVO Gv ris A® O_O O 0 OO Ofno oO O._O0O_09O on -pe ©. 6 O OAO AOD AO AD AV AOD AO

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eir rire s of ich sof an- ing ow, et; ons » is and ion ries and led led The ws,

WORK DEPARTMENT. -~! —_"

KNITTED COUNTERPANE. —— Tunis counterpane has the convenience of being worked in small pieces, and can be taken up at any leisure moment, without fear of in- jury or mistake. It is composed of knitted shells in an open pattern, sewed together in rows, the point of one being always placed in the centre of the cast. The following are the instructions for knitting them :— Cast on three loops; increase by taking up one loop in the centre of every row, until there are seven loops on the needle; then pass the cotton over, before and after the centre loop, purl one row, knit one row, purl one row, re- membering that the first three and the last three loops are for the border, and must always be knitted in every row. Make four holes, purl, knit, and purl three rows. Make eight holes, but take two loops together, after bring- ing the thread forward for the first hole. Repeat these rows until you have made twenty-eight holes, when, instead of purling and knitting the three rows, knit them all to form the border at the top the same as the sides. To form the shell shape, it is necessary to reduce the num-

= ys vie, > yy Y Ye ‘ , ei Sst Sg 72 2 SA a “ap os A 1 og. st F SA ‘ Ns MURR ne f ~ PSE! EU ING ae} ber of stitches; therefore, after the row which has the four holes, two stitches must be taken instead of one, according to the number of holes, the first commencing with one double stitch, the next with two, and so on, always taking the double stitches after the three knitted loops for the border. This pattern may be knitted for either a light summer counterpane or for a winter one, by using either a fine or coarse cotton. For the former, No. 10 knitting cotton, and for the latter No. 6. -“<—7e he ?.-rt—“‘—S CROCHET MALTESE COLLAR. (See engraving, page 10.) Materiale.—No. 36 cotton; No. 4 Penelope hook. 8 ch de in 7th loop from that on hook—that is, in 2d loop that was made; 5 ch t (or turn on reverse side); do u the circle of 8 ch; * 5 ch t, dc u 5 ch; repeat from * twenty-four times, or till, on counting them, there shall be 12 chs of 5 on each side, exclusive of the lst 8 ch; then 5 ch t de u, each 5 ch along the side, till there

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| y ca 72 are 12 chs of 5; then 5 ch de u 8 ch, at the } GODEY'’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, ch de u same; now 7 ch de u each of the chy point, 7 ch de u, same; now 5ch deweach of | 10 times, Draw the cotton through, and fasten the chs, till there are 12, exclusive of the 7 ch; 7 chtdewulst5ch; 3 ch do » next; leht * 9Lu7ch; 7 ch t de u same 7 ch that the last 3 ch were worked under; 3 ch do u next 5 ch; leh t; repeat from * all round. There must be 12 groups of L stitches on each side, and 1 group under the 7 ch at the point. At the end, after the last group, make 7 ch t dou next chs; 7 ch t de u 7 ch (A); now 7 ch de u each of the chs at the end of each group of L stitches for ? times; 7 ch de u next chs; 7 oh do u same; repeat this twice more; then, over the point, make 9 ch de « next chs; 7 ch de u same; 7 ch do u next; 7 ch de wu same; 7 ch de u next; 7 | off Make another leaf to A. Then, instead of working the 7 ch all round, join the two together thus; Place the first completed leaf at the back of the one which has the cotton attached; make 4 ch de u lst 7 ch of back leaf; 4 ch de u next chs of front leaf; 4 ch de u next chs at back; 4ch de u next chs in front; continue this till the last of the single 7 chs of back leaf; then make 4 ch do u next chs in front; 7 ch de x same; now finish the leaf as the first was finished. Make in all, and join, 16 leaves; and, for the neck, work double crochet along, drawing it in as may be required, FLOUNCING FOR MORNING SLEEVES. 0000 9g O0O000 0 6.0: 0. OND. WoO. OO: 2 OO :0.0° O8 BO -CO0'o''O O., 0:00: '0''0 O09. :O 00000 00000 0 oOo 00.0'0'O oO VO 0000000 000 0 O O pb. 0 (92 ages BRODERIE FOR CHILD’S DRESS.

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RECEIPTS. 738 Receipts, &e, DIRECTIONS FOR PRESERVING FRUITS, ETC. Piums.—There are several varieties of plums. The richest purple plum for preserving isthedamson, There are of these large and small; the large are called sweet damsons; the small ones are very rich flavored, The great difficulty in preserving plums is that the skins crack and the fruit comes to pieces. The rule here laid down for preserving them obviates that difficulty. Purple gages, unless properly preserved, will turn to juice and skins; and the large horse-plum (as it is generally known) comes completely to pieces in ordinary modes of preserving. The one recommended herein will keep them whole, full, and rich. To Preserves Purpie Pioms.—Make a syrup of clean brown sugar; clarify it; when perfectly clear and boil- ing hot, pour it over the pluins, having picked out all unsound ones and stems; let them remain in the syrup two days, then drain it off, make it boiling hot, skim it, and pour it over again; let them remain another day or two, then put them in a preserving-kettle over the fire, and simmer gently until the syrup is reduced, and thick or rich. One pound of sugar for each pound of plums. To Preserve PLvuMs wWirnort THE Skins.—Pour boiling water over large egg or magnum bonum plums; cover them until it is cold, then pull off the skins. Makea syrup of a pound of sugar and a teacup of water for each pound of fruit; make it boiling hot, and pour it over; let them remain for a day or two, then drain it off, and boil again ; skim it clear, and pour it hot over the plums; let them remain until the next day, then put them over the fire in the syrup; boil them very gently until clear; take them from the syrup, with a skimmer, into the pots or jars; boil the syrup until rich and thick; take off any scum which may arise, then let it cool and settle, and pour it over the plums. If brown sugar is used, which is quite as good, except for green gages, clarify it as directed. To Dry Pivums.—Split ripe plums, take the stones from them, and lay them on plates or sieves to dry in a warm oven or hot sun; take them in at sunset, and do not put them out again until the sun will be upon them ; turn them, that they may be done evenly; when perfectly dry, pack them in jars or boxes lined with paper, or keep them in bags; hang them in an airy place. To Preserves Green Gaces.—The following receipt appears to bea good one; Pick and prick all the plums, put them into a preserving-pan, with cold water enough tocover them ; let them remain on the fire until the water simmers well; then take off, and allow them to stand until half cold, putting the plumstodrain. To every pound of plums allow one pound of sugar, which must be boiled in the water from which the plums have been taken ; let it boil very fast until the syrup drops short from the spoon, skimming carefully all the time. When the sugar is sufficiently boiled, put in the plums, and al- low them to boil until the sugar covers the pan with large bubbles; then pour the whole into a pan, and let them remain until the following day; drain the syrup from the plums as dry as possible, boil it up quickly, and pour it over the plums; then set them by; do this athird and a fourth time. On the fifth day, when the tyrup is boiled, put the plums into it, and let them boil VOL. LXI.—7 for a few minutes; then put them into jars. Should the green gages be over-ripe, it will be better to make jam of them, using three-fourths of a pound of sugar to one pound of fruit. Warm the jars before putting the sweetmeats in, and be careful not to boil the sugar to a candy. Jam or Gregn Gaces.—Put ripe green gages intoa ket- tle, with very little water, and let them stew until soft ; then rub them through a sieve or colander, and to every pint of pulp put a pound of white sugar powdered fine ; then put it in a preserving-kettle over the fire, stir it until the whole is of the consistence of a jelly, then take it off; put the marmalade in small jars or tumblers, and cover as directed for jelly. Any sort of plums may be done in this manner, To Keer Damsons,—Put them in smal! stone jars, or wide-mouthed glass bottles, and set them up to their necks in @ kettle of cold water; set it over the fire to become boiling hot; then take it off, and let the bottles remain until the water is cold; the next day fill the bottles with cold water, and cork and seal them. These may be used the same as fresh fruit. Green gages may be done in this way. To PRESERVE Pippins in Siices.—Take the fairest pip- pins, pare them, and cut them in slices a quarter of an inch thick, without taking out the cores; boil two or three lemons, and slice them with the apples; take the same weight of white sugar (or clarified brown sugar), put half agill of water for each pound of sugar, dissolve it, and set it over the fire; when it is boiling hot, putin the slices ; let them boil very gently until they are clear, then take them with a skimmer, and spread them out on flat dishes to cool; boil the syrup until it is quite thiek, and pour it over them. These may be done a day before they are wanted ; two hours will be sufficient to make a fine dish for dessert or supper. To Preserve Crap-AppLes.—Take off the stem and core them with a penknife, without cutting them open ; weigh a pound of white sugar for each pound of pre- pared fruit ; put a teacup of water to each pound of sugar ; put it over a moderate fire. When the sugar is all dis- solved and hot, put the apples in; let them boil gently until they are clear, then skim them out, and spread them on flat dishes, Boil the syrup until it is thiek ; put the fruit in whatever it is to be kept, and, when the syrup is cooled and settled, pour it carefully over the fruit. Slices of lemon boiled with the fruit may be con- sidered an improvement ; one lemon is enough for seve- ral pounds of fruit. Crab-apples may be preserved whole, with only halt an inch of the stem on; three-quarters of a pound of sugar for each pound of fruit. To Preserve Pears.—Take small, rich, fair fruit, as soon as the pips are black ; set them over the fire ina kettle, with water to cover them; let them simmer until they will yield to the pressure of the finger, then, with a skimmer, take them into cold water; pare them neatly, leaving ona little of the stem and the blossom end ; pierce them at the blossom end to the core; then make a syrup ofa pound of sugar for each pound of fruit; when it is boiling hot, pour it over the pears, and let it stand until the next day, when drain it off, make it boiling hot, and again pour it over; after a day or two, put the fruit in the syrup over the fire, and boil gently until it is clear ; then take it into the jars or spread it on dishes; boil the syrup thick, then put it and the fruit in jars. PRrAR MARMALADE.—To six pounds of smal! pears, take four pounds of sugar ; put the pears Intoasaucepan with

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F is i ’ v4 a little cold water; cover it, and set it over the fire until the fruit is soft; then put them into cold water; pare, quarter, and core them; put to them three teacups of water ; set them over the fire; roll the sugar fine, mash the frult Ane and smooth, put the sugar to it, «fir it well together until it is thick, like jelly, then put it in tum- blers or jars, and when cold secure it as jelly. Pine-Arr ie Parsenve.—Twist off the topand bottom, and pare off the rough outside of pine-apples ; then weigh them, and cut them in slices, chips, or quarters, or cut them in four or six, and shape each piece like a whole pine-apple ; to each pound of fruit put a teacup of water; put itin a preserving-kettle ; cover it, and set it over the fire, and let them boil gently until they are tender and clear ; then take them from the water, by sticking a fork in the centre of each slice, or with a skimmer, into a dish. Put to the water white sugar, a pound for each pound of fruit; stir it until it is all dissolved ; then put in the pine-apple; cover the kettle, and let them boil gently until transparent throughout; when it is so, take it out, let it cool, and put it in glass jars; as soon as the syrup is a little cooled, pour it over them ; let them remain in a cool place until the next day, then secure the jars as directed previously. Pine-apple done in this way is a delicious preserve. The usual manner of preserving it, by putting it into the syrup without first boiling it, makes it little better than sweetened leather Pine-AppLe Jectty.—Take a perfectly ripe and sound pine-apple, cut off the outside, cut in small pieces ; bruise them, and to each pound put a teacup of water; put it in & preserving-kettle over the fire; cover the kettle, and let them boil for tweaty minutes; then strain it, and squeeze it through a bit of muslin. For each pound of fruit take a pound of sugar; put a teacup of water to each pound; set it over the fire until it is dissolved ; then add the pine-apple juice. For each quart of the syrup clarify an ounce of the best Isinglass, aud stir it in, let it boil until, by taking some on a plate to cool, you find ita stiffjelly. Secure it as directed. Quince MarMALaps.—Gather the fruit when quite ripe; pare, quarter, and core it; boil the skins in the water, measuring a teacupful to a pound of fruit; when they are soft, mash and strain them, and put back the water into the preserving-kettle; add the quinces, and boil them until they are soft enough to mash fine; rub through a sieve, and put three-quarters of a pound of sugar toa pound of fruit; stir them well together, and boil them over a slow fire until it will fall like jelly fromaspoon, Put it in pots or tumblers, and secure it, when cold, with paper sealed to the edge of the jar with the white of an egg CANDIED ORANGE OR LemMon-PeEL.—Take the fruit, cut it length wise, remove ail the pulp and interior skin, then put the peel into strong salt and water for six days; then boil them in spring water until they are soft, and place them in a sieve todrain; make a thin syrup witha pound of sugar candy to a quart of water; boil them in it for half an hour, or till they look clear ; make a thick syrup with sugar and as much water as will melt it; put in the peel, and boil them over a slow fire until the syrup candies in the pan ; then take them out, powder pounded sugar over them, and dry them before the fire in a cool oven, Freir WaArers For Dessert.—Take currants, cherries, apricots, or any other fruit ; put them into an earthen jar iu a kettle of water, and when scalded strain them | GODEY’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, EE through a sieve; to every pint of juice add the same weight of flnely sifted sugar and the white of a small evg ; beat all together until it becomes quite thick ; then put it upon buttered paper in a slow oven; let them re- main until they will quit the paper, then turn them, and leave them in the oven until quite dry; cut them into shapes, and keep them between paper in a box near the fire TOMATOES. Tarts delicious, wholesome vegetable is spoiled by the manner it is served upon the table, It is not one time ina hundred more than half cooked ; it is simply scalded, and served as a sour porridge. It should be cooked three hours—it cannot be cooked in one. The fruit should be cut in halves, and the seeds scraped ont. The mucilage of the pulp may be saved, if desired, by straining out the seeds and adding it to the fruit, which should boil rapidly for an hour and simmer three hours more until the water is dissolved and the contents of the saucepan a pulp of mucilaginous matter, which is much improved by putting in the pan, either before putting in the fruit or while it is cooking, an ounce of butter and half a pound of fat bacon cut fine, to half a peck of tomatoes, and a small pepper-pod, with salt to suit the taste. The fat adds a pleasant flavor, and makes the dish actual food, instead of a mere relish. The pan must be carefully watched, and but little fire used, and the mass stirred often to prevent burning, towards the last, when the water is nearly all evaporated, The dish may be ren- dered still more attractive and rich as food by breaking in two or three eggs and stirring vigorously just enough to allow the eggs to become well cooked. Tomatoes, thoroughly cooked, may be put in tight cans, and kept any length of time; or the pulp may be spread upon plates and dried in the sun or a slow oven, and kept as well as dried pumpkin, dried apples, peaches, or pears, and will be found equally excelleut in winter, For every-day use, a quantity suflicient for the use of a family a week may be cooked at once, and afterwards eaten cold or warmed over. We beg of those who use this excellent fruit to try what cooking will dofor it, It has been eaten half-cooked long enough. It never should be dished until dry enough to be taken from the dish to the plates with a fork instead of a spoon, Tomato Sacce.—Take one dozen of ripe tomatoes, put them into a stone jar, stand them in a cool oven until quite tender. When cold, take the skins and stalks from them, mix the pulp in the liquor which you will find in the jar, but do not strain it, add two teaspoonfuls of the beat powdered ginger, a dessertspoonful of salt, a head of garlic chopped fine, two tablespoonfuls of vinegar, a des- sertspoonful of Chili vinegar or a little Cayenne pepper. Put into small-mouthed sauce bottles, sealed. Kept ina cool place, it will keep good for years, It is ready for use as soon as made, but the flavor is better after a week or two. Should it not appear to keep, turn it out, add more ginger; it may require more salt and Cayenne pepper. It isa long-tried receipt, a great improvement to curry. The skins should be put into a wide-mouthed battle, with a little of the different ingredients, as they are useful for hashes or stews. SteweD TomaTors.—-Slice the tomatoes into a tinned saucepan; season with pepper and salt, and place bits of butter over the top; put on the lid close, and stew twenty minutes. After this, stir them frequently, let- ting them stew till well done; a spoonful or two of

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ne all eu re. nd ito oil til ; of rds for ek dd De ito ed ey RECEIPTS, vinegar i* an improvement, This is excellent with roast beef or mutton, TomaTo Preserves.—Take the round yellow variety as soon aa ripe, scald and peel; then to seven pounds of tomatoes add seven pounds of white sugar, and let them stand over night; take the tomatoes out of the sugar, and boll the syrup, removing the scum ; put in the tomatoes, and boll gently fifteen or twenty minutes; fruit again, and boll until the syrup thickens, ing, put the fruit into Jars, and pour the syrup over it, and add a few slices of lemon to each jar, and you will have something to please the taste of the most fastidious, remove the On cool- To Pickie Tomators,—Always use those which are thoroughly ripe. The small round ones are decidedly the best, Do not prick them, as most receipt-books direct. Let them lie in strong brine three or four days, then put them down in layers in yous jars, mixing with them small oniona and pieces of horseradish ; then pouron the vinegar (cold), which should be first spiced as for pep- pers; let there be a spice-bag to throw into every pot. Cover them carefully, and set them by inthe cellar fora full month before using. Tomaro Catavp.--Take ripe tomatoes, and scald them just sufficient to allow you to take off the skin; then let them stand for a day, covered with salt; strain them tho- roughly to remove the seeds ; three ounces of cloves, two of black pepper, two nut- then to every two quarts, megs, and a very little Cayenne pepper, with a little salt ; boll the liquor for half an hour, and then let it cool and settle; add a pint of the best cider vinegar, after which bottle it, corking and sealing it tightly. Keep it always ina cool place, Another way.—Take one bushel of tomatoes, and boil them until they are soft; squeeze them through a fine wire sieve, and add half a gallon of vinegar, one pint and a half of salt, two ounces of cloves, quarter of a pound of allspice, two ounces of Cayenne pepper, three teaspoonfuls of black pepper, five heads of garlic skinned and separated ; mix together, and boil about three hours; or until reduced to about one-half; then bottle, without straining. SUMMER BEVERAGES, To MaKe CAPILLAIRE.—MIx six eggs, well beat up, with fourteen pounds of loaf-sugar and three pounds of coarse sugar; put them into three quarts of water, boil it twice, skim it well, and add a quarter of a pint of orange-flower water; strain it through a jelly-bag, and put it into bottles for use, A spoonful or two of this syrup, put into a dranght of either cold or warm water, makes it drink exceedingly pleasant. Ginoer Beer.—The following is a very good way to make it: Take of ginger, bruised or sliced, one and a half ounce; cream of tartar, one ounce; loaf sugar, one pound ; one lemon sliced ; put them into a pan, and pour six quarts of boiling water upon them. When nearly cold, put in a little yeast, and stir it for about a minute, Let it stand till next day, then strain and bottle it. It is fit to drink in three days, but will not keep good longer than a fortnight. The corks should be tied down, and the bottles placed upright in a cool place. Fine Meap.—Beat to a strong froth the whites of three eggs, and mix them with six gallons of water; sixteen quarts of strained honey; and the yellow rind of two Boil all together, during three-quarters of an hour; skimming it well. and when lukewarm add three dozen large lemons, pared very thin. Then put it into a tub; tablespoonfals of the best fresh yeast, Cover it, and When it has done working, transfer Let it leave it to ferment it to a barrel, with the lemon-peel in the bottom stand #ix months; then bottle it, CARBONATED Syavup Warer.—Put into a tumbler lem- on, raspberry, strawberry, pine-apple, or any other acid syrup, sufficient in quantity to favor the beverage very highly. Then pour in very cold ice-water till the glass ishalffull. Add half a teaspoonful of bicarbonate of soda (to be obtained at the druggist's), and stir it weil in with It will foam up to the top immediately, and must be drank during the effervescence, & teaspoon, By keeping the syrup and the carbonate of soda in the house, and mixing them as above with lee-water, you can at any time have a glass of this very pleasant drink ; precisely similar to that which you get at the shops. The cost will be infinitely less, Nectar.—Take a pound of the best raisins, seeded and chopped ; four lemons, sliced thin; and the yellow rind pared off from two other lemons; and two pounds of powdered loaf-sugar. Put intoa porcelain preserving- kettle two gallons of water. Set it over the fire, and boil it half an hour; then, while the water is boiling hard, put in the raisins, lemons, and sugar, and continue the boiling for ten minutes, Pour the mixture into a vessel with a close cover, and let it stand four days, stirring ittwice aday. Then strain it through a linen bag, and bottle it. Drink it from wine-glasses, with a small bit of ice in each. It will be fit for use in a fortnight CAKES, PUDDINGS, ETC. Spanien Biscurrs,—Beat the yolks of eight eggs nearly half an hour, then beat in eight spoonfuls of loaf-sugar ; beat the whites to a strong froth, then beat them well with your yolks and sugar nearly half an hour; put in four spoonfuls of flour and a little lemon cut exceedingly fine, and bake them on papers, JuMBLES.—Rasp on sugar, rinds of two lemons; dry, reduce to powder, and sift it with as much more as will make one pound, Mix it with one pound of flour, four well-beaten eggs, and six ounces of warm butter. Drop the mixture on buttered tins, and bake ina very slow oven, for twenty or thirty minutes. Should look pale, but be perfectly crisp. A Ricn Cake.—Four pounds of fine flour, well dried, four pounds of fresh butter, two pounds of loaf-sugar, a quarter of an ounce of mace, pounded and sifted fine, the same of nutmegs. To every pound of flour add eight eggs; wash four pounds of currants, let them be well picked and dried before the fire; blanch a pound of sweet almonds, and eut them lengthwise very thin; a pound of citron, one pound of candied orange, the same When these are made ready, work the butter with your hand to a of candied lemon; half a pint of brandy. cream, then beat in your sugar a quarter of an hour, beat the whites of your eggs to a very strong froth, mix them with your sugar and butter; beat your yolks half an hour at least, and mix them with your cake; then put in your flour, mace, and nutmeg, keep beating it well till your oven is ready, pour in the brandy, and beat the currants and almonds lightly in. Tie three sheets of white paper round the bottom of your hoop, to keep it from running out, rub it well with butter, put in your cake, lay the sweetmeats in layers, with cake between each layer, and, after it is risen and colored, cover it with paper before your oven is stopped up; it will require three hours to bake properly.

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76 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. To Make AuMonp Icive vor A Baipe Caxx.—Beat the whites of three eggs to a strong froth, beat a pound of almonds very fine with rose-water, mix them, with the eggs, lightly together; put in by degrees a pound of common loaf-sugar in powder. When the cake is baked enough, take it out, and lay on the icing, then put it in to brown. Ro.y-Po.ty Puppine.—Make a rich pudding-paste with flour and butter, without suet, but as light as possible. Roll it out thin, and cut it to the breadth of eight or ten inches, making it at the same time as long as you please ; but half a pound of flour and five ounces of but- ter, wetted with water, will probably be sufficient when rolled out quite smooth; then spread upon it a thick layer of raspberry, currant, or any other sort of jam, but leave about an inch of all the edges bare, That done, roll it round; the roll of paste will secure the fruit, and the ends must be twisted together for the same purpose. Wrap it in a nicely floured cloth, and boil it for two to three hours, according to size. Tuke it up quite hot, and when served, cut it crosswise. It may appear homely, but it is an excellent and much- admired pudding. Scones, A PLALN 8ORT OF Biscuit.—Two ounces of but- ter to three quarters of a pound of fine flour, mixed into a paste with skimmed milk. Roll as thin as possible. Cut them about the size of a small plate, prick, and bake them. BILLS OF FARE. Tue following bills of fare are introduced as a guide to housekeepers in selecting dishes for the table. They can be varied to sult themselves, Jur. Boiled lamb. Young potatoes. Peas, Roast ducks, Ground-rice pudding. Red-currant tart. Hashed duck. Young potatoes, Stewed beans, Flounders, Cabinet pudding. Jelly. Open tart, MISCELLANEOUS, To CLEAN Spoxcrs,—When sponges get greasy and dirty, put them into a jar, and cover them with milk, Let them stand for twelve hours, and then wash well in cold water, To CLean Trix, Buasa, AND Barrannta Metau.—Take of powdered rottenstone and soft soap each half a pound, four drops of oil of vitriol (sulphuric acid), a teaxspoon- ful of sweet oll, and a tablespoonful of turpentine ; mix in a basin until quite smooth—use a wooden spoon ora stick to mix it—and keep itina jar, Put this on the things with a piece of flannel, and, while damp, rub it off with a piece of soft linen; then polish with a leather dipped in fine dry whiting. Caorck AND MANAGEMENT OF TootH-Brusnes.—After the general care required by the teeth themselves, there is no article of personal comfort and cleanliness demand. ing greater nicety of choice and management than the tooth-brush employed in our daily toilet. In the choice, that brush should be selected which is the finest and softest, and has the bristles the most evenly and closely set; and in the management, all that will be required to preserve itin an admirable condition for the gums and teeth will be, after using, to immerse it in a tumbler of clear water twice, pressing the bristles against the side of the glass to wash out the powder, and then gently rubbing quite dry over a cloth stretched tightly over the forefinger. This manipulation requires a moment or two in the execution, and, if once adopted, will not fail to be constantly employed. Tue Care or CarpetTs.—When carpets are taken up, be careful in removing the tin-tacks, so that the edges of the carpet are not torn, then roll up the carpets with the upper part inside, and carry them away to be beaten. As soon as the carpets are removed, throw a few old tea- leaves, not too wet, over the floor, sweep the room out, and afterwards wash the boards with a wet flannel, but be cargful not to throw too much water about, as it is liable to injure the ceilings of the rooms below. While the floor is drying, beat the carpets, by hanging them over a stout line and beating them, first on one side and then on the other, with a long, smooth stick. After the carpet is beaten, it may be dragged over a lawn or else brushed on both sides with acarpet-broom. If faded or greasy in many parts, an ox-gall mixed with a pailful of cold water, or a little grated raw potato and cold water, mixed together and sponged over the places, and then wiped dry with soft cloths, will make them look clean and bright. Watyut Catsvp.—To half a sieve of walnut-shells put two quarts of water, with some salt; let it stand ia a pan for ten days, then break the shell up in the water, and let it drain through a sieve—put a heavy weight on to express the juice; then put it on the fire, and skim off all scum that may arise; now boil the liquor with half a pound of shallots, one ounce of cloves, one of mace, one of pepper whole, and one of garlic; let all simmer till the shallots sink, then put the liquor intoa pan till cold; bottle and cork closely, and tie a bladder over. It should stand six months before using; should it ferment during that time, it must be again boiled and skimmed, A Hint to Hovarmaips.— Previous to sweeping a bed- room, mop it well over with adry tarum mop, By this means all the light dust will be collected, and nothing but the heavy particles remain, and the furniture, beds, ete, escape much dust, To Parvent MiLk Prom Tr RNING SouR,—To each quart of milk, add fifteen grains of bicarbonate of soda, This addition will not affect the taste of the mi'k, and it pro- motes digestion, To CLBAN PAUnt THAT 18 NoT VARNIAHED.—Put upon a plate some of the best whiting; have ready some clean warm water, and a piece of flannel, which dip into the water and squeeze nearly dry; then take as much whit ing as will adhere to it, apply it to the paint, when 6 little rubbing will instantly remove any dirt or grease; wash well off with water, and rub dry with a soft cloth. Paint thus cleaned looks equal to new, and, without doing the least injury to the most delicate color, it will preserve the paint much longer than if cleaned with soap; and it does not require more than half the time usually occupied in cleaning.

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ile OK ln, rt ile Evitors’ Gable. THE QUEEN OF INVENTIONS—THE SEWING MACHINE, I wisdom dwell with prudence, and find out know- ledge of witty inventions. —Proverss viii. 12. Ir is the wise decree of God that men shall work, “subdue the world,” restore it, so far as human strength and skill can, to its original beauty and fruitfulness. The physical strength and inventive faculties of man, preponderating, as they do, over those of woman,* mark him as the agent by whom the hard labor of the world is to be done, and the inventions that aid that labor dis- covered, Also, the lighter tasks of woman, so far as these can be aided by machinery, are under this depart- ment of man’s inventive genius, We do not here enter into any discussion on the com- parative equality of the sexes; their capacities are not to be measured in this way. As well might we compare ght and gravitation—the one power never seen, the other always obtruded, and both alike indispensable to Let us say, then, that man is the agent to “find out knowledge of witty inventions,’ and no one he has ever found out seems likely to add more to human comfort than this apparently little device for lightening the tasks of woman The world has been moved, the hard-hearted world, by the laments over that portion of gentle womanhood whose sad destiny it was to earn a scanty livelihood by sewing. Every feeling of pity has responded to the appeals made and descriptions drawn of the “ pale woman plying her sickly trade."’ Those noble spirits who do not content themselves with barren sympathy rose up, and sought, by energetic striving, to alleviate this con- dition of the sufferers, who starved or sinned if they did not resort to the needle, and died by inches if they did take itup. But Vanity Fair must have her furbelows, Fashion would not remit the tasks of the needle; avarice, the severe partner of vanity, urged the victims to the last moment of existence. In vain, Christian men and women of note and high place strove to remedy this state of martyrdom, Poets sang, novelists wrote, preachers ex- horted, legislators framed lawa to guard the needle- women; all that was effected was a feeble palliation of theevil, Now, however, it la gone from the face of the earth, What philanthropy failed to accomplish, what religion, poetry, eloquence, and reason had sought in valn, has been produced by—tuk Sewine MAcning, By this invention the needlowoman ts enabled to per- form her labors tu comfort; tasks that used to require the midnight watches by the pale light of a single lamp, and drag through, perhaps, twenty hours, she can now complete in two or three hours, She is thus able to rest at uight, aud have time through the day for family occu- pations and enjoyments, Is not this a great gain for @e world? This is not all, The Sewing Machine will, after a #me, effectually banish ragged and unclad humanity from every class, The extreme facility with which sarments are made by its help will enable thousands 4y, bun- * See “* Woman's Biographical Dictionary,’’ published by the Harpers, New York. 7* dreds of thonsands, to have new clothes, who belong to those classes hitherto dressed in the worn-out, unfitting garments bestowed by charity. The very poor women among servants and workpeople seldom have any in- genuity with the needle; they can often buy cheap and strong new fabrics, but they cannot make them up, and, heretofore, the making of the garment often cost more than the cloth. Now, the Sewing Machine, at a very small cost, sews up the seams; or, a ready-made garment can be purchased nearly as cheap as the cloth of which itismade. In all Benevolent Institutions these Machines are now in operation, and do, or may do, a hundred times more towards clothing the indigent and feeble than the united fingers of all the charitable and willing ladies collected through the civilized world could possibly perform. We have spoken first of the advantage of this inven- tion to the poor as the most ostensible and just to be considered, It is useless in our country to allude to that old world fallacy, the long ago exploded notion that machines interfere with individual labor. When the Stocking Machines were first introduced in England, they met clamorous opposition from that class of political economists who contended it was right that nine-tenths of the whole population of the civilized world should go stockingless, so that a few thousands of old women and boys might earn a shiiling a day by hand knitting! Now, who believes that theory? A similar class of ex- clusives were offended af Arkwright'’s wonderful inven- tion, the Spinning Jenny. It was nothing to them that working men and women could go clean and comfort- able, that health and neatness, and their concomitants, virtues and blessings, might enter the poor laboring man’s heuse, with cotton goods at a price for every- body's wear. No! They thonght the health, virtue, and comfort of the world at large should be sacrificed to the temporary inconvenience of change of employ- mout for the few who earned a paltry stipend by the spinning wheel or the hand loom, This delusion has passed away. The poor working people can, if temperate and industticus, now clothe themeelves and families neatly, eva fashionably In the vealthier homes of our land, where we rise beyond tle actual need of woman's work to support the fumily, he Sewing Machine is a treasure, Instead of busy fiprers and vacant minds, young ladies throughout all the sountry can have the opportunity of improving their ninds and gaining what are «tyled the ' accom- plishmentas’’ of education, while aiding thelr mothers in all the sewing for the family. How many an exeel- lend mother, anx/ous to save everything for the educa- dion and adyracement of a numerous family, has sat and stitched at the never-ending, ever-beginning sewing of her hos#@hold, till life was nothing but a dull round of evo *sting toil, and too often have eyesight and heab™, a8 well as hope and spirits, sunk under the perden! Now, a few dollars invested in a Sewing Machine—a club of ladies might join in a neighborhood and the long seams, the never ending hems, the hard stitching are all done as by fairy fingers. No wasting application, stooping over the needle, without time for will be outdoor @lercise, wearying for want of change,

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‘ 78 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. ————___ ~ — — felt by those women who have in their possession a good Sewing Machine.* The beat is, usually, in the long run, the cheapest. There is a great variety; all have their advantages and admirers. We can only speak safely of those we know best. That of Wheeler & Wil- son combines more merits than any other, with excellent workmanship in its arrangement, a firm stitch that does not ravel, a hemmer that saves time and trouble; in short, it seems as nearly perfect as the human genius can make such an instrument, that must be somewhat eom plicated. We shall have more to say on this ma-tor, as we in- tend to make our readers thoroughly understand the merits aud advantages of the Sewine MAcHINE. The following article is worthy a place in our Table: the writer has evidently thought over her subject. PARENTAL DECISION. TAKING up, not long since, in the house of a friend, a number of the Mothers’ Magazine, our eye fell upon the following :— “I know a little child who, when pleasant, is quite agreeable, but who has a aaughty habit of screaming when anything is said or done not quite right. Its mo- ther seems to try hard to check it, but does not succeed. If any one could tell some geod method to pursue, we should be glad to hear it.” We were a little surprised ai this statement and de- sire for information. That the case is not a rare oue is true, as almost every one has witnessed instances of the kind; but the reason of this “ screaming’ we should think sufficiently obvious to any one desiring the kuow- ledge. This bare statement saows both the disposition of the child and the parent. ‘t shows in the lattera false affection for the child, and an inclination to yield to its wishes, even when her judgmeuat points to denial, rather than withhold what would give it present plea- sure; and an additional reason it often the trouble it will give her to make the denial. The child may wish for a visit or a ride when it is inconvenient for it to pay the one « take the other; the mother will say: “No, my deer, not to-day ;” here a strain of teazing begins, increasing in force as it sees its mother hesitate or show signsof yielding ; or she may try to reason the matter with the child, and prolong a worse than useless controversy upon the sub- ject, which scarcely ends with the next fifteen minutes or half hour, and then ends by the child giuning the desired point, because the mother is thoroughl) wearied out; or, if the thing is positively impossible,a fit of ill-humor succeeds, perhaps for the rest of the day, The mother often, weary with the numerous cares of her household, or dispirited and unwell, finds it fareasier to procure for the child the desired object, at almos; any inconvenience—which at once restores good humor, because the child has had its own way—than to perse- vere in withholding it, and inflict @ punishment fo: screaming, which would always be the onl) right course, Your child is aware of your weakness, know, by what modes it best accomplishes its end, Had it tayer re- ceived a thing for erying, these fits of “ screadning" would never have occurred ; by systematic firmness .od discipline passion and obstinacy may with equal ce: tainty be subdued, * Wheeler & Wilson, 505 Broadway, New York. Agent, Heary Coy, 628 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia The child shows a discernment, firmness, and perse- verance worthy of a much nobler cause, and which, rightly directed, would prove rich blessings iu after life, and which, exercised to the same extent by the parent, would insure an obedient, pleasant, and always lovable child; for it is not so much knowledge the parent needs as a steady firmness, keeping in subjection maternal feelings which interfere with the proper mode of pro- ceeding. You cannot with impunity indulge the child of any disposition in every wish, much less one of the disposi- tion under consideration. Unlimited indulgence will ever produce fits of ill humor and sullenuess when things are not according to its mind, and an irritable, fretful, faultfinding, and selfish disposition will be the result—nothing will ever please, no matter how much time and pains be expended upon it. These fits of screaming will be out-grown, but never the results of their having been allowed ; this fretful, unsatisfied disposition will follow it to mature years, destroying or diminishing the happiness of the whole life; and not only does it involve the ruin of its own happiness, but that also of the parents, and of the friend with whom the spoiled child may sustain intimate re- lations. Itis true that religious principle may interfere, and a work of reformation be commenced ; a work it may well be called, for such it will indeed prove, of time and patience; for what has grown with the growth and strengthened with the strength at mature years may well compare with the refolding and twining together of the sleader cord, at first so easily snapped with the fingers, until it shall have numbered the months and years which have strengthened this trait of character. Self-denial must be practised ; it is a law of our being, our very nature demands it; how desirable then that it be taught us in our earlier years, when the lessor will be comparatively easy! Not only by its absence is hap- piness destroyed, but usefulness is restricted. How slight must ever be the influence for good of an exacting, repining, and selfish person! Such manifest no desire to be useful only so far as it contributes to their own gratification, or, at least, does not interfere with their comfort, pleasure, or ease. Self should never be first in our thoughts; we should give the preference to another, and the very act of self- denial will confer greater happiness than any selfish appropriation of pleasure or ease is ever capable of doing. The sweetest and purest joy is that of the unselfish heart. Jessig ATHERTON, WHAT'S IN A NAME? “What’sina name?" Very much. There are asso- ciations connected with names that give pleasure or pain; ideas of the beautiful or ridiculous, It is pleasant to trace the signification of, and the associations con- nected with names, and the mind recurs to one and another author who have immortalized them in prose or verse. Beatrice, which signifies making happy, has been the ‘heme of one of the most gifted of the Italian poets (Dante) in lays of love; Shakspeare gives this name to the heroine of one of his finest comedies; Shelley has catmd a Beatrice to figure in one of his tragedies as the high-uled but ill-fated daughter of the unnatural Cenel. Clara neans clear, and is the name of one of Sir Walter Scott's herjnes, Felicia, haypy, a name not always properly applied. One of Englant's gifted ladies bore this name, but was = oe ee ae Oo oe

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ole er nd 1g, it ill Ww Ts ire vo eir ld Il f- ig. sh EDITORS’ TABLE, 79 far from being happy. He to whom she had given her heart's idolatry was a rover, and found more enjoyment in the world than in the society of his wife, thas making the life of one he had promised to love and cherish miserable. Letitia denotes joy. This name has not been in all cases ety mologically applied ; like the former, it belonged to one of England's poetesses. Judging from her writ- ings, @ blight seems to have fallen upon her heart in youth which no after joys could efface. Some names bear their siguification on their faces, such as Patience, Prudence, etc. However good these may be, it seems an act of injustice to inflict them ona child. Barbara is derived from our word barbarous. Poor Barbara Allen, whom the poet has censured for her cruelty to her lover, could not help it; it was her parents’ fault—giving her such a barbarous name. Ada has been made classical by the genius of Byron— ‘Is thine eye like thy mother’s, my fair child, Ada, sole daughter of my house and heart?” The name is Saxon, a corruption of Eada, an old Saxon name signifying happiness. Hadith, now Edith, and Jda are from the same, Elizabeth (Hebrew) signifies the oath of God. It sounds like & stroug name, appropriate to such a woman as Elizabeth of England. Emma (German), from Amme, a nurse, one who nurses or cares for and watches over another, tender, affection- ate, the same as Kutrophine among the Greeks, Isabel (Spanish), the same as Elizabeth with the Span- ish, as they always thus translate the name. It is said to signify olive-complexioned. Mary (Hebrew) meaus EXALTED. It is a famous name in both sacred and profane history; in all ages it has been literally exalted. Matilda (German) signifies noble or honorable lady. The names of women are often significant. What shall we say ofthe men? There is net much of poetry connected with those in modern use, but where can we find finer specimens of the noble and poetic than Roderic Dhu and Marmion? How beautifully has Scott portrayed the death of these— “Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on! Were the last words of Marmion." ** Motionless and moanless drew His last breath, bold Roderic Dhu.”’ If names were used etymologically, that of Julius would be much in requisition at the present day. Leigh Hunt translates it, Mosey-bearded ; it might be justly applied to those who sport the elegant moustache, whis- kers, and imperial. That there are difficulties arising from many persons having the same name is soon felt if you live in a large city. John Smith, for instance—was well illustrated in the story of “‘ Mra. Daffodil’s Expedition in Search of Mrs. Smith.’’ Names that are too long, that is, too many for one individual, also occasion trouble to the owners thereof, as illustrated by the following anecdote ;-— “Of all the nations in the world, the Spanish are famous for having long names, A poor Spaniard, hav- ing for his only companion a wretched old nag, arrived at a small village in France where they had but one inn and scanty accommodations, It was already past mid- hight; the rain fell in torrents; the poor Spaniard was completely drenched, Having knocked at the door, wine host arose, aud asked who was there, The Spaniard replied: Don Sanchez Alfonzo Ramirez Francisco Do- mingo de Roxaa y de Fuentes. The landlord, who had only one spare bed, replied, in an angry tone, that he could not lodge so many persons, and returned to his bed, leaving the luckless wight to find a night's lodging as best he could, The Spaniard found to his sorrow that there was something in a ” hame, VARIETIES IN VERSE. (From the Italian.) Wirn joyful notes birds greet the spring, And fairest flowers their odors fling ; But wicked love pretends to sigh ’Cause the fair things so soon must die. Poor child! cries spring, thy happiest hours— Will they last longer than my flowers? (From the French.) WITH A LOCK OF GRAY HAIR. Deapise it not because ‘tis gray, Nor cast the gift with scorn away. It tells of love as warm and true As ever youthful bosom knew ; But, purer far than love of youth, It needs no blush to own its truth, Nor faltering tongue a love to tell, Such as might angels’ bosoms swell. Mount VeRNon Assocration.—We have received one more name to be added to the list of subscribers Jane Gallaher, $3, Mifflintown, Pa. Miss 8. J. Hate’s Boarpine AND DAY ScHOOL FOR Youne Lapigs, 922 Spruce Street, Philadelphia. 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: Mrs. Emma Willard, Troy, N. Y.; Henry Vethake, LL.D., Wm. B. Stevens, D. D., Wm. H. Ash- hurst, Esq., Louis A. Godey, Esq., Philadelphia; Charles Hodge, D. D., Princeton, N. J. Ovr Heattn DepartMent.—We would call the parti- cular attention of our readers to these papers. The sub- ject now under discussion, namely, the care of infancy, is of the greatest importance. Dr. Wilson is very clear in his descriptions, and understands well what he so ably brings before the reader, His articles are worth the price of the Book in every family where there are children. ErRxata.—The reader is requested to look over Editors’ Table for June, and make these corrections :— Page 557, first column, 15th line from medal, for Hon. Charles L. Xruft read Kraft. Line 20, for Hon. Coleman Zellott read Yellott. To ova Connesponpents.—The following articles are accepted ; the writers must not be disappointed if these are not published for many mouths to come. ‘The Artist's Story"’—* Song’’—" The Birth of the Pearls"— “To the Absent One'"'—" From Gloom to Gleam’ —"* The

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80 GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, Manine King''—"' The Angel Mother's Vinit''<" Angela are there “Weaving A Budget of Curtosition'— “All Alone''—' In the Distance’ The Vale of Bla’ * Grandmother's Garden" The Beacon: Light" The Reasons of the Heart’ T am Weary'' =" Waiting for the Rain" —" Twelfth Night''—"'Ten Years’ Unbe- loved''—"*Long Ago"'="'A Spring Memory"—" There is Romething still to Cheer Us and "A Beotch Mist," The following articles are declined; Things I Love" A Heautiful System" (quite ingenious, but we have so many MSS, on hand that the System’ might be obsolete before we could make it known)" The Early Dead''—'' &pring''-*' The Birds’ Echoes''--** Love is Young"'-—-*' The Dream’'-—** Love's Prayer" and the other poems (these have merit, but we have no room to spare) —*' Historical Abstract’’—*'' Haven Hall''-—'t New Shoes" (the young writer lacks experience in life, wants a better knowledge of books and some practice in authorship; all these qualifications may be gained; work and wait) —''A Tribute’ (noble sentiments, but inferior poetry)— ** Glimpses of Cloud-Land"—* Elsewhere"—* A Plea for June’''—" To the Mocking-Bird'’—** Woman's Place’'— ‘A Laugh’’—‘* Morning, Noon, and Night,"’ and the Story (we have not room, but some other editor might like it, so we do not name it here)—“ Farewell"’—“ Baby Nell''—* Light and Darkness’’—** Leaves'’—** May"’ (too late for spring poems)—‘* When I would Die’'—" My Own Name’'—* The Great Aim in Life’’—*“ Short Metre" —* Gold’ —"* Why do We Grieve ?'’—* A Summer Excur- sion’ —** The Great West—Where is It ?’"’"—* Troubles in Life’—* Thanksgiving Dinners’’—‘‘ Hasty Marriages”’ —**The Way to be Happy at Home” (the writer thinks one in the family is the only way to secure peace, the great essential to happiness; he may be happy so, but he is not very happy in the description of his happiness) —** Little by Little’’—* The Spring and its Stream” (very good, but no room; the author has not sent his address —post-marks cannot be depended upon)—and “ Autumao Foliage.”’ Health Department. MoTuers sHouLD Nurse THEIR CHILDREN.—When & mother has consulted her physician, when she Las care- fully reviewed all her habits, and it is decided that it would be improper for her to nurse her child herself, a wet-nurse may be chosen in preference to raising by hand; and we would advise this course, if a suitable one can be obtained. But we insist most earnestly that mothers resort neither to hand-raising nor wet-nursing if they can possibly perform their maternal duties them- selves, That it is the duty of mothers to nurse their offspring seems to us so plain and obvious, so accordant with the teachings of nature, that we could not possibly belleve that this duty wevld be shunned in the absence of the numerous examples to the contrary. Surely no woman who will honestly inquire, ‘‘ What is my duty in this respect ?’’ and who will then follow the dictates of her own better judgment, and the maternal promptings of her owa heart, will for a moment think of committing her precious charge into the hands of a stranger, when this can possibly be avoided. And yet —with sorrow we record it—there are mothers who are so subservient to the requisitions of a spurious and un- natural civilization, so misled by the seductive charms

of the fashionable world, that they disregard the high and sacred obligations imposed on them by the God of nature, and forego those sweet maternal Joys which none bat a loving, natural, nuneina mother can feel, avd which are as far superior to the frothy pleasures of fuehionable life as the real and natural are to the fulee and artificial; as superior aa the works of the Author of all wisdom are to the vain inventions of fallible, deluded men} as high above the hollow conventionalities and the so-called pleasures of the fishionable world as the heavens are high above the earth, Maternity has ita peculiar pains and trials, but there is a just compensa. tion in all things; and the tender, dutifal mother who watches around the couch of her sleeping infant, who ministers toallits wants herself, has pleasures peculiarly her own, and pleasures #0 pure, so holy, so exalted as to beggar deseription, Well might Mrs, Welby say, in one of her sweet strains :— ‘Por ‘tis a sight that angel ones above May stoop to gaze on from their bowers of bliss, When Innocence upon the breast of Love Is cradled, in a sinful world like this,"’ A mother who fails, without good cause, to discharge her maternal obligations, may escape some of the cares incident tothe rearing of children; but at the same time she deprives herself of the greatest enjoyments of which the human heart is susceptible, and she is guilty of criminal injustice to her offspring which must weigh heavily on her conscience and dash with bitterness all the pleasures of her life ; and which, in many cases, must result in the moral or physical destruction of her child, with a lifelong train of unavailing regrets over the sad consequences of her own folly aud want of faithfulness. What are the joys of a dutiful mother? ‘Tis hers to note the eweet unfoldings of the bud of promise that nestles in her breast; ‘tis hers to watch the first dawn- ings of intelligence; to aid the mind's development; to minister to the body ; to guard the morals; to calm with gentle strain the rising storm of passion; and then, when sleep has sealed the eyelids of her precious charge, she can gaze with ravishing delight on the sweet smile that plays on the lips of the little dreamer; and, as she sits and sings, and thinks of the beautiful legend of angel visitants, she can almost see the bright forms that hover around! Is it possible that mothers will forego such pure, such heavenly joys as these for the fleeting and unsubstantial pleasures of the ball-room? Can it be that they will forsake the very precinct of heaven for the crowded purlieus of fashionable dissipation? Will a mother who desires to discharge the sacred obligations imposed on her commit her infant to a hireling, who can never feel a mother’s care, who cannot and with not perform a mother's part? A hired nurse may, in- deed, furnish food for the neglected and well nigh motherless little one, but she will never minister to its mental, spiritual, and physical necessities with the tender solicitude of a mother. When the misguided parent is absent on her giddy rounds of fashionable folly, her poor babe will often suffer from the care- lessness and indifference of the nurse ; will often writhe in pain from the harsh inflictions prompted by petu- lance and impatience ; and then, in all probability, the scene of cruel mistreatment will close for the night with a large dose of some stupefying drug, which sinks the little unfortunate into a deep, unnatural slumber that may prove the sleep of death, and which, if often repeated, must inevitably result in impaired health and an early grave. Of the dangers of narcotic drugs we

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LITERARY have already «poken; but we would here say that thou- muds of children are annually drugged to death by purses When the thoughtioss and careless mothers have pot the least suspicion of the enuse of death, How to Chooan A Wet-Nunas,—Admitting the neces sity of & Wet-nurse ju some cases, It becomes our duty to give some directions to mothers who are compelled to rosort to this expedient; A wet-nurse should be in the prime of lif, and free from every taint of disease, in- herited or aequired, It has already been seen how much the secretion of milk is influenced by the bodily condi- tion; it is sufficient, therefore, to remark here that perfect health aud vigor are all-important and lndispen- sable essentials in the selection of a wet-nurse, And the purse should be free, not only from actual disease and bodily infirmity, she should be free from any strong predisposition to such constitutional diseases as scrofula, cousumption, nervous affections, ete, ete, The mental and moral characteristics of a wet-nurse are no less important than her physical condition; she should possess a mild, agreeable, and cheerful dispo- sition, with an inexhaustible stock of patience, It is a well-established fact that anger, grief, fretfulness, envy, aud all the depressing passions, not only diminish the quantity of milk secreted, but actually change its character, converting it from the most mild and whole- sume of nutriments into an irritative poison, capable of producing convulsions, bowel affections, colics, and a train of the most serious disorders. Medical works abound in examples of this kind: Dr. Bedford, of New York, tells us of an unfortunate woman who lost her husband at sea, which so affected the secretion of milk as to cause a diarrhea in her child which could be con- trolled only by a change of nourishment; so soon as this change was made, the little patient recovered with little or no medicine, Were it necessary, numerous instances of the same kind could be adduced; enough, however, has been said, we trust, to convince mothers that the mental and morai condition of nurses is a mat- ter of the very first importance in consideration of the physical welfare of the child, to say nothing of moral intluences, of which we shall speak hereafter. In enu- merating the requisites of a good wet-nurse, we neglected to mention that her child should be about the age of the foster-child ; still, in our opinion, undue importance is attached to this by most persons, and we are certain that it is a matter of small moment when compared with the other things to which we have adverted. In thus giving the essentials of a wet-nurse, we are sure that we have not exaggerated their importance—so far from it, we feel conscious that we have not presented them as strongly as they deserve; yet this imperfect sketch may serve one very useful purpose—it may show mothers how very difficult it is to find a suitable wet- hurse, and may thus tend to induce them to follow our advice, in considering well what they do before they give the nursing of their children up to another instead of performing this duty themselves. If mothers are convinced of the truth of what has been said, they will be very far from shunning their duty to their children for any light and frivolous cause; and even when driven to do so by stern necessity, they will have a physician to examine carefully into the physical condition of the proposed nurse ; they will satisfy them- selves fully as to her mental and moral traits; and as to committing a child to any Irish woman or freshly-im- ported foreigner, without the most rigid scrutiny, they will never think of such a thing, Columbus, Ga, NOTICES, 81 Witerarp Notices, Books ny MAtt.-Now that the postage on printed matter la a@ low, we offer our services to procure for our subscribers or others any of the books that we notice, luformation touching books will be cheerfully given by lnclosing & stamp to pay return postage When ordering a book, please mention the name of the publisher, From J, B, Liprincorr & Co,, Philadelphia: “MY NOVEL; or, Varieties in English Life, By Pisistratua Carton, Wy Bir Kdward Bulwer Lytton, Bart, Library edition, In four volumes, This enter- prising firm still continue thelr library edition of the works of Bulwer, This is the second work of the series of the Caxton novels, and the second also which they have issued, Price $4 00. WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? By Pisistratus Caxton, A Novel, By Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart, Library edition, In three volumes, This, though the last work of the renowned author, is the third issued by these publishers, it belonging to the series of the Caxton Any word in recommendation of so well-known Price $3 00. novels, a writer is superfluous, From G. G. Evans, Philadelphia:— THE THRONE OF DAVID; From the Consecration of the Shepherd of Bethlehem, to the Rebellion of Prince Ab- salom, Being an Illustration of the Splendor, Power, and Dominion of the Reign of the Shepherd, Poet, War- rior, King, and Prophet, Ancestor and Type of Jesus; in a Series of Letters addressed by an Assyrian Ambassa- dor, Resident at the Court of Saul and David, to his Lord and King on the Throne of Nineveh ; wherein the Glory of Assyria, as well as the Magnificence of Judea, is pre- sented to the Reader as by an Eye-witness. By the Rev. J. H. Ingraham, LL. D., author of * The Prince of the House of David,’’ and of *‘ The Pillar of Fire."' The au- thor of this work, now a@ minister of the Gospel, has been so long and so favorably appreciated by American readers, that we can entertain no doubts of the success of this work, the scenes, incidents, and characters of which are drawn from the Bible. The title, which we have given in full, will explain the principal points illustrated by the author. Price $1 25. THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CHRISTOPHER CARSON, the celebrated Rocky Mountain Hunter, Trap- per, and Guide, Together with his Hunting Exploits, Thrilling Adventures, and Hair-breadth Escapes among the Indians. Also, His Services rendered the United States Government, as Guide tothe various Expeditions, under Colonel J. C. Fremont and others. By Charles Burdett. Fully illustrated. The extended title of this volume leaves us but little to say in regard to its inte- resting contents, and that little would be of so little con- sequence that we shall be content to refer only to the large, clear typography of its pages, and to the bright red and gilded lettering of the binding. Price $1 00. From James CHALien & Son, Philadelphia:— THE BIBLE AND SOCIAL REFORM; or, The Serip- tures as a Means of Civilization. By Rh. H. Tyler, A. M., of Fulton, N. Y. The author of this volume, who, it appears, is a “lawyer in full practice,’ presents new facts and arguments to prove that the principles and the teachings of the Bible, and particularly of the New Tes-

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82 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, tament, are the only solid foundations on which to re- form or reconstruct our social system, From Harper & Brorners, New York, through Perer- son & Broruers, Philadelphia :— THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. By George Eliot, author of “Scenes of Clerical Life,” and ‘“‘ Adam Bede.’’ The admiration bestowed upon a previous work, ‘ Adam Bede,’ and the wonder and curiosity concerning its authorship, have scarcely died away, when there follows this new romance, equaling it in its trueness to nature, charming simplicity, and its noble and elevated senti- ment. It is a most pleasing picture of English country life, and its author has won fresh laurels by its produc- tion. Price #1 00. THE LIFE OF STEPHEN A. DOUGLAS. W. Sheahan. to those who intend to become politicians, or candidates for the presidency; and also to those whose duty or whose desire it is to be made acquainted with the par- ticulars of the lives of those who are likely to be pre- sented for that high office. Price $1 00. STORIES OF RAINBOW AND LUCKY. Abbott. issued By James This volume commends itself particularly By Jacob The fourth and last of these volumes is now Its title is “Selling Lucky.”’ Those who have read the preceding numbers of the series will not wish This volume, like the others, is finely il- Price 50 cents. to miss this, lustrated, From D, Appieton & Co., New York, through Perer- son & Brorners, Philadelphia :— HISTORY OF THE REPUBLIC OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, as Traced in the Writings of Alexander Hamilton and his Contemporaries. By John C. Hamilton. Volume VI. We can take no part in the controversial political history of the United States, any more than in the religious controversies of former, or of the present times. While examining the pages of this volume, we were struck with the warm partisan tone which pervades them, and though we considered this tone quite natural in a son writing in defence of the political views, and in explanation of what tnight have been considered the political errors of his father, we still felt that the history is a controversial history, which will have to be decided by appeals to contemporaneous facts; and therefore susceptible, at least, of being itself controverted, Price $2 50 per volume. A COURSE OF EXERCISES IN ALL PARTS OF FRENCH SYNTAX, Methodically Arranged after Poit- evin's “Syntax Francaise ;"' to which are added Ten Appendices. Designed for the Use of Academies, Schools, and Private Learners. By Frederick T. Winklemann, A. M., and Ph. D., Professor of Latin, French, and Ger- man in the Packer Collegiate Institute of Brooklyn, N. Y. This book will prove an invaluable aid to French stu- dents, especially to those whoare acquiring the language without the help of a master. It isa great assistant in becoming familiar with the construction and idiomatic peculiarities of the language. CHAMBERS'’S ENCYCLOPEDIA: A Dictionary of Universal Knowledge for the People. On the basis of the latest edition of the ‘German Conversations Lexicon.” Illustrated by wood engravings and maps. Parts XII. and XIII. of this splendid work have been received by us. Judging from the completeness and care manifested by the numbers already issued, we must conclude that the series, when complete, will form a most valuable set Price 15 cents per number. of volumes, | THE ELEMENTARY SPELLING-BOOK ; being an Im- provement on the American Spelling-Book. By Noah Webster, LL.D. The latest revised edition. This little book recalls to us our earlier school-days, when we conned our first lessons at our teacher's knee; and, although a revised edition, it bears nearly all the cha- racteristics of the earliest issues, even to the stories of the disappointed milkmaid, and the rude boy who per- sisted in stealing the old man’s apples. There is one thing we miss, however—the temple of knowledge asa frontispiece. Why was not that retained? Is it that that temple is not now to be gained through the vulgar medium of spelling? From Suetpon & Co., New York, through Brrys & S1ea, Philadelphia :— AMERICAN HISTORY. By Jacob Abbott. Illustrated with numerous maps and engravings. Vol. I. Aboriginal America. This is a book suited alike to youthful and mature minds. The subjects of the chapters are varied, treating of geography, botany, natural history, and of the Indian tribes, with their manners, habits, and pecu- liarities, while each subject is treated as elaborately as the size of the volume will allow. Price 75 cents. A POPULAR HISTORY OF ENGLAND. By Mrs. Thomas Geldart, author of “Truth is Everything,” Stories of Scotland,”’ “Stories of Ireland,’’ “ Sunday Thoughts,’ etc. This is a volume designed especially aaa reading-book in schools, possessing sufficient inte- rest to please the youthful mind, while it does not de- generate into a mere story-book. It commences at the earliest period of British history, bringing the student down to the time of the Crusades. Price 75 cents. THE OAKLAND STORIES. By George B. Taylor. This is the second of the series of these stories. They are suited to the capacity of children, and impart to them much information on various subjects. The book has several fine illustrations. Price 50 cents, From Ca#aries Scripyer, New York, through Samve. Hazarp, Jr., Philadelphia :— POEMS, Lyrical and Idyllic. By Edmund Clarence Stedman. A pleasing collection of poems, ranging through various degrees of sentiment and satire. MEMOIRS OF THE DUCHESS OF ORLEANS. By the Marquess de H. Together with Biographical Souvenirs and Original Letters. Collected by Prof. G. H. de Schu- bert. Translated from the French. The memoirs of this truly amiable lady may be perused with profit and interest by every one; and the example she set of charity, unpretending piety, and patience and courage in adversity, are most worthy of imitation. Of noble birth, and, after her marriage with the Duke of Orleans, a conspicuous star in the Court of Louis Philippe, at the time of the dethronement of that monarch, she be- came a refugee from France, and finally died in England, in 1858, after ten years of exile. From G. P. Potwam, New York, throngh J. B. Lrppry- corr & Co., Philadelphia :— A DISCOURSE ON THE LIFE, CHARACTER, AND GENIUS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. Delivered before the New York Historical Soctety, at the Academy af Musie in New York, on the 3d of April, 1860. By William Cullen Bryant. Nothing that professes to be the “ life, character, and genius of Washington Irving’’ can be otherwise than deeply interesting to literary men of every clime and country, but most of all to the literary men of America, It is, therefore, but just to conclude the of eit th rr

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GODEY’S ARM-CHAIR. ———— that the discourse of William Cullen Bryant, the literary contemporary, as well as the friend and colaberer of Washington Irving, will long be heid in the highest esteem by their mutual admirers, From Pupney & Russeit, New York :— BLACK DIAMONDS; Gathered in the Darkey Homes of the South. By Edward A. Pollard, of Virginia. of letters, written during the year 1858, from different cities in the Southern States, in which the author presents A series the slavery question from a southern point of view. Price $1 00. From Ticknor & Freups, Boston:— MADEMOISELLE MORI: A Tale of Modern Rome. This is a tale the plot of which is laid during the Italian Revolution in 1849, and in which many real occurrences are blended with fiction. Those who take an interest in Italy, and sympathize with the revolutionary spirit there, will be particularly pleased with this novel. It is written with a vigorous and masterly hand, and chal- lenges admiration. Price $1 25. THE SEMI-DETACHED HOUSE. Edited by Lady Theresa Lewis. A most commendable novel, offending the reader in nothing, charming him in everything, and sustaining an unflagging interest from beginning to end. From J. E. Trrtonw & Co., Boston:— TYLNEY HALL. By Thomas Hood. This story, the very earliest effort of Hood's at fictitious narrative, can certainly need no recommendation from us at this late day, almost thirty years after its first publication. It is, we may remark, however, characteristic of its author throughout, combining the grave and the gay, the humor- ous and pathetic, as Hood alone knew how to combine those sentiments. Price $1 25. From Carter & Brotuers, Boston :— CAROLINE PERTHES, THE CHRISTIAN WIFE. Condensed from the Lifeaf Frederich Christopher Perthes. By Mrs. L. C. Tuthill. A very interesting and valuable biography of a woman who was in all respects a help- meet for the cultivated, noble, and earnest man by whose side Provideuce had ordained that she should pass her life. Perthes, a bookseller in Hamburgh, has made him- self famous by the influeace which his ardeut and simple piety, and his strong love of intellectual cultivation, gave him over some of the most eminent literary men of Germany. And, it is plainly to be seen, from a perusal of this work, that much of his superiority is due to the lofty character of his devoted and true-hearted wife. It is a book that will well repay perusal. RUTH AND HER FRIENDS. A Story for Girls. Among the multitude of pretty story books that are daily issuing from the press for children, this will be found among the best and most useful. The story is full of interest, and very well told. BLIND MAN'S HOLIDAY; or, Short Tales for the Nursery. By the author of “ Mia and Charlie,” “Sidney Grey,” ete. With illustrations, This is one of the pret- tiest little books we have seen ina longtime. That itis interesting to those for whom it was written we have had full proof by seeing the eagerness with which all the children connected with our own family devour it. QUENCH NOT THE SPIRIT. By Newman Hall, LL. B., author of “Now,” “Follow Jesus,’ Jesus," ete “Come to A solemn and earnest appeal to all to pon- der deeply ou the awful truths of life and death, dwelling 83 especially, as its title indicates, on the danger of trifling with the blessed influences of the Holy Spirit. It is well written and forcible. Goden's Arm-Chair. WE call attention to our advertisement of the siaty- Jirst volume of the Lady's Book, published on our cover for this month—the thirty-first year of our existence as a Lady's Book. We return our thanks for the many favors we have received from our fair country women, We have many surprises in preparation for them, and sug- gest that now is a good time to commence a subscription. and hope to meet and merit a continuance of them. **Summer.”"’—The beautiful engraving in this number is a companion to “Spring,”’ published in the April number, and by some it is pronounced even superior to that celebrated plate; it is at least a worthy companion toit. We give also two tinted plates in this number, besides our inimitable Fashion-Plate. Youna writers and those who have not acquired a literary reputation must remember that the mere inser- tion of their articles in the Lady's Book is quite a com- pensation in itself. It is useless for them to ask us what price we pay ; it would be better to ask if we will insert their productions, WaAsnrnoTton’s FAREWELL Appress.—We have received from Devereux & Co., 132 South Third Street, Philadel- phia, ‘‘ Washington's Farewell Address to the People of the United States,” trations, and a beautiful book it makes. patriotic citizen send to Devereux & Co. for a copy? From the same publishers, we have also received a por- trait of the wife of Washington, printed in colors, a companion to the portrait of the Father of his Country, It is the best specimen of with arabesque designs and illus- Will not every also published by them. printing in colors we have seen. We publish the following from a well-known paper, and one that is appreciated well by those to whom its weekly visits are most agreeable—the Troy (N. Y.) Budget :— “Gopry AND HI8 LApY’s Boox.—It is said the edition of Godey's Lady's Book for this year already amounts Notwith- standing the immense amount of business inseparable to 150,000 copies, and is constantly increasing. from such a patronage, Mr. Godey is always affable and courteous—ready to answer promptly by letter any of his vast host of readers who may choose to address him on the most trivial subjects. His personal devotion to business and indomitable industry are almost ineredible. Every day in the week, he sends off gratuitously, under his own hand, as many ‘specimen numbers’ of the work as he is asked for, and generally accompanies each with & pleasant letter, besides answering all manner of in- quiries in regard to lace patterns, fancy slippers, em- broidery, music, plano-fortes, ete. etc. It is impossible to say, at this advanced stage of civilization, what femi- nine humanity would do, if it were not for Godey.” Asornen original design for a cottage and groand plane iu this number,

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Ovn Muar musical patrons, thie mouth, with a piece of muate of The pootry of ie here wedded to hare ~We have the pleasure of presenting our more than ordinary beauty and fateh Tennyeon, which ba tteelf munt mony ae perfeet asa genial interpretation of the author's meaning can make it, ja the hands of one capable of reproducing the exact sentiment, The very soul of the words ts translated and infused inte the melody of the componer, to a degree fir excelling any other succens yet reached by the many who have adapted the same words In & month or two, we shall present our readers with another song by Mr. McNaughton and one by Mr, Bverent The beautiful Italian barearole, ' lavitoal Mare," by Mr, Everest, which we published in our February number, has since been issued in sheet form by Lee & Walker, aa one of @ series of melodios with Italian and Baglish Hesides the barcarole, the Sweet Neohoes include" For Thee, my Fond versions, entitled Sweet Kehoes from Italy One," arranged from Dontgetti, and “Hill and Lake, VFarowell,"' to melody by Campana Mr. Everest ls alevo the composer of two other favorite neta of melodior with both French and English words, includes La Manola; or, the Happy Day,'’ Who Knocketh there? toe, toe," and * The Sister of the Nightingales.’’ The other is a series of Beautiful German Songa, also with the double adapta- One called Vooul Gema, tion, and comprises Go, my Rose," arranged from Him- mel, ‘1 Sawa Rose," from Richardt, and two of Kucken's famous melodies, In the Lovely Month of May" and * Just from the Bud Unfolded."' In this connection, we should also mention two original songs, * Beautiful Moon, thou Queen of the Night,"’ and ‘Only for Thee; Reply to the favorite song, ‘ Ever of Thee,'"’ Mr. MeNaughton's music includes a number of exqul- site songs, ballads, mostly from the press of Firth & Pond and Ditson, We would especially com- mend to our patrons the ballads, “ Kitty, my Love, and I," and “Katie of Babble Brook ;" the songs, “ Maud Adair and 1," “Annie Darling,"”’ “ Home lI Left behind Me," and ** The Good Time has Come ;" and the polkas, ** Bob, Bob White,"’ “ Love and Beauty," ‘* Peek-a-Boo," and “Pet Robin.’’ The last three are of double length, and are each embellished with a beautiful full-page colored lithographie title. waltzes, ete The publication price of each piece we have named above is twenty-five cents, excepting the three last by Mr. McNaughton, which are each fifty cents. Any of our friends, expecially those to whom the music stores are not accessible, or at which these pieces or any of them cannot be procured, can have them promptly sent by inelosing the amount in stamps to our own address, Philadelphia. We shall take pleasure in purchasing them, without extra charge, and by the single piece or in any way desired, and will forward them by mail, free of postage, to any address, It affords us pleasure tu be instrumental iu the circulation of good music, J. Stans Houtoway. Tur paper having the lurgest cireulation—the paper of tobacco, Paper for the roughs—sand paper. Paper containing many fine points—the paper of needles. Ruled paper—the Freuch press. The paper that is full of rows—the paper of pins. Spiritualist's paper— (w)rapping-paper. Papers illustrated with cuts—edi- torial changes. Drawing paper—dentist's bill. A tak- ing paper—sheriff’s warrant. The paper that most re- sombles the reader—'tis you (tissue) paper. 84 GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND

MAGAZINE, ~ BINGULAR MYATIOTICA, <The Doston Correspondent Writea |< "Having been troubled with the gout for several days, I have been obliged to ride to and from my dowk in the Clreumloeution Ofiee, My own carriage not being in very good condition Jast at present, | have taken advan taye of the street cars, and, while travelling in these, I have had an opportunity of noticing the manners of the fomales of my kind, considered with reference to seats in crowded vehicles, I will not indulge in any moral reflections upon the subject, nor will L attempt to sow lyze motives; I will only present to you, in & statiotionl form, the result of my observations) No, of females to whom seats were given by men, half of the latter having nee boon on their foot wince daylight » 108 No, of ditte who were compelled to at ne at Courter's New York least three blocks , ; , , l No, of fomales who said Thank you," or words to that effect , , 7? No, of females each of when metep ‘hortenlly pet her foot on her benefactor and rubbed him out of existence , , ; , 74 No. of females who stare 4 young men out of coun tenance, and out of their seats, , i] No, of females who positively refused to take the proffered place , 00,000 Now don't lay this to the gout,’ Secret on No Sucaet.—G, P. R. Jamon, Eaq,, in his late historical novel, entitled ** The Cavalier,"’ page 145, says; ‘ Like words inscribed in that sympathetic ink of which we read, it can only be deciphered by those who have the secret,"’ ete. Now I have the secret, and I will send to any person, at any place, full instructions how to write a secret or invisible letter, which no one is able to read or decipher except the writer and his corre- spondent; and also how to render said letter visihle at will. Inclose fifteen cents in post-stamps to W. 8, Garr- rey, Box 100, Washington, Daviess County, ludiaua. Tux Tex ComMMANDMENTS IN TEN LINES. Have no other God but me; Unto no image bow thy knee; Take not the name of God in vain; Do not the Sabbath day profane. Honor thy father and mother too; And see if thou no murders do. From vile adultery keep thou clean ; And steal not, though thy state be mean, Bear no false witness, Shun that blot; What is thy neighbor's, covet not, A Caprrat Famity Boox.—A book of one hundred tableaux, called *‘Home Pastimes,"’ is just issued by Messrs. J. E. Tilton & Co., Boston, This work gives careful rules as to dress, lights, etc., and for producing best effect, so that any persons or family can produce these delightful Pastimes, It is got up in the pest style of these well-known publishers, who have lately issued the beautiful guide-book to drawing and painting, called * Art Recreations."’ Messrs, Tilton & Co, will send the above, post paid, on receipt of $1 for ** Home Pastimes," and $1 50 tor “ Art Recreations.” They will also send, free, a list of materials for Grecian Painting, etc., and of the pictures they publish for it,

Tue Patent Nexoie-THreaver.—This is an ingenious little article, that we can supply for 25 cents,

Co Pa Po auc Gre Wi per T'al Vea bro Aq lual Wo peri ja tl hun valu lafur fad ry Re Bost tent, 18.59. Pr our } be pr ing « fashi Pr riage of lac

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GODEY'S ARM-CHAIR, 85 - - Tur Seown's Hatin. Much things have been talked of, but probably very fow of our readers suppose there ever wae such a thing; but there wae in former daya They are not needed now, We love too well to hear the ludiew talk, and have more respect for them than to use any bridle but one spelt a different waye«lridal “This pariah (Walton, Bagland) tealao endowed with wn joetrument for the control of fomale eloquence, It ts of curious construction, aad when Axed on, one part It orlyt- wally bore the following inseription, and the date 1635, but only faint traces now romain of olther enters the mouth, and prevents articulation * Chester presents Walton with a bridle, To curb women's tongues that taik too Idle." A Vatvasie Boow yor Lavira—Aant Recneationa.—A Complete Guide and Help to Pencil Drawing, Ol) Palating, Crayon Drawing and Paloting, Paper Flowers, Moss-Work, Papier Mache, Cone-Work, Feather Flowers, Hair-Work, Potichimauie, Leather-Work, Theorem Painting, Gilding aod Bronzing, Taxidermy, or the Art of Preserving Birda, Grecian Painting, Antique Paiuting, Oriental Painting, Wax Flowers, from the crude wax to the beautiful and perfect flower, fruit, ete.; Sign Painting, Shell-Work, lalating on Ground Glass, Magic Lantern, Imitation of Pearl, Sealing-Wax Paloting, Panorama Painting, Em- broidery, Coloring Photographs, Water Coloring, The Aquarium, ete. With valuable Receipis for preparing the luaterials, ete, It will inform inquirers in every branch of Fancy Work, as perfectly as they can be taught by the most ex- perlenced teachers, whose charges for all the styles taught iu this work, receipts, ete., Would amount to perhaps some hundreds of dollars. The Publishers have epared no expense in making this valuable to the Tkacugna and Puru by procuring valuable loformation from the best teachers and artiste ja Europe fud lo this country, Price $1 50, 12mo., cloth. Rplendidly illustrated, Sent by mail, post-paid, and for sale by all booksellers, J. B. Tilton & Co., Publishers, 161 Washington Street, Boston, A CORRESPONDENT asks us to finish the tale of “Con- tent,’ by Mra. Haven, which appeared in March number, 1850. Will she please explain, and we will be “ content." Peanaps what follows may be interesting to some of our lady friends who intend, when visiting England, to be presented to Her Majesty, Queen Victoria. That “ back- ing out" business we don't like; it is not an American fashion :— PReseNTATIONS AT Court.—On getting out of the car- riage, everything in the shape of a cloak or searf, even of lace, must be left behind ; the train is folded care fully VOL. LXI1.--3 over the leftarm, and the wearer enters the long gallery at Mt, James’, where she waite watil her turn eomeon for presentation; she then proceeds to the Presenee-Cham bor, whieh ts entered by two doors; she goes in by that indicated to her, and, on fading herself in the Presence Chamber, leta down her train, whieh ta inatantly spread out by the Lordeda-walting with their wanda, so that the lady walke easily forward to the Queen, The ecard on Which the lady's name ts tnseribed is then handed to another Lord-ln-walting, who reada the name aloud to the Queen, When she arrives just before Hor Majesty, she should courtesy very low, #o low aa al moat, but not quite, to kneel to the Queen, who, if the lady prosented be a pooress or a poor's daughtor, kisses her forehend ; if movely a commoner, holds out her hand to be kissed by the lady presented, who, having done so, rises, and making another courtesy to Prince Albert, and also soverally to any members of the Royal Family present, and then passes on, keeping her face towards the Queen, and backing out to the door appoluted for those who go out of the resence-Chamber, In thia transient seene, habitual elegance and dignity of carriage, presence of mind, coupled with the respectful demeanor proper on such oe- casions, are requisite; and nervousness and diffidence are as much out of place as a bold aud careless deportment Tain Onxamenta,—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 :— Breastpina, from $4 to $12. Ear-rings, from $4 60 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 60 Hair Studs from 65 50 to $11 the set. Sleeve Buttons from $6 50 to $11 the set. Hate is at once the most delicate and lasting of our ma- terials, and survives us like love. It is so light, #0 gentle, so escaping from the idea of death, that, with a lock of hair belonging to a child or filend, we may almost look up to heaven and compare notes with the angelic nature—may almost say; 1] have a piece of thee here, not unworthy of thy being now.” We ask attention to Ella Mooro's letters, published in our ‘“‘Arm-Chair."" Our friends in the country will fad them a vory useful ald in getting up home amusements. Waat ovr Fasnion Epiton can Svuipiy. Address Fashion Editor, care L. A. Godey, Philadelphia. Mrs. Hale is not the fashion editress, Hair-work, patterns for all kinds of garments, and for women and children, jewelry, caps, bonnets, cloaks, mantillas, talmas, mantles, headdresses, shawls, bead- work, materials for wax and paper flowers, embroidery, collars, capes, worsteds, Shetland wool, infant's ward- robes or patterns for the same, stamped collars, orué balls, canvas for working, ete, ete,

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86 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, Tue writer of the following communication is partly right. Aun attempt has been made to introduce the style of short hair, but, being doubtful of its success, we had not yet mentioned it. Infirmities in great persons have often led to peculiar fashions. May not this be a case of the kind, some leader of fashion being obliged to have her hair cut short? We all remember how the fox wished to introduce the benefit of the no-tail system. FLOWING OR SHORT HAIR FOR LADIES. Hagverspcra, WARREN Co., Onto, Sept. 1859. Query.—Have the times and the fashions got ahead of Mr. Godey? It would be laughingly funny, indeed, if they had. Shall a Western girl essay to post our worthy editor upon the fashions? Alarming! Well, I saw a short paragraph, not long since, copied from the New York Express by the Cincinnati Commercial, stating that short hair for ladies was becoming the fashion, that the new style was gaining public favor quite rapidly, and that the indication was that it would be- come general, I hear it reported recently, but know not how true it may be, that the short style is becoming quite generally adopted in Columbus, Springfield, Cin- cinnati, and other places in our own State. I had ex- pected to see a fashion-plate in the October number of our magazine, representing the new style. Llow is it, Have the fashions got ahead of you, you Or, pevhaps, like Paul, Mr. Editor? who was never beaten before? you believe “ Long hair is a glory to a woman,” and hence, being no admirer of the short style, have neg- lected to inform us. new style yet, but understand the hair is cropped quite I have not seen an example of the short behind, the front locks being left long to curl. I think cutting too short before or behind would mar its beauty, and give the wearer a masculine appearance. I have ever been an admirer of flowing or short hair for ladies, and have been hoping, for several years, that some of the fashion-starting ladies would start this I know it is contended by many that long This is, doubtless, true, if fashion. hair best becomes a woman. worn naturally, as was originally intended, falling gracefully over the neck and shoulders; but, worn in this way, its length becomes an inconvenience that few of us seem willing toendure. But certainly, long hair shows to no advantage as now worn, bound stiff and motionless on the back of the head, in an uncouth knot. Is it a knowledge of the simple fact that a woman pos- sesses long hair that gives the votaries of this fashion s0 much pleasure, when they never see its length, its uncoiled beauty, as it is forever imprisoned with comb and hair-pins, in an unsightly wad, on the posterior portion of the head? Its freedom is the talisman of its power. Too long it has been imprisoned, and its shin- ing beauty kept forever from the gaze and fascination of human eyes, Let it come forth now, like @ long bound prisoner unchained, to entrance and captivate all hearts and eyes with its poetic loveliness. Sisters, too long have our beautiful tresses been enslaved to suit the caprices of an unnatural and perverted fashion; now Jet them burst their prison walls, and kiss our temples freely, as they are wont to do, and float at will upon the breath of every passing, sylph-winged zephyr. The poet says, “A thing of beauty is a joy forever ;” then, if a lady's hair is ‘‘a thing of beauty,"’ as indeed it is, All- ing the beholder with softest admiration and sweetest ecstasy, why, then, foree it back from the brow and temples, neck and shoulders, where it heightens every charm, and lends an air of supreme witchery and love- liness to the countenance and forehead—away behind, as though it were an ugly thing and designed never to be seon? I protest against that fashion that requires a gentleman or lady to get behind me to see my beautiful hair—certainly an awkward predicament for both par- ties, besides not getting half a view then of my im- prisoned tresses. I trust the reign of the imprisonment of female hair with combs and hair-pins, the barbarous enslavement of that divine ornament of woman's, is drawing to a final close. The hair is a beautiful, angelic, living thing; why, then, should it be confined in a motionless, stiff, dead mass, or coil, upon one portion of the head, and its living, breathing, bewitching, soul-inspiring beanty hid from our gaze forever? The most perfect female divinities of the sculptor, the painter, the novelist, the poet, and the lover, all have flowing hair. I might quote ad infinitum from these sources as evidence of this assertion, but haven't space. And who shall say their taste is notacorrect one? Is not the starting of the flow- ing fashion an evidence that the female heart and mind are acquiring more and more of the painter's and poet's true sense of the beautiful? Physiologically considered, I think this fashion would be of great service, if exten- sively followed, if only fora time. 1 know many of my lady friends whose hair is very thin and uneven, that frequent cutting and wearing short for awhile would make it more healthy, even, thick, aud luxuriant. There are many ladies who would gladly adopt the short style for a while at least, forthe benefit of their hair, if nothing else, if it were only fashionable, Now, Mr. Godey, I should be glad to hear something from you upon this subject in your next number. I know that you nor I don’t make the fashions; you simply report the fashions as they come; still, we all have the right of suggesting new and more beautiful ones, whether they are ever followed or not. Is flowing or short hair for ladies becoming the fashion or not? is the question. Is it being adopted in your city, New York, and elsewhere sufficiently to give it the name and character of a fashion? If it is becoming the style, as I would willingly hope, will you not give us a plate in the next number representing it? and I will try and be prepared, with scissors in hand, to cut, crop, carve, trim, dress, poetize, perhaps spoil—I won't promise—s moderately handsome head of hair; but if I should spoil it, good nature will smile propitiously upon my fault by letting it grow again, and, perhaps, more beautiful and luxuriant, But, should I get it trimmed beautifully in the short or flowing style, I wonder if our kind, oblig- ing, aud humorous editor wouldn't allow my picturea place in the gallery of our magazine, among the un- rivalled fashion- plates, and certainly the new style would “spread then. But, Mr. Godey, “ what is your private opinion publicly expressed’’ about the beauty of short or flowing hair for ladies? Maaais. A yorne LADY desires a situation as music teacher ia a school or seminary. She has been educated with this iu view, and has a good instrument (Boardman & Gray's), which she could place in the school if desired. Address Mrs. Alice B. Havea, Mamaroneck, Westchester County, New York. “Tne Secret Ort; or, One Thonsand Tricks with Cards," jaa very amusing book. With this book, any one can set up for himself as aconjuror. Price $1 00 ont twe side of @e wath whi bott. Hl, het a fod | one, by tack

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as 8selUcellCUDh le ~- @&t = & SS 2 WF = th iy

GODEY'’S ARM-CHAIR, 87 <scnainiiiaiaas caeemmaiimsiaasns HOW TO DRESS A DOLL. These pat- terns enlarged will be found of gieat service to mothers We continue our article on this subject. for their children, Pinavone (Fig. 1).—Cat out a piece of fine diaper, Fig, L ome os xs Gx sy ‘ x SUT al Fig. 2. } ) | Z.

ie |)

of black silk velvet, and cut it the size of the round of Fig. 2, and it will form Fig. 3. For the brim, eut out of the same net the shape of Fig. 4, and cut out the round hole for the crown, and through the black lines at the top and bottom, turn up the dotted lines, aud tack round inside of them a thin piece of wire, then fold over tho top and bottom, where it is cut through, and sew the sides together. Cut a piece of black silk velvet on the cross, and shape it from the dotted lines to the circle in the middle of Fig. 4, and tack it anderthe brim of the hat; eut another strip of the same velvet on the cross, and bind ; the whole of the edge of the brim very neatly. | Put in the crown, and fix it to the brim by sew- ing it all round, and the rough edye with a small piece of sarsnet ribbon, lining the inside of the crown with Persian silk, and it will form Fig. 5, Get a small white ostrich feather, rather lone, and tack it inside of the brim on the top of the

doubled once to the shape of Fig. 2; run and fellina piece of insertion between the top of the shoulders, hem the bottom and backs neatly. and also the top; ran a piece of tape through it, and sew on a small button, with a corresponding buttonhole about the waist. Sew on & narrow piece of embroidery round the arm-holes, and your pinafore will be finished. Care (Fig. 1).—Fold a piece of Marcella once, and cut Fig. 1.

ont a back the shape of Fig. 2; fold it again, and cut ont two frouts the shape of Fig. 3, and back-stitch firmly Fie. 3 together the two fronts on to — each side of the back, putting the narrow sides together; eut off the rough edges, and sew them over; procure some fine plain braid, and bind round the bottom neatly ; turn inthe two fronts, and make three buttonholes, or four if the doll be large, and the same number ’ of gilt buttons on the opposite side; then bind round the neck neatly. of embroidery, the proper length from the shoulders,

Take a wide strip gather it up, and sew it on to the bottom. Get some white bally fringe, and sew it neatly all round the bottom of the shoulder-pieces, Har (Fig. 1).—The shape may be made of black stiff net and black wire; cut it out as Fig. 2 for the crown, aud ent through the four straight lines up to the dotted one, and bend the latter down; then make into a round by creasing the sides where they are cut through, and tack them together with black thread. Procure a piece hat, carry it to the back, fasten it there, and allow

itto hang overa little. Cut some more strips of black silk velvet on the cross, and make up a nice large bow upon black net, and ends of the same ; but before making

up the velvet, it should be hemmed all round. The strings must be pink ribbon; the rosettes can be made of piuk aud black velvet arranged upon black net, A Youra LADY desires a situation as teacher ina echool or governess jn a family. She is competent to teach the English branches, Freneh, Latin, and musie upon the piano-forte, Address M. W. B., Oakland, Livingston County, New York. Testimonials shown, if desired,

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88 ELLA MOORE'S LETTERS FROM THE CITY, Lerren lTanLeaun VIVANTA (Cuneluded jrom June number.) Tus next picture was Grandmother's Trunk, Here, the seene wae full of funny contrasts, and we had twelve performers on the stage at once In the eeutre of the background stood & large, old-fahioned black trunk, open; dresses were thrown carelessly over the sides and upon the cover, aud the performers were each trying on some article supposed to have come from the old trunk loaning on his aword, wore the full uniform of the Ame- Harvey, standing erect inthe background, rican soldier of 1776, buff aad blue, and spendidly hand- sume he looked, Grace, with her bright golden curls half hiding her saucy, smiling face, was dressed in a short- waisted, long-trained purple brocade, a cloak of black silk falling off her shoulders, and a bonnet seventy years old—a veritable piece of antiquity, Susy. You cannot fancy anything prettier than her piquant little face and figure, shaded, half hidden, by the loose dress and deep bonnet, Walter, in his every-day dress, sported a mob- cap, a pair of round-eyed spectacles, and a short gown of bright chintz. Hattie had a cocked hat, a long red cloak worn over an every-day merino, and carried a large gold-headed cane. Mary had found a deep hood, in which she buried her pretty face, and from her waist trailed a long silk train. I went still farther back in my dress, and wore a powdered wig, large hoops, and high-heeled shoes The dress, of rich dark greeu satin, «anbroidered in gold, was made with long points front and back, and the skirt looped at the waist, over a white satin petticoat. Fanny Jarvis, « little merry brunette, had the full female costume of the Revolutionary days, the dress of a farmer's daughter, or one of middling sta- tion of life. Astriped chints skirt was looped over a blue stulf petticoat; clocked stuckiugs and heeled shoes buckled in front were revealed by the short skirt; a white kerehief was crossed primly over the neck and pinned at the waist; long mittens covered the arma, aad a chints handkerchief was tied over the black curls aud fastened under the chin ller brother Morris wore & black velvet sult of the same period, with white ruflled shirtand wristbands, and a three-cornered hat, Graham Loalle, Walter's intimate friend, wore the dandy dross of some forty years ago, and his sister was arrmyed in the short gored skirt, prunella shoes, deep bonnet, and short waist of the same period, Little Eddie, who was persuaded to stand, held by Walter, on the marble pedestal, had, over his white dress, an old-fashioned walsteoat of yellow satin, and on hia long, dark curls was placed a cap with deep, stiff ruffies, Minnie, the last om the list, stood near Harvey, in a swallow-talled oout, over her white dress, and a white felt hat, some thirty years old stage without being crowded, and the picture was very effective, The next one was There were figures enough to fill the The Dying Brigand., Walter, whose black hair and heavy moustache, dark complexion and large black eyes made a capital Italian face, personated the brigand. A full suit of green vel- vet—breeches with white stockings and gay garters, a short jacket, and peaked hat—made a good costume. He lay extended in the centre of the foreground, his face well foured, his jacket open, displaying a bloody shirt ; GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, —- “ — one hand elatched a pistol, the other proased a handker- chief to his breast; his head was supported upon my knee, My dress consisted of a short, full erimaon skirt, & white muslin bodice very full, with a corsage of black velvet laced over it, a white muslin Mat eap falling on the neck behind, Kueeling beside Walter, | supported his head, Morrie Jarvie and Graham Leslie one in the scarlet jacket, bud pantaloons, and high boots of & pos tilion, witha whip and litthe searlet cap; the other in a courier's dress of buff and green embroidered with goldstood near us, In the background were a group of travellers in modern dress-—Grace in a gray travel- ling-dvess, fainting in Harvey's arms, Aunt Harriet and Mary comforting each other, and Uncle Walter looking ruefully at the brigand, holding in one hand the pistol supposed to have ended poor Walter's mortal career, Our next tableau was Second Sight, He made up as an old man very well, wearing the full Highland costume, He was seated on a low stool, to the left of the foreground, his head leaning on his hand, looking jutently at the scene in the background. On a bed of skins at his feet, Mary, in a white dress, with a plaid thrown over her, lay asleep, Walter, also in full High- land dress, stood near Morris, his hand upon his shoulder, as if trying to rouse him, while Graham Leslie, to the In the background, grouped on table mentioned before, but Morris Jarvis personated the Seotch seer, right of the picture, lay asleep upon a couch, without the frame, were the three young figures of the foreground group. Harriet, who looks very much like Mary, stood erect, the centre of the group, in regal robes—a crown, purple mantle, and rich white satin dress. To the left, Harvey, in a begyar's rags, knelt at Ilurriet’s feet, as if in petition. To the right, wrapped in a monk's robe, with the hood drawn over his face, larry Marston, another friend of Walter's, seemed point- ing threateningly to Harvey, as if warning Harriet not to heed his prayer, guest was at liberty to weave his own romance on the pieture before him The last picture of the evening was The scene wae effective, and each The Intercepted Letter. Aunt Harriet consented to personate the “ «tern pa- rient,"" as Harvey sald, and, iu black silk, with a neat white cap, looked quite ferece, chair to the right of background, while in the coutre of foreground Grace, in & white dress, looking sweetly pretty, stood with her hand out to take the letter, Har- vey, behind Aunt Harriet’s chair, leans forward with the letter, holding it out, his eyes fixed on Grace, while Aunt Harriet hoids the other end of the letter, her finger raised threateningly at Grace, who, in a pretty attitude of entreaty, tries to take the bille-dous, To-morrow evening we are invited toa party at Mrs, Williams's, As she has no children, she has begged our young folks to assist her in entertaining her guests, and we have promised some Impromptu Charades, [| will write you an account of them in my next letter, Till then, believe me Ever yours, affectionately, She oecupled a rocking- ELLA, Ovr Heattn Derartmext.—We continue to receive commendations of this particular portion of our Book. No other magazine but the Lady's Book has such a de- partment. wil bety Troon

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GODEY'S ARM-CHAIR, 89 - —— ITALIAN VILLA, Designed expressly for Godey'a Lady's ook by BanceL BivAN, Architect, Philadelpita In the prevent number of our architectural series, we present aA design of an Italian villa, with high tower, pinckoted gables, bay windows, and broad projecting aitting-room, with D diuing- with steps to the drive in front; € bay window looking out upon the lawn; rom, with passage to kitchen, G, with private stairs ! ae | nop C0 ry | ~| iz axel Lae between; H out kitchen. The drawing-room, sitting- room, and library opening with windows to the floor upon the broad verandas, | I I. g* vernndas, forming, aitogether, a pleasing and agroeablo combination of that etyle, The plans are arranged with due regard to eonvenience; the rooms are large, airy, and well ventilated Ground Plan Ih in larwe drawing-room, with folding doors opening to library, By F wide hall, passing en tively through the building, with vestibule A, poreh K, eS ee nd The second etory containa «ix chambers, with closets, bath-room, dressing-room, ete. H hall, with direct com- munication to each chamber; G drossing-room, opening on to baleony over the porch; I II roof of veranda. The attic is finished, making several comfortable bed- rooms,

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90 HOW THEY MAKE TEA IN RUSSIA. WE are all inclined to suppose that the orthodox flavor- jug of tea is milk and sugar (where cream isa myth); but the Russians, the greatest tea drinkers in the world, think otherwise. There the samovar or tea urn, as we find by two recent clever letter-writers, is indispensable to a Russian house- hold. One of them tells us that the tea itself “is brought overland from China; thus preserving, as they claim, the peculiarly delicate favor which a sea voyage is sure to de- stroy. It is very dear; the finer kinds costing from five to fifteen dollars a pound. As a general rule, the black teas ure preferred, although a delicate green is in high favor with many, at sixteen silver roubles, or about twelve dollars a pound. There is a yellow tea at about the same price, which has a frightful effect upon one’s nerves ; green tea is a sedative compared with it. The beverage, black, #reen or yellow, is drank with sugar, but without cream, a slice of lemon being substituted, and the tea sipped by spoonfuls. **My first trial of this singular mixture was on board of a Russian steamer, where an enormous quantity was con- sumed at the morning and evering meals. It then seemed like spoiling lemonade and tea by mixing them; but I have since learned to like it very much—especially of a hot day, when the mercury stands, as it often does in St. Petersburg, at a hundred degrees in the shade. The pro- fuse perspiration into which three or four glasses of tea puts one, is followed by a state of composure und coolness which all the ice-cream and cold soda-water in Boston would not produce. **In the southern provinces kirpitohnoi, or brick tea, a composition of tea, herb and auimal substances, formed into blocks like brick, is much used. When dissolved in boiling water, with milk aud butter added, it forms a na- tritious as well as a pleasant beverage for the humbler classes, and large quantities are imported for their use. “The Russians drink their tea very weak, and the tea- pot is replenished with hot water by a native until a per- son accustomed to what is called tea in England or America begins to find the favor of the lemon preponderate in his glass. Indeed, the drinking of strong tea at fifteen dollars a pound is rather an expensive luxury. But the higher grades are usually reserved for special occasions. The kinds in general use among the wealthy citizens of St. Petersburg are those averaging about four roubles or three dollars a pound; in the tea-houses a still lower quality is used, and in the dwellings of the poorer classes the cheap black tea at a rouble and a half is mostin favor. The sam- ovar keeps the table well supplied with hot water. It is an urn with a charcoal fire at the bottom, the heat from which, passing through a tube in the centre, boils the water and heats the tea-pot which rests upon itstop. It is as common in Russia as a tea-kettle in the United States, and is certainly an ingenious and useful contrivance. ‘* The tea-houses here, like the bar-rooms in America, are of high and low degree. If you enter one of the better class, on the Nevskoi Prospect, you will find a large room, or series of rooms, with little tables, and invariably a pic- ture of the Virgin and Child, or a saint, covered with a plate of gold or silver gilt, so as to leave only the face, haads and feet visible. If your companion be a Russian, he will bow low as he uncovers his head before it, and cross himself many times. Then you take your seat at one of the windows which look upon the street, and order your ‘chi.’ The waiter brings a portion of tea in a small tea- pot, a plentiful supply of hot water in another vessel, GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. Nee glasses instead of cups, some slices of lemon and lumps of sugur, and then a plate of rolls of paper and tobacco for cigarettes. There is an organ which goes by clock work in the corner, six feet broad and as high asthe room. The waiter winds it up, and the Russian airs come rolling forth as you sit and sip your tea and smoke your cigarette (if you choose) and look out upon the strange sights in the great street before you; see the moujike wearing their sheep- skins, and the officers and private gentlemen their over- coats, with the sun blazing down upon them so that you almost expect to have them melt away before your eyes; watch the queer-looking equipages that come dashing by; the little boys in the carriages, with loose robe and girdle and high top-boots, and the nurses in the showy national costume, which once a year the Empress puts on, that her subjects may see the bighest lady in the land dressed like a Russian, and the officers in their brilliant uniforms, each sitting in hiS neat droshky, with an extra horse cantering along by the side of the trotter ip harness. Every minute there is a fresh novelty, and so the time passes quickly away.” A LIST OF ARTICLES WE CAN SUPPLY. Goper'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 California, 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, and Price 25 cents. how you may get them. Price 12 cents. Every Lady ber own Shoemaker. With diagrams, Price 50 cents. Thirty of the most approved Receipts for Summer Beve- rages Price 12 cents Gallery of Splendid Engravings, from Pictures by the first Masters. Price 50 cents each; four numbers now ready. The Book of the Toilet. How to Make a Dress. Price 25 cents. The Nursery Basket; or, a Help to those who Wish to Price 50 cents. Price 25 cents. Help Themselves. With engravings. Mrs. Hale's new Cook-Buok. With numerous engrav- ings. Price $1 00. Mrs. Hale's 4545 Receipts for the Million. Twelve in a box. Price $1 25. Godey's Curl Clasps. Nos. 1, 2, and 3. 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, 81 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 ix $1 20, Godey’s Copying Paper, for copying Patterns of Embrol- dery, etc. Each package contains several colors. Price 25 cents. A ten cent stamp will be required to prepay postage on this to California, Oregon, or the British Prov- inces. The Song Bird Fancier. should have this useful book. Patent Needle Threaders. 25 cents. Indestructible Pleasure Books for Children, with col- ored plates, printed on muslin, and cannot be torn. Price 25 cents each. Mrs. Stephens’s Crochet Book. Every lady who keeps birds Price 25 cents. A valuable article. Price Price 75 cents. Mi: ox pr Mis expr Mr. 2h. Mis Mis Mrs Mrs Mrs F, J IL I. B 2ith. Mrs Mrs. Miss B. J 2th. Mrs. Mrs, Mrs. Waist : Mrs. Mrs. M.S. Clos 27;

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CHEMISTRY FOR THE YOUNG. 91 Basies.—In a late number of the Eclectic Medical Journal, the editor remarks that young babies often ery from actual thirst. Their natural supply is intended as food, not as drink, and makes them thirsty without really quenching the thirst as a cool liquid would. They ery, he thinks, for cold water. Many a mother is anxious to know what ails the little sufferer that it should ery so loudly, and imagining it to be suffering from pain, ad- ministers some unnecessary opiate, wr pain-killer, when all the child needs is a few teaspoonsful of good, pure, clear, sparkling cold water, Asthe experiment isa yery simple and easy one, let all mothers try it first, before having recourse to medicine. In warm weather, par- ticularly, children may be suffering from thirst instead f pain, and a small quantity of water may give them immediate relief. 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, unty, and State you reside in. Nothing can be made out of post-marks. Mrs. 8S. F. P.—Sent bonnet and hoop skirt by Adams's xpress April 17th. Mrs. W. H. D.—Sent silk stockings for child 17th. Mrs. M. J. B.—Sent patterns for boy's clothes 17th. Miss B.—Sent patterns 17th. Miss F. P.—Sent pattern of dress 18th L. J.—Seut bonnet and cloak by Adains’s express 18th. M. H. C.—Sent patterns for infaut’s wardrobe 20th. Mrs. D. A. H.—Sent patterns 20th. Mrs. M. A. H.—Sent hair ring 23d. J. S.—Sent hair bracelet 23d. Miss G. L, D.—Sent lace 23d. Mrs. M.—Sent patterns for infant's clothes 23d. Miss E. V. L.—Sent crape bonnet by Adams's express 23d. Miss I, A. McD.—Sent little girl's bonnet by Adams's xpress 23d. Miss N. E. F.—Seut rice straw bonnet by Harnden’s express 23d Mrs. M. M. M.—Sent bonnet, &c. by Adams's express 2d Miss S. E. V.—-Sent patterns 23d. Miss M. S.—Sent patterns by Adams's express 23d. Mra, C, H. B.—Sent infant’s dress trimmings, &c. 23d. Mrs. A. E. B.—Sent pattern and needles 24th, Mrs. C, M. G.—Sent cloak pattern 24th. F. A. McP.—Sent hair pins, &c. 24th. J. L. B.—Sent extension skirts 25th. I. B. B.—Sent hair ear-rings, rings, cross, and charms 2ith. Mrs. G. C.—Sent pattern infant’s cloak 25th. Mrs. F. C, T.—Sent pattern of waist and sleeve 25th. Miss M. C. M.—Sent hair necklace 25th. B. J. H.—Seut travelling bonnet by Adams's express 25th, Mrs. A. E. J.—Sent patterns and needles 25th. Mrs. L. J. A.—Sent patterns for boy’s clothes 26th. Mrs. E. H. A.—Sent pattern for Zouave jacket and waist 26th. Mrs. A. B.—Sent dress pattern 26th. Mrs. R. L. 8.—Sent knitted wool shawl 26th. M. S.—Sent infant's embroidered dress body and nee- dles 27th. Mrs. 8. M. N.—Sent hair ear-rings 27th. Miss E. F. 8.—Sent bonnet, &c. by Adams's express 28th. Miss F. A. 8.—Sent silk dress by Harnden's express 30th. Mrs. McB.—Sent pattern lounging cap 30th. Miss A. J.—Sent hair ring 30th C. H. J.—Sent hair fob-chain 30th. Miss L. E. T.—Sent hair ring 30th. Mrs, N. A. W.—Sent red embroidery cotton 30th Barmecide.—See story of * Barber's Sixth Brother’’ in * Arabian Nights.”’ E. F.—Sent patterns of boy's jackets May Ist T. H. M.—Sent patterns of little girl's clothes 3d. Mrs. J. W. M.—Sent patterns of child's dress 3d. Mrs. M. E. T.—Sent patterns 3d. Mrs. W. P.—Sent pattern Zouave jacket 4th. Mrs. A. D. 8.—Sent sewing silk 4th. Dr. W. H. L. & Bro.—Sent pattern Sth. Miss M. J. F.—Sent embroidery silk and silk braid 5th. Mrs. D. A. W.—Sent hair net 7th. Mrs. E. J. G.—Sent sleeve patterns 7th. Mrs. J. H. T.—Sent braiding Sth. Miss N. 8.—Seut paper for paper flowers Sth Mrs. C. P. B.—Sent red and white embroidery cotton 9th. Miss 8. C. P.—Sent hair aar-rings and breastpin 9th. Oo, G, R. 8.—Sent hair breastpin 9th. Mrs. E. G. C.—Sent collar, &c. 9th Mrs. M. B.—Sent pattern of smoking cap 10th. Miss M. A. B.—Sent pattern Zouave jacket, apron, dress, &e. 10th. c. A. F.—Sent package by Adaims’s express 10th. Mrs. B. L.—Sent silk floss 11th. Mrs. P. E. 8.—Sent apron pattern l4th. Mrs. C. E. T.—Sent Zouave jacket pattern lith, Mrs. M. L. B.—Sent patterns Lith. J. P. B.—Sent hair ring 14th. Misses L. and M. B.—Sent hair ear-rings 14th. J. 8.—Seut hair-work ]4th. Mrs. L. A. H.—Sent infant's shirts, &c. 14th. Miss L. E. T.—Sent hair charms, Faith, Hope, and Charity 16th. Miss M. C. M.—Sent necklace 16th. Mrs. B. L.—Sent white merino 16th. H. B. I.—Sent box by Adams's express 16th. Miss H. R.—Sent Zouave jacket pattern 17th. Mrs. R_ B, H.—Sent dress patteru 17th, Mrs. KR. P. D.—Sent bonnet, &. by Adams’s express 17th. W. M. 8.—Sent glass beads, &c. 17th. > Chemistry for the Young. LESSON XVI.—(Concluded.) 350. Before finally taking leave of the metal platinum, you may as well demonstrate that the bichloride is soln- ble in alcohol readily ; soluble also, but not very readily, in ether. 351. And now we close our examination of the caleci- genous metala, not that we have investigated all of them, but all the more important of them. We shall by and by commence the investigation of two other classes, namely, the terrigenous and kaligenous metals, such as calcium, aluminum, potaasinm, and so forth. Previously, however, to ourentering upon this investigation, remem-

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92 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, ber well that the distinctive peculiarities of the caleigo- nous metals are as follows :— I. That when burned they yield neither alkalies nor earths, but results which former chemists termed calces, and the modern chemiate oxides If. That these oxides, asa rule, are solublein acids, or the metals themselves are soluble in solutions of chlorine Ill, That their solutions yield precipitates with ferro cyanide of potassium, hydrosalphurie acid, and hydro etilphate of ammonia, one of all IV. That their solutions yield precipitates with ear bonates of potash, soda, of ammonia, Such are the listinetive pecullaritios of the class, LESSON XVIT Orugen MATERIALA, THATS, APPARATUS, PTC, m2 A wixrenn of black oxide of manganese and chlorate of potash equal parts (we lght), powde red and mixed; Iime-water; red oxide of mereury; ehareval; tmus-paper; sulphur; phosphorus tu bottle of water snd various apparatus indicated by woodeuts throughout the text 5. Before entering motals, it will be well that you should devote some at upon the study of terrigenons tention to certain non-metallic elements with which metale are ueually found combined ta nature Of speelal importance in this let are the substances oxygen, sul and carbon phur, 4. Referring to the lesson in which the metal zine was investigated (200), you will remember that the result of burning it ln atmorepheric alr was a white calx or oxide All metals, even gold and platinum, are susceptible of oxidation by processes direct or indirect, snd, from the resulting oxides, oxygen may be separated by adequate processes, Certain metals, such as gold, silver, platinum, and mereury, all of which combine with oxygen with difleulty, give off this element on the mere application of heat, Other oxides of metals only yield up their oxygen when submitted to the united agency of heat and some body having a powerful tend- ency to combine with oxygen, but from all of them oxygen may be separated by adequate treatment, 355, Take a little peroxide (red oxide or red preeip!- tate) of mereury, and, having put it into a test-tube of hard German glass, and adapted to the test-tube a bent tube and cork, thus— apply the heat of a spirit-lamp flame, and collect ina small bottle, over water, in the usual manner, tho gas which results. Having collected it, occlude the bottle by means of its own stopper, or a glass valve, remove it from the basin or pneumatic trough, and set it aside for future examination. The bottle contains oxygen in the state of yas, acondition which oxygen invariably assumes when uncombined. As for the mercury, it will be seen to have formed little globules in the test-tube, and may In this case, then, it is be made to cohere by agitation. evident that the red calx of mercury, as the ancients would have called it, is an oxide of that metal; and, by means equally satisfactory, it can be demonst ated that } all other calees, as they were denominated, are likewise oxides, 356. The process by which we have developed oxygen I have mentioned because of the demonstration it con. voys, not because of its convenience, The following ts afar more ready means of developing oxygen, and the one usually adopted in practice :— 857. Inetead of employing red oxide of mereary, urea mixture of equal parts chlorate of potneh and black oxide of manganese, and apply heat of a epirit-lamp flame as before, The oxygen, which now eomes over in abtin dance, lato be collected ta wide-emouthed bottles, and the bottios secured by stoppers of valves Centre-Gable Gossip, BIDNEY DODBELL, Sipyny Donen, of the modern school of English poeta, ln not excelled by any one now writing in the deep pathow of his simple verse, Many of our readers may be, and doubtless are, familiar with hie last volume, but there are others who have not met with it, and will thank us for inserting this sadly pathetle strain, The volume from whieh it is taken te one that should be Hivel Welcome on our conte-table THE LITTLE GIRL'S SONG, Do not mind my ery papa; Lam note ying for pain, Do net mind my shaking, papa; Lam not shaklog with fleur, Tho’ the wild wind ts hideous to hear, \nd | see the suow and the rain When will you come back again, apa, papal Somebody else that you love, papa, Somebody else that you dearly love In weary, like me, because you're away Sometimes | see her lips tremble and move And | seem to know what they ‘re going to say; And every day, and all the long day, I long to ery, Oh, mamma, mamma, When will papa come back again?" But before Tecan say it 1 wee the pain Creeping up on her white, white cheek, An the sweet, sad sunshine creeps up the white wall, And then Lam sorry, and fear to speak ; And slowly the pain goes out of her cheek, As the sad, sweet sunshine goes from the wall Oh, | wish I were grown up wise and tall, That I might throw my arms round her neck, And say, ‘* Dear mamma, oh, what is it all That I see, and see, and do not see, In your white, white face, all the Iivelong day?” But she hides her grief from a child like me, When will you come back again, Papa, papa? Where were you going, papa, papa? All this long while have you been on the sea? When she looks as if she saw far away, Is she thinking of you, and what does she see? Are the white sails blowing, And the blue men rowing, And are you standing on the high deck Where we saw you stand till the ship grew gray, And we watched and watehed till the ship was a speck, And the dark came first to you, far away ? I wish I could see what she can see, But she hides her grief from a child like me. When will you come back again, Papa, papa? Don’t you remember, papa, papa, How we used to sit by the fire, all three, And she told me tales while I sat on her knee, And heard the winter winds roar down the street, And knock like men at the window-pane? Aud the louder they roared, oh, it seemed more sweet the grot frul vali are whi Oral the | s Wee they Th less SOK Colo: or lk the | refre the « olor They as tl In F globe ther

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n, ha CENTRB-TABLE GOSSIP. 93 i To be warm and warm as we used to be, Sitting at night by the fire, all three, When will you come back again, Papa, papa?’ Papa, I like to sit by the fire Why does she sit far away in the cold? If | had but some body wise and old, That every day | might ery and say, “Ia she changed, du you think, or do I forget? Was she always ae white ae she is to-day’ Did she never carry her head up higher?’ Papa, papa, if lL eould but know! Do you think her voice was always so low? pid I always seo what I seom tu eee When | wake up at night and her pillow is wet? You used to say her hair it Was gold; It looks like silver to me Hut atill ehe telle the mame tale that ehe told, She sitve the same songs when | eit on her knee, And the hotiee goes on te it went long ago, When we lived together, all three Sometimes my heart seems to sink, papa, Aud | feel ae if | could be happy ne more la she chanwed, do you think, papa, Or did [dieam she was brighter before? She makes me remember my snowdrop, papa, That | forgot in thinking of you, The sweetest snowdrop that ever TL kaew! But I put it out of the sun and the rain; It was yreen and white when I put it away, It had one aeweet bell and green loaves fou It was green and white when I found it that day, It had one pale bell and green leaves four, But | wae not glad of it any more Wasa it changed, do you think, papa, Or did I dream it wae brighter before? Do not mind my erying, papa; lam not erying for pain Do not mind my shaking, papa; lam not shaking for fear Tho’ the wild, wild wind is hideous to hear, And I see the suow and the rain When will you come back again, Vapa, papal ORANGE SWEETMEATS Tur Scotch marmalade is made of Seville oranges, which are imported in large quantities every year for that purpose, We have in this country an orange which auswers even & better purpose, and might be had ata very cheap rate, if they were once iutroduced into the Middle and Northern States—the sour orange which grows #o abundantly in Florida and other Southern localities, On the St, John's River, especially, and in the interior of the State, near Okula, there are wild groves, of miles in length, where, in the season, golden fruit lies rotting on the ground, not even of sufficient value to be gathered, Every year, our best grocers are importing Scotch marmalade at a large expense, while this wasted material lies so near, Sweet, or table oranges have a short season in Florida, being over by the middle of January, They are thin-skinned and very sweet, but do not bear transportation well. By many they are considered superior to any imported fruit. The wild oranges are either bitter-sweet, or sour, with less of the ‘‘ Peruvian-bark flavor ” The bitter-sweets are smooth-skinned, quite round, and of a deep red orange- color. On opening them, the feathery white apartments, or lobes, separate easily; this skin entirely removed, the pulp loses the bitter taste, the juice is sweet and refreshing. The sour oranges are less regular in shape, | the skin thicker and indented ; they are usually lighter | colored, more on the yellow than the red shade of orange. | They make a delightful orangeade, quite as refreshing as the lemon, but their chief value is for preserving. In Florida, they are done in large transparent half- globes, set in a sea of honeylike syrap. We procured tue receipt for the finest specimens that we tasted, and which many tourists may remember on the generons table of Mr. Askew, at Palatka, and which we have tried on a barrel of sour oranges shipped from the neiyhboring groves Mus, Askew's Kecript ror OnAnan BSwWeerTMeAts.— Grate off the yellow part of the peel, cut the orange in half croasieiae—or on the equator line of a globe—aquecze Soak them ia salt and water twenty-four hours, to remove the bitter out the juice and seeds, leaving the pulp taeto; then «ix days in clear cold water, changing the Holl them in water until they ¢lear Make a syrup of one pound and three-quarters of white sugar to every water every day and you ean pierce them with a straw pound of the orange-skine thus prepared and well drained, favor it with as much of the reserved orange. julee as you may fancy, put iu the skins, and let them boll up onee Reotch marmalade ta this, and not #0 niles, the ekine or peel being shredded fine, and done in brown sugar, which many use in the above receipt; it tastes quite aa well, but of course does not look as clear, Rome one has only to introduce " Florida Marmalade’ to realize a handsome independence, Orange seweetmeats may be procured in Mt, Auguetine at a very reasonable price, considering the large quantity of sugar which it takes, and the risk in shipping the oranges, FRESH HINTS FOR FLOWER GARDENING,—No. 4, CARNATIONS, AND llow To Propuce Chotcen Boats, The best soll for carnations la good loam, enriched with well-decayed stable manure, and quickened with a little sand, The quantity of manure can only be determined by the previous strength of the ground ; if made two rich, the fowers will lose their fine colors, while, if left too No recent manure should In the spring, give a fresh poor, they will want vigor ever come near & fine plant digwing, and plant in rows three feet by two; this width will make room for layers, without which a fine blow of carnations cannot be maintained above one year, As the plants shoot up, they should be tied to neat green rods; and, in order to have a fine blow, superfluous flower-buds must be pinched off, leaving about three or four to each stem, From the young shoots near the ground, which do not run to flower, the layers are to be selected, The operation is somewhat nice, but, when rightly done, is always successful, and good flowers are thus preserved aud multiplied from year to year, To- ward the end of July, stir up the ground about the flowers, and mix with the sod a little well-worked com- post. Have at hand a sharp penkuife, a trowel, and a number of small pegs, with an augle at each head, Scoop out the earth in the form of a basin around each plant, select the strongest shoots for layers, and remove such as are inthe way. Then crop the top leaves an inch from the heart, and pinch off all the rest, taking care not to peel the stem. Begin an incision on the under side of the shoot a little below the second joint from the top, and cut upward till the joint is slit in the middle, Set the pointed extremity made by the slit into the bottom of the excavation, and there fix it with the peg ; place the head of the shoot erect, fill in the earth, make it firm, and finish the work with a good watering. The young plants will be ready for removal by the end of autumn, when they may be set in flower-pots for the winter. Carnations always require room to expand and blow; and, when fally grown, the stalks should be tied with a strip of bust to a small stake thrust in the soil at their side.

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O4 ORNAMENTAL Rock Wouk tn Ganpena.—There are many plants with rather small dowers, which possess exquisite colors and elegant forms, the charm of which is in a great measure lost by their being planted in the bed where the pitiless shower defaces their delicate tints with splashes of rain and earth, or else their distance from the eye causes their minute yet elegant characters to pass unnoticed; other plants, also, run over the sur- fuce of the flower border to great distances, interfering with their neighbors, which would look much better hanging pendent from the crevice of a rock, or covering some sunny bank with their numerous blossoms. Nature, who is always an interesting and instructive teacher, points out these facts plainly, by often exhibit- ing her simple treasures inhabiting and flourishing in the cracks of rugwed rocks, making as interesting an object ou a near approach as it is delightful at a distance Iu Kurope few gardens are considered complete without their compartment of rock work, and even where tho spot is of the smallest size, a little piece of this device is frequently seen Alling up and concealing an unsightly corner, Why do not our American gardeners and ama- teur floriata devote more attention to this beautiful mode of ornamenting the garden? NOTES AND QUERIES, 1, Coffee. —This indispensable accompaniment to every breakfust-table, also the pendant to all regular dinners, by the fashion of the day, is by no means an antique beve rage with the civilized world Few of those who make it and who drink it daily are aware of its origin It ts inknown who frat discovered its present use; but about the middle of the fifteenth century, ‘the best families’ of Arabla began to lutroduce it in thelr meals, and when it reached Mecea, at the close of that century, it met with a host of opponents, theologians and physicians being armed against it as injurious to the constitution, Fifty years after, the fashion beyan to prevall at Constantino ple, and the first coffee-houses were opened ; but, Onding that people were more ready to drink coffee than to say thelr prayers, the faithful were deprived of their new Following the track of commerce, it was iatroduced into Marseilles, and from luxury—at least, in public thence to England, at the close of the sixteenth century The history of its introduction to the West Indies is curious: In 1713, the Dutch Governor of Batavia sent several coffee plants to Amsterdam ; one of them found its way to the Jurdin des Plantes, in Paris, where it was greatly valued as a curiosity. Several plants were raised from it, and one of them was carried to the Island of Martinique by Deliceux. The ship in which he sailed was detained by stress of weather, the company were put on an allowance of watet, and to save tho treasure which was being conveyed to the island, the source of so much wealth as it proved, Deliceux denied himself that which kept the precious plant alive. 2. The Ruling Feminine Passion. —These rough rhymes illustrate, with a certain quaintness, what is ce: tainly the prevailing theme in feminine conversation. Some one suggests—*‘ when it is not sewing-machines."’ “I've heard it said that if, while out a walking, You see two females, aud o'erhear talking, The subjects always are (1 thus indite ‘em) Acquaintances and dross—ad infinitum, Yea, every one, whatever her degree, Talks but of these with strange consistency, The other day, | saw two tramping creatures, Squalid ju lovks, and vile in form and features, GODEY'’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, a eee Dirty, disgusting, marked with inebriety, And a great way outside of all society ; Aud to myself I said: ‘Those horrid witches, Who do not seem to have three decent stitches, And hain’t got any friends ‘mid their distresses, Cannot be talking now of gowns and dresses,’ So, for ten steps, I softly walked behind ‘em, To catch their talk, but never seemed to mind ‘em, And heard this much—then turned to muse upon ite ‘Blue ribbons, mousseline de laine, and bran new bonnet.’ 3. American Housekeeping —There is a little «piteful onesidedness, but mach truth tu the following paragraph by an English letter-writer, We hold up the mirror that our lady friends may correct whatever they may seo amiss in thelr own sphere of action:— ‘Ladies keeping house in America are indeed little better than upperseryants, The whole superintendence of the in-door work depends on them, and very oftea do they assist in all that is going on in laund:y, pantry, nursery, or kitchen, The husbands invariably go to market. No woman does any of that essential business beyond giving an order at the ‘grocery’ or the ‘provision store.’ It is not easy to know the secrets of the scheme of dumostic economy followed by so very close and cautious a community, Buta strict avoidance of need- lesa expense, & great distrust of servants, and @ mean system of locking up and doling out are, I am inelined to believe, its general characteristics, though there, Lam aatinfied, many exceptions exist, The cook is a very indepondeut and irresponsible person ; she has none of the Importance of housekeeping, but she is without tte cares; litthe being required from her, she has little to look after; the meals of the family prepared, her time is her own, Between the regular hours she goes where she chooses, and, if she be & person of the least preten- sions in her profession, she fixes her own time for every- thing, cud upon the slightest deviation from the arrango- ment, Which might Interfere with her plans for golng to meeting on Sunday, or to lectures on week-days, she quits her place without notice, frequently while the dinner is half dressed, and the company waiting fork ’ in vain,’ 4. A Thought for tha Day.—Peace,—Peaco is better than joy tiptoe to depart; it tires and wears us out, aud yet keeps Joy is an uneasy guest, and always on the us ever fearing that the next moment it will be gone, Peace is not so; it comes more quietly, it stays more contentedly, and it never exhausts our strength, nor gives us one anxious forecasting thought. Therefore let us pray for peace. It is the gift of God, promised to all His children ; and if we have it in our hearts weshall not pine for joy, though its bright wings never touch us while we tarry in the world. The peace of God truly passeth all understanding, and to be known must be experienced, Fashions, NOTICE TO LADY SUBSCRIBERS, Havinu had frequent applications for the purchase of jewelry, millinery, ete., by ladies living at a distance, the Editreas of the Fashion Department will hereafter execute commissions for any who may desire it, with the charge of & small percentage for the time and research required, Spring and autumn bonnets, materials for dresses, jJowelry, eo «a on =. 6&2 o>

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it— ew ful aph Tor my ttle do ry, to one lon mo nd ol ‘an ned am ory sof ita to pis oe Ole ry: KO she the rit roof the ule rofl ed, "y FASHIONS. 95 envel ops, hair-work, worsteds, children's wardrobes, man- tillas, and mantelets, will be chosen with a view to econo- my, a* well as taste; and boxes or packages forwarded by express to any part of the country, For the last, distinct directions must be given. Orders, accompanied by checks fur the proposed eapen- diture, to be addressed to the care of L. A, Godey, Eaq. No order will be attended to unlesa the money ia frat received. Neither the Editor nor Publisher will be account- able for loasea that may occur in remitting. Instructions to be as minute as is possible, accompanied by a note of the height, complexiou, and general style of the person, on which much depends in choice. Dress goods from Levy's or Evans & Co.'s; cloaks, mantillas, or tulmas, from Brodie's, 51 Canal Street, New York; bon- 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 JULY. Fig. 1.—Tunile dross of gray and black silk; the under ekirt has alternate flounces, steel gray and black «ilk, pinked ; the uppor skirt is tunic shaped, and trimmed to correspond; the waist is en caur, with frills of the same, edged by bretolles; the sleeves are flounced to correspond, This style of fouuces in alternate colors, black being used with any shade, is much worn the present season, White split straw hat, lined aud trimmed with rowe de rot, Fig. 2.—Dresa for an evening gathering ; the material grenadine striped with black and violet des Alpes; the skirt has Ove founces, seton #0 as to leave @ small head- ing of the same; ornaments of ribbon, in « style we have The corsage in plain, and draped by the Light given before, ribbon: a tucker of lace rises above the drapery, luce headdress, with violets and violet ribbon, Fig. 3.—Dress bardge Anglais, white, shaded with emerald green, the trimming is a ribbou of white and green plaited so that the green appears to alternate with the white, White crape hat, covered by black lace; deep crimson roses, set on in black lace barbes., CHILDREN'S DRESSES, Little girl's dross of challais; the mantle of striped summer poplin, approaching it in color; the hood and trimming of Napoleon blue silk. Hat of white split straw, with a single feather. Little boy. Skirt and open jacket of gray summer poplin. Leghorn hat, with cock’s plume. COIFFURES. (See engravings, pages 4, 5.) COIFFURE FOR A YOUNG LADY, FRONT AND BACK. Tur whole head of hair is parted from the centre of the forehead to the nape of the neck, then a transverse parting is made from ear to ear, so that the hair is di- vided into four equal masses, The two portions of the front hair are arranged in plaitings of three, care being taken to comb the hair back from the forehead, and to include all the front hair in the plaits, The plaiting of each portion of the back hair should commence just above the ear, and the ends must be carefully fastened by silk or very inetwist The plait of back hair on the right hand side is passed across the napo of the neck, and the end fastened by a hair pin, under the root of the plait on the left side, The plait of the left side of the back hair is brought round tothe right side, and fastened in the same manner; and thus the two plaits cross each other at the back of the neck, The plaits of the front hair are then brought round to the back of the neck, where the ends are fastened under the crossing of the plaite of back hair. COIFFURE FOR BALL COSTUME, OR VERY FULL EVENING- DRESS, FRONT AND BACK, In front, this coiffure shows the hair disposed in three rouleaux, terminating in long ringlets. Between those long ringlets, and also behind the cars, are several ring- lets of shorter length. The back hair is arranged ina cluster of five loops, to form which the hair istied firmly at the back of the head, and divided into five portions. The centre loop at the back of the neck is very long, aud the two at each «ide of shorter length. The ends of the hair are twisted round the tle at the back of the head, and concealed beneath an ornament of beads suspended from the top of the comb. Amidst the ringlets and rouleaux of the front hair are interspersed small stars and other brilliant ornaments, which, belng fixed on elastic pina, are eet in motion by every turn of the wearer's head, thereby producing a most elegant and showy effect, The same kind of pins are employed for fixing the tufte of white feathers, which add much tothe grace and dignity of the colffure, The jewelled agraffe worn in the centre .f the forehead should correspond with the other ornaments of the headdress, NEW STYLES OF APRONS, (See engravinga, pages 6, 7.) The Arabella apron is made of black moire antiqne, trimmed with black velvet ribbon, three inches wide, finished at each edge by a narrow black lace; macaroons or rosette buttons, graduated in size, are placed at the sides of the apron; a girdle confines it at the walat, The Clementina,—The materials are silk, lace, narrow velvet, and buttons, The lace is inserted, and finished with the velvet ribbon, which is very effective and pretty. The Diana \s gored a little at the sides, and trimmed with a piece of bias silk, four inches in width, bound on each edge, and laid on theapron. The belt is something novel ; it fastens at the side with a large jet buckle and loops of ribbon with long ends, fringed. The ribbon has also the edges bound with velvet. The Floria,—This shell-shaped apron is something quite new. The ruftieis made of silk, pinked and sewed on in shells; macaroons or rosette buttons finish each shell. CHILDREN'S DRESSES. (See engravings, page §.) Fig. 1.—This dress is made of white pigué, trimmed with Marseilles braid, and braided with narrow em- broidery braid ; the edges of the bretelles are scalloped Fig. 2.—This little dress is prettily made of silk or wash goods. The side stripes and trimming of the body should be ofa diferent color from the dress Patterns for either of the above dresses cau be had of the Fashion Editress

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GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, NEW BTYLE OF GIRDLE. (See engraving, page 9.) Tia new atylo of girdle is much liked ; it can be, made of the same material as the dress, or else of silk of some cvlor to form # good contrast with the dress, CHITCHAT UPON NEW YORK AND PHILADEL- PHIA FASHIONS, FOR JULY. ALTHoven most of the gayor portion of the residents in our cities are at this moment absent, the dresses in which they adorn the fashionable watering-places were purchased and made up before their departure, and our heading, therefore, is not inappropriate, while we do- neribe the more elegant part of the wardrobos prepared for the springs aud soa-side, For dinner and evening-dresses, unloss it be for some hop more brilliant than usual, organdies, gronadines, and gage de Inde, in robes, or made up from the piece, present such a beauty and variety, the presont season, that tarletans and other materials as ephemeral are re- served for full dress, strictly speaking. Barége Anglaise is also very much in favor for general serviceable wear. Among the best of Stewart's importations of this style of dross, we find a robe tn five dounces of good width, the ground being white, with short, broken lines of black completely covering it, and giving a grayish effect; pansies, without follage, tu their original colors, are sprinkled in a double row along the edge of the founce, while scallops of black, giving the appearance of needle-work, but in reality only printed, fuish It tastefully, A shawl of moderate «ize, with a similar border and plain grayish contre, makes an excellent dress for plazza promenades, and the whole costume ts ju simple and excellent taste, Another robe of the same material has five flounces also, the ground being gray, with still smaller black lines, and each flounce having a border of white with the same edging it, inclosed in two plain lines of brown, while through the white centre are groups of detached flowers in bright natural colors, A mautle of the plain xraylsh centre accompanies this dresa, instead of the shawl before described, It has one deep flounce of the same, With a small puff as heading. Still another in the same material, in seven flounces., The pattern is large blue polka spots, a single row of each near the edge of the ounces and shawl the latter Laving an ornament fo:med of them in the upper point. A fourth, with small bunches of blue forget-me-not eeattered all over it. An upper skirt reaches to the top of four narrow flounces. The sleeves have two puffs and a flounce edged with a puff of the same. The plain corsage is cut quite low and round iu front, edged with a puffing similar to that on the sleeves. A chemisette of black lace over white extends to the throat. A grenadine robe, the ground being violet dea Alpea, the pattern lilies of the valley in white, with a lace border, having the effect of a handsome point, running all around, This is made up oxpressly for evening dress, the sleeve consisting of one puff, with a flounce of the border. Corsage low, edged by a puff of ribbon violet dea Alpea, which ends in a flat bow in front; waist round, with a ribbon belt and rich gold clasp. Dress for evening, of perfeet'y plain white grenadine. The under skirt bas three flounces of moderate width ; the upper one is perfectly plain. There is no pattern, no edge of any description, to the flounces, sleeves, or walst—the richness of the material oLviates it—with the exception of a rich satin ribbon, alse of plain white, which forms the heading of the berthé, and has a bow on each shoulder and in the centre of the corsage, brace- lots and belt-elasp of gold, set with red coral, The gage de Inde, or mualin de sole, is a very thin allk tissue, much like the old-fashioned India and China gauges, still to be found at Fountain’s, They are oven handsomer, as the colors are brighter, but of course by no means so durable, They are usually in robes, or with stripes or cheques of some bright color on a white ground, We have already described the organdies at length, withabundant illustrations, See May and June numbers, Mantles like the dress having become so much the atyle, Brodie's numerous customers find at his establish- ment the popula: materials for travelling and street dress, at the prices of the principal shops, so that they can have thelr mantillas at the establishment, and send the material of the dress to their own mantuamaker, Brodio's mantles in barége Anglais are prettily trimmed with contrasting colors and camel's hair ornaments, and have an excellent effect, worn with a dress of the same material, or, indeed, as an undress summer mantle, with almost anything. His laces are this year very handsome, the designs and shapes both new and excel- lent. The principal new styles are the Empresa, which has a pointed yoke, with a very deep flounce falling from it; the Sulferino, a rounded yoke, with a narrow flounce ; below this a deep fall of lace almost touches the hem of the dress; the Bugénie, a square shawl, the under potnt rounded, The Ploermel has @ long, round yoke, high in the neck, en tublier in front; the very deep flounce or skirt of lace falls over the arm, with the effect of a sleeve We might multiply shapes and styles to suit the fancy of all, the laces being Damascus, Pusher, Cambrai, and a now Italian lace considered as good as Chantilly, Cer- tainly, it requires the most practised eye and touch to distinguish some of the costlier of these laces from the ‘distracting points’’—over which ladies go in raptures, and their husbands into the sulks—such as Brodie also displays, ranging from $125 and upwards in price. In Chantilly, which is of permanent value, the shapes chanye less, the shawl] or point remaining in favor. For those who have been accustomed to be attended for years past by those in charge of the different depart- ments of Genin'’s Bazaar, we make a note of the present position of their old favorites, who will receive their ordersasusual. Mr. Genin himself conducts in his usual lavish and elegant style the branch including children's hats and caps, and misses’ hats; the same tasteful hands still preside over this department. Mr. Myers, so longa favorite iu the straw and beaver hats, Mr. Bowden of the shoe department, and Mr. Deuscher, with hosiery, gloves, ete., have united in a miniature bazaar, beautifully neat and tasteful, and may be found at 303 Canal 8t., nearly opposite Brodie’s; we especially commend them to their old friends. The children’s outfitting department, with the artistes who furnished it, is merged into the large establishment of Lord & Taylor. Mrs. Scofield's well known establishment, Broadway, and the new house of Mesdames Picot & Wilkinson, 651, the tasteful bonnets for dress and promenade, will receive more especial at- tention in our next; both of them having & representa- tion of old friends to the customers of the ever to be regretted Genin's Bazaar. The cap crown is no longer considered in the best taste; summer hats in the best materials, and the eost- lier straws being made up with round crowns. But we must reserve details for the month of August. FAsuioy,

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“yst[Aqs A]Sutpedoxe st puv ‘apeur Ajisve st 4] “ANS OY} JO eYNA peyuid puv payng v YIM ‘HTIS Jo OpvuU SI MIONT ay 7 *Susaps0g oy eaoqe paoyid si oyoNs Jo [44s OULeS Oy} f UOQQIA UTWYS YOVIq JO OYONA B YIIA PUNO. pomutty ee ory ‘syoyood ox} SuLI0J OST’ [vLLazEUT SIT} ‘ OpLA SoyouT xIs ynoqe UQUs poeduITys Jo aoa] v YIIM W10}}0q EY} Ww peseps0g ‘ALIS You Jo opvar & vddipyyz ay 7 ‘VIDQT FHL ‘VddITIHd ZHL ‘SNOUGV AO SHATALS MAN 100

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INSERTING FOR A CHILD'S DRESS. COODOADODOS 0000 09000000000000000 9000 009000000000000 Oo OD @ OO © O-O O ) oO Oo Dd OO OD OO CEQ 009Q00000000000 199900000000000000000000 - LA BELLE. (See description, page 191.) 9* 102

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102 LA MATRONE.—(Sce description, page 191.) binsi4e\y 4h V4 i ‘\ WITTY [1

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WORK FOR A PILLOW-CASE, TO BE PUT ABOVE THE HEM. a8 8 B Oo 8 pS oY & “3 %g 858g 6s LA PRINCESSE. (See description, page 191.) 2) eto se" tf ° 103

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TTIW \) aT * rr MAT FOR A VASE OR FLOWER-GLASS. . 4 (See description, page 167.) ei I fc B. 104 ty)

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NIGHT SOCK. SAA AAS ~ Muateriale.—Three ounces of white four-thread fleecy wool; four pins, No. 15. Cast on twenty-f »r loops. On each of three p. » knit two pearl, two plain, alternately for twenty-four rounds; then knit one nail in length plain knitting, pearling the centre stitch on one pin for the back seam; divide the loops in half, arrange thirty-six on one pin, the back seam in the centre, and thirty-six on the other two pins. Now form the heel, by knitting the loops on the one pin for one nail and a half more in length, narrowing in the last three rows on each side of the seam. Knit to the seam stitch, double the heel, and cast off. Take up the loops on each side on the third pin, increasing by making a stitch after every fourth ; knit these loops with those on the instep, narrowing at each side in every alternate round for twenty-six rounds. Knit one nail and a half more for the foot ; then narrow for the toe as follows: Knit two together two loops from the beginning and end of each of the side pins, till reduced to a point. 105

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PATTERNS IN EMBROIDERY.

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a= pao i) , , ™ Ch eae ~~? As Ohh ht HA a ce er eee FS - THE BEDOUIN D’ETE. [From the establishment of G. Bropre, 51 Canal Street, New York. Drawn by L. T. Voror, from actual articles of costume.) Tris garment has obtained much favor; it is unique in style, and its capaciousness has ren- dered it very popular. The one we illustrate is made of a light summer tissue. Its peculiarit consists in the mode in which the stuff falls down the back, it being the angle which would, if it was fitted to the figure, be cut away; the stuff being simply folded straight up the back. We give the above asa variety, but the fashion, par excellence, is of course some of the various — we mentioned in our last. 08 “ha « A tury una ance in h tieth aD @ “Tn slept to V went of th thorn out ¢ overt arriy Vice | coach passi: in my in go leadiy Would boors v