Godey's Lady's Book And Magazine 1862-01: Vol 64

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GODEY’S Wadys Book and Alagusine PHILADELPHIA, JANUARY, 1862. THE DEED OF THE DARWIN HOMESTEAD. BY VIRGINIA F, TOWNSEND. **Nkver, Mrs. Pierson, never!’ exclaimed old Squire Darwin, in a voice of thunder; and he set down his foot upon the floor in a way to emphasize the voice. ‘‘I will never leave one dollar of my pfoperty to Edward Darwin, or any of his heirs. My mind has long been set- tled there.’ **Wall, Squire Darwin, of course you ’ll do with your own property as you think best; still, it seems to me,that when a man is standin’ only a few days this side of the grave, he’d better lay down his enmities and heart-burnin’s afore he gets farther, as they ’ll only be a sor- row and burden to him if they’re carried be- yond.”’ She said it without fear or flinching, the little, brave, black-eyed woman, and she looked the proud, indomitable old man steadily in the face as she spoke. Old Squire Darwin winced a little. These words were facts which there was no getting aside, and they confronted him now with terrible earnestness. He looked at the calm, kindiy face of his gardener’s wife, the only human being who would so fearlessly have told lim the truth. For once the proud spirit of the old man recoiled§ and when the answer came at last, there was a change in the tones which told that the little woman’s words had struck home. *‘IT came to this conchsion years ago, Mrs. Pierson, and a man isn’t going to alter his mind, if he’s mafe it up in perfect health and strength, because he’s where you say I am— near the grave.”’ **T don’t know about that are, Squire Darwin; it’s my opinion that my grandmother told the truth when she said to me, a few hours afore VOL. LXIV.—o her death: “Jane, you may depend on’t the Lord opens our eyes when we get near the close of ovr journey as He never does before, and we see all our living in a different way, and can tell where, if we had time, we’d alter things, and do jest contrary to what we have done, for the last sight is the best and truest.’ ”’ Squire Darwin did not speak ; he leaned his head back among the cushions, and looked at the roses, which had just begun to open their great vases of pearl and ruby by the window, for it was in the early June; and the air was full of the sweet spices of their breath, and the scent of those blossoming roses brought over the old man’s soul a wind from the land of his youth, a soft, perfuming wird, stealing up and down the dark, silent pathways of his heart. Mrs. Pierson looked in his face, and she saw the little change which had come over it; and, plain, hard-working, uncultivated wo- man though she was, she had the quick, sympa- thetic instincts which a good heart and native acuteness bestow. ‘*Squire Darwin, your brother Edward was several years younger than you, wasn’t he ?’’ It was years since any one had dared men- tion the name of Edward Darwin in his bro- ther’s presence. The old man started, and a shadow that was like a frown came and went on his face, but in a moment he answered: ‘* He was five years younger than I.”’ ‘* And there was no more of you; he was all the brother you had ?”’ ** He was all,”? answere Squire Darwin. After this there wes a little pause. **Old Mrs. Johnson passed the day at our house last week,’’ resumed the clear, steadily- or «J

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96 poised voice of the gardener’s wife, as she drew out a small linen collar from her pocket, and carefully pared the edges. ‘‘ Perhaps you re- member that she nursed your mother through a long fever when you were about fifteen years old ?”’ ‘“Yes, I remember,’’ said the Squire, with a little show of interest. ** Wall, she got to talking about your folks, and her mind was particularly set on your little brother, as he was at that time. He must have been a very handsome child, Squire; I declare, as she described him, I could almost see him, with his thick, shinin’ curls of brown hair, dippin’ about here and there, and his great blue eyes, full of a laugh as these June mornings are of sunshine, and his lips like the roses yon- der, and his cheeks like the carnations in my front yard. No wonder your mother was so bound up in him,”’ Squire Darwin moved uneasily in his chair, and far off in the east-land of his life he saw standing the small figure and bright face of the Aud over all the years of pride and bitterness which lay between, brother of his boyhood. his memory swept for a moment, and he forgot the hatred lying deep in his heart as he said: “Yes, Edward was a remarkably handsome child.”’ **He was like nis mother, so the old woman said,’ pursued Mrs. Pierson, with the rapid click of her scissors between every few words ; But I tell you it sort of touched me, Squire, when Mrs. ook ‘fand yout after your father. Johnson told me of that one mornin’ when Ed- ward started t6 go to the district school for the first time. little fellow looked, in his blue cap and white trousers, as he stood on the great brown step She said she could see jest how the by the side door yonder, with his bright brown curls clustering round his head, and his little hands slipped into, yours, and your mother a standin’ in the door a watchin’ you with eyes jest as full of love and pride; and how, when you both got to the front gate, Edward turned back, and called out—‘ Don’t be afraid, mam- It’s a little thing to speak of, Squire, but somehow ma; Robert will take good care of me.’ I thought it was touchin’, and it’s pleasant to bring back the old days once in a while to our remembrance.’’ The old man had leaned forward a little and drank Mrs. He forgot that sixty-nine toilsome years had blos- in Pierson’s words greedily. somed in his gray hairs an@ burdened his steps ; he was once more a young boy standing by the the doors in his heart creaked es; garden gat GODEY’S LAPY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. on their hard and rusty hinges, the wind blew up stronger from the land of his youth, and penetrated with its sweet, mysterious perfumes the hidden places of his soul, and his whole frame vibrated to the old memories; the stern eld man was a boy once more. ‘*T remember it all, Mrs. Pierson,’ he said ; and the flash of his eyes and the flush of his ‘face said more. “And then,’’ pursued the little woman, while the click of her scissors grew fainter, ‘*Mrs. Johnson told me all about the time when you came so near losing your life, Squire. It was a great piece of imprudence for you to take that little painted shell of a boat, and start out on Mill River, with nobody but your little brother; it was nigh a miracle that you ever got back.”’ ‘*T never shouid, if—’’ said Squire Darwin, and then he stopped suddenly, and a pang shot through his heart, a pang of memory and re- morse. He drew his breath with a gasp. “Yes, I know,” resumed Mrs. Pierson. ‘ But, Squire, he was a brave, noble little fellow, to risk his life as he did for yours when the boat went under. And to think of his catchin’ hold of you by the hair of your head, and swimming to the shore! Mrs. Johnson says he was allers jest like a duck after the water.” Squire Darwin did not spgak now ; his hands shook as though they were struck with a sud- den palsy, as he leaned them on the table, and a faint groan came to Mrs. Pierson’s ear. It gladdened the heart of the gardener’s wife to hear it, for she knew that the long winter was at last breaking up in the old man’s soul, and her voice resumed, after a few minutes* silence— ‘The old woman said it was the most af- fectin’ sight she could remember, when your mother came runnin’ into the fisherman’s cot- tage by the riverside, for it appears she’d got word that both her boys had got into the water, and she didn’t know but one or both on ’em was drowned. Her face was jest as white as the dead, and Mrs. Johnfon said she had never forgot the sound of her voice as she asked, ‘ Are my boys alive ?? They was all in the bedroom, where you had just come to, though yoy was too weak to speak a toud word, but Edward, who sat near the bed wrapped up in some warm blankets, and shiverin’ as th6ugh it was in the dead of winter, cried right out, ‘ Yes, mother, we’re both here!’ And the old woman tried to tell about your all meetin’ in the bedroom, but she broke down there, and couldn’t get on with another word. Finally she told me your

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_ or v= THE DEED OF mother asked, when she ’d got a little calmer, And you lifted up your head, and pointed to Edward ; and so she was answered. But it was a good while before she could believe it, and at last she cried like a child and said, ‘Oh, my boys, you will never forget this day, wili you?’ And ‘Who was it saved you, Robert?’ you both promised her ‘ Never!’ ” ‘* Don’t, Mrs. Pierson, don’t!’’ There was a sharp plaint of agony in the Squire’s voice, and the face which he lifted up worked a moment fearfully. across the room, slowly and painfully, but his He rose and walked once or twice large frame shook as though he was in the midst of a great storm. Then he flung himself down in his chair, and the tempest broke where for so many years there had been a great ealm. ‘Oh, Edward, my brother Edward !”’ groaned Squire Darwin; and, bowing his face on his hands, the tears poured over his cheeks. He saw only the dearly beloved brother of his boyhood; he forgot all the anger, and bitter- ness, and revenge which lay in the later years ; he was once more in the fisherman’s cottage, and his little brown-haired brother had just saved him from a watery grave. Mrs. Pierson was a wise woman; she sat * still while the storm went over the soul of Squire Darwin, and it was not a brief one. At last she folded up her sewing, and said, quietly: ‘It’s about time for me to get home and set about the children’s supper, and I’ve only got a word more to say, Squire, on all we ’ve been talk- ing about. I don’t know whether your brother Edward is above the growhd or under it this day; but because I’m the only one on earth that’s got the courage to speak the truth’ to you, and because I can see plainly that you ’re droppin’ into the grave from which he saved you when he was a little boy, I beseech you to pause and consider afore you cut off Edward We owe somethin’ to our nearest of kin, and it may be that you ‘ll stand face to face in a little while with your father and mother, and they won’t Darwin and his heirs from your will. have forgot their boy if you have, and, Squire, when they ask you about him, it’ll come hard to answer; and if you’ve left him or his in poverty on the earth, it won't make it any easier for you up there.” And Mrs. Pierson left the room, and the old man was alone. The long summer day turned its golden feet slowly towards the night, tlie wind from the sea came softly through the meadows and mingled with the spicy breath of the roses, while, unconscious of all these things, Squire Darwin walked up and down his room THE DARWIN HOMESTEAD. 27 until the twilight deepened about him, for his thoughts wound their green tendrils around golden ladders, which were the days of his youth. One by one the doors rolled open in those far- off years, one by one into goodly chambers, and hidden closets, and up long winding stairs, and through the old corridors and byways where the dust lay and the doors creaked, went the soul of Squire Darwin, strong and joyful as in its youth; and, wherever he went, there stood still before him or walked by his side the beau- tiful brother of his boyhood; in every picture the laughing blue eyes, the sweet white face repeated itself, and at last Squire Darwin sat down in his arm-chair and reached out his arms to the sweet hovering face. ‘‘ Edward, he said, in just #9? little Edward, come to me! such broken, yearning tones a mother would say it over the child she had lost for an hour, and was longing to take and hug up to her heart, and ease the great hunger of her love with caresses ; and it seemed to the old man that the smiling face leaned forward, that the young arms clasped themselves about his neck, and the bright hair strayed over his shoulder ; he held it tight to his breast, that dream ef his brother, and the tears showered hot over his cheeks once more, and they fell upon his heart like a spring freshet, bearing down and washing away the strong bulwarks of pride and bitter- ness, and the ice that had so long covered the fields, and made winter of the life of Squire Darwin, melted away. At last the tears ceased ; the old man leaned back in his chair and tried to recall the later years, the strife, the separa- tion, and the hatred which had blighted them ; but somehow all these things vanished, and his thoughts still went back to his young brother, to their happy boyhood, and that young face still rose up before him, blurring all other scenes, and still the heart of the old man yearned to- ward his brother. ‘*T wonder where you are to-night, Edward,”’ he murmured, ‘‘and if you look like the little boy as you used to. I can’t believe that the years have told on you as they have on me; I can only gee you as I did when we used fo chase each other through the low meadows, on our way to school, in the summer mornings. I wish you were here to-night, and could talk of the old times when we went hunting and fishing together. Do you remember it, little brother, and how our mother used to stand ‘at the back door with the smile on her lips, and the love in her eyes? It is a long, long time since your feet crossed the threshold of the old place. There's a heavy account somewhere to settle,

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but let it go, boy, let it go. You shall have the old homestead, Edward, for I sha’n’t have any use for it much longer; I’m going to a house whose roof is the lowest and narrowest that a man ever sleeps under; and it’s only fair that the old house where we first opened our eyes, and grew up to manhood together, should be yours, and it shall this very night, Edward, my brother Edward And then the old Squire rang for lights and for supper, and "9? the servant wondered at the change which had come over his master—at the new light in his face, and the vigor in his tones. That night Squire Darwin sent for his lawyer; and, before he slept, his will was drawn up, and duly witnessed and sigued. The dawn was just building the basements of the new day in the east. The foundations were laid with pearl, which here and there began to be veined with a faint flush of pink, like the blush from some pleasant dream dawning into the cheek of a sleeping child. Mrs. Pierson had just opened her kitchen door. The little woman stood still a moment and listened to the song of the robins in the great pear trees, whose long branches swept her cottage roof; and just as she was turning away, Squire Darwin’s errand-boy stood white aud panting on her threshold. “Why, Sam, what has sent you over here, at this hour ?’’ ** Squire Darwin has had another poor turn. They think he may drop off any minute; but he’s revived a little, and asked for you!”’ Mrs. Pierson was not long in making her way over to the white stone house. Its master lay in the front chamber with the doctor, and the frightened servants gathered about him; but Mrs. Pierson knew, with her first glance into the white face and the glaring eyes, that of them too must soon be spoken those final words which close the last chapter of every human life. The old man’s eyes opened slowly, as the soft step of the gardener’s wife approached the bed on which he lay; a new light flickered across He took the brown, thin hand in his white, cold one. the dimness which filled them. ‘*Mrs. Pierson,’’ said Squire Darwin, and his voice was almost like the voice of his youth, Last night I made over the Darwin Homestead to my brother Kdward.”’ **Thank God! thank God!’’ broke from the lips of the little woman, as the jets of tears did ‘*T have done as you told me. over her face. ** You were right now ;” and the shrivelled, GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. dying fingers tightened on the warm, living ones. ‘It is better to drop the burden this side the grave—it would have been very heavy to carry it beyond.”’ ‘*And you forgive him and all others who may have wronged you?” eagerly interposed Mrs. Pierson, beuding down her head to the old man’s face. ‘* As I hope that God may forgive me!’’ And these were the last words which ever moved the lips of Squire Darwin. Forty years before had the difficulty tran- spired betwixt Robert and Edward Darwin, which had embittered the lives of both, and turned their love There was nodoubt that the greater share of the wrong lay with the elder brother ; for his father had died without making a will, and he managed into fierce hatred. to get most of the property into his own hands. Edward Darwin was a sensitive, thoughtful, studious man, wholly unlike his practical, energetic brother; and in a little while he sold the land he had inherited, and removed to the city. His brother had frequently urged him to sell his portion of the estate, and offered him a higher price than the one he at last received ; but Edward felt himself aggrieved and insulted by his brother’s conduct, and allowed the pro- perty to pass into other hands. The alienation of the brothers, which had commenced on their father’s death, was thenceforth complete, and for twenty years Squire Darwin had not known whether the name of his brother was written among the living or the dead. ‘‘Twenty-nine days more! Oh, Algernon, it is for your sake that they seem so long, and so slow.’’ And the girl, who had spoken these words in tones that held a strange quiver of pathos and. pain, threw herself down by the lounge. The slight limbs of the youth who lay there, stirred, and lifted themselves alittle. A smile gleamed about the white lips, and was recipro- cated by the large, deep, azure eyes above them. ‘¢You are the best sister in the whole world, Margaret,” said the invalid, ‘‘ but I see that you are wearing yourself to death on my ac- count, and that is harder than all the rest I have to bear.”’ ‘* Don’t think about me, Algernon. I know that every hour is precious now, that your very life depends upon your getting off into the country, and to think I must see you languish- ing here through these long four weeks, before my term closes, and I can get the meney to take us where we can see the green fields once more.”

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we THE DEED OF THE ‘““Oh, I long for a sight of them!’ and the white face of Algernon Darwin kindled like an alabaster vase, within which a perfumed lamp is set suddenly. ‘Oh, I long for a sight of them! How good it willseem, Margaret, to get out of this hot, close, noisy place, and to feel the cool breath of the mountain winds on my forehead! The very thought of them is like ¢ dream of my lost health come back to me.”’ ‘Poor Algernon!’’? and Margaret Darwin’s fingers slipped themselves like flakes of moon- light through the crisp, brown hair that shaded the transparent brow of her brother. ** You look as if you ought to say ‘ Poor Mar- garet’ instead. Why, the roses that used to be in your cheeks are all gone; and your face is so thin and changed, my heart aches to look at it!’ “Oh, you mustn’t fancy that I’m not well enough, Algernon; but it’s hard, oh, so hard to see you lying here, and to think that the winds and the sunshine may be had for the asking, and we can’t get to them. g If we only had some friend to help us—but we ’re all alone in the world.” ** But we ’ve got each other ;’’ and the youth threw his arm around the small white neck on which, like a half-drooping lily, rested the beautiful head of Margaret Darwin. ‘“‘f know that. Oh, Algernoa, a little while ago, I thought I should be all alone, and that you would go to our father and mother !”’ The August sunlight poured a flood of golden wine into the chamber where the brother and the sister strove to comfort each other. It was a room in the third story of a tall, brick tenement in the heart of a great city, and in the narrow street below, one could hear all day the jarring din of wheels, the tramp of the crowd, and all the harsh sounds which throb along the iron pulses of a large city. The chamber was fur- nished very plainly; a dark ingrain carpet, a table, and a few chairs, with the lounge in the corner, were its principal appointments. Margaret and Algernon Darwin had seen their father covered up ten, and their mother three years before. The long illness of the latter had exhausted the few hundred dollars which re- mained of her husband’s property, and the young girl found her brother and herself de- pendent upon her own exertions fora livelihood. She had a brave heart,*and she came to the city, and with her fine talents soon obtained a situation as music-teacher in a large seminary. Algernon inherited the studious tastes and delicate physique of his father. He could not see, without acute pain, that 3* DARWIN HOMESTEAD. 29 his fair young sister was exerting herself be- yond her strength for their maintenance, and he at last procured a situation as bookkeeper in a mercantile establishment. But the close confinement proved too much for him; and a cold, which brought on a severe cough, at last compelled the young man to resign his situation. But he did not recuperate. Each day took something from his strength, until he was un- able to leave his lounge, and Margaret feared that her brother’s days numbered few. For a long time the physician gave them no hope; but, in the late summer, the invalid’s cough abated; and though he was weak as an infant, and had come so very near the gates of death, the doctor hoped that, with country air and diet, his youth would triumph, and that Algernon Darwin would be given back to the love of his sister. But Margaret had not ten dollars in the world to accomplish her brother’s removal into the country, and every hour was No wonder that .the heart of Margaret Darwin failed her, as she looked on the white face of her brother, that afternoon, on precious now. her return from school, and counted the days whose slow feet must pass by before she would reach the close of her term. There came a loud, rapid knock at the door, and Algernon drew his arm away, and Margaret went to answer it. She did not recognize the two strange gentlemen who stood there and scrutinized her face till the lost roses glowed back in her cheeks. ‘Can you tell us anything of Mr. Edward Darwin, formerly of Hampton?’ asked one of the gentlemen. sé ’ I am his daughter, sir.’ ‘Tt is only necessary to prove this, and you are the heiress to the estate of your uncle, your father’s brother, Squire Robert Darwin !”’ The roses went out of the girl’s cheeks now, quickly as they had bldssomed there, and a look of utter bewilderment filled the sweet eyes of Margaret Darwin. The gentlemen saw that the They so- licited permission to enter the chamber, and as news had completely overcome her. they walked in, the white face and burning eyes of Algernon Darwin were lifted eagerly toward them. ‘*He is my brother,’”’ said Margaret. **You will not be able to bear the tidings which we bring you?” asked one of the visitors ; and his face was full of curious solicitude, as he looked on the young invalid. **Pon’t mind me, sir,’? gasped the young man. ‘It is probable there is some mistake.” ‘* We shall be able to prove whether there

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80 , be in a moment;’’ and then turning to their young hostess, the gentlemen inquired whether she had ever heard her father speak of an elder brother of his—Squire Robert Darwin, of Hampton ? ** Oh, father’s native place, and he was the younger son of Colonel Josiah Darwin, of Hampton ; but very often, sir. Hampton was my —but there was some serious difficulty betwixt my father and his brother, and papa andmamma left their native place more than thirty years ago.”’ The elder of the gentlemen brought down his hand on the table. ‘*We have found you at last,’? he said. ‘*My brother was Squire Dar- win’s lawyer, and appointed executor of his will. We have advertised for the heirs for the last two months, and came upon you by the merest accident. I called at the seminary this afternoon, on some business, with my friend who accompanies me, and during an interview with the principal, she spoke of her music- teacher, Miss Darwin. The name struck me at once; I made a few inquiries, and obtained your address, and Iam here now to congratulate you, for there is no doubt, my young friends, that you can establish your claims; and the will of Squire Darwin places you in immediate possession of the Darwin Homestead, and the landg about it, worth, at least, seventy-five thousand dollars.’’ The gentlemen did not remain long afterward. There was something in the manner of the bro- ther and sister which made them feel that it was best they should be alone; but they took leave of them with many expressions of inte- rest and kindness, and promised to call the next morning. The good tidings had come too suddenly. Human capacity for joy or sorrow is limited. As soon as Margaret had closed the door on her guests, she returned to Algernon. The brother and sister looked in each other’s faces a mo- ment, with eyes full of bewilderment. Marga- ret crept up to Algernon, and put down her white cheek to his. ‘‘ ‘knew we were dream- ing all the time, Algernon,’’ she whispered. ‘*Oh, it was too good to be true. We shall wake up ina little while.”’ ‘* Yes, we shall wake up in a little while. It is too good to be true—and yet, if it might be!”’ answered the boy, in a dreamy way, for his long illness, and this sudden excitement, had proved too much for him, and in a few moments lie fell into a deep sleep, and Margaret listened fora while to his soft breathing, and then, rising up, she folded a thin coverlet about him, for GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, the summer night was sultry, and went to her own small chamber, and flung herself down on the bed, intending to think over the events of the afternoon; but her thoughts wandering to and fro, through dark alleys, and among old, mournful memories, and the present, which she tried to grasp, faded away from the girl, and at last she, too, fell into deep slumber. The sun was shining brightly when she awoke. A night of sweet sleep had restored her mind to its usual healthful poise, and when the previous day swept back on her memory, Margaret did not say that it A few hours later, Mr. Grainger, the brother was all a dream. of her uncle’s lawyer, called to see her. It was arranged, then, that the brother and sister should leave the following day for Hampton, as their presence would be necessary to make good their right to the property. Mr. Grainger kindly promised to assist them all in his power, and it was concluded that Algernon would be able to endpre the journey by easy stages. ‘*Margaret, come here to me,’’ said Alger- non, as he heard the footsteps of their guests on the stairs; and he sat up on the couch, and in the hollow of each white cheek burned the red blood once more. ‘‘It is not all a dream, is it, sweet sister? Shall I go into the country once more, and hear the birds sing, and see the great trees, and drink in the fresh air that I thirst for once more ?’’ and his greedy eyes fastened themselves on her face imploringly. ** Yes, darling, youshall have all these things. It is not a dream, as I thought, but a great, blessed truth that God has sent us!” And then the brother and sister wept to- gether tears of joy over the gift which the dead had left to them. Three months had passed. The last days of November were hanging like a pale, golden fringe on the skirt of winter, and the great trees, around the old Darwin Homestead, stood tall and bare, shaking a few sodden leaves to the ground, whenever the wind walked through their branches. In the old sitting-room, Mar. garet and Algernon Darwin stood near the wood fire, whose crimson flames gave a pictur- esque glow to the old-fashioned furniture, and formed a vivid contrast with the day out- side. Mrs. Pierson sat in her old place by the window, hemming some curtains, for the gar- dener’s wife still found her services indispen- sable in the old gray stone house. “‘Ifow well you are looking, Algernon. I

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THE DEED OF hardly know this changed face of yours !’’ said Margaret Darwin, looking up to it, tenderly. “That ride over to the creek this morning hag put new life into me. Oh, Margaret, it seems good to be well once more.”’ The bright color had returned to the young man’s lips now, and the cheeks had rounded to soft, oval outlines. Algernon leaned his head down a moment on his sister’s shoulder, and then lifted it suddenly. **Come, sis, let’s have a song together,’’ glancing toward the piano, ip one corner, which, with some mantel ornaments, were the only new articles that had been added to the room since Squire Darwin had left it. ‘It’s fitting that this day should go from us with sweet songs, because it has brought us so many fair and pleasant gifts.”’ Margaret did not answer. She stood looking into the dancing flames with a dreamy, ab- sorbed expression, Algernon bent down, and gazed into her face. ‘* What are you thinking of, Margery, sweet 7 999 Margery he asked, playfully pulling one of her curls. ‘*Of two matters, Algernon. One was how easily we slip into a pleasant life, and how soon it becomes easy and natural to us; and the other was—’’ ‘*Was what ?’’ ‘* Was, what could have made Uncle leave us his property, when he was so bitter an Robert enemy to papa for so many years !” ‘*T have myself wondered over that a great many times of late. Mrs. Pierson,’’ suddenly toward the window, ‘‘ you were with turning our uncle a great deal during the last days of his life. Can you tell us what so softened his heart toward us ?”’ The little woman hesitated, and at last stam- mered, ‘‘[ suppose he came to see things dif- ferently in his last hours. You know people have clearer eyes when they come to look over the long path of their life then.” This was too general an answer to satisfy the The curiosity of both was to Mrs. Pierson, and said, earnestly, ‘‘1f you know brother or the sister. arcused. Margaret went over anything of this matter, and we feel you do, don’t fail te Thus appealed to, Mrs. Pierson complied ; tell us; it is our right to know.”’ and, with a good deal of embarrassment, she related her last, long conversation with Squire Darwin. Her voice broke down many times during the narrative, and the brother and sister were weeping together before she con- ciuded. i THE DARWIN 31 HOMESTEAD. ‘* And it is to you, after all, dear Mrs. Pier son, that we owe the deed of the Darwin Home- stead !’’ said Algernon, at last, breaking a long “Oh, how shall we ever be able to ig silence. repay you ‘* How, indeed ?”’ sobbed his sister. ‘*My dear children, not to me, but to God, who softened the hard heart of your uncle at the last, do you owe all that has come to you.” The November night had let down its dark Mrs. Pierson could not see the young faces turned toward her, but their voices, soft and tremulous curtains about them long before this. with gratitude, reached her— **To God, and to you—we owe it!” 1-8 No Moruer.—She has no mother! Whata volume of sorrowful truth is comprised in that We must go far single sentence—no mother ! down the hard, rough paths of life, and become inured to care and sorrow in their sternest form before we can take home to our experience the dreadful reality—no morueRr—without a strug- gle. But when it is said of a frail young girl, just passing from childhood toward the life of woman, how sad is the story summed up in that one short sentence. Who shall administer the needed counsel—who shall check the way- ward fancies—who shall bear with the errors and failings of the motherless girl ? Deal gently with the child. Let not the eup of sorrow be overfilled by the harshness of your bearing, Is she heedless in her doings ? Is she careless in or your unsympathizing coldness. Remember, oh, remember When her companions are Does her movements ? she has no mother! gay and joyous, does she sit sorrowing? she pass with a downcast eye and languid step, when you would fain witness the gushing of youth? Chide her not, for she is motherless ; and the great sorrow comes down upon her soul cain her confidence like an incubus. Can you g —can you win ker love? Come, then, to the motherless: with the boon of your tenderest care; and by the memory of your mother al- ready passed away—by the possibility that your own child may be motherless—contribute as far as you may to lieve the loss of that fair, fair child who is written ‘‘ motherless.”’ AnTICcCIPATION.—Expectation, in a weak mind, makes an evil greater, and a good jess ; but ina resolved mind it digests an evil before it comes, and makes a future good, long before present. We must expect the worst, because it may come; the best, because I know it will come.

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$2 GODEY’S LADY’S THE AN INCIDEN OF ORPHAN’S FAITH. rHE YELLOW FEVER IN NEW ORLEANS. Tu \ father was struck down fever raged And, rav ed And then a little boy— A gleeful, winsome child, with sunny face, Blue eyes, and golden hair, was borne away Within a tiny ecoflin to the tomb, And laid beside him Only two remained: The widowed mothe A very child in years rand her first born son, though from his soul Shone fogth ¢ i0k spirit of a man ; Awhile they struggled wearily. At last, With grie/ and care, and toil and poverty, Gr I s mother bowed her head And laid | wn tod Bidding her boy Kneel down 1 her, with her thin white hands Clasped fondly on his head, she uttered prayer, Consigning him unto the orphan’s God! | Her God! the Christian’s! It was such a scene As you m 4s! wok for many summer days And fail to find, unless, You chance in some such hour, 1 to know a weary, burdened soul, The joys of wh Vanished, as st se young life had one by one irs fade ‘fore the morning sun, Go forth » majesty of peace To yield ace fan unspotted life. One kiss, or ist embrace, the while she said, “God will care of you, my darling boy; Be good and true, ar Then pa 1 from. ea: 1 we shall meet again)” a th, and he was leit alone. It is a fearful word that brief—alone! Millions of broke Within their secret depths since time And mil is m Must weep o'er 1 hearts have echoed it began, in ages yet to come, withered hopes and buried joy: "Tis misery’s seal; yet, "tis Jehovah's mark By which, when they come down, the angels know Those why shall fll high seats "neath heaven’s dome, And, in their new, Forget that earth unending happiness, had sorrows or despair. They buried her beside the cherished dead, With such brief rites as bitter poverty Affords to those w And all save one, Went forth th Or cared, or th ym fortune favors not; 4 pale, sad, thoughtful boy, several ways. Little reck’d he, ysught—henceforth he had no home— himsé But threw if upon the new-made grave, Nor ate, nor drank, scarce slept, and yet he dreamed, And you ild *T was of his mother, by that strange, sad sweet smile, the fair brother there, And his fond sire that the sweet vision told. ns rare With them through spacious grovesand garde . Skirted by noble streams, along whose banks Grew Ile Adown the m many golden fruits and wondrous flowers, in his y i wandered. Far away itchless vigga, ever on, Great cities rose. Colossal palaces, High towering o'er the trees, the summits crowned, A thousand rising hills upon whose sides Bloomed an eternal verdure ; everywhere Groves, gardens, palaces, and islands fair, Lakes, mou! ns, Myriads of fruits With marve! waterfalls, the changing sea, and flowers, filled the scene is harmony. The earth and air At every step seem I la perpetual change BOOK AND MAGAZINE, Of ever varying splendors ne'er to end ; While from afar, yet near and palpable, Came such a combination of sweet sounds As filled the soul and sense with pérfect peace; | And, amid these, in dreams the orphan dwelt. Alas! that such hours ever should have end, Mocking with joys of heaven the dark days Of this life’s changes, as anon they glide, With all who felt their varied joy or woe, Silent and quick to the dim shadow land. Weird spirits are all visions, for they lead The dreamer through the sun or storm of life With meteor speed ; While gilding With glorious hues of hope in things to be; wrecking his hopes at last, o’er the rocks whereon they dash, The waking comes, the real appears, and then Peace, love, health, The shadows fall, life ends, the dream is o’er. Thus joys forever fade; the boy awoke, The sky was dark and desolate, grim clouds Showered a deluge on his naked head ; The night was pitiless, and he alone! No home, no destination, and no friénd ; Oh, how the bursting heart in such aa hour Looks out to God! What spirit points it there ? Out from the graveyard city-ward he goes. Through night and day, and night and day again, He wanders up and down—hard at his heart The hunger demon gnaws—among the crowd, Strange faces frown on him, as to repel A charity unasked, save with bis eyes ; Weary and faiut his soul disdains to beg, And so he sinks at last upon the stones; His heart still clinging to the mother words-— **God will take care of you, my darling boy’ — With a pure hallowed trust that could not fuil There, ‘neath the shadow ofa church, where once, In other days, they all together prayed, A noble With sympathetic soul, he bore him home, Where he awoke at length to light and life; And o’er his couch a gentle woman's face stranger found him; large of heart, Looked kindly on him—did he dream again ? Or is this heaven? and he there at last. Slowly his memory through those bitter days Bore him on wondering, till all was plain; Then he exclaimed—“ God sent you! mothér said He would take care of me—I knew you ’d come— She could not lie; but oh, you were so long!” Then told his simple tale; the stranger gazed, Embraced the boy, and then on bended knee Gave thanks to God. It was his sister’s child! O blessed faith! what lessons thou O brave young heart! O trust, Only in heaven born! Couldst teach oid Christians, in profession gray! Thy pure faith in that mother shall live on, As hers in God's eternal promises, When all earth’s crowns and fleeting vanities, With they who held them, shall have passed away And, far amid the stars, with angels bright, Thy first fair dream to its fulfilment comes Within the realm of heaven’s perfect life! re — AFFECTATION.—AII affectation is the vain am ridiculous attempt of poverty to appear rich. wealth, fame, power, all depart.

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“MY MOST INTIMATE BY MARY W. ‘* Anp I shall hear from you often, Laura ?’’ **O yes, indeed! I shall have nothing else to occupy my time but making calls, shopping, and writing home to my old schoolmates. You will be deluged with letters, darling. It will be splendid to board; no cares !”’ ‘*It must be,’’ I assented ; ‘‘so much leisure But there’s the carriage. And I kissed her at your command. Don’t forget to write often.”’ repeatedly, **You’ll hear from me every week, all about my new city home; and when I keep house you are to make me such long visits, you know. You mustn’t forget this, my dearest friend. Now, darling Nell, farewell!’ ‘*Good-by! God bless you!’ I answered, less romantically, but quite as fervently—I think now far more sincerely—than the bride of an hour, who tore herself, from the em- brace of my clinging arms, and then turned to receive the adieux of her family ere she was handed to the carriage by her tall, handsome, city husband. ‘Farewell, darling, till you hear from me!” she added, leaning a moment from the window of the vehicle wherein sat the bridal party— herself, husband, and his two stylish sisters— then were whirled away to the railroad depot. It sounded very pathetic, this parting saluta- tion to me—Ellen Brewster, Laura Dashington’s most intimate friend; and my eyes were quite wet as I gazed after them a minute, then turned from the house whence had gone out a bride, and bent my steps homeward to my mother’s modest little cottage. It had been a fashionable wedding for our quiet Ashbrook; and, with most of Laura’s schoolmates at the seminary, I had been invited to her father’s pretentious mansion, for Jonas Holman had amassed quite a little fortune by dint of fortunate business capacity, and stood the moneyed man, par. excellence, of the town. But I hadagreaterclaim than many of the guests to the pretty bride’s favor, for we had been inti- mate friends from the day I entered school; and though Laura’s junior by two or three years, she had chosen to attach herself to me by the strongest protestations of regard. Indeed, we were the feminines for Damon and Pythias, and almost one and inseparable. Hardly a day passed but found Laura at our pretty cottage, FRIEND.” where I lived with my gentle widowed mother and younger brother Willie, or me at her more elegant home. Thus it came to pass that I conceived I had a special right to be miserable when Laura married. The husband whom Laura Holman had se- lected—or, rather, who had selected her+was a handsome, black-whiskered, showy man, seven or eight years her senior, of the firm of Loud, Talk, Dashington & Co., importers, Bos- ton. From the time Laura had met him, two years previous, while on a visit to a city aunt —from which visit she returned in love with city life—it had been my firm belief that she would marry and make her home there; and when Mr. Dashington made his appearance at the Ashbrook Hotel, one Saturday, and was seen in Mr. Holman’s pew"the next Sabbath, as Laura’s escort, the element of Ashbrook population who devoted themselves to the es- pecial charge of love matters voted it ‘‘an en- gagement.’? And an engagement it proved to be, a fact which was promptly imparted to me in a dainty note Laura sent over to our cottage, one snowy day, by her little brother Frank, for the drifts were too deep to permit her coming in person; and time passed, and Laura went to Boston to purchase her outfit, and her dresses were pronounced upon by Miss Price, the Ash- brook dressmaker, as ‘‘ the loveliest things she had ever made up;’’ and at length the fateful day arrived, and Laura stood up a girl and sat down a bride. As I said, it was a very fashionable morning wedding for Ashbrook. We supposed that the bridegroom’s city sisters had had a good deal to do with that. the soft beams of solar lamps lent a subdued light ; the bridal dress and veil were rich, and The parlors were darkened, and Laura looked, as all brides do, sweet and inte- resting; the Misses Dashington—Grace and Eloise—were perfect in their responsible roles of bridesmaids ; and the cake, wine, wedding- cards, et cetera, were of the most approved order of their kind. my own fresh white mulle, with my blue sash, I even cherished the fancy that looked pretty, and suitable, afd very becoming to me. So the wedding passed off with éclat, and the glare of day had again been let into Jonas Hol- man’s parlors, and the carriage had whirled 33

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34 them and their trunks to take the A. M. train for Boston, and I, Laura’s most intimate and now most disconsolate friend, was walking homeward, quite mournful, in the bright, bland, October morning. All at once a footfall overtook mine on the leaf-strewn sidewalk, and I looked up to behold He one of our prominent Ashbrook lawyers, a Esquire Abbot walking beside me. was grave, staid, but cultivated man, and had been my mother’s lodger during the three years of his residence among us, a man whom I had dubled *‘ old bachelor” to the school-girls, and “ee ’ who had dubbed himself my ‘ godfather’ to my mother when he assisted me about my les- sons of an evening in the little parlor of our cottage. ** Well, Miss Ellen, been to the wedding, I suppose /’’ he said, speaking quickly. ‘Yes, sir,”’ L replied, dropping my veil, and not caring to look him in the face, for I knew my eyes were red with weeping, and I dreaded nothing so much as appearing sentimental in the estimation of Esquire Abbot, who had a way of being cynical and sarcastic when he chose. So Lasked, gayly: ‘‘ But why weren’t , you there ! "? Everything passed off splendidly ! —for | knew that he had been one of the invited guests, as Mr. Holman’s iff yer. “Oh, an out of town client came in, and so the tasty wedding favor had to lie unhonored But I should have made but a poor party at a wedding, an old bachelor like on my table. me, and you can tell me all about it, Miss Ellen. Of course the knot was legally tied, and the happy pair will soon be whirling Bostonward. There goes the train now’’—as the shriek of the engine whistle came round a bend in the Ashbrook. They say young ladies always cry road of quiet ** Any sentiment at the altar? at weddings, Miss Ellen,’’ he continued, pre- jing down to pick up a brilliant maple leaf that floated down on the sidewalk ** Laura Holman is a pretty, sently, sto; just before him. cleverish sort of girl, but not deep; hardly the for.’’ And he turned and looked full into my tear-stained face, one for you to mourn much provokingly revealed by a light wind blowing my veil aside just then. ‘Laura is my most intimate friend, Mr. Ab- bot,’’ I answered, haughtily. $6 Yes, ys 5, nion. a, Ellen, did the end of such ardent school-girl friendships ?’’ [ see,’’ said my cynical compa- ve seen all this before; but, Miss it ever occur to you what is usually **What?’’ I asked, with a little asperity of manner. GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, **Oh, a sort of natural death ; ghey fade out like this.’’ up a sere, brown, withered leaf which lay on And he stooped again, and picked the vivid green grass border of our path. ‘* Never!’’ Lanswered, emphatically. ‘‘ Laura is married, to be sure, and gone to a new home, and will have new ties; but I know she will always held a large place in her heart for her You say this because you are too calculating and old for such most intimate school-girl friend. friendships yourself, Mr. Abbot.’’ Esquire Abbot smiled a little, a sad, weary sort of smile, then said: ‘‘ Perhaps you are right. Pardon my unwelcome prophesies, Miss Ellen. Thirty-five and seventeen judge dif- ferently. And yet I fancied I was conngisseur enough in human nature to detect its different kinds, and that your heart and Laura Holman’s Mrs. Albert made of dissimilar materiel. — pardon ! Dashington’s— were Time will prove ; and, if the thought pains you, may it also prove me a false prophet !”’ I felt a little ashamed of my impetuosity, a little vexed at my want of respect toward Es- quire Abbet, agd also not a little, flattered at his implied compliment to myself, so I said, to turn the subject: ‘‘ What a splendid Indian summer day, Mr. Abbot !”’ ‘* Yes, glorious! These days are the wine of the year,’’ he replied, sending the gaze of his dark eyes up to the golden, hazy sky, the trees in their gorgeous autumn livery, and drinking in a long draught of the bland, delicious air. ‘Your Ashbrook woods are grand; that line of ash and maples crowning the hill yonder on the outskirts of the town looks like a battle array of kings, in crimson and scarlet robes full pano- plied, and flaunting their banners on the air. My morning’s client cheated me out of the wedding, but the afternoon is at my disposal. Are you too absorbed with memories of Mrs. Albert Dashington to accompany me in a forest stroll after dinner, Miss Ellen ?’’ Ws had paused at the corner of a street ; Esquire Abbot to bend his steps to the post- office for the morning’s mail, and I to strike off into the pleasant avenue leading homeward. **T should be delighted with the walk, Mr. Ab- bot. hesitated a little—‘‘ what makes you imagine But, pray, why do you think’’—here I Laura and I so unlike ?”’ ‘* Ah, the wound rankles !’’ he said, smiling. ‘*Did I say unlike? No; yet you are so. I ean hardly explain, now. Wait two, three, or five years, and we’ll talk further of this. Tell your mother that your godfather is to take charge of you for a stroll in the autumn

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‘““MY MOST INTIMATE FRIEND.” 85 woods this afternoon. Good-morning.’’ And he walked rapidly down the street. ‘Esquire Abbot is thirty-five years old, then,’’ I mused, as I went homeward. ‘ Well, I should have said he was full as old; that is, I should have thought so if I had thought at all.”? That was it, reader; I had never thought of his age, or of him save as a good, pleasant, elderly gentleman, whom my mother regarded with respect, and who was very fatherly and kind to me; but as he walked down the street I mused further. ‘‘ And Eloise Dashington is engaged to a rich old man of forty, Laura says, and they don’t seem to think it anything out of the way, either; horrid, / think.’’ Reader, forty was a Methusaleh-istic period and thirty- five an advanced age to me then, for I was but seventeen. That was a golden afternoon to me in the October woods. Even the prestige of Laura’s wedding was quite out of mind; the artificial light of Jonas Holman’s parlors was put to shame by the golden lances the sun shot down through quivering tree-boughs; the crimson of lis moreen curtains was out-hged by the glow of the blood-red maples and sumachs ; the soft- ness of their carpets rivalled by the elastic wood moss ; and the silver plate from which vas sérved the bridal cake would have been dull beside the sheen of the sunlit brooks leaping down the hillsides or winding through the glades. And Esquire Abbot was less cyn- ical and more companionable than usual the hours of that golden-hearted October afternoon. ‘* Better than parties or wedding festivals, this—eh, Miss Ellen ?’’ he said, seating himself on an old log gray with hoary wood moss, be- side the noisy brook that ran through the forest, and tossing me a splendid spray of cardinal flower he had leaned over to pluck from the bank. ‘‘WhenlIam gone from Ashbrook, you won’t forget this afternoon’s walk in these grand old woods, will you, Miss Ellen ?’’ **Gone ! leave Ashbrook! You are not going away, Mr. Abbot ?’’ I asked, in surprise, for I had heard nothing of this intention hitherto. ‘* Why, I thought you liked and had settled in Ashbrook !’’ **I do like this pleasant, quiet old town, and at one time supposed I had fixed, not exactly my household gods, but my red-tape divinities here, Miss Ellen; but, like some ministers, I find that I have had ‘a louder call.’ And yet don’t suppose that it’s money merely that tempts me away; for, perhaps you know, I’ve a competence my dear old father left me, and, besides, were it not so, Iam one of those who have learned to be rich with little. There are better things than money can bring us, Miss Ellen, in this life, and by these I mean sweet friendships, confidences, and perhaps dearer dreams, or, maybe, one day a merging of dreams into realities’’—and for a moment his grave face grew glowing with mobile expression as his eye fell on me, then he looked away to the crimson sumachs across the brook. ‘‘It isn’t the hope of gain from a wider sphere of my profession, but the breadth of life and the depth of experience one meets in a larger ac- quaintance with human nature. Besides, an old friend—Judge Graves—urges me to become his partner; so, Miss Ellen, I have just decided to open my new office in Boston.”’ I did not say one word, sitting there by his side on the old moss-covered log that afternoon. It was so sudden. He had been so long with us—three years—an age to my light girlhood, and I had never thought of change coming to our quiet, happy cottage. ** You will miss your old godfather a little at first, but your mother will be answering my letters on business, and you can inclose a little note now and then to let me know how you are getting on with your studies, for I shali feel interested in everything here still, Ellen.’’ ‘Oh, certainly,’’ I said, confusedly, like one talking in a broken dream; and then added, more by way of making convérsation than be- cause I thought of a third party then, ‘‘ You will see Laura often in Boston ?” ‘* Perhaps,’’ he said, half smiling, ‘‘ though the city is not quite like Ashbrook, and one don’t get too intimate with their neighbors. I shall hear of your coming down some day to buy your wedding finery—eh, Miss Ellen ?”’ ‘*My first trip to Bostén will be to visit my old friend when she is at housekeeping,’’ I answered, curtly, and tossing my head with what I fancied an assumption of dignity. **Oho, that is promised, then? Well, I shall promise also to enact the godfather still, unless the young gallants find an old man in their way. I shall know when you are in town. Let us go home, now, and acquaint your good mother with nfy plans, Miss Ellen.” Why was it that the homeward walk through the October woods was so much gloomier than the going? Why had the golden haze that had filled all the air changed to dull gray gloom ? The sun had not yet set, and long lances were striking aslant through the maplesand sumachs, and the mountain ashes were heavy with their fruit; but all seemed dull, and dead, and sere, My head ached all the evening, and I shaded

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86 my eyes from the light by which my mother sewed, with serious countenance, at the little round table, exclaiming every now and then her sorrow at losing Mr. Abbot, who had gone down to his office to busy himself in packing up his papers. Willie, even, received a short answer to some trifling request about his skates he was preparing in two months’ anticipation of hard ice, and muttered: ‘‘ How cross it makes you, Nell, to go to a wedding ! Frank Holman ate so much wedding-cake he’s sick enough to-night; but seems to me you needn’t have gone there, and got a real cross old headache.’ Mistaken Willie, to credit to the stomach what proceeded from the heart! ’ But you were not the first in error on that point, for even mother attributed the headache to the long walk, and your sister, in her blindness, was not much wiser. Three years went by like a dream in quiet Ashbrook. change had come to me in my little cottage During this period scarcely any home, save that my school-days were ended, and the last year I had taught the village scho- As I braided up my brown hair before the mirror lars in the old red school-house on the bill. in my little chamber, its reflection told me that my thin cheeks were rounding out, and my slight form growfng into the stronger mould of healthy womanhood. Save these, no other Brother Willie was now entered a student in the Ashbrook Acade- my, a smart, quick scholar, who took to his changes had come to me. Latin grammar as eagerly as he had hitherto and I was proud that my earnings as teacher could help to birdsnesting, nutting, or skatirig ; eke out our scanty income, and clothe Wil- lie in as nice jackets and trousers as were worn by any boys of his class. For I was deter- mined that our brave, handsome Willie should have every advantage of education, and listened with secret pleasure to his avowed intention to become ‘‘as smart a lawyer as Esquire Abbot”’ My had not forgotten us; once or when he attained the estate of manhood. ** godfather’’ twice yearly he called on us in our cottage lome, but the business claims of a rapidly increasing profession kept him close in Boston ; yet letters came regularly to my mother, prov- ing that, amid his cares, we were yet in his thoughts. During the first few months of her married life, my friend, Laura Dashington, had kept her promise of a correspondence, and her letters were replete with accounts of fashionable par- GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, ties, theatres, operas, and similar features of gay city life; then gradually followed a wider interregnum between her epistles, till the re- turn of summer brought her to her Ashbrook home on a visit ere she was whirled away toa crowded seaside hotel, bringing with her, also, such visions of city fashions as astonished the sober dwellers of our quiet country town. At first, Laura seemed scarcely changed; there were little trips to and fro between her father’s great house and our little cottage, but after the early greetings were over, there was hardly an hour when I saw her but she was busy over the style of some new mantilla or dress, and Fashion seemed pre-eminent in her mind. And when Mr. Dashington came down to hurry Laura away to the beach, where a gay party of their city friends were to meet them, our goodbyes were cut in twain by the arrival of a box of stylish wrappers she had ordered from Madame Demorest’s, and over which Laura went into such ecstasies that, I doubt not, I had nearly reached home before she missed me. When Laura came for her second summer visit, her husband’s two sisters accompanied her for ‘‘a month in the country’’—Eloise merged into the wealthy ‘‘ Mrs. Robert Rogers,” a fact which she made apparent by a great display of Honiton, grenadine and silk, and costly jewelry ; and Miss Grace Dashington, a showy belle of haughty, supercilious manner, who quite re- pelled all who came within her sphere of con- tact. And Laura had so imbibed the infection of worldliness from her sisters-in-law that I was not the only one of her old schoolmates who grew tenacious of their own dignity, and hesi- tated to frequent Jonas Holman’s house as in former days; hence it was not surprising that when Laura left Ashbrook we had not met be- yond one or two stereotyped calls on her part, in which the display of an elegant toilet con- tributed its full share, and the same number, in an humbler wardrobe, on mine. Laura did not visit her girlhood home at all during the third summer; but from her mother, who was never weary of the: recital of ** Laura’s and ‘‘Laura’s jewelry,’’ Ashbrook people learned that she was visiting Saratoga with a large party of her city friends dresses”’ and relatives, including her husband’s sisters, and that Grace Dashington was a reigning belle, and attracted half the gentlemen there to her feet. And yet, strange to say, notwith- standing all the stories of Grace Dashington’s admirers, we did not hear of her engagement, nor the prospect of ‘‘a great match” for the showy, stylish brunette. I was not quite so

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‘““My MOST INTIMATE FRIEND.” 3 a ‘ cognizant of the fact then as now that a woman may be a belle and a beauty, and have plenty of admirers but never a husband at her disposal. Admiration is one thing, but honest, manly love quite another. And yet, notwithstanding I had begun to make the discovery that Laura Dashington possessed one of those shallow natures that would never advance in mental stature; that her whole conversation was about the latest cut of a dress or mantilla, or an evening at the she had settled above whose level she opera; in short, that into a mere worldly woman, would never rise ; and, notwithstanding I could not help knowing that there were heights in my own nature to which she could never ascend, I judged her charitably as possible, cherished the old spirit of kindness toward her, and made excuse for all in her manner that wounded or pained my sensitive heart. ‘It is her gay city life that influences her; were she here again in her old home, the friend of her girlhood would be dear to her as ever; nay, I will be- lieve she loves me yet,’’ I said, mentally, in I had yet to learn of friendship may be some- my most forgiving moods. that the rich wine times wasted on barren soil, or that, if the cup is returned us, it is but a base adulteration we put to our thirsty lips. During these first three years of her married life, Laura had oceupied the elegant suite of rooms her husband had taken in a first-class boarding-house ; but when the third anniver- sary came round, Mrs. Holman made a series of calls upon half Ashbrook, expressly to in- form them that Mr. Dashington had purchased a house in the new fashionable South End of the city, and Laura was now at housekeeping in an establishment unsurpassed in its style of furnishing. What envious desires burned in the hearts of many of our Ashbrookers, conse- quent upon Mrs. Holman’s wonderful stories ! What pretty three-ply carpets grew cheap be- side Laura Dashington’s velvets and Brussels ! What neat stone china tea-sets grew paltry What dainty muslin and bright moreen curtains grew coarse beside her silver table-services ! beside her lace and brocatelle, and what cheer- ful solar and kerosene lamps grew dimmer than tallow candles in contrast with her splendid gas burners, flooding her gorgeous drawing- rooms with dazzling radiance ! It was in October when Laura went to house- keeping; her mother made her a long visit at Christmas and New Year’s, and when she re- turned, early in February, she brought glowing accounts of the parties Laura had given and at- VOL. LxIv.—4 tended; and, during my long February vacation, when the snow-drifts lay deep and white over Ashbrook, the naked trees stocd like gaunt sentinels keeping ward on the distant hilltops, the sidewalks were bordered with a thick, high wall of solid snow, and we found our comfort in-doors, beside the ruddy fire on our little parlor hearth, with the tales of Laura’s gas-lit, furnace-heated mansion in my ears, I could not help occasionally wondering if its mistress re- membered her old and oft-extended invitation for the visit from her ‘‘most intimate friend, Nelly,’? when she should keep house. But I never framed my thought into words, for I had long ceased to expect any reminder of the visit or my promise to make it; Laura Dashington’s letters had died out long ago, and no token from my hand or pen ever found its way to her now, for I had grown as proud—ay, prouder than she, though in a different way. All this time, whatof Esquire Abbot ? Nothing, beyond his semi-yearly, short visits, when, as he informed us, ‘‘ business brought him into the neighborhood of Ashbrook ; some ’ old lawsuit revived ;’’ and the letters he wrote my mother at stated intervals; for he had con- stituted himself a sort of legal adviser to her, and guardian for her children—though Heaven knows we had little to ‘‘ guard,”’ in the way of property, in thosedays! I should add that, occa- sionally, a note was inclosed in mother’s letters for myself—something about my studies—or I received a new book or roll of music; and now and then came a Christmas gift, for each of us, or a Latin book or lexicon for Willie, after he entered the academy. His notes to me were kind, almost fatherly, and evincing the deepest interest in my pursuits; and certainly I did not realize that I thought cf Esquire Abbot beyond a kind friend and Mentor in those days; and yet I can see clearly now that, had any one come to me then, and asked me to define my feelings, I should have been puzzled to put them into any given form of expression. Laura Dashingtoa wrote her mother that she met Esquire Abbot often in society latterly, and that he was growing rich and famous in his profession; and I had a sort of intuition that there were scales of social life far above the circles wherein the merchant’s fashionable wife moved, where my friend and ‘‘ godfather’’ was eagerly welcomed as the peer of great, and talented, and cultivated men. I was not a little proud that he still held us, And, secretly, at the humble Ashbrook Cottage, his cherished friends. One cold evening 5) in the middle of February,

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the expressman brought a package. I knew it was from Esquire Abbot; and Willie pro- duced his penknife with eagerness, and cut the strings that fastened the wrappings. It con- tained a nice, warm shawl for mamma, a copy of Horace for Willie, and, in a neat box, a beautiful hot-house bouquet for me. ‘‘The Professor’s Story’? was there, also, with my name—‘ Ellen Brewster’’—on the fly-leaf, and several of the monthly magazines. These were If he had ever offered me jewelry, or a single like the delicate gifts he always sent me. article of finery to wear, I should have indig- nantly scorned them and the giver; but books, and flowers, and music were gladly received, and won my warmest thanks in return. ‘It’s real nice, this Horace; just the book I shall want next term!’ said Willie, eagerly running over its pages. ‘‘Mr. Abbot is the best sort of an old fellow to send it, and Ill write him a big letter of thanks, as soon as I finish construing this sentence. Hallo, Nell! what’s your book? Oh, English!’ and, with an air of wonderful erudition, the young student went off to his Latin. ‘It is very, very kind in Mr. Abbot mamma, folding the soft shawl over her shoul- ** Just what we would have got—only, !”? said ders. perhaps, not so nice a one—but for Willie’s He is so thoughtful—like a son— she added, with a little start, and a look at me, as though a thought had ‘* But here, Ellen, here is a note for you!’’ handing me a letter which had fallen from the folds of the shawl to winter coat. or a brother,” struck her for the first time. the carpet. I opened it, and it ran thus :— DEAR LITTLE GoppavouTeR: Will you beg your good mother to accept the shawl, and wear it amid your cold Ashbrook snowdrifts ? and Master Willie, the Horace, whose classic odes have outlived old Rome itself, and are turned to English on every modern student’s tongue ’—may their present pupil never mar their beauty by a careless translation! For yourself, let the Professor’s Story, and the pleasant other stories, while away these winter evening hours; and let the flowers bring you a foretasting dream of summer ’mid present ice, and frosts, and snows. But I have a little plan to broach to you, Miss Ellen. Your school is ended; Ashbrook must be dull, socially ; and youth needs a change. Now that your old and intimate school friend, Laura Dashington, is in her own house, why not drop her a note that you will pass a few weeks with her in our GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. pleasant city? She will, of course, be delighted to receive you, and enjoy your society ; and, for want of a younger cavalier, your old god- father is at your disposal, to escort you to whatever places of interest our town may con- tain—to the Boston, the Atheneum, Music Hall, and parties ad infinitum. Miss Ellen into coaxing her mother to spare So what says her awhile from the quiet cottage home, and sending her straightway to her friends here ? Very truly, your godfather, Epwarp Aspor. It was such a golden suggestion that my heart caught it up at the first; then came the thought of how long a period had elapsed since anything like a letter had passed between Laura and myself. But mamma said, after a little pause, ‘‘Why not go, my dear? Of course Mr. Abbot has spoken about you to Laura; he meets her very often, you know, and it has been settled between them. And, as he says, she will be very glad and delighted to have you make her a little visit. We can afford the money for travelling expenses by a little management and economy ; there is your nice winter bonnet, very becoming; and your dark thibet will do for the journey, and a street dress; your blue silk is handsome enough to wear anywhere; and we can turn my black one, and have Miss Price make it over for you ; how fortunate you are no taller! the skirt will be long enough over your new floating bell. Yes, Ellen, you ought to have some advantages such as a visit to Boston would give you; and Mr. Abbot will be just like an elder brother, or a father, to you. You had better write this evening to Laura.”’ ‘‘The Atheneum, the Boston Theatre, and Music Hall!’’ Paintings, sculptures, the drama, and those eloquent lecturers whom I had so longed to see and hear. And Church’s *' Heart of the Andes’’ was on exhibition, and Edwin Booth was at the Boston—for I read the notices of art and the drama, in the daily papers, with as keen a relish as though I were a constant visitor to their temples. Every longing of my wsthetic nature pleaded for the indulgence, and I decided. Drawing my little writing-desk toward me, I penned the letter to Laura Dashington. ‘*Now, Willie, won’t you take this over to the post-office, that it may go in the morning’s mail? It is Tuesday night; I shall get an answer by Friday, at farthest, and I will go by the middle of next week.”’ **Yes, Ellen; Miss Price can do the dress right away. She has got through her busy

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season,” said my mother, folding her shawl, while Willie put on his cap and overcoat to post the letter. As anticipated, Eriday’s evening mail brought me an answer, and I broke the seal with eager- ness. **Read it aloud, Ellen,’’ said my mother; and I complied. Boston, Feb. —, 1860. Dear Exten: I received your ietter last eve. I was pleased to hear from you, but, as you say, was quite surprised. With regard to your visiting me, I should be gratified to see you here but for some circum- stances I will name, which, for the present, will not make it quite so convenient as I could wish. Iam entertaining considerable company, and every room in my house seems occupied. My husband’s sister Grace, and two cousins from New York are here; consequently, my time is much taken up with them and the cares of my large house and numerous servants. So I should get but little leisure to devote to you, and you, being a stranger, of course would need some one to show you the lions of our big city. My husband gets home quite late from his business, so that our evenings are quite interrupted when I am not at some opera or party—though I go a great deal, for one must who is at all fac hionable. However, should you conclude to come to Boston, and if you have any friend where you might stop for a week or two, at the end of that time I will try and be with you as much as I can. My husband’s cousins will return to New York in March. They are splendid girls, and dress in a style that quite astonishes our circle, and they and Grace are invited everywhere. You may not have heard that Madame Rumor proclaims Esquire Abbot, whom you once knew at Ashbrook, the especial admirer of Grace. She is a great belle, and he is consi- dered very wealthy, and a good match; so I should not wonder if we were soon busy with the wedding outfit. Of course they would be married in church, and she would have at least six bridesmaids. When Eloise was married, she had eight, and they all dressed in pink silk, with real Mechlin lace overskirts. Please excuse haste, as 1 am going down to Hovey’s this morning to shop. Very truly, Laura DASHINGTON. P.S. Should you come, you will write, I suppose. L. D. I laid down the letter with hot tears of mor- tification in my eyes. ‘‘MY MOST INTIMATE FRIEND.” 39 ‘The hateful simpleton! When I am a man, and have a house, and horse and carriage of my own, I’ll pay her for insulting my sister s0!’? exclaimed Willie, with flashing eyes. ‘Til pitch into Frank Holman to-morrow, and wash his face in a snowdrift, for having such a contemptible relation—see if I don’t! And as for Mr. Abbct, he’s a mean villain, Nell, to ask you to visit Boston to see him court another girl. There goes his old Horace !’’ and, suiting the action to the word, he hurled his new Latin book straight into the fire on the hearth. ** Nobody here wants any of his charity; and I’d saw wood before I’d study law in his office when I graduate !”’ ** William ! my son!” My mother’s voice was sterner in its reproving tones than I had ever heard before, and Willie shrank away somewhat abashed, though he muttered, as he slunk from the room, ‘‘ I don’t care—it’s true !”’ ‘*Ellen, don’t cry! Laura Dashington is unworthy of a tear. We have been mistaken in her; but it is well we have learned her true character ; she is not capable of a lasting friend- ship. As for Mr. Abbot’”’—and here her voice trembled a little—‘‘ I can’t believe but there is some mistake in this story.’’ ‘¢ 7 don’t believe there is any mistake at all,’”’ I said, striving to steady my voice and crush back the burning tears, ‘‘and I hope it is so! Of course it’s true! It’s the way with every- body ; let people be rich and fashionable, and they ’ll have everybody at their feet. I only wish J was an heiress, and /’d show them !’’ And I felt wicked thoughts rising in my heart. ‘*What would you do if you were rich, El- len ?’’ asked my mother, gently. ‘*T’d show folks how I could hate them! I’d learn Laura Dashington to write cool, in- sulting letters! 1’d learn Mr. Abbot’’—but here I broke down. ‘¢T shall be sorry to learn that he is married to a vain, artificial girl like Grace Dashington,”’ said my mother. ‘‘And I shall be glad of it! She’s good enough for him! He can marry whom he pleases !’’ I answered, proudly, shutting my lips together with a sudden spasm of pain which convinced me that it was not Laura Dashing- ton’s coldness that had wounded me most cruelly. ‘* Of course he can, Ellen; but he had always seemed so near to us, and I thought—”’ She did not finish the sentence, but took up her sewing again with a sigh. Just then, the door leading into the dining-

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40 room opened, and Willie came back, with a red spot on his cheek yet, but a little subdued in manner. ‘*T forgot, Nell, to give you this other letter ; I was so eager about that mean old one from Boston.”’ And he tossed one into my lap. The postmark I could not quite make out, but the handwriting was familiar, and I was half tempted to crush it, unread. But I forced inyself to open it, and read :— Concorp, N. H., Wed. morning. Dear Miss Extten: I am up here in your Granite State on business; and as I suppose you have before now decided upon the visit to Boston, I have thought best to return by way of Ashbrook, and become your compagnon du voyage ; so I just drop a line to tell you that I shall probably be at your house by the last train Thursday eve, perhaps as soon as my letter. In haste, ABBOT. I dashed the letter down upon the table indignantly. ‘We must always treat him politely, Ellen ; and remember that he has been our best friend for six years,’ said my mother, decidedly, looking up, with a clear, serious light in her eyes. ‘** He ’ll never catch much politeness from me, I guess! Maybe there’ll be some inquiry about that Horace !’’ muttered Willie, still defiantly, taking down his books and settling to his eve- ning lesson. **And I shall have the pleasure of showing Esquire Abbot Mrs. Laura Dashington’s cordial letter,’ I said, sarcastically, after full three minutes’ silence. ’ The voice ‘* Let me see it now, Miss Ellen.’ came from the door opening into the front hall, and the speaker was he of whom we had been talking. old without our hearing him I could not divine; How he had crossed the outer thresh- yet there he stood, in the parlor door, in his heavy overcoat and his rich fur collar, and smiling upon us. ‘It is well you live in an honest neighborhood, Mrs. Brewster, where no man covets the contents of your hall, for it would hardly answer in the goodly old Puritan city I hail from to leave our street doors wide: open.”’ And he came forward to shake hands with us, while Willie darted up to snatch his skates, don his cap and overcoat, shut behind him the door he had left wide open in his eager return from the post-office, and make his exit into the keen air to escape the friendly meeting with the new-comer. I cannot say much for the warmth of my GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. greeting, but my mother skilfully covered my constraint by her own manner; and when Mr. Abbot had divested himself of his overcoat, and was warming his chilled fingers by the cheerful blaze of the wood fire, she slipped away to the dining-room to prepare a cup of tea for him. ‘* Where did Willie vanish? he disappeared like a mist,’’ he asked, at length, moving a little from the fire; then went on, without seeming to expect an answer: ‘* And now, Miss Ellen, shall I read the letter I heard you speak- ing of when I appeared like Santa Claus among I knew you would hear immediately from Mrs. Dashington.’’ I put the letter into his hand without a word, and went on with my crocheting. I you? would not even look at him while he read it. ‘* Ellen !”? Ilooked upthea. He had finished the letter, and sat with his eyes bent on me, and a pecu- liar smile upon his handsome lips. ‘* And so your friend Laura is going to marry me to her sister-in-law, Miss Grace Dashington, the tall, the dark, the loud, the ‘stunning’ Miss Grace Dashington; and we are to have six bridesmaids and groomsmen, all dressed in pink silk, and you are willing, Miss Ellen ?”’ he said, leaning indolently back in the arm-chair, and eyeing me intently. ‘*T am very willing that you should marry Miss Dashington and the six bridesmaids all together, if you choose, Mr. Abbot; but I am sall Laura Dashington my friend as long as 1 live !”’ not willing that you should ever again I replied. The words dropped like iron from my lips, but all the pride of my nature forced resolved that he should not see his triumph over me. ** Ellen, my daughter, will you pour the tea for Mr. Abbot? They have just sent in from Mr. Gray’s for me; they think little Fanny is worse, and beg me to step in immediately,” said my mother, entering the parlor hurriedly. ‘* Certainly, Miss Ellen will do the honors for her godfather,’’ said Mr. Abbot, imperturbably ; and when, a few minutes later, mother had their utterance, for I was wrapped her warm shawl—his gift—about her and left for our neighbor’s, he continued; ‘* And now, before I get to be an open disciple of Mormonism, let us have one more civilized cup of tea together, little Nelly.” With very erect head, I led the way to the dining-room, and presided over the neatly- spread table. He might please himse/f with his jests, but I would let him see that they did not annoy me; so I poured his tea calmly, and

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‘““wMY MOST INTIMATE FRIEND.” 41 talked quietly about Ashbrook matters, and the books I had been reading, and any matter that suggested itself till we returned to the parlor. Then I took up my crocheting again, and he busied himself with looking over the columns of the Ashbrook Gazette for a half hour. At length he laid down the paper. ‘‘Do you play much now, Ellen ?’’ he asked. ‘* But a little; I have neglected practising of late,’’ I answered. ** And your French ?” ‘‘T have given that up,’ I answered, as briefly. ‘* What is that work you have in your hand ?’’ ** Crocheting.”’ ‘*Hum—it looks as complicated as one of my You used to work little dogs in red Where are lawsuits. and yellow yarns when I was here. they now ?”’ ‘*The dogs or the yarns, Mr. Abbot ?”’ ‘* Both ; they went together, I believe. They were yarn dogs.”’ ‘*T gave them up long ago.”’ *“You commenced German last fall, you wrote me.’’ ‘*T gave that up almost as soon as I com- menced it.”’ ‘* What haven’t you given up, Ellen? Not your visit to Boston, I hope’’—laying his hand upon the letter on the table. I was very angry, and I knew I grew very red. ‘*You have read Laura Dashington’s cold, insolent letter, and yet I suppose you would have me thrust myself upon her. Go back, and tell her I despise her, and am ashamed that I ever called her friend! I will never go there to see her or Grace Dashington, your promised wife, nevér, no, never!’’ And I bent over my work, while a hot tear of mortification dropped upon the shining needle. Mr. Abbot rose suddenly, and in an instant was at my side and bending over me. The work and crochet-needle were taken from my hand, and he spoke in a strange, husky voice: ‘Ellen, darling Ellen, it is my turn to say never now! I love you, I came here for you, and I wart you to return to Boston with me, I will go back without you—never !” And his arms were around me in a tight clasp. I was astonished, not frightened, but so as- tonished that I trembled violently. I did not know what to reply for many moments, and then I said the very thing I ought not to have said—‘‘ And Miss Grace Dashington ?”’ *‘Innocent! As though I could go through the ordeal of six bridesmaids in red silk! No; I can make a two hours’ plea before a crowded 4* my wife. court-room, but I could not undergo that!’’ he said, mischievously ; then added, in tones of deepest tenderness: ‘‘ My little Nelly, did you ever think I could love anybody else except your own sweet, fresh self, grown up from charming girlhood into more charming woman- hood here in secluded Ashbrook? If you have so thought, you did not know the depths of my heart. I am many years older than you, I know, Nelly, but I will love you all the stronger and better for that. And now I want to take you home with me; not for the little visit we had in mind, but for a lifelong one, as my own dear little wife.”’ ‘* Provided I love you, you mean,’’ I could not help adding, a little saucily. ‘‘Of course, and provided mamma raises no extreme objections to receiving her daughter’s godfather as her son,’’ he answered, with mock deference, but a show of tender triumph, also, as he sought to read his answer in my eyes. What that answer was you can perhaps guess, reader, when mamma returned and found Mr. Abbot sitting beside me as though he had appointed himself guardian over all my future ; and when Willie entered, later, rosy with skating, and still eyeing our guest with a dogged expression of dislike, his countenance underwent a great change as that gentleman called out: ‘‘Come here and shake hands with me, Willie! Yoursister has just promised that Parson Priest may marry us, and she will go back with me to Boston to live; and, if you are a clever lad, and restrain your incendiary propensities, you shall study law in my office yet, after all.’’ Will saw that he had been exposed, but he gave his hand manfully, saying, with a very red face: ‘‘I’m sorry about the Horace, Mr. Abbot, but I was a little mad, you see; and [ guess Nell didn’t feel any too clever, either !’’ And, with a roguish glance, he ran from the parlor. Four weeks later, clinging to my husband’s arm, I was in the great crowd pouring out of the vestibule of the Boston Theatre, after an opera in which Patti had sung. ‘‘Why, Esquire Abbot, how hare you been for this age, and why have you neglected us so? Here ’s Gracie herself to scold you,’’ I heard in a familiar voice at my husband’s elbow. I felt myself drawn forward into view by his arm placed around me. ‘I have been very well, thank you, Mrs. Dashington. But here must be my excuse for neglecting you; ladies, allow me to introduce to you my wife.”’ Reader, fancy for yourself the looks I en-

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492 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. countered. Chagrin, pique, it would have been hatred had Laura Dashington possessed a nature strong enough for that feeling ; it was that with her black-eyed sister-in-law. I can never de- It was a meeting to be seen and remembered. There was a faint es- say at offering of white gloved fingers, hardly touched by mine; then we passed on, leaving behind us one surprised and another proud white face. ‘The six bridesmaids fell through ‘at one fell swoop,’ ’’ said my husband, with a sarcas- tic laugh, as our carriage rolled away. ‘I would not speak so of every woman, Ellen; but I am justified in saying it of Grace Dash- ington !’’ ‘*And J cried at Laura’s wedding, I remem- ber, and would not be comforted,’’ I said, half bitterly, after a little silence. **T read the difference in your natures even then, for I predicted the fading out of the ro- mantic school-girl attachment, you know, Nel- ly,’’ said Mr. Abbot. ** Yes, Edward,’’ I answered, a little sadly. I could no longer respect Laura Dashington, but I could not help giving a sigh to the broken dream, the memory of ‘‘my most intimate friend.’’ scribe them to,you. A PLEA FOR JEALOUSY. BY HARRY HAREWOOD LEECH. And shall we own such judgment? No: as soon Seek roses in December, ice in June; Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff; Believe & woman, or an epitaph. English Bards, &c. Ir has become, it seems, as natural to poets and writers of this age to denounce ‘‘ the green- eyed monster,’’ as for ladies of this era to don crinoline and do the ‘‘ Lancers ;’’ and yet it seems strange that no voice shall be raised, no pen poised in defence, of this attribute of pas- sion, growing out of the love of humanity, and chastened by the very spirit of suffering. The odium attached to a man or woman known to be jealous is punishment indeed severe, with- out the cruel pangs which cause the malady. And here let us say (writing incased in the armor of our stoic philosophy), that it will generally be proven that the most ingenuous natures, the most delicate, finely-strung organ- isms, are those most susceptible to the sting of the scorpion shot out from the lips or the eyes of the beloved ; and yet this suffering becomes the more poignant as the jeers of the observers greet the unhappy one, the scoffers themselves being but recovered victims of the madness. We adore Sophronia (how can we help it!) we live in the light of her glorious eyes, which beam softly as a harvest moon upon sleeping waters; we are thrilled by her tender voice, transported by the pressure of her soft hand. Her graceful form sways like wavy, pendulous leaves stirred by caressing zephyrs. Her voice is the soul of harmony, and its rich cadences fill our spirit in the twilight with a strange thrilling joy; there is a new revelation to our heart, a more perfect, though dimly expressed, joy born toour soul. Yes, we adore Sophronia! Do you blame us? But our idol is not a luminary which beams for us alone; her heart a shrine at which we only shall tenderly worship. Nay! Sir Judkyn Fopp, with his title and eyeglass, wig, false teeth, and fat account at the bankers, receives many a warm flash from Sophronia’s eyes. Heavens! we detect him raising the not unwil- ling maiden’s hand to his lips behind the heavy curtains in the drawing-room, and then “The storms, whose lightnings ever glare, Ten. pests, whose thunders never cease to roll; The storms of love when maddened to despair, The furious tempests of the jealous soul,”’ break over us in all their force, laden with all their anguish. Say, thou critic? if Sophronia’s voice sounded not with a deeper meaning to us than to others, if her eyes expressed not a ten- derer mystery, should we be thus ’whelmed with grief at her coquetry, which we term incon- stancy ? or afflicted with that passion which out of passion grows ? Perfect love should beget perfect confidence ! Ah! but this is philosophy. Does it originate with Plutarch, or Alcibiades, or Epaminondas ? And if from neither sage, let us humbly ask what lover was a philosopher while he loved ? ‘* Perfect confidence,’’ to be sure, in the purity of Sophronia, else how could she enchain us so? But that Sir Judkyn should press the hand so sacred to us, should receive the glances of those eyes which always beam with a tender signifi- cance to us—Ah! Mrs. Barbauld, that sweet poetess, so little known, so little read, expressed in some stanzas all this strange whirl of jealous thought, and defended it, too, much better than we can do in stubborn prose. They ran— "Is it to quench thy joy in tears, To nurse strange doubts and groundless fears? If pangs of jealousy thou hast not prov’d, Though she were fonder and more true Than any nymph old poets drew, Oh, never dream again that thou hast lov'd.

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!) ich ing ce, nd. us ice ces ige yur ia! ms we yn lse res es. ril- vy us ali A PLEA FOR JEALOUSY.—MEMORY. 438 “‘Ifany hopes thy bosom share, But those which love has planted there, Or any cares but his thy breast euthral, Thou never yet his power hast known ; Love sits on a despotic throne And reigns a tyrant, if he reigns at all.’’ So thus we shall claim it’ proven that love cannot exist without the ogre jealousy sitting beside the throne and whispering to us as each courtier bends the knee—‘“‘ He loves thy Queen! O Fool!’’ That, where the tender passion revels on, in one luxurious term of peace, Cupid has less reason to be proud of his acolytes, who holding up the blazing tapers before their eyes are blinded by their glare, and consumed to ashes ere they feel the devouring flame. We therefore place our humble protest against such severe cundemnation of that disease (for it can be no less, we admit), jealousy, and look with suspicion npon that ‘** Base pack of yelping hounds, Who wish their betters to annoy,”’ by denouncing a weakness born of our strength of Love, which latter nurtures our understand- ing, reveals our tenderest impulses, develops our highest nature, while refining our hearts, cultivating our brains, and leading us by a sub- tle tuition to higher and purer duties of life. And yet we would not assert there are not loves as deep and ardent as ever poet sung, whose subjects with lofty purpose, pure hearts, and strong wills, banish from courtship and honeymoon the monster with the emerald eyes ; yet they possess minds and souls complicate, godlike, and wonderful, and prove exceptions to the throbbing mass who pulsate through the world swayed by its passions, and tortured by its will. We have in this paper intended to speak, be it remembered, of a jealousy spring- ing from a genuine passion, which, at least, lacks not dignity ; not a spasm merely, but the hope of a life; not an offshoot from vanity, a gaudy flower which would live beneath gaslight, but a shrinking, soft-petalled plant blushing and fragrant and fit to be worn over the heart. And so with an assuring friendliness would we approach a jealous man or woman, touched with a suffering which must not reveal itself; made sad by the signs of a sorrow that could not be expressed ; full of a charity and kind- ness which demanded not constant utterance or actual expression, but the tender help of sympathy for a natural sadness which might penetrate ourselves the instant after. And as (we think Thackeray happily expresses it so), in no republic or monarchy, we are exempt from the tax of befriending poverty and weak- ness, of respecting age, and honoring our father and mother, so let us sneer less at Sophronia’s lover, and when Sir Judkyns presses the maid- en’s hand in the corner, cease laughing at the youth who looks on trembling and flushed, and remember to ‘Deal with men in misery Like one who may himself be miserable.” A MEMORY. BY FANNIE STEVENS BRUCE. WueEn love was new and truth was strong, And life still in its fresh spring-time, I met a maid—scarce more than child— Offspring of earth, yet half divine. She did not seem as others seemed Who crossed my path way every hour; *Mong envious thorns and blighted buds, She bloomed a perfect fairy flower. She knew no home of stately pride, She was not born of wealth or fame ; Her sire was but a humble man, And very humble was his name. Yet, dwelling in a simple cot, A lonely cottage by the sea— And clad in garments plain and poor, I owned her fair as fair could be! For hand of sculptor never gave A lovelier form to art’s embrace, Nor heart of painter e’er conceived In wildest dreams a sweeter face. And airy threads, by fairies spun At midnight in the moonlight rare, Were coarse and dim if once compared With that soft mass of shining hair. Those red-rose lips—that holy brow— Those ever-changing star-bright eyes— Sure, they were radiant gleamings sent A brief, glad while from Paradise! For she was not as mortals are; No human heart to her was given; And needing but an angel's wings To fit her for her native heaven. She could not feel as we whose souls Are circied, bound by things of earth ; She could not find in love like ours A single charm, a ray of worth. And so I hushed my impious heart, And sadly sighed and turned away, To know no peace, or hope, or joy, Until shall dawn the eternal day! Long, fickle years have passed since then ; My life is in its summer now, And many are the weary lines Which care has traced across my brow. Yet still I hold one treasure fast, The tress of hair she gave to me; And still I keep one memory bright Of the fair maiden by the sea.

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AUNT TRYPHENA BORDERGRASS’'S MAY PARTY. BY CLARA AUGUSTA. WALL, winter ’s on hand for sartin, this time! goodness sake! how the snow does come down! ’Pears as if somebody’s feather beds was a I like to see it snow, now, that’s a fact; it looks emptyin’ their contexts out in infusion. kinder sociable like, and makes anybody feel as if they ’d be contented to set for everlastingly afore a birch fire, and crack walnuts. Land o’ the livin’! sich a hand as yer Uncle Reuben was for walnuts you never seed in all your born pilgrimage! He’d set and eat and eat, and throw shells into the fire, till he ’d put it allout: and git his stummak in sich a perdica- ment that his vest buttons warn’t of no kind of count at all! He was a parfect gluttonous for walnuts ! Yer Uncle was a good man, but he had his failin’s ; everybody has; and one of his was eatin’ walnuts to completion ; and another was his idees about wimmen’s rights. He was pow- erfully perposed to wimmen’s gwine anywhere, or sayin’ anything, more ’n yes and no, when they was spoke to; he allers said that a wo- man’s spear was rite to hum in the buzzum of her family; takin’ keer of her children and fryin’ sarsingers for her husband! Reuben was a case for sarsingers. Another thing about yer Uncle Reuben com- plexed me perdidgously ; he warn’t willin’ for me to go to a tea-drinkin’, or quiltin’, or frolic- in’; said that we wimmen folks was apt to gossip and tattle when we got together, and for his part he warn’t a-gwine to lend his counte- nance toit! Nobody asked him to, that I know of—his countenance warn’t so much that he needed to be so mighty ’fraid of it. A year ago last spring, the Watermelonville folks took it into their heads to have a May party; go out into the bushes airly in the mornin’, sarch for pogies, make somebody a queen by putting rosies on her head, and finish all up by dancin’ round a pole, and playin’ hunt-the-slipper. Deacon Grant he asked me to go, and I kinder thought it over, and concluded I should like to. Folks, you know, is never too oid to injoy their- selves, and for my part, I don’t think it’s any hurt to laff. Annermils don’t laff, and anybody that don’t laff, and don’t hold to laffin’, is an annermil; and needn’t feel any troubled about 44 their soul, ’cause they can’t have any ! Now, there ’s old Aunt Sally Brewster—clever woman, and a grand hand to knit striped mittens—but her face is part a mile long if not longer, and its ’s enuff to give anybody a pain in their dys- pepsia to look at her. My vittels don’t disgust at all when I eat where she is, and I allers feel as if I’d been packed up tight in a box, and fed through a knot-hole. Poor Aunt Sally! my heart aches for her! she leads an orful onhappy life, and her hus- bard, poor critter, is nothing but a skeleton with a jacket and trowsis on! He has to run into the house and shut hisself down sullur when the wind blows, for fear it ’ll kerry him clean off to nowhere! They do purtend to say that Tom Sykes sent his dog over to Aunt Sally’s, to stay while he and his wife went to their darter’s a visitin’ for a week, and when they got back, the dog was in a kinder con- sumption. He didn’t live above two days, and it’s my ’pinion that he died of the solomcolics —ketched ’em of Aunt Sally ! Wall, I kept on thinkin’ about the May party, and I asked yer uncle about it. He was readin’ the ‘‘ Peradventures of Sam Patch,’’ and could not hear nothin’ at all; so I let him alone till he got sot down to supper. I knowed I’d got him safe then, for he wouldn’t leave his vittels for all the scoldin’ forty wimmen could do. ‘‘Reuben,”’ sez I, ‘‘ I’m a-gwine to the May party, next Tuesday.”’ “* Are ye?”’ sez he; ‘*I want to know.” ‘¢ Yes, I kalkulate to,”’ sez I, ‘‘ and I should like it if you’d jest spur up and go with me! What ’s the use of stayin’ rite in the chimbly corner for, allers ?’’ ‘¢ What do you want to go for, ’Phena?”’ sez he; ‘‘seems to me an old woman like you had better let young folks and their capers alone.’’ ‘¢T ain’t an old woman,” sez I, for my sperit was up; ‘I ain’t but two year older than you are, Rube Bordergrass ; amd you warn’t too old last winter to kiss Bets Larratee at Uncle Josh’s Thanksgiving time. I should be ashamed of myself.’’ ‘I beg yer pardon, ’Phena; I didn’t mean nothin’—you ain’t no age at all! Not a day old, as I’m a sinner !’’ Reuben’s doxology kinder pacified me, and

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eae — d ani Ay nd AUNT TRYPHENA BORDERGRASSS MAY PARTY. 45 I looked across the table into the lookin’-glass, and felt rather tickled at the putty face I seed reflexioned there. When I was eighteen years old, the fellers all said that there warn’t a hansomer gal in the town than ’Phena Grimes. Quite flatteratin’, warn’t it? Wall, I smoothed out my cap strings, and sez I :— ‘* Wall, Reuben, I’m glad you’ve come to your senses. Seein’ as how you have, I’ll jest explotorate the diagram of this party to your onderstandin’. Furst, we’re all to git up at four o’clock in the mornin’, and gw’out into Gen. Gordon’s woods and git all the flowers and evergreens we can find ; Second, we ’re to meet in Mr. Hall’s store, and make all the leaves and things into bokays and crowners ; Third, we’re to goto the Common, esquarted by a band of music, and choose the puttiest gall in the hull heap for a May Queen. Afterwards, they ’ll dance, and play, and have a good time eatin’ and drinkin’ lemonade. They ’ve got a pole histed rite on the middle of the green, and they ’ll all dance round that.’’ ** Dance round a fiddlestick !’’ sez yer uncle, cross as could be. ‘‘ Don’t make a fool of yer- self, ’Phena; Natur’ did the job up fur y putty thoroughly, I should think! Git up at four o’clock, indeed! You’ll wet your feet wet as water, and have the tizzich wuss than ever.”’ And with that Reuben whisked out a big slice of pork, and snapped it down as if it had been a muskeeter. **Land sake, Reuben!” sez I, ‘‘I shall wear my Ingy scrubbers, and hold up my gownd!”’ ‘*Humph !”’ sez Reuben, shortly ; and, grab- bing a little mountain of gingerbread, he made tracks for the barn. But I warn’t discurraged; only more detarmined than ever. You jest try to drive me, and you’ll be likely to find out that you ’ll have to work for it! I said nothin’ more to Reuben about the party, but I asked Napoleon Alexander his opinion, and he sed I’d better git myself fixed, and go with him and Julietta. So when the mornin’ come—May mornin’—I was out of bed afore the crowers had begun their crowing; and, arter wakin’ up Napoleon and Julietta, I got breakfast all on the table for Reuben, and then we sot forth for Gordon’s woods. There was a sight of other folks a-stirriu’, though it was nigh ’bout as dark as Egypt ; and I wanted Napoleon to go home and git the lantern, but he said it would be lighter when the sun riz. Everybody seemed to enjoy theirselves won- derfully, laffin’, shoutin’, and performin’, Na- poleon he got Mary Ann Ward by the arm, aud they scampered round like two wild crit- ters, peepin’ in under every bush, into all the frog-puddles, and twisting up every bit of moss to see if there warn’t a frog somewhere. For my part, it was so dark I couldn’t see to find anything, and I’d forgot to bring my specs, which made it wuss. Howsomever, I didn’t want to be behindhand, and I picked a handful of spruce boughs, a sprig of hemlock, and a bunch of witch-hazel burs ; that was something towards it. Bym-by I stepped on somethin’ that moved, and I’m ter’ble ’fraid of snakes—the picter of one will make me shiver any time. ‘**Marciful gracious !’’ I screamed, at the top of my voice. ‘‘Snakes! snakes! A suake has got me by the gownd! Massy !’’ Everybody within earshot took to their heels and run, and I run, too, as fast as the fastest, the critter hangin’ to my gownd, and lashin’ me with his tail every other step! I was al- most throwed into the hydrostatics! I exerted myself to the last grain of strength, and went rite over Gen. Gordon and Polly Place, where they was squat down on the ground, tryin’ to tell whether they ’d found a toad-stool or a blue violet. The Gen’ral is an orful skeery man, and they say he wasn’t good to his wife, and sense her disease he’s been afeared to go out of the house arter sunset, for fear of seein’ her apparition! Sense he’s been stickin’ up to Polly Place, he’s been ten times shyer ’n ever, and when I sailed over him, he thought his wife had got him for sartin, and he jumped up with an orful cry, and streaked it for home. He'd a’got there in a little while if it hadn’t been for a swamp between him and there, and in his condition of mind he didn’t think of swamps; so on he went, and landed rite into that mudhole, and stuck fast! Poll Place she screamed murder, and Deacon Grant—the Dea- con is brave as a lion—heerd the noise, and cum rite to us. ‘*Land soul!’’ sez he, ‘‘ what’s all this clatter _about ?”’ We ‘* A snake, Deacon,’’ sez I, ‘‘is holdin’ onto my gownd skirt, and the Gen’ral is stuck in the bog !”’ ‘* Land soul !’’ sez he, ‘‘ you don’t say !”’ And with that he ketched the snake rite by the head, and held it up afore my eyes. CGra- cious! come to find out, it wasn’t a snake, but a long, big black root that had got hitched into my gownd! Didn’t I feel a leetle ’shamed when I seed it? I shouldn’t wonder if I did, but I laffed and let it go. ’Twa’n’t no laffin’ matter for Gen’ral Gordon, though! When they got him

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46 out of the swamp, he was a sight to be seed. Mud all over—plastered from top to toe, and the little green frogs stickin’ on to at every pint. Napoleon said he’d got his uniform on. He was considerable mortified, and considerable mad; and I overheerd him sayin’ somethin’ about its bein’ better for old women to stay to hum. ‘“‘That’s a fact, Gen’ral!’’ sez I. didn’t you stay ?”’ The Gen’ral he never took any notice of what I sed, but made the best of his way home, and in a half an hour he cum back agin, all drest up in another suit. We went to Hall’s store, and sot on the barrels and boxes, and made bokays and crowners, and talked and injoyed our- selves. Napoleon and Mary Ann were dreadful peart together, and I heerd him tell her that there war’n’t a May flower in all creation that would compare with her! Arter we ’d got the things all fixed, we started to march to the common—the band of music- fellers playin’, and the flags a-blowin’ in the wind. Mr. Hall walked with me a piece of the way; but he had to see to sumethin’, he said, “Why and he brought up his nephew, from New York, and produced him to me. Mr. Fitzy Greene his name was. ** Wall, Mrs. Bordergrass, so it seems that we are at lest on root for the common,”’ ** Bless your soul, Mr. Fitzy Greene, no we ain’t; we’re on the road !”’ ‘‘[ beg your pardon, marm,”’ sez he; ‘I 9) sez he. ‘€On a root ?”’ sez I. was mistaken ‘* Wall, no wonder,’’ sez I; ‘‘it’s dark enuff to mistaken anybody ; and mebby you ’re nigh sighted? some folks is! Now Julietta Jane can’t see an inch afore her nose, but she won’t own it, because, ye see, she wanis everybody to think she ’s parfect !”’ ‘Indeed; I regret the accident very much. It must be very sad !’’ sez he. ‘*Land sakel| what accident’s happened now, Another steamboat bust ?’’ sez I. sez he; ‘‘don't be alarmed; I was ” I wonder? **O no,”’ only sympathizin’ with Julietta Jane. ‘I’m obleeged to ye, I’m shore,” sez I; ‘* and as to bein’ alarmed, why, I never borrer the least mite of trouble! Now, the other day, when I lent my flat-irons to yer Aunt Hall, I knowed they ’d be ruinated, but I didn’t mourn about it. ‘They ’re in the hands of Providence,’ sez I; and shure enuff they was; for yester- day she brunged ’em home with both handles ” ” missin’. By this time we’d got to the common; and GODEY’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. pole, and a table sot out the grandest that ever was! It actilly made my mouth water to see it. The May-pole was as high as a liberty- pole ; sot rite up in the middle of the lot, and hung over with wreaths of spruce, and ever- green, andred ribbins! It looked mighty nice, I can tell you; and made anybody, with the blood of the patriarchs in their bosoms, think of the times that tried men’s souls; when Columbus went a-sailin’ clean on to America, when he didn’t know there was sich a place anywhere. Land sake! what would have be- come of Watermelonville ifhe hadn’t diskivered America ? Wall, to cum back to the piut, there was quite a hullabaloo about choosing a gal for the Queen o’ May. Every one wanted his own way; and every gal wanted to be queen; and they got into quite an annermated disgression about it. Everybody was a-talkin’ to once, and they made more noise than the tower of Babel. ‘*Let Mr. Fitzy Greene choose the queen !’’ sez a voice louder ’n the rest. ‘Yes, yes! let Mr. Fitzy Greene select !’’ sez a dozen voices all together. And Mr. Fitzy Greene stepped out, and begun to look up and down the rows of gals, and feel of his whiskers to an orful rate. **Don’t!’’ sez I. ‘* You'll get ’em all out; and there ’s no great quantity of ’em now!”’ He looked round at everybody, but I guess he didn’t know I spoke, for he didn’t say no- thin’, but kept on starin’ at the feminines. ‘“‘ Ahem! hem!”’ sez he, clearin’ his throat ; ‘‘ wall, railly, there ’s so many angelic sylla- bubs here, that I can’t fix my eyes on one more luminary than another !”’ ‘“‘Land sake, Mr. Fitzy Greene!’ sez I, ree 9? ‘* choose the one you love the best ‘¢ There is little difficulty in doing that !”’ sez he, making a flourish at me. ‘Mrs. Border- grass, I select you!” ‘*Gracious goodness !’’ sez I; *‘ you mustn’t I’m a married woman with two Reuben would knock the breath out 99 love me! children ! of your body if he knowed it I was actilly skairt; but the folks only laffed, and said Reuben needn’t know it. .But my conscience wouldn’t be easy on it; ye see, I didn’t like the idee of bein’ desateful to my husband. It ain’t a good plan. Mr. Fitzy Greene and some of the others took a big wreath of posies, and hethlock, and sich, and put it rite onto my head—near about ruinated my new cap! and then they put bokays into my apron strings, and bokays into my hair, and all there was seats all built up behind the great | over me, till I felt like jest nothin’ at all, and

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d t didn’t know whether I was myself or somebody else. They sot me up on a pile of pine boughs— they called it a throne—but it war’n’t a mite easy settin’ there, and the pitch stuck my gownd fast; and then they all popped down on their knees, and called me ‘‘ Yer majesty,”’ and ‘** Yer highness,” till I thought they ’d all turned into crazytics. Just as the most of ’em was a- gettin’ up, Reuben Bordergrass rushed onto the common, pantin’ and puffin’ like all possest! My heart stood stock still, for I was skairt nigh about out of my senses—Reuben has got an orful temper when it is up! ‘*Gracious !’’ sez I, ‘‘I guess I’ve ketched it, now !’’ ‘*Phena,”’ sez Reuben, rushin’ rite through the company, and grabbin’ me by the arm— **Phena, what are they a-doin’ to ye?’’ ‘** Nothin’,’’ sez I, ‘‘ only crownin’ of me !’’ “It’s no sich thing!” sez he; ‘‘they’re a gwine to burn ye at the stake, jest as they did John Rogers ; and I’ll murder every one of ’em if they don’t stop it! Phena,’’ sez he, ‘‘ you’re my fust and last beloved, and I’ll cut the dickens but I’llsave you! Liberty or death !”’ sez he, in an airthquake voice. ‘“*Massy on us,’’ sez I, ‘‘the man’s ce- mented !”’ Reuben he held on to my arm like the tooth- ache, and dragged me rite off of the heap of brush, and after him at a smashin’ rate. He BARBARISM. kicked right and left, at every body that stood in his way, and with his hair a-flyin’, and his mouth wide open, he went on. Mr. Fitzy Greene tried to perpose between us, but it war’n’t no use; Reuben trod down everything, and my crowners and flummadiddles flew in every direction. I was jest as mortified as anybody could be, but Reuben said that was percisely the way they did in books—the heroes allers reskewed the heroesses, and at the cost of his life he was bound to do jest as they did! I gin yer Uncle Reuben a real lectur’ when we got home, and exploterated things to him, and I think he was a leetle mite ashamed of his actions. ‘Wall, Phena,’’ sez he, ‘‘I thought they war’n’t doin’ of ye any good, and to tell the truth I hain’t liked the idee of Deacon Grant’s toteing over here to ask you to go! You know, Phena, that the deacon is as perlite as an organ grinder to the wimmen !”’ Only think of Reuben’s being jellus! Good- ness knows I never had a thought of anybody but Reuben when he was a-livin’, but I don’t know as it’s any hurt to be sociable with on- married men, now poor Reuben’s dead and gone! I never shall marry agin—of course not—I couldn't think of dedicatin’ Reuben’s blessed memory so much, but I do think a sight of Deacon Grant’s poor, motherless, orfan children ! —_——- ~~». oee eo —_ BARBARISM. BY AUGUSTA H. WORTHEN. WE are wont to look upon a great city with astonishment and admiration; it seems tous a vast museum of art, an aggregation of the wonders of civilization. And yet we cannot walk the length of a single street without be- holding many things strongly suggestive of the age of barbarism; indeed, I take the responsi- bility of asserting that this very age is itself the age of barberism ; for, look you, now, the shop upon the corner here is a barber’s shop, and the window is full of barberous-looking objects. Here is a row of wig-blocks ; some of them are provided with faces, features, and complexions such as we fre in the habit of wear- ing, while others seem to be in a transition state, not yet having fully assumed the likeness of our humanity. Complexions have they, but no features, save that in the middle of where the face will be when the thing emerges from its present tadpole state is a slight prominence to mark the location of the nose. I suppose that in process of time the other features will take sight by this prominence, and gradually mar shall themselves into proper shape and position around it. But, whatever be the present pri- vations of these singular-looking objects, they are spared one great trial—the inconvenience and mortification attendant upon premature baldness. ‘‘ On the top of the head,’’ where the hair ‘‘ ought to grow,”’ it does grow, glossy and abundant. So we may rest assured that these piles of ringlets lying about here were not cut from theirtemples. Here is a pair of moustaches —I wonder whose lip has been robbed of this pretty ornament? Perhaps it was a Tartar’s, perhaps the very one that Witch No. 3 in Mac- ¢

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48 beth would have chosen as an ingredient in a certain famous mess of broth, in the concoction of which she officiated as head cook. I need not here give her receipt for that same pottage ; it is known the world over. There is lying hair in all kinds of shapes, braids, bands, curls ; and suspended from a string across the window is a@ mass in no shape at all—long, loose, un- trimmed ; does not the sight of this remind us of the fearful-looking objects sometimes seen in the cabin of the savage Indian warrior? I have a horrible fear that even here some unfor- tunate female has been scalped; and behind that half undrawn curtain I see the wretch who I am confident has done the awful deed. Even now he has in his hand a sharp, glittering razor, while in the seat before him sits a helpless- looking gentleman, waiting, for aught I know, to have his throat cut. One of these wig-blocks bears the face and features of a young lady. Her eyes are blue, her cheeks are rosy, and she is, withal, so pretty that we are almost willing to believe her to be a reality. Our imagination is pained at the thought of applying to her the remarkable lines of one of our earliest New England versi- fiers of the Psalms of David. Speaking of the idols of the heathen, he says :— ‘Eyes have they, but they see not; Ears have they, but hear no jot.” To this pretty young lady, if she only had a hedy, we would willingly accord an entity, a personality. Why is she thus bereft of her body, and whe has done it? That wretch with And did he sell it to Ah, no! for I see the razor in his hand? the doctor for dissection ? that the cloak manufacturer opposite has got it. You can see it now, standing in his store, dressed in pink cambrie skirts, and wearing on the But do not suppose that the privilege of wearing handsome shoulders a splendid cloth cape. clothing, and being exhibited by half a dozen white-handed clerks, and admired by that group of ladies is enough to compensate the young woman for this unnatural divorce of her head from her body. What seems very remarkable is this, that those ladies, though they continue to look so critically at the kang of her cloak, and mark so carefully every fold and button, do not lost her head. seem to notice that she has The fact is, they are so accustomed to such sights, they so constantly frequent these ‘* habitations of cruelty’’ that their hearts are as hard as a piece of the ‘‘ nether millstone.”’ Next door is the office of a dentist. Heisa wonderful man in his way. Have your grinders ceased because they are few? he will supply . | | | | | | | | + off the foot first. GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. all vacancies. Are they only decayed and full of holes? he will prosecute therein a series of mining operations, and then fill in with the precious metal till you are worth mure than you ever were before. But you see what he has for a sign of his calling—a whole set of teeth, upper and under jaw. I wonder how he came by them. Is he so wicked as sometimes to take advantage of the helplessness of a patient, and rob him of these, his only natural wea- pons of offence and defence? He certainly might do so, if he pleased; I do not think we can place ourselves in any situation whatever where we are so entirely at the mercy of an- other as when we are under the hands of a dentist. In the beginning he cuts off all chance for remonstrance on our part by taking posses- sion of our mouth, the organ by which we usually make known our miseries. We are not allowed even to ‘‘ grin and bear it,”’ for he holds fast to our jaw. We must bear it as we can, and not increase the tension of a muscle. We are as helpless and incapable as clay in the hands of the potter, our free moral agency is gone, our personal dignity of no account what- ever. If we retain any degree of consciousness, it only helps us to recognize the pleasant fact that we are gagged, bound and delivered over to our tormentor. That terrible dentist’s chair! If it have nerves, as I mistrust it has, and be- comes thereby a sympathetic partaker of all the tortures inflicted and endured within its capa- cious depths, how fearful must be the sum total of its experience ! Presently we come to the office of the corn His sign has for a device a bare hu- So that’s the ’ cuts doctor. man foot, cut off at the ankle. way he ‘‘removes corns without pain ;’ He may, without much risk, warrant that the ‘‘corns will not reappear.” But,I am resolved, if my foot shall offend me, to bear the offence as meekly as I can rather than try his desperate remedy. Leaning against one of the glasses of colored liquid in the apothecary’s window is a placard reads thus—‘‘Rat Exterminator sold here.”’ It is my opinion that whoever under- takes to exterminate the family of rats fails to comprehend fully the vastness of the under- taking. We must not suppose, because we came here poor pilgrims, and ‘‘drave out the Canaanites before us,’’ that we can drive out everything that is likety to interfere with our which calculations. Supposing we have the power, I am not sure that we have the right to ex- terminate a family which is perhaps as re- spectably ancient as our own. Rats have, no

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THE SONG OF THE ‘'LOCOMOTIVE.,”’ 49 doubt existed in this world ever since it was made ; there is certainly presumptive evidence to show that Noah provided against the extinction of the race at the Deluge by furnishing lodging room and refreshments to one pair in the Ark. If he failed to do this, they were certainly shrewd enough to get on board unbeknown to him, and, once on board, their naturally strong foraging propensities would them a subsistence. Rats are not afraid to venture on board of any craft that floats. I have no doubt that they, with the other gentry, ‘‘ went over with William the Conqueror,’’ nor that they were in the Mayflower, and came ashore here with the Pilzrim Fathers. Probably they fondly hope to remain here as long as the descendants Yet this apothecary insure of the Pilgrims shail last. coolly talks of exterminating them. "Now we have reached that part of the street which runs out into the suburbs, and private residences begin to appear. Here is one built in picturesque style. With its ample grounds filled with shrubbery, it would look very invit- ing, but, alas! on either side of the gateway is a heavy stone pillar, and on the top of each pillar is stationed a bronze lion, in the attitude of repose, it is true; but that they are wide awake I have not the least doubt. These two fierce animals are probably expected to keep guard over the premises ; if we should venture too near, I suppose they would roar at us; if we should attempt to pass through the gate, they would probably pounce down upon us. But, important as their mission undoubtedly is, their life must be, on the whole, rather dull; much of the time, certainly, they can have nothing better to do than to practice fierce looks and sharpen their claws, in anticipation of an adversary. I wonder if the lady of this castle- like mansion has any more variety to her life. I wonder if, like the old-time models, she occu- pies herself exclusively in manufacturing tapes- try and watching impatiently for her lord’s return. all clad in steel, riding through this gateway at the head of his retainers. But lo! even now he comes—that is, his thin, dyspeptic body comes, and so much of his soul as he has not left locked up with his ledgers. At his ap- proach vanishes entirely this vision of the Middie Ages. An instant since, I thought I saw griffins and dragons peeping forth from this wall, and inviting us to accompany them on an excursion to an age yet more remote, but at the sight of modern broadcloth they fled. VOL. LXIV.—5 By and by I suppose she will see him, THE SONG OF THE ‘‘ LOCOMOTIVE.” BY 8. J. Tney fed me with fire and heap'd me with coal, Till I glowed with the pride of my newly-made soul ; Then they gave me a drink from the cool-flowing stream, But my heart’s inward fire soon turned it to steam ; It queuch’d not my thirst, and soon heated me more, I began now to pant and with madness to roar. Then they roused up the fire within me again, Till I hiss’d and began from my holdings to strain— For I long’d to be bounding away o’er the earth, And to prove to weak mortals my glorious birth. Oh, then, when I thought to be free and go forth— To rush unrestrain’d to the south, to the north— They bound to my back large masses of men, That I was to carry through valley and glen ; So I gave a wild scream as they loosened my chain, And the city re-echoed my shrill note of pain. I was free—yet a slavye—as I hurried along, Still dragging behind me that pale human throng; I knew that they fear’d me, and laugh’d out aloud As I thought of that trembling, fear-shaken crowd. We soon left the town, black and smoking behind; And I bore them along in the teeth of the wind That went howling and roaring among the tall trees, But further on fell to a calm, sighing breeze. For thro’ valleys with meadow and smiling flelds deck'‘d, I now hurried onward, free, mad, and uncheck’'d; Then a high mountain suddenly rose on the view— I doubted I could not go over or through ; And to seek a way round it I felt was too late— I was bound to one road and that fearfully straight ; I deem’d that I now should be dash’d in the air, And gave what I thought my last shriek of despair; In a moment a cavern, wide, awful, and black, I was forced to plunge into—I could not turn back Still forward I sped through that dim dreary place, As though with myself I were running a race; For nothing opposed me, none crossed my long path— All seem’d to have fled far away from my wrath. Soon a shriek, like my own, woke the cavern’s repose, And a deep rumbling noise in the distance arose ; Then I saw coming onward a dull, glowing light, That luridly lit up the hideous night; I saw I ’d a brother—we laughed as we pass’d, For our greeting was quick as the rush of the blast My strength and my power so proudly I knew, That I strove to be rid of the load which I drew; And when the broad daylight stream‘d on me again, The rate of my fleetness no hand could restrain. I hurl’d myself headlong, with savage delight, From the edge of a dizzy, precipitous height— Then I lay like a wreck—bruised, mangled, and torn, ’Mid the groaning and screams of those beings forlora That I dragged over with me—my masters before, Now my victims, but soon to be masters once more ; For my power had fled with this effort of hate, And I passively yielded at last to my fate. = —t--4- — AnciENT BuT Goop.—At thy first entrance upon thy estate keep a low sail, that thou may- est rise with honor; thou canst not decline without shame; he that begins where his father ends will end where his father began.

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INCOMPATIBILITY OF TEMPER. A STORY FOR YOUNG HUSBANDS AND WIVES. BY ALICE B. HAVEN. CHAPTER I. ‘Ixy two months—mind, now; I shall not wait a day longer.” ‘*Oh, I cannot’’—she could not say ‘‘be married’’ yet; the bare thought—‘‘ leave aunty, you know, so soon.”’ she blushed with ** And how long would you like to be sepa- rated from me, little girl, if you had your own way ?”’ That was putting the question in another form; she did not want to be separated a day, for that matter. terrible dreariness, but sixmonths’ engagements were thought about right in Rockville, where Maria Pierson had spent most of her days; Two months even seemed 4 quite as little time as would suffice for the mountains of plain sewing that always precede a wedding. And then it was all so sudden; she had only known Morgan Ash six weeks, and they had been two days engaged; he was talking about being married already. It was very delightful to be singled out, and waited upon, and cared for by the finest-looking man in the neighborhood; and, after she had begun to look for him, and be disappointed if he did not come, or feel a horribly gnawing pain if he sat or walked with any one else, and to watch his face when he could not see it, and to think his voice the deepest, richest voice she had ever listened to, it was more than delight- ful, unspeakable happiness to be told by him that he had loved her from the first moment they had met on that memorable picnic, and It was entreaty wasted on the part of Morgan Ash, special pleader as he aspired to be. Marie—as he had called her for the last week whenever be implored to love him in return. there was no one by to hear—had not the least She had always looked forward to being loved and engaged at some time in her life, for she had an affectionate nature, that craved an object for its devotion. She thought those of her acquaintances who were engaged the most enviable of people; they had some one to take them everywhere, without any talk being made about it; they were constantly receiving beautiful presents, and Marie had a genuine girl’s love for trinkets, and beautiful books and pictures, and bouquets. Then those charming visits; if the lover did 50 intention of denying his suit. | | | | not happen to reside at Rockville, every one knew that he had come, for ‘ brother,’’ or *‘uncle,’? or ** Cousin Will’? had met him at the station, and when Marie was ‘‘tying her bonnet under her chin,’’ for church-going ser- vice, she would see the happy pair pass, arm in arm, looking like Adam and Eve restored to Paradise, and clothed much more becomingly than when they had left it. When Morgan Ash took a slender little chased ring from his watch-chain, and put it on her hand, and said, ‘‘So long as you wear this, Marie, you are mine,’’ visions of such delight- ful things passed through her mind, but mar- riage seemed a long way off. The vista through which she looked at it was green and full of sunshine and singing birds, but it grew narrow and indistinct as it went on, and almost shut out the goal. Now, to have it brought forward so suddenly, it almost took her breath away! She wished Morgan had not spoken of it; for two days and nights she had been perfectly happy, but this troubled her. ‘You are not afraid of me, Marie ?’’ ‘**Ono!’’ And she nestled closer to him, lest he should really think so, and be hurt. ‘Then you are not afraid to trust yourself and your happiness to my keeping ?’’ **O no; it isn’t that.”’ ‘*You need not be, Marie ; it will be the first thought of my heart to make you happy always, you dear little creature.” And Morgan Ash really meant it, as he stroked her brown hair, and then held up the smooth, oval chin to look into her brown eyes. It was a happy face, blushing, and dimpling with smiles as she looked up at him. There were no lines of care, or ill-health, or sorrow ; it was fresh and fair, and full in coloring and outline. ‘* We shall be the two happiest people in the world, Marie, and I shall be the most miserable man in existence until I have you safely by me.”’ All of which was very well in its way. It had been said and believed before, and it will be again. When we wives look over the fact, and try to think over a day or a week that we should be quite willing to live over, I think we rest upon the time when we listened to such words as these, and said to ourselves, ‘‘ What — a i ih ie

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INCOMPATIBILITY OF TEMPER. 51 can come between us!’’ Nothing, possibly, if Adam and Eve really had regained an existence void of all housekeeping cares further than gathering figs and pulling grape clusters. I don’t know, then, but that Adam might come to think Eve could do it all for herself and him too, and then grow indignant because his nec- tarine had not been allowed quite enough sun, and his grapes had seen a little too much shade ! ‘“*If dear Katy had only lived, you would have been such friends. She was just your age. I have worn her ring ever since she died ; and I always have promised myself to give it to the one I should love best in the world. You must promise me one thing, Marie—whatever happens between us, never to give it back to me. If you find you do not love me as well as you thought you did, keep it, because I have parted with it now; it will remind you how much J loved you !”’ Taking it for granted, always, that his own love was the most enduring, ‘‘ after the fashion ofa man!’ Marie looked down at the shining little circlet, and wondered what she had done to be loved so well. ** You will like Harriet, though, and she will be everything to you. She has such excellent judgment; I always consult her about every- thing. She will be astonished to find what I have been about! I hope she will like you; but no one could help doing so.’’ And here a reassuring kiss came in to make everything quite certain. ‘‘T am in such a hurry to have aunty see you,’’ said Marie, locking and unlocking the clasping hand that held her own. ‘ And Gil- bert, too, oh he is so good, and has been like an own brother to me always.” ‘*Nothing more?’’ and an uncomfortable feeling crossed Mr. Ash’s mind, though his look and tone were playful. “Oh no, indeed! he is ten years older than Iam; why Harvey is seven, and married two years ago. That would be an odd idea.”’ It certainly seemed to have been suggested to her for the first time, though it was by no means the first consideration it had received from her lover; but lovers may be excused for thinking that it was impossible for.any one to live under the same roof with the being they have found perfection, and not adore her. “It would be so dreadful if auntie shouldn’t happen to like you!”’ ** Dreadful !’?—-and Morgan mimicked her tone. ‘‘I guess I could bear it, though.” ** But I could not marry you then, you know; but she will—she can’t help it, or Gilbert either.”’ “Is Gilbert your guardian? I thought you told me you were left without one.”’ “Oh, so I was; there was no one even to take care of me. But auntie did not stop to think ; though they were not so well off in those days; it was before Gilbert went into business for himself, and they have always taken care of me ever since. But I am sure they cannot have the least objection ; no, in- deed.”’ Mr. Ash ratherthought not; most men would not object to being relieved of an orphan cousin, and he felt himself to be perfectly unexcep- tionable. Not that he was a vain man, but he was perfectly self-conscious, owing to his early struggles with fortune, and decidedly self- willed. It annoyed him to find that he was to be arraigned to any one’s opinion. Marie’s unprotected situation, as he had chosen to call it, had appealed to him. She would have no one with the right to interfere in her affairs, and she would love him all the better; she would be entirely his own, and form her opin- ions by his, so they should agree exactly. It had never occurred to him before that it would make the slightest difference whether there was a mutually favorable impression between himself and the Pierson family or not. He wanted Marie, and not her relations. ‘*T shall take you to see Sophia on our wed- ding trip,’ he said, putting the matter out of his mind, and coming back by degrees to the main point so as not to startle her. The allusion was not unnoticed, however; for the roses flushed up Marie’s smooth cheek again, as she said, in a voice that was intended to be very unconcerned— ‘Ts she farfrom your home—from Chester ?”’ ‘* A full day’s ride, and there is no railroad ; it is quite a little journey. She is nearer your own age than Harriet; they will both be so fond of you—of my little wife.”’ It was a delightful prospect to have two real sisters; but she wished he would not talk so much about being married. Shame-faced little thing, when she was inwardly pining in ad- vance at the next day’s separation. He was to accompany her to Rockville by the morning train, and leave for his own home, Chester, in the evening. Her visit to her friends at Inglewood was at an end; so was the young lawyer’s summer vacation. It had been a momentous visit to both. ’? said Morgan, thinking of the coming separation. ‘‘ Here I ‘‘How odd this loving is!

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have only known you six weeks, and I don’t like to think of living without you. How have you managed to bewitch me so? How can you have the heart to wish me to wait longer than two months before I come for you ?”’ A man’s way of reasoning again. He was to have her all his life, yet grndged a little time to the friends who had reared her; if six weeks had made her so dear to him, what had six years wrought with them? He was not going to part with a single association, or any en- deared companionship, and he required her to give up all at a word. r ‘‘Two months now; promise me, and I will let you go and brush your hair for dinner; I have spoiled that clean collar, too, with my arm. Don’t scold—two months, say; I shall hold you fast till you promise.”’ She struggled, in his strong yet loving clasp, as he held her out from him and looked into her eyes. **T cannot promise, only this: I will do just as aunty thinks best.” And with this he was obliged to be content. He walked up and down on the piazza, while she was dressing for dinner, humming a little song which she had sung to him the night before. ‘‘T had no idea the little gypsy had such a will of her own; but I like her all the better for that,’’ he thought. He meant ‘‘so it al- ways yields to mine ;”’ too easy acquiescence is no man’s liking; and as for her aunt, although he had no definite opinion of her, of course she would see at once how much better it would be for it to be all over before winter came fairly on, when he represented how unsettled he should be till the wedding did take place, and how difficult it would be for him to leave his business to visit Marie. So, quite satisfied that his wedding would be fixed for early in November, he broke a spray of sweet-scented clematis and placed it in her hair as they met in the hall. It was a hurried interview, and not a very satisfactory one after all, when Mr. Ash came to meet Marie’s relatives. The train was de- layed—bliss to them, since nearly every occu- pant of the cars went out to see what was the accident, and walked up and down the road in the hot sun impatiently, till the engine was repaired, instead of remaining quietly in a But it Jeft Mr. Ash less time to argue his cause with Mrs. comfortable seat as they did. Pierson, who seemed by no means as fully im- pressed with its urgency as he expected her to be. | | ! GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. « While he urged the difficulties of travelling, and the advantages of having his mind at rest to attend to his business, she was in imagina- tion shrinking and cutting out two pieces of cotton and one of linen, and thinking that they Be- sides, Marie knew so little of the young man; had a good winter’s work before them. though her cousin at Inglewood had written that he was all they could wish, she thought that people ought to have an opportunity of knowing something about each other’s dispo- sition. She wasn’t going to have the child hurried into matrimony at that rate—and Mr. Ash found he had reckoned without his host. He looked to Marie for assistance; but she had never gone contrary to her aunt’s will in all her life, and though she knew what the vexed impatient look in his face foreboded—she had seen it before, when young Dr. Campbell! at Inglewood insisted upon her leading the Redowa with him—she could not help it. aunty would not be quite so decided with Mor- She wished gan, and that Morgan could only know how good and kind she always was: but she felt things were not going as she wished them. Nor did Gilbert’s any; he had rather a formal manner, which Mr. Ash construed and did not seem in the least obliged to any appearance mend matters into intentional coldness, one who proposed to relieve him of Marie. They were not even allowed 4 moment alone, in which to set matters straight with each other; and but for Marie’s wistful loving look, as he kissed her good-by, Mr. Ash would have gone away vexed with the whole family. She, poor girl, felt almost heart-broken to think that the people she loved best in the world had not fancied each other, and with that and the separation which had been left indefinite, she cried herself to sleep. CHAPTER II. Bet the winter wore away at last ; and it had not been so very tedious after all to Marie, however Mr. Ash had progressed. He had found it possible to leave his business more frequently than he had anticipated, and there was apparent cordiality established between himself and the family of his future wife. Aunt Pierson had come to the conclusion that he was not so selfish after all, as she had feared at first ; and Gilbert had great hopes of converting him from the wrong stand he had (in Gilbert’s eyes) taken in politics. His sisters seemed dis- posed to welcome Marie heartily in the family.

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id ad INCOMPATIBILITY OF TEMPER. 53 and only regretted that they could not be present at the wedding. For it had come to that. The best bedroom was draped with the new dresses that had been made up with much thought and consultation of the fashion magazines; the clothes-press was entirely occupied by the wedding-dress itself, over which a sheet was carefully hung to pro- tect it from all possible contact with dust or flies ; the opposite closet, which had shelves, sent forth a fruity fragrance suggestive of the loaves of wedding-cake stored away in its re- cesses ; and Marie’s own drawers were over- flowing with the four dozen cotton and two dozen linen, to say nothing of nightcaps, which were at least happily completed. There were twenty things to be done yet, of course, and Marie felt as if she scarcely had time to stop and dress to receive Mr. Ash, who was to ar- rive in the evening train. In common with all brides elect, she had nothing to put on; for she had worn out all her winter things, and we all know that it is quite contrary to the usages of society to wear any of the trousseau before the ceremony has taken place. She need not have distressed herself—after the dreadful separation of nine weeks, which he had endured, and with the delightful cer- tainty that all separations were from henceforth at an end—she would have looked lovely to Mr. Ash, in the old brown merino, which she had that day bestowed upon Anna the girl; the spotted mousseline de laine, which Miss King, the dressmaker, was to fall heir to, was her only resource, with, at least, seven suitable The whistle of the train was heard before she had finished braid- ones hanging up uselessly. ing her hair, as, just as she fastened her collar, and gave a final pull to the folds of her dress to hide a fruit stain, she saw his eager face looking up as he passed under the window, and flew down the stairs to be caught in his arms in the dark hall, and be kissed six times at least before she was set on her feet again. Aunt Pierson and tea were waiting then in the sitting-room, and it was by no means a dull picture, as they sat there in the light of the large solar lamp. Aunt Pierson had a very frail body for her very determined spirit, and in the mellow light certainly did not look to be the mother of the tall, dark man at the head of the table. Her eyes were a clear blue ; her features finely cut, and her dark, abundant hair, thridded with silver, was carefully banded after a fashion of twenty years ago. Gilbert worshipped his mother, who was the incarnation of youth and 5* | | | beauty to him, as she had been in his boyhood, when he had become her sole champion in the struggle with fortune. Gilbert was an enthusi- ast after his kind, with all manner of old time chivalrous ideas on religious and social creeds, which he grew warm in defending. He had a brotherly kindness for Marie, and was very sorry to part with her; but he thought Mr. Ash a fine fellow, and wondered how it was that he had never been in love with any one as that young man appeared to be. Really, he could not keep his eyes from Marie’s face long enough to pass the butter, and for all his long day’s ride, appeared to have very little appetite for the good things of Mrs. Pierson’s bountiful table. It was well ‘“‘aunty’’ was capable of doing the ‘‘twenty last things,’’ ing, without Marie’s assistance, for no one saw anything of her during the evening, nor the next morning; Gilbert thought they might have spared a few moments to the family, con- sidering that they were going to have a lifetime to talk it out in. allowed time to dress for the wedding; and doubtless they would have been late, but for Aunt Pierson, who suggested that as Marie would not have a moment to spare that after- noon, he had better not come over from the hotel after dinner. He would have chosen a day wedding, and to have carried Marie off at once; but here he was again overruled by Aunt Pierson; she thought this fashion of rushing away from friends and relations at the church door very new fangled and objectionable ; so Mr. Ash, with Gilbert for his groomsman, was obliged to face a parlor full of people, half of whom he had never seen be- fore, and listen to their commonplace congratu- lations, and feel that they were criticising him, when all in the world he cared for was Marie, looking like an angel in her white tarleton dress and floating lace veil, who was dragged away to cut and distribute cake by her brides- maid. But he fell heir to her at last, when the good- byes were all said the following morning, and Aunt Pierson had been left in her empty and distracted house, with the amiable Miss King in the parlor, and extra help in the kitchen to set it to rights, and Gilbert had brought the checks, and shaken hands in the kindest man- ner with his new relative, and kissed Marie, including the pack- It was a wonder that she was and delivered his mother’s parting charge about the luncheon in her travelling-basket, and to take out the half loaf of cake intended for Mr. Ash’s friends from her trunk as soon as she

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54 arrived, for fear it should soil her dresses. We fear that Marie did not feel as much for Aunt Pierson in her loneliness, or as grateful to Gil- bert for his parting gift—a pearl porte monnaie, well filled—as she should have done. She was more occupied with her becoming travelling- dress and bonnet, which she wore for the first time, and wondering whether any one in the cars knew she was a bride, and thinking how nice it was to be all alone with Morgan, and really to belong to him for good and all. He was so thoughtful and devoted ; he placed the lunch basket for her feet to rest upon, and hung her new travelling shawl in thick, soft folds for her to lean against, and forgot to take his arm from the back of the seat after he had done so; and Marie drew off one little glove so she could see the glistening of the wedding-ring, and then looked up at her handsome, manly husband, with ashy recognition of the newclaim that wedding-ring had established. In all the wide world they thought there could be no two Of course all the future What could pre- vent it, now that they were really together ? such happy people. was to be quite as blissful. ** Sophie will be expecting us,’’ said Mr. Ash, mi much about her of late; she used to be an as the cars rushed onward. don’t know affectionate, good girl, and was very anxious to have me bring you to Groton Mills. Harriet seemed to think we ought to go; poor Sophie gets away from home so seldom, with her large family, though she is very anxious to see you herself, of course. And then there’s my friends, the Fords; you will feel quite at home in Chester.”’ **Oh, I expect to, and to love your sisters You don’t know how happy I have been in thinking they were to be mine too.” Which suggested to Mr. Ash an inquiry. ‘* By the way, you didn’t tell me what they wrote you.” Marie had scarcely more than glanced at the dearly. letters which her husband had given her the night he arrived; her mind had been so full of other things that it was scarcely possible to fix For- tunately she had remembered to transfer them it long enough to comprehend their drift. from the pocket of the dress she had bestowed on Miss King to the one she wore. ‘* Don’t scold, but I hardly know myself; I Here they are.”’ have been so very, very busy. It was an excellent excuse for getting a little nearer together, and it is to be hoped that the | other passengers were too busy with their maps anl newspapers to notice how Morgan’s arm fell from the back of the seat quite around his GODEY’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. wife, as she unfolded the least ladylike note of the two. The handwriting was too fine and cramped for her ideas of elegance. It was that of a person who has never expended her chiro- graphy since leaving school, and possibly her ideas. My pear Marta: I am too sorry I can’t come I did mean to try, but the baby seems feverish, and Morgan, the next, has to your wedding. had quite an ill turn. He is a lovely little fellow, and you will be delighted with all my children, I think; every one says they are very Hatty is quite a prodigy, and already sings several tunes. As for my oldest boy, Charlie, we cal! him Daniel Webster half the time, he has such a remarkable head and You should hear him speak “The boy stood on the burning deck.’’ Mr. We shall ex- pect you to tea the night after the wedding ; do I am dying to see what Mor- uncommon. such fine eyes. Taylor sends his kind regards. not disappoint us. gan’s wife is like ; he was always so particular. Your affectionate sister, Sopnia TAYLOR. It was not exactly what she would have ex- pected of Mr. Ash’s sister; the spelling was not quite correct, and the punctuation is here supplied by the printer; but she said to her- self and to him that it was very kind and friendly as she slipped it into her travelling- basket, and unfolded the evenly folded and beautifully directed letter from Mrs. Lockwoed. My prAR Sister—As I hope to call you soon : I am greatly disappointed at finding myself unable to leave home to be present at your wedding, for which I have just received Mrs. Pierson’s kind invitation. Please thank her for it, and say that I still hope to make her acquaintance at some future day. I know, my dear Maria, that you are fully aware of the great responsibility you are taking in this step. To hold another’s happiness in our hands may well make the most devoted heart bow with the weight of the sacred trust. I feel that you are fully alive to this; I need not say more. As the wife of my noble, only brother, you will find a welcome to the home of Yours, sincerely, Harrrer Lockwoop. ‘* Harriet writes a beautiful letter, doesn’t she ?’’ said Mr. Ash, looking at the clear, fine signature; ‘‘so different from poor Sophie; they never were much alike.’’ But though Marie said ‘‘ Yes, it was a beauti- ful letter,’’ she eould not help feeling a little shadow at finding herself charged with such a grave mission, as if she was going to be ex-

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pected to keep up to it. On the whole, she preferred the fresh heartiness of Sophia’s, if it was badly spelt and rather egotistical. She was glad they were going there first, for she was sure Mrs. Taylor would not be very critical. Mrs. Taylor was anything but that as she came out upon the door-step to meet them, motioning back a noisy crew with one hand, Ma- rie could not see her very plainly, as it was while she carried baby on her other arm. growing dark, and the lamps were not lighted ; but it was cool for the season, and on account of the children a wood fire was burning in the grate; and she appeared rather stout, and cer- tainly had a very good-natured expression as she caught glimpses of her by the dancing flame the first five minutes. The parlor was in a most disordered condi- tion; the two boys, Charlie and Morgan, had been making a tent of the hearthrug, supported by two of the best chairs, and were supposing themselves, by the aid of a lively imagination, to be soldiers camping out. The first seat of- fered to the new arrivals was already occupied by a large rag doll, and Marie finally sat down upon a sacque and a shaker bonnet belonging to Miss Harriet, who had not long since come in from a walk. By way of advancing conver- sation, the musical prodigy continued her pre- vious employment, which was thumping with her little fat hand on the lower keys of the piano. table-cover wrapped around his shoulders for a blanket, and the handsomly bound books that had been upon it thrown into a heap upon the floor. ‘*Oh, there comes pa with the lamp. That’s real good in you, pa, to think of it. This is Mr. Taylor, Maria,’’ said his commanding officer ; and with that, Mr. Taylor deposited his burden upon the uncovered table, and turned to shake hands with his new relatives. ‘*Do make those boys hush, pa; they will drum me out of my senses’’—for, by way of showing off, or in honor of the bride’s arrival, a furious to sound from the camp; to which Harriet responded from the The lights discovered Charlie with the reveille began piano. ‘* Harriet, come away from that piano this very instant; if you don’t, I’ll send you straight to bed; go and speak to the lady; that’s your new aunt, my dear; your uncle’s been getting married; maybe he’s brought Pa, can’t you Do let me take your Mi, Charlie, how you do act, kicking you a piece of wedding-cake. have that noise stopped ? things. INCOMPATIBILITY OF TEMPER. your poor pa! I should think you would be ashamed to, before company; they ’ll never want to come here again!”’ Not that Mrs. Taylor thought so. of children never disturbed her; in fact, she The noise did not become conscious of it until some one was by who was not accustomed to them, and she knew her brother was not. Morgan was evidently annoyed by it now, particularly as his namesake, instigated by the suggestion of wedding-cake, left the camp for a forage in his uncle’s pockets and his new aunt’s travelling basket. He hoped Marie had not noticed the general laxness of domestic discipline, or that Sophie’s dress was not exactly in company trim, owing tothe baby’s presence in the parlor. ‘*Pa, can’t you call Ann ?’’ continued Mrs. Taylor. ‘*i’ll show your wife right up to her room, Morgan; oh, here she comes now ; there, go its nurse, like a precious little darling so it was. No? oh, naughty baby, to let its uncle see it act so! go, nussy, get sugar.’? With which last inducement the very stout baby, with round, unwinking eyes, was induced to let go its clutch upon its mother’s collar, and be carried away from the family group. ** Are you fond of children ?”’ inquired Mr. Taylor, mildly, of his new sister-in-law. ‘Oh, very !”’ predetermined to be pleased with everything belonging to her husband, including his ne- phews and nieces, and with the popular idea of said Marie, enthusiastically, children, innocent, tractable, loving little crea- tures, who when they die are symboled by We know a much enduring mother who suggests that a young panther snow white lambs. would be much more appropriate. **T am so glad !’’—Mr. Taylor responded in a gratified way, ‘‘we are. I say to Sophia, one never has so many that there is one to spare. Harriet, come speak to the lady, dear; she is very fond of children.”’ But Harriet was not to be won by fair speeches, and shrank up into the corner be- tween the piano and the wall, whining ‘‘ nau, nau, ain’t a goin’ to, pa.’’ ‘*She’s a leetle spoiled,’”? said Mr. Taylor, making no movement to compel obedience ; ‘* being the only girl, you see; three boys and one girl, quite a nice little family. Itell Sophia I never expected to see the day I should drive my four in hand—ha, ha.’’ At which joke Morgan laughed quite heartily; it was the only one Mr. Taylor had ever been known to utter. And here his wife returned with a bed- room lamp.

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56 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, ‘**T declare,” said she, turning it from side to side, ‘‘I hadn’t the least idea how bad this room looked. I meant to have been in apple- pie order, but the train must have been earlier than usual, so I didn’t get cleared up. How- ever, it doesn’t make any difference, as you are all in the family now.’’ ‘**¢ They must take us as they find us,’ I said to Sophia,’’ remarked Mr. Taylor, as Marie gladly rose to follow her hostess. What would Aunt Pierson, who was the soul of order, have said to that parlor? Marie was thankful she was not there to see; she could make allow- ances, for was not Mrs. Taylor Morgan’s own sister? and certainly no one could be kinder, or try to make her more at home. This she said to Morgan when he came up to brush off the dust of travel, a little afraid of her first impressions, but, little self-deceiver and hypocrite as she was, he failed to detect any disappointment on her part; and they went down to tea so happy in each other that it would have taken more than heavy biscuit and burnt spring chicken to spoil it. They were to stay only a day at Groton, and Marie behaved in the most amiable manner towards mother and children, while Morgan went to visit the mills with Mr. Taylor, who was manager and part owner. She listened to the endless stream of anecdote and praise of the children which Mrs. Taylor poured forth, applauded ‘‘There is a happy land” and ‘I want to an Angel,’? which Hatty, after wearying solicitations and two pieces of wed- ding-cake, with a great deal of frosting, was be persuaded to warble; was immensely disap- pointed because Charlie declined a recitation after fraudulently possessing himself of a large slice on promise of so doing; petted Morgan particularly, because he was his uncle’s name- sake, allowed him to “‘ blow” her watch open at least forty-nine times, and did not even shrink from baby’s bread and buttery hands, which, considering her new silver gray poplin, was making an heroic sacrifice fer her hus- band’s relatives. She was not sorry, though, to find herself once more alone with her husband, and thought with some satisfaction that the mills were a long day’s ride from Chester, and that Sophia seldom left her family. She was a little con- science-stricken, too, at echoing Sophia’s regret that they should see so little of each other, in such a very fervent tone. Morgan’s pride did not allow him to make any uncomfortable allu- sions to his sister and her family, so long as Marie appeared unconscious, and were they not to be at home that very night, really settled down and blissfully happy ? It was a delicious spring day, the fields al- ready brightening with a flush of green, and the willows and dogwood quite out. The car- riage rolled smoothly along, the driver appeared absorbed in his horses—Mr. Ash had no mis- givings as to what Harriet’s reception was to be—and they caught a glimpse of the white steeples of Chester before they began to think they were at their journey’s end. ‘“*T am glad we have a little daylight left,’’ said Mr. Ash, as he identified these landmarks. ‘* You will have a look at Elm street, and the office as we drive by.”’ He thought with considerable more satisfac- tion what a sensation it would make when he was seen driving up the fashionable promenade at an hour when every one was sure to be out, or at their front windows, in such handsome style, and with his bride! He did not say so, for Marie would have pulled down the flutter- ing little gray veil sooner; it was done when she began to find her husband bowing and smiling to every third person they met, and curious looks directed towards herself. It was ‘the proudest day of his life,’? though he did not make that time-honored remark, when Morgan Ash drove up the main street of Chester bringing home his pretty bride. {To be continued.) INDEPENDENCE.—Men are never in a state of total independence of each other. Itis not the condition of our nature; nor is it conceivable how any man can pursue a considerable course of action without its having some effect upon others ; or, of course, without producing some degree of responsibility for his conduct. The situations in which men relatively stand, pro- duce the rules and principles of that responsi- bility, and afford directions to prudence in exacting it. Inpvustry.—People may tell you of your being unfit for some peculiar occupations in life ; but heed them not; whatever employ you follow with perseverance and assiduity, will be found fit for you; it will be your support in youth and comfort in age. In learning the useful part of any profession, very moderate abilities will suffice: great abilities are generally in- jurious to the possessors. Life has been com- pared toa race; but the allusion still improves by observing that the most swift are ever the most apt to stray from the course.

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“ ve wv SS eS SOE El ~ ~~ we we bE ce neal “~ MR. JOHN SMITH. BY MARY FORMAN. Ir was a dreary day in the month of Decem- ber, 1860, when I left the railway station at L road to find the house of my old friend, Dr. Harris. I had never visited him in this, his new residence, before; but his invitation to spend the Christmas holidays was so urgent, that I accepted it, as heartily as it was given— sure of a warm reception from my friend, Mrs. Harris, and the three fair daughters who were still at home. Armed with the most precise directions from a man whom I met at the rail- way station, and not expecting any conveyance, as I had not written to say by what train I should arrive, I started blithely on my walk, hoping to reach the house before nightfall. I had not gone more than a few rods from the station, when the snow, which had been threat- ening all day, began to fall in thick flakes, fill- ing the air, and laying in a smooth sheet upon to start on a walk across a new (to me) the hard dry ground. Although I am a bache- lor of only fifty, I will own that of late years, snow air affects me with curious pains, not rheumatism ; I am hardly old enough for that, but odd shooting pains, which make me avoid giving any occasion for them, if possible, and which made my present situation decidedly uncomfortable. Whether the snow-filled air blinded me, or the directions were not suffi- ciently clear, I cannot tell, but certain it is that I lost my way. The little village of L lay far behind me; night was coming on, and the early twilight of winter had already fallen, yet not a house could I see where I might buy a night’s lodging, or even inquire the way to my friends. In this emergency, my delight may be imagined at a brilliant light suddenly ap- pearing at some little distance, evideatly from the window of a house near at hand. Another and another gleam followed, till the whole front of a large house was illuminated. By this light I easily found a little gate which opened with some difficulty on account of the snow, but which finally yielded to my efforts, and admitted me into a large inclosure, at the back of which stood the house I have mentioned. Plodding on through the snow, I at length reached the high flight of steps, which led to the door. The wide porch was sheltered by an overhanging roof; and, having shaken off the snow from my coat and hat, I found the bell handle, and gave it a vigorous pull. The door was thrown open by a tall man in neat livery, and before I had time to make my inquiries, he asked eagerly— ‘* Are you Mr. John Smith ?” **T am,”’ I replied. ‘*From New York?” Ten” ‘‘Come in! The young ladies will be so glad! They ’ve been expecting you ever since morning; I’ll tell them you are here,’’ and throwing open the parlor door he motioned to me to enter, and then left me. ‘‘Lo,”? I thought, ‘‘I have stumbled upon the right house after all. The young ladies are very kind.’”? And I involuntarily gave my collar a twitch higher, and stole a glance at the long mirror over the mantle-piece. My survey was interrupted by seeing reflected in the glass afemale figure, who was just entering the room. Surprise kept me motionless for an instant, for it was the most extraordinary figure for a pri- vate parlor in a country house. The lady was very tall, and wore a white garment, which fell in long loose folds from her throat to the ground, unconfined at the waist. Her round, white arms were bare, excepting that upon the left wrist she wore a steel fetter, to which was attached a chain; the companion fetter, evi- dently intended for the other wrist, she held in her hand. Her face was ghastly pale; indeed it looked as if it had a thick coating of powder over the natural complexion, and her hair, which was long, thick, and black as a raven’s wing, hung in long masses far below her waist. I turned to face this damsel, wondering if either of the doctor’s daughters could be in- sane, and expecting a raving speech or at the least a burst of tears. She advanced, however, with a graceful, easy step, and said quietly— ‘“*Mr. Smith, I believe ?’’ ‘*T am Mr. Smith, Miss. May I inquire—’’ ‘*T will tell you all; but as we are rather pressed for time, on account of your late arrival, I must be brief. I presume the storm delayed you. You will find refreshment in the library, and—’’ ‘* Ellen !’’ screamed a voice in the distance. ‘*Coming !’’ answered the lady beside me, in a scream that fairly made me jump. ‘I can- not wait,’’ she added, hurriedly; ‘‘I am called; you will find pen, ink, and paper on the table. 57

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58 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, Pray lose no time, for it is nearly six now. The third door on the left in this entry.” A man’s voice in the entry at this moment exclaimed in thundering tones— ‘Here let us, then, divide; each in his round To search her sorrows out; whose hap it is First to behold her, this way let him lead Her fainting steps, and meet we here together.” **Ellen!’? he added. ‘‘ Where the mischief is Ellen ?’’—and, entering, the owner of the voice proved to be a tall, handsome man in a cava- lier’s dress, who came in hastily, saying, ‘‘ Have I found you at last ?’’ ‘Mr. Smith—Mr. Jobnson,”’ said the tall damsel. ‘“‘T am glad you’ve come at last. find a table in the library ready for you,’ the new-comer. ‘‘It’s horrid late. Jane, they wait the Lady Jane.” said the lady whom he had just before called Ellen. ‘‘ You will excuse us, Mr. Smith; we are very busy just now.’’ And before I could put a question they were gone. Where was the doctor? What was the solu- tion of this odd conduct? answer to both questions in the library, I You will ’ said **She comes,”’ Hoping to find an went out; found by the bright light in the hall the door to which I had been directed. Upon opening it, I found myself in a room lighted only by the reflection from the hall lamp which I had just admitted through the doorway. A figure in a dark dress stood in one corner, and, as I appeared, cried, in a frantic tone— ** Where is he? They said he was with you; he—thou knowest Whom I would say.” **Upon my word, I don’t,’ I said; but she continued— *T heard ye lond. I thought I heard ye; but, perchance, the dizzying throb Of my poor temples. Where is he?” The question was put in such a yell that I was positively alarmed. ‘My dear madam,” I said. ‘*Are you Mr. Smith?’ inquired the lady, coming forward, and speaking in a natural tone. **T am, madam; I came here—’’ “Yes, I know; it’s all right. I will not interrupt you, of course. I thought when you opened the door that it was—Mercy on me! there’s the bell.’? And this second singular female rushed off like a young whirlwind. I was beginning to feel rather uncomfortable. I knew that my friend Harris was rather Quix- otic in some of his ideas, and I began to fear that he had turned his house into a private Perhaps, I argued, some ex- asylum. lunatic | planation may be found here. I drew from my pocket my little match-box, which I carry to The light flashed for an instant, and then went out ; but I reeled back, for that one flash showed me, light my cigars, and struck a match. gaping at my feet, an empty coffin. so p? Another scream, a little louder, followed. **Pinch her,’’ said a man’s voice. Apparently the suggestion was acted upon, voices. ‘* Bravo, Lily !’’ said one voice. ‘* No danger of consumption there ; her lungs are good,’’ said another. ‘* Nell pinched awfully, laughingly. ‘*T shall certainly do it again at the proper time,’’ said the voice of the lady whom I had met in the parlor. “‘The brutes are making game of some unfor- tunate idiot,’’ I thought, indignantly. ”? said a lady’s voice, 7 ** Perdition seize my soul, but I do love thee! shouted a voice so close to the doer that I jumped as if a pistol had been fired there. ‘* Where is the shroud ?”’ said a new voice. ‘*In the box with the wineglasses,’’ said another. The empty coffin flashed on my mind, and I determined to explore the library still further. I had dropped my match-box in my first fright, and I stooped to find it. A round, hard substance was the first object I touched, and I drew it out to the light. Imagine my horror! it was a grinning skull. I dropped it with a ery, which attracted no attention in this queer house; and then, summoning up all my reso- lution, stooped again for my match-box; this time I was more successful, for I found it im- mediately. At that instant a scream so long, loud, and piercing that it seemed the concentrated yell of a dozen demons sounded at the head of the stairs, and then a woman in a long black dress and with a veil over her face dashed down the staircase, across the entry, past me, and stood panting under the hall lamp. An instant later, a man in the ordinary dress of a gentleman came from the same landing, and ran lightly down the stairs. ‘* Back !’’ cried the lady, in a voice denoting | an agony of terror. ‘‘One step nearer, and I plunge this dagger into my heart !’’ And she A faint scream from the next room came to my ears as I stood panting against the doorway. **Oh, Lily,’ said a soft voice, ‘‘ don’t scream for a long, loud, piercing shriek followed, and was greeted by a roar of laughter from several

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actually drew a dagger from her belt, and held it up. ‘*Come in here,’’ said a voice from the mys- terious room; ‘‘don’t go on that way in the entry.” Apparently the voice restored the lady to her senses, for she held out her hand to the gentle- man, and they went in together. My position in the doorway had shielded me from the no- tice of this couple, and also prevented my obtaining a view of the room from which so many strange sounds proceeded. Half frantic, I struck another match, and this time succeeded in lighting the astral lamp which stood upon a large round table in the centre of the library. By this light, I glanced fearfully round the room, not knowing from what corner some lunatic might pounce upon me. The usual furniture of the room seemed to be piled away in one corner, except- ing only the bookcases, whose tall, upright frames stood against the walls. The coffin still gaped near the door, and in it was the skull which I had dropped. Upon a chair near it hung a velvet pall with a heavy black fringe. On another chair lay a red velvet mantle, and across this lay a naked sword. Turning my head, I saw in another corner a block such as was anciently used for beheading I felt sick, suffocated with these horrors, when another pile attracted me. Here were pistols, daggers, and swords, in amiable companionship criminals, and across it lay a bloody axe. with crowns, masks, purses of money, velvet caps, a violin, and a large pitcher of silver. Upon the centre-table stood the astral lamp, writing materials, and a small tray, upon which were a cold chicken, a plate of biscuit, and a bottle of wine. Despite the singularity of my position, I remembered that I had been invited to partake of refreshment in the library, and I drew up the only vacant chair in the room, and attacked the supper. I was just comfortably seated, and had taken one mouthful, when a man rushed into the room, exclaiming— ‘*Here I can be alone for five minutes.’’ Then, seeing me, he said, ‘‘ Mr. Smith ?”’ ‘* Yes, sir; will you be kind enough—” ‘‘In a minute; in a minute! don’t let me interrupt you. I will be gone in five minutes.”’ He was as bad as the woman. He wore a long black cloak, and in his hand held a naked sword, which he flourished within an inch of my nose. ‘‘But, my dear sir,’’ I began. * Don’t bother me now.”’ And making sav- age passes with his sword#igshouted; “ Down, MR. JOHN SMITH. Then striking an attitude, with the point of his sword making a fearful hole in the carpet, he down, dog! dost thou beard me still ?” cried, ‘‘So perish all who cross me on my path.” A voice from the next room said— ** Burn the witch !”’ Apparently the advice was followed, for a scream of pain followed, and the gentleman in the cloak, crying, ‘‘It is her voice! On on!” darted out of the room. ‘*That’s better, Lily,’? said the unseen burner (I presume) ; ‘‘ you don’t scream worth a cent, generally.”’ A loud voice at this moment began to sing, in goed time and tune, ‘‘ Here’s to the maiden of bashful fifteen.’’ A dozen male voices took up the chorus, and the song was well sung throughout. I had finished my supper, and was meditating and hoping the doctor would soon arrive, when a gentleman, in a powdered wig, breeches, and tights, came to the door and looked in. vanced and said, in a low tone— ‘“*Mr. Smith ?” ‘Yes, sir; will you tell me—’ ** By and by; I have not a moment to spare. I only came to say to you that they are deter- mined upon the murder of your—some one Seeing that I was alone, he ad- ? comes—be on your guard, and if you cannot prevent them from seeing it, call for me, and I will deliver it in a style befitting—hush !’’ and the gentleman withdrew with his finger upon his lip. ‘*If you please, Mr. Smith.’”’ I looked up to see a little black-eyed girl, in a picturesque peasant’s dress, in the doorway. ‘‘ You’re ’ she said. wanted, now,’ ‘* Wanted ?” ‘Yes, sir, we ’re ready for you.”’ Where ?”’ **Come, Susy, hurry !”’ voice in the distance. Come, Mr. Smith.’’ Determined to see the meaning of all this ** Are you? said an impatient ** Coming. strange conduct, and emboldened by a glass of wine, I followed my pretty conductress to the next room. Some twenty or thirty gentlemen and ladies occupied this apartment, which was immensely large, uncarpeted, and unfurnished. Such a strange scene I never beheld. In one cornera sailor was fencing with a Turk, while a little negro girl urged the combat forward. In an- other place, my white-robed, black-haired dam- sel was composedly fettering herself with her The lady in black was pacing steel bracelets.

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60 up and down in the back-ground, talking to herself in a low tone, and gesticulating vio- lently as she moved backward and forward. One man, in a corsair’s dress, was kneeling at the feet of an exceedingly pretty nun, who was toying with the curls on his forehead, and arranging them in picturesque confusion. My arrival was unnoticed for an instant, then a gentleman in a white sheet, apparently, came over to me, ‘*Mr. Smith ?”’ ** Yes, sir; will you have the goodness—’’ ‘‘Oh, Mr. Smith,’’ said the lady in black, coming forward, ‘“‘did Harry remember the owl ?”? ‘** And the torches ; are the torches coming ?”’ said the pretty brunette. **Oh, Mr. Smith, who’s to speak ?”’ As they were by this time all speaking at once, I considered this question rather super- fluous. I was almost deafened. ‘““Why didn’t you come together?’’ cried one, ‘*Harry’s dreadfully late,”. screamed an- other. ** Are they written ?”’ yelled a third. ‘We are ruined without the owl,’’ mur- mured the lady in black. ** Ladies and gentlemen,’’ I began. ‘Oh, bother, a speech!’’ said the corsair, impatiently. ‘* Give me the papers.” ‘*No,”’ interrupted the powdered-wigged gen- tleman, ‘‘ give them to me.”’ ‘* But, really, my friends !’’ I said, again. **Come, old fellow, the papers. Hand them over,’’ said the sailor, joining the outcry. ‘Here I am, at last!’’ cried a cheerful voice behind me. We all turned to see the new-comer, who stood in the doorway. He was a tall, rosy- cheeked young man, evidently just in from the storm. ‘** Nellie,’’ he said, tossing a bundle of papers to the fettereddamsel. ‘‘ Here are the papers. The other things are in the library; Smith couldn’t come.”’ ‘*Couldu’t come !”’ cried a chorus of voices, nd all eyes turned upon me. ‘* Why,” said the new-eomer, ‘‘ whom have we here ?”’ Glad to have an opportunity of speaking, I said— ‘*T am Mr. Smith, sir, from New York, who, having lost his way in the storm—”’ A roar of laughter interrupted me, and then one after another my tormentors spoke. **The wrong man !”’ said one. GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. | ** What did you think ?’’ inquired another. ‘Of all absurd things, this is the funniest,”’ said a third. ‘¢ Such a remarkable name,’ ‘*We owe you a thousand apologies,’ ’ said a fourth. ’ said the brigand, raising his voice above the Babel of tongues, and silencing them; ‘‘and must trust to your good nature to grant us a pardon for our error. Allow me, ladies and gentle- men, to explain the facts to this gentleman.” Then to me again, he said: ‘‘ We are a party of amateur actors and actresses, sir, and this evening give our first performance here in about My brother Harry went to New York yesterday to secure the services of a friend of an hour. his, Mr. Smith, who was to come down, write our prologue and epilogue, and act as prompter. We have been expecting him all day, and the similarity of names must be our excuse for our error. If you will accept a place in front here, we shall be very happy to have your opinion of our performance.”’ I need only add that, after seeing several fine tableaux, scenes from different plays, and hear- ing some good, some bad recitations, I was shown to acomfortable room for the night, and after partaking of a hearty breakfast, at which the white-robed lady presided in a pretty wrap- per, with the hair ‘‘done up” in approved style, I was driven to my friend’s house, where my late adventures made a hearty laugh for the old doctor. Smmpuiciry or Dress.—Female loveliness never appears to so good advantage as when set off with simplicity of dress. No artist ever decks his angels with towering feathers and gaudy jewelry ; and our dear human angels—if they would make good their title to that name— should carefully avoid ornaments which pro- perly belong to African princesses and Indian squaws. These tinselries may serve to give effect on the stage, or upon a ball-room floor, but in daily lifé there is no substitute for the charm of simplicity. A vulgar taste is not to be disguised by gold and diamonds. The absence of a true taste and real refinement or delicacy cannot be compensated for by the possession of Mind measures Through the most princely fortune. gold, but gold cannot measure mind. dress the mind may be read, as through the delicate tissue of the lettered page. A modest woman will dress modestly; a really refined and intellectual woman will bear the marks of careful selection and faultless taste.

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PAUL BROWNELL’S LITTLE SISTER. BY METTA VICTORIA VICTOR, Or all men, it was curious that Jshould have been a drygoods retail clerk; I, who despised fashionable women, fashionable shops, and the fashionable business of ‘‘tape and bobbin’’ vend- ing with all my soul. Yet here I was, head clerk in the silk department of Million & Billion’s mag- nificent store ; the best-dressed fool in the whole establishment ; such a*perfect model of what such a young man should be that I had the honor of being chosen by Draper & Co. as the original of one of their best wax figures for the display of their latest styles. Inconceivable honor! for which some of my associates would have secretly sacrificed their situations. That wax figure was an aggravating torment to me. I was an artist; that is, I had a vocation for art, and I knew it; I should have been an artist. You do not believe me, for, you say, if you had possessed that genius for art which alone could excuse your vanity in dreaming it, you would have found it your destiny to accomplish the purposes of your being, you would have for- saken drygoods, all the soft splendors of silks and satins, and followed your true mission through poverty, hunger, hardship, death. Well, it is true that, earnestly as I loved art, there was something dearer to me even than that. to me that for her sake I gave up the combat I had a little sister, so tenderly precious for fame against want and famine, and assumed a calling distasteful to my nature. Florence was such a frail little creature, she needed so many luxuries just to keep the breath and sweetness of life in her flower-like body, that I could not make up my mind to walk over her grave on my way to the Academy of Design. Our mother had left her to me when she was but four years of age. I was her only protector and relative, and she was my all of worldly fortune. I myself had named her “ Florence,” in those years of boyish antigipation, when I had looked forward to a fair Italian city of that name as my future and natural abiding-place. My father lived then, and was a prosperous man, doing a moderate business; we had a little home of our own, on the outskirts of the city; and, though he was not able to send me abroad, as I wished, he could allow me leisure, paints, pencils, brushes, and canvas, and a quiet little room of my own, next to my mother’s, where I could hear her singing to little Florence I fretted for Italy in those days, VOL. LXIV.—6 as I worked. and did not realize that I was in those very moments dwelling in a Paradise which Italy never could emulate. My father died, and with his death came an end of his business ; dishonest partners secured the lion’s share, leaving my mother only the debts of the concern, so that our home went finally into the clutches of creditors ; and when she followed her husband to the grave, she had only little Florence to leave me. Precious legacy! Iwas going to become a great artist right away, and get rich as well as famous for hersake. Meanwhile, the child sometimes went hungry, and I could not bear the patient famine in her blue eyes as she sat and watched me at that work which never sold, which was always just going to buy her a silk dress, yet never bought her bread. Bearit! no! For myself I would have hugged starvation rather than have relinquished the ideal of my life; but for her sake any occupation which was not absolutely dishonorable seemed dignified. My father, though only a merchant in a picayune way, had had business relations with Milliom & Billion, who had respected him for his integrity; and when I presented myself to them as a candidate for a vacant clerkship, they accepted me on the strength of his good name. I made a first-rate salesman. some; I had an air; and such a moustache; and, the ladies said, such an eye for colors! Very likely ; when the great piles of gorgeous silks had been arranged ‘‘ with my usual dis- crimination,’’ there is no doubt but that they looked their best. I was dreaming of beds of roses while I hung the pink brocades and shadowed them over with greeneries of shining I was hand- moire-antiques. When I flung the almost price- less lace in graceful festoons over the pearly satins and bridal silks, I was haunted with visions of mist, pierced through by moonlight, silently dissolving on the bosom of some crys- tal lake. Since I could not do the thing I wanted, that which I did do I would do to the best of my ability. I told the fat, blowsy Mrs. Dahlia just what shade of maroon velvet would best tone down the crimson of her neck and face ; that is, which was most ‘‘ becoming to her,’’ without reference to particulars. I per- suaded Miss Prim out of the yellow lute-string into the peach-blossom moire, ‘‘the most charm- ing dress she had ever worn,’’ she told me 61

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62 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. afterwards. I made myself so valuable to the establishment that I was promoted, with an increased salary. I was able to dress my pretty Florence in cunning hats and soft muslins, and to place her in a private school, under the care of a gentle lady, who wisely watched the un- folding of the delicate flower. Florence played for me on the piano, and sang for me, when I went to visit her, said she was so happy, and I was such a good brother. I saw all the sharp outlines of want rounding out of her fair face, and only smiles and content in her eyes anda gay elasticity in her step, and I, too, was happy; only I was tortured by thirst for the springs I had forsaken. , My evenings were my own, but the evening is not so valuable to the artist as to the student of books; the artist must have nature, God’s sunshine and rainbows, clouds, and emerald and azure tints. Sometimes, in the long sum- mer days, I had two or three hours of rich sunset and poetic twilight through which to pursue some sketch lying waiting upon the canvas in my prosaic boarding-house chamber. Then I had a vacation, brief as delightful, in which I could take my carpet-bag in my hand and wander off whither I listed, lying in the grass under great trees, sketching present wa- terfalls and distant hills, sleeping in farm- houses, and living gloriously. There was going to be a great party up town, an extra-exclusive and particularly brilliant party. I learned it from a certain set of our customers, who came to Million & Billion’s to buy their dresses. add his or her sparkle to the general lustre till the whole affair should glitter and coruscate like one of Houghwought’s magnificent chandeliers with all the gas on. I was surprised by receiv- ing an invitation to this fashionable mob. The Each guest was expected to day after the arrival of the ponderous square card, Miss Therese Tallmadge, the eldest daugh- ter of the family who gave the /éte, was in the store, buying gloves; she crossed over to the silk counter, to admire a new mauve tint of moire and to say to me :— “You must be sure and be at mamma’s Thursday evening, Mr. Brownell; we shall all be disappointed if you do not come.”’ I looked curiously into the face of the haughty heiress, to read, if possible, the mean- ing of this extraordinary condescension ; whe- ther it were simply the common insincerity of polite life, or what? Even the duplicity of fashion could have no object in making itself agreeable to me, a clerk on a salary. **T am very much obliged to you for saying so, Miss Tallmadge, but I never go out, and should be a stranger in the midst of your friends.”’ ‘Oh, well, we are all strangers at first, are we not? We will never grow friendly by re- maining so. Remember we shall expect you!”’ And she turned away with a superb gesture, which I could not help admiring, notwithstand- ing I had unanswerable antipathies against that class of women. As she returned to the glove counter, I no- ticed a young lady who had been waiting for her, and to whom she spoke with the familiar I had but a momentary glimpse of her face as they turned to leave the store, but that glimpse made me resolve to take advantage of the opportunity offered by the invitation, which I had not pre- viously the faintest thought of accepting. I would have done rasher things for the hope of seeing that face again. It was the living incarnation of the dream which had haunted my soul for years. I had sketched it on canvas a thousand times, and destroyed it as many, disgusted with my utter failure to reproduce the shadow of my wish. It had the rich fair- ness of the lily, noble, and yet delicate; its purity was that of thought and spirit ; its sweet- ness that of a loving heart; it was a face full air of a relative or family friend. of peculiar womanly beauty, quite different from the magnificent order of Miss Tallmadge’s charms. I could not help feeling that its pos- sessor had grown up in some delicious country nome, not wanting in the refinements of life, where nature gave her exquisite influences to increase the delights of wealth and culture. For, although the lady was more plainly dressed than her friend, and had not the air of indif- ferent pride, mingled with absolute self-posses- sion and utter vacuity, which is the triumph of “our best society,’’ there was about her a quiet elegance which only culture and thorough education could give. She was modest as a violet, but peerless as a camellia. I watched her slight figure as she glided out of the store with a vague longing which prompted me to follow her as if Phad suddenly discovered Some near relative whom I had long been wishing to meet. So absorbed was I by this new influence that my scissors went straight through a piece of blue lute-string,.which I was measuring off for a customer, at the wrong place. ‘‘T said seventeen yards, and you have but ten.’’ Very true, and I did not blame the cold-look- ing femaie for her chilly tone. I had spoiled the pattern, and I had nothing to do but lay

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i ed Oo but ok- iled lay PAUL aside the ten yards for adress for Florence, and give the lady the required amount from another piece. ‘Tt will become the child exceedingly ; just the tint of blue to match her eyes, and she has never had such a handsome dress,’ I said to myself, consolingly. ‘‘ A girl of her age ought not to be indulged in too much finery ; but Mrs. Chester hinted that she needed something for the evening of the exhibition. I will take it to her to-night.’’ And I pleased myself antici- pating the sparkling smile and grateful kiss of my pretty darling ; so I folded up the silk in a neat parcel addressed to Miss Florence Brow- nell, and charged myself with the cost quite cheerfully. When I entered the hall of Mrs. Chester’s house that evening, I heard my sister singing and playing in the parlor, her fine voice being frequently called into requisition for the plea- sure of favored guests. I found no one with my hostess, upon entering, but one lady, who was just thanking Florence for her music, and who immediately left, having only been making a call. away from the door before a word of what Mrs. I heard the wheels of a carriage roll Chester was saying entered my ear, for the visitor was the same young lady who was with Miss Tallmadge in the morning. ‘* Florence was wishing you would come to- night.” ‘*Well, she has her wish, and something ”? besides,’’ and I tossed her the package, forget- ting to kiss her, as was my custom. ‘‘ Who was that, Mrs. @hester?’’ ‘Oh, no one whom yon are acquainted with. She was one of my pupils a few years ago; she ’s only eighteen now. She always comes to see me when she visits the city. I love her very much. She heard Florence singing, and was so delighted with her voice, she begged her to sing for her.”’ ** She does not live in the city ?”’ «‘* No. relatives at present. She is visiting some of her wealthy Shees related to some of our first families, though her own family, I believe, are not very rich, only comfortable.” ** What is her name ?’’ **She ’s a Tallmadge. curious about her, for a person usually so pro- Really, you are quite vokingly indifferent as you are.” A pair of pretty arms were about my neck, and a pair of darling lips against my cheek by this time. I was wishing I had guch adress; but I didn’t think I ought to have it.” ‘* What a dear, kind brother you are! ’ BROWNELL S | LITTLE SISTER. 63 ‘Was you? Well, enjoy it, then, little one ; and don’t trouble your conscience about the consequences. If you want to pay me for it, give me some music—that same song you just sang for the young lady.”’ Florence complied with eagerness; if I had asked her to drown herself 1 hardly think she would have refused, she was so devoted to my wishes. It seemed to be the great pleasure of her life to gratify some want or request of mine —to be of some service to the brother whom she loved with the whole of her warm little heart. She had a marvellous talent for music, and a voice of such flexible purity that it al- ready attracted much attention, young as she was. Already in the brain of the child lived and grew a scheme which gave additional ardor to her natural fondness for music; she had resolved, devoted little creature, to not only support herself, but to assist me! to free me from any necessity of providing for her, so that She was going to help me become a great artist! So I might resume my old occupations. she told me once, in a moment of trembling confidence, while her cheek glowed and her eye sparkled with the hope. She was going to be a professional musician, in order that I I kissed the ambitious child, while the tears dimmed my I told her she might be an Adelina Patti if she wished, but she must might not be burdened with her. sight of her sweet face. be so only for me—not for the world. Never- theless, I could see that the idea was not ban- ished, that if incited and controlled her studies. On this particular evening she seemed to me to play unusually well, and I felt secretly proud to think the strange lady had heard and admired her; and on the wings of the music my thoughts floated away into dreams, indis- tinct, delicious, and sublimely foolish—dreams of a face forevermore to haunt me with impos- sible hopes. ‘* You don’t talk to me, Paul.’’ The little girl had ceased playing for some time, and was sitting on a footstool before me, with her head on my knee, its golden curls streaming downward in waves which glittered in the firelight, a pretty enough sight for an artist-brother to love and admire. ‘*You are thinking of somebody else, Paul ! O dear! I hope you ’ll never get married, and I shall be so lonely !”’ have a wife. ‘* Now, little one, if I do, it will be no more of a fick than you ’ll be sure to serve me the minute you ’reoldenough. If I should remain a bachelor, on your account, you’d be sure to desert me for the first man that asked you.

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64 However, I’ve chosen my wife, now; and you Painting is But, even as I said it, my cheek burned, and I was profess not to be jealous of her. the only rival you’ll ever have, Floy.”’ conscious that though what I said might be true, it would be sadly true, because I could Yesterday I should have had no such consciousness. But Who told If I allowed my secret to be read by others as easily, I glanced at not have a dearer wish fulfilled. what observing eyes the child had! her that I was thinking of some one else ? it would not be a secret long. Mrs. Chester; that lady was holding the blue silk dress in her lap, and wondering if it would be possible to flounce the skirt, and only ten yards, yard wide; she was wishing I had brought fifteen. ‘She would Icok like a fairy, in a flounced skirt, Mr. Browne!l; she is so petite and slen- der. But it will be very pretty as it is.’ I said they must make it do, kissed Florence good-night, shook hands with Mrs. Chester, and retired. ’ I did not go to Mrs. Upton Tallmadge’s party ; I scarcely remembered that such a thing was to be, or had been. Iwas in too much pain. Instead of breathing the perfumed air of the salooh, and intoxicating soul and sense with stolen draughts of beauty, I was lying in the hospital, my right arm crushed and mangled, and the doctors discussing the probability of its having to be amputated. When I left Mrs. Chester’s, the drizzling December rain which had set in during the evening, was fast changing to sleet and snow; the pavement was slippery with a thin coat of ice; I was full of thought, and heedless; and in attempting to run across Broadway, I slipped in front of an omnibus,and the heavy wheels rolled over my arm, reckless of its human sen- to suffering, reckless of the future of Be its owner, reckless of the little girl who de- sibility pended on its energies for protection and sup- port. They took me to the hospital ; the best place for me, who had no home but a second-rate boarding-house. Mrs. Chester was almost angry that I had not insisted upon being conveyed to her house; but she, with her twelve pupils to care for, had enough responsibility, without my taking the liberty of foisting my wretched self upon her sympathies. Mrs. Chester did not hear of the actident until [ sent her word the following day, warning her to break the news very carefully to Flo- rence, or keep it from her for the present, as GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, she thought best. She decided instantly that she ought to tell her; and that brave young heart justified her decision. When the child was admitted to see me, she was as calm as courage and love could make her; nothing but her deadly paleness revealed the anguish she suffered ; though I was afterwards told that she had fainted when she heard the news, conveyed to her in the tenderest manner. Nurses nor physicians had the heart to tear the vleading little creature away ; she was permitted to sit, hour after hour, day after day, by my bedside ; she would not have left me, even at night, if others had not compelled it. My arm was not amputated; it was saved, but in a disabled condition, which would pre- In fact, I could never hope to have much good of it; its vent the use of it for a long time. cunning was destroyed; its strength and flex- ibility vanished: it was but the excuse for a geod right arm; a pain and vexation, instead’ of a help to me. ‘*Well, Floy,’? I said to my patient little watcher, one day, when it was nearly time for me to be turned out of the hospital, ‘‘ what are we going todo now? Ishall never do for the silk-counter any more! I’ve lost my ‘elegant air,’ and my deftness of handling has departed. What is a one-armed man to do for a living, little sister ?”’ ** Hav’n’t you got enough money to keep you a year, Paul? Mrs. Chester says I shall stay with her a year, whether you consent to it or not’’—smiling—‘‘ and for that matter, some- body has already advanced the price of my yearly expenses; I don’t know who. Mrs. Chester thinks it was Mr. Billion, probably; the draft came ina blank envelope. By that time, I shall be able to do something, myself. I shall, Paul; you needn’t look so. Signor Bodiella says I’m destined to make my fortune as a concert-singer. Think of that! When I get rich, Paul, I’ll buy you all the pictures you like; and I’m quite sure you'll get well enough to paint some. 1’ve heard of people doing wonders with their left hand, hav’n’t you?” “Yes, darling; and&I intend to do wonders with mine, enough to keep you from going on the stage, I trust. Who could have paid your Whoever it was, did ine just the Yes, There’s nobody school-bills ? kindness for which I am most grateful. Billion. He’s been in to see it must have been else that could or would. me several times, and has paid the expenses of my illness so far. He’s been very kind, in- deed. But Idid not know that he was aware I had a sister. Yes, it must have been he!”

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PAUL BROWNELL’S LITTLE SISTER, 65 So Mr. Billion got the credit of an act which he did not perform ; for the sole reason, maybe, that he did not guess at the existence of a little pupil at Mrs. Chester’s ; for he had been kind to me, expressing his interest in many ways, and continuing my salary till I was able to be about. Then, as I could no longer discharge my dutjes in his establishment, I was left to shift for myself. I had a little, a very little money in bank, and the two months’ salary which Billion gave me; so that I could keep soul and body together for some time, by choosing some very plain home and living in the simplest manner. I decided to rent an apartment, and board myself; employing my time in endeavoring to acquire sufficient skill in the use of my left arm, to enable me to earn my living at some- thing. At what? My old passion for my art returned upon me with redoubled force. The loneliness of my room, the long idleness of illness, the necessity for economy which banished me from the pleasures of society, all encouraged the return of the visions which throng an imagina- tion like mine. In vain I resisted the sweet call of my divinity, and strove to master some prosy profession, surrounding myself with law- books, feeding my body with musty bread, and striving to feed my mind with musty legalities. I saw pictures, heard pictures, dreamed pic- tures ; until my easel once more stood the ruler of my apartment, and my awkward left hand labored faithfully to cateh the departed skill of the right. The bright springtime fled away, leaving but few gleams of sunshine, and transient odor of flowers in my dull room. The long, warm days of summer crept on. My health was not so vigorous as before the accident; I felt lan- guid under the oppressive heat. Mrs. Chester went away to the springs, taking Florence with her, during the six weeks summer vacation. Kither her pride in the child’s abilities or her love for her sweetness of character, or both, made her favor her beyond my boldest wish. Knowing that my sister was happy, breathing the, fresh air and enjoying the liberty of the season, with so good a friend, I made up my mind to lock the door upon my few poor trea- sures—my pictures—and to spend the time of her absence in the country. I, too, would breathe the free air of heaven, inhale the per- fume of flowers, delight my eyes with the slumberous clouds, the drifting showers, the brilliant rainbows of summer—if I had to make 6* my bed in the clover-fields, and feed upon the chance charities of farmhouses. Little, very little was the sum I could devote to my sum- mer tour; no flattering morning journal chroni- cled my departure, prophesying sweet things of the ‘‘influence of nature’ upon the ‘facile brush of that talented young artist, P. Brow- nell.”” Oh, no! my time had not come to be served with such delicate tidbits from the table of notoriety. It had not come, but it was coming, of course! I felt certain of that—for pure and undefiled as may be the love of genius for its favorite pursuit, it is always exalted and in- spired by a certain measure of ambition, ne- cessary, perhaps, to uphold its wings, borne down by the heavy atmosphere of reality. One splendid morning in July—when a night shcwer had invoked all the fragrance and freshness possible to the month—when every leaf was at its broadest greenness, when the forests were the. deepest, and the dust all washed away from the lilies and roses, emerg- ing like Dianas from their baths—found me leaving the cars, a hundred miles from the city, and trudging away into the woods and fields, with an artist’s kit on my shoulders, and a sandwich in my pocket. I revelled in pleasure that day. I waded through-the clover; I lay down under oak trees and listened to the rustle of the wind above me in their branches; I ate my luncheon by a silver brook, quenching my thirst from its freely-offered waters. I looked off at distant mountains melting into the blue of heaven. I was too full of the idleness of enjoyment to attempt to sketch. At sunset I entered a lovely valley ; a broad river blushed roseate in the light, golden clouds wound the hills in royal turbans, crowning them like indolent oriental monarchs, taking their motionless repose. A vista stretched away through the most fascinating reaches of beauty, valley after valley, with glimpses of river and forest. ‘“‘Here!’’ cried I, in a perfect ecstasy of enthusiasm; ‘‘ here will I pitch my tent for the present. To-night I will only enjoy; to- morrow I will try to sketch some faint shadow of this beauty.” I looked forward for some farmhouse to which I might apply for a night’s lodging; I saw the blue smoke curling up through the trees, which told of some near habitation ; and a bend of the picturesque country road soon brought me in sight of it. I was disappointed, at first, because the mansion I saw was too stylish to allow of my preferring my request at its portals ; still, it was so charming, in such harmony with the

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66 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. scenery which surrounded it, such a lovely finish to the landscape, with iis airy towers and graceful porches, its cultivated grounds, winding walks and delicious gardens, that I forgot my own selfish disappointment, in ad- miration of this beautiful home. ’ thought I, ‘‘if I walk on far- ther, I shall find the place I desire. In the ad Doubtless, mean time, I will admire this.”’ A fragrant thicket which lined the fence sheltered the garden upon one side of the mansion from too broad observation of passers- by. I pressed up to a break in this green curtain and peered through, drinking in the richness which began to arise from millions of flowers, as the dew of evening called it forth. Not far away from where I stood, a little foun- tain leaped into the air, and fell back full of gray-stone, silvery laughter, into a basin of whose edges trailed with water-lilies and moss. Upon a step at the foot of this basin, reading a book, and with one fair hand, lovely and white as the water-lilies beside it, carelessly dipping into the fountain, unconscious of observation, sata young girl. It needed but one glance to tell me it was she! Magnetism, destiny, fate, or what not, had drawn me, as by a golden chain, straight to that lovely country-home which my imagination had pictured months ago. She sat there ina simple home dress of white muslin, a rose in her bosom, and another in her uncovered hair—glorious hair, flowing in soft golden-brown masses about her temples and neck, making the fairness of her forehead more pure, and deepening the delicate wave of ‘*arrow of sunset’’ color on her cheeks. An seemed to fasten the rose in her tresses, and another fell 2thwart the circlet of gold binding the round arm which upheld the book. My heart throbbed to suffocation. As I grew calmer I felt that I ought not to stand there, like a thief, gloating upon this unconscious treasure. I was ashamed to gaze, and yet I could not tear myself away, pass on to night, and loneliness and hynger of the heart, leaving this world of beauty and delight—this paradise, guarded by the flaming sword of—wealth. Yes! that was the flaming sword which kept me out. If I had not beem poor, and she been rich, I wonld have made some simple excuse, and walked into this home which I knew I was fitted to appreciate, and could not possibly degrade. If she had been a mystic maiden, drawing water from the well, I should have stepped to her side and asked the common boon of a cup of It was only because she was rich I could cold water. that she was so far away from me. only approach the portals of a home like hers with proper credentials. I looked down at my dusty garments and worn shoes—what had a wandering artist to do with the hospitalities of this fine country-mansion? I have gaid that I was handsome, and that I had an air of such elegance as to cause me to become the favorite model of certain fashionable tailors; but I was not looking my best upon this occasion. My wardrobe had grown shabby for want of re- newal, and the dust and toil of a warm day’s travel had not improved it ; my artist-kit would of course be mistaken for a peddler’s pack, and the great white dog which I saw walking about in state on the broad avenue would doubtless show his teeth if I approached him in my pre- sent guise. Sadly I looked, and longed, and turned away ; but, as I trudged a littlé onward, whom should I meet but the magnificent Miss Theresa Tall- madge, of the city, riding a black horse, and looking more beautiful even than in the atmo- sphere of a Broadway store. She regarded me curiously as she passed, and just as I hoped that I had escaped her recognition, she drew rein, and said, pleasantly :— ‘‘Mr. Brownell, surely! Where are you going, and what are you doing? You needn’t say, for I read the whole story ; out ona sketch- ing tour. Uncle will be delighted; he is very fond of pictures, and makes pets of all the artists. Where are you stopping?” ‘Really, I hardly know, Miss Tallmadge. I may take lodgings in-a new-mown haystack to-night, if I can find one. I’ve been so en- chanted by this delicious country road that I have wandered on regardless of consequences.” ‘Take lodgings ina haystack! That sounds very pretty, Mr. Brownell, but it wouldn’t be half so romantic in reality. You know what the poet says— ‘You lie down to your shady slumber, And wake up with a bug in your ear.’ Umcle would not forgive me if I permitted it; and, as there is no comfortable resting-place for the next five miles, and you look too weary to walk that distance, I shall take the liberty of inviting you, in his name, to tarry with 9? . She said all this very courteously, and with more warmth of hospitality than I had given her class the credit of possessing; but that us mean weakness of personal vanity which made me ashamed of my present appearance caused me to refuse her kindness. What was I to her or to that maiden reading by the fountain that I should exalt my pride into refusing

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PAUL BROWNELL’S LITTLE SISTER. passing hospitality, for which I felt grateful, yet would not accept ? I was passing on, with half-uttered thanks, when a little wicket gate opened just at my side, and the fair reader appeared, book in hand. -I blushed; but so did she, or else I imagined it. ‘*You have come just in time to second my invitation to our wandering friend to stop with us to-night, Cousin Marion. Miss Tallmadge, allow me to present to you Mr. Brownell. He is an artist, after your father’s special liking, and I think it too bad that he should be al- lowed to throw himself upon a haystack for hospitality, when we have a spare chamber, don’t you?” “Ido, Mr. Brownell. We should be really happy to have you visit us. Come in, without a word of apology.” The simple frankness of her voice compelled my obedience. I would have been churlish to doubt the earnestness of these two beau- tiful women, evidently so generous in their impulses. ‘If you will excuse the dust of travel, and allow me to give you as little trouble as possi- ble, I will accept your hospitality as frankly as it is proffered.”’ I walked beside my young hostess, and her cousin kept pace with us, reining in her spirited horse. “Don’t think we are not acquainted with you, Mr. Brownell,’’ continued Theresa; ‘‘my father knew yours years ago, and honored him. We had hoped to bring about an acquaintance last winter, when that terrible accident pre- vented. We heard of it, and meant to have kept trace of you; but we lost your address, and Million & Billion could not tell us where to find you.” I thought of my humble room, and was glad they had not found it. The fact that they knew me as the representative of my father’s family explained to me their willingness to accept me without other credentials, for my father had left behind him the great wealth of I felt more at ease ina moment; and, recovering my self-respect and self-possession, 1 shook off false a respected name, in lieu of any other. shame, and became myself. That evening was an epoch in my life. After tea had been sent me to my chamber, and I had refreshed myself with a bath, I descended to the parlors, where two or three other guests were assembled with the family. Mr. Tall- madge was a noble old gentleman of the real school of refinement, a widower, and Marion | | | | } was his only child. Her cousin Theresa was spending a few of the summer weeks with her, * in return for her visit during the winter hol days. There were some other people present, among them a young gentleman, who at once made me the most miserable that I had ever been in all my life. Agreeable, accomplished, brilliant, an evident favorite with all, and with that nameless ease which betokens high social position, and no embarrassing pressure of the poverties and humilities of life, he was to me the triumphant embodiment of what J should have been. He was my rival; I made him so in an instant. Not that I was so low as to envy him his happiness or his success, but he was privileged te love Marion, and that he did love her and she him I made up my mind was a certainty. He bent over her at the piano, whispering to her between the /auses of the music; he led her out on the moonlighted por- tico, where the shadows of the rose-vine played over their graceful figures; I saw her smile and blush beneath his glance until my head grew so hot and my heart so cold that I wonder now Mr. Tallmadge could find it within the limit,of his politeness to continue to be agree- able to so stupid, so sullen, so wretched a fool as I made of myself. Marion was kind to me as a hostess, but no more; she said so little to me, and that with such reserve that my tormenting pride took fire, and blazed within me furiously. She had ten- dered me hospitality as she would have done any unsheltered human being, not as a friend or an equal; so I construed her maidenly reserve, and thus sillily did I anger myself until I was glad when the hour came for retiring. The next morning I was haggard, from a night’s unrest. The family all spoke of it, and all feared that the accident from which I had suffered had undermined my health. When Marion referred to it, I thought I saw her lip tremble, and a pitying, yearning look come up from her soul into her eyes. For an instant, I was thrilled and happy; the next, I cursed myself as a vain fellow who mistook a woman’s pity for sympathy and interest. I was urged to stay, and make the mansion my home as long as I wished to sketch in the neighborhood; but I could not, I dared not; every hour I felt more irresistibly what I had known from the first moment of beholding Marion’s face; and could I remain in her presence, fighting down my unconquerable love, and enduring the misery of seeing the man to whom she was betrothed enjoying that which I coveted? It was hot my jealousy alone which confirmed my

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GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, [ heard one or two covert allusions to a So I resisted the invitation of my host, silenced the cry of my heart, and bade I felt at liberty only to bow to the ladies; but Marion held out her hand, in mine the family farewell. ind for a blessed instant of time it rested [ did not see her eyes, for they were bent upon the ground; but, looking back after I had the ros with roses, and she laughing gleefully, as if rained id, I saw him pelting her there were no poor artist, mad with love and despair, trudging off into the solitude of lifelong I was back in my dull chamber, with a port- I labored with a twofold to provide for my little sister, and folio full of sketches. earnestness to for As soon as her present term was completed, Florence housekeeper. et that haunting dream of the summer. was to come to me, and be my little We would live according to our means, whatever these might be; and I would not consent to her going into the concert-room, as she desired, so I must begin to earn something against the day when she should come home; that of them. tained the privilege of displaying them in the is, come to our bleak rooms, and makehome I completed two pictures, and ob- windows of a fashionable picture-dealer. They were companion-pieces, sketched in the valley to which I have referred. Every evening for a fortnight I happened in, hoping to hear they were sold. Finally, when I came, I found them both gone; they had been admired and I did not my agent knew the name of the buyer; but I purchased by a lady. like to ask if summoned up courage, and learned it was a— Miss Smith. The price paid for them was fully equal to their worth. I went home very much encouraged, sending more to the same shop in the course of a few days. These also found a purchaser; a gentleman, a stranger in the city prob ubly, the vendor said, Well, vanity to take him comfortably through the every one is blessed with sufficient world; and when I found that nearly every picture I displayed was bought, and that the agent was beginning to be eager to have my work in his windows, I began to nurse up my self-esteem and fondle it until I persuaded my- self that { was really a great painter, destined to honor and wealth. By the time that Florence came to me I was enabled to rent and furnish three very pretty rooms. I made my studio in the parlor, sleep- ing on the sofa at night; Florence had a nice bedroom, with a dainty set of chamber furni- ture, and made the fairiest little cook and housekeeper that ever set table for a bachelor The child was happy, and I ought to My studio was not entirely un- brother. have been. known; brother drtists occasionally called in, and sometimes ladies honored us with a visit. Amid other pictures which I had disposed of, I could have sold as many copies of it as I wished, she made so sweet a picture; but I did not like to make was a portrait of Florence. any of her gifts and graces the means of my advancement. Again it was December, just a year from the day of that dreadful night of my accident. I sat by the window, thinking ; now shuddering over memories of past pain, and now congratu- lating myself upon the accomplishment of so much. I had lost the use of a right arm, and gained that of a left. I had conquered a great difficulty, triumphed over an adverse circum- stance. I looked at my darling, busy with her embroidery, smiling and singing to herself; at the light, airy parlor, withits pleasant furniture ; I heard the hum of the kettle on the little grate Florence was presently toast and tea. I felt If it had not been for aching of the unsatis- in the next room, where to prepare our evening hopeful, calm, grateful. that ever-present dumb fied heart, I should have been happy. I saw a carriage pause before the door; a lady leaned out whom I recognized as Miss Theresa Tallmadge, and a white-gloved footman sprang to the ground with cards in his hand. Presently he thundered at my door; the cards were wedding cards of invitation; Miss Tall- madge was to be married the following week, both Florence and I were bidden to the festival. I thought I would accept, if only for the privilege of mak- ing myself discontented and miserable. Doubt- less I should see her there, by this time a wife. I would see her once more, happy with her husband, and I would come home, and take my revenge upon fate by painting great pictures, Mrs. Chester kindly superintended the toilet of my little companion, and at the appointed day and hour we arrived, in a hired carriage, at the stately residence of the Tallmadges’. Even in the blaze of beauty and splendor which surrounded: us’ upon entering, I was proud of I heard many murmurs of admira- and she had remembered me; my sister. tion, saw many eyes turned pleasantly to her sweet face. The little witch said afterwards that she was proud of me, that she was certain I was the best-looking man in the company ; but she loved me, and that must be the excuse for her weakness.

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PAUL BROWNELL’S LITTLE SISTER. 69 g, even Florence. Presently I forgot everythin I was wondering where Marion was, and when Then there was a rustle and stir in the courtly crowd—the bridal party were descending the stairs—they had entered the room—lI looked and saw Miss Tallmadge, pale, superb, beautiful, and by her side the man whom I had so unceremoniously she would make her appearance. given to Marion—the bridegroom, looking more triumphantly satisfied with himself and his fortune than ever. Marion was first bridesmaid, and a young gentleman whom I recognized as Therese’s brother was her assistant. There was a train of youthful attendants; but for a few moments I saw only these. There was such a rushing of blood through my veins that I heard nothing distinctly until the ceremony was over, and the friends pressed forward to congratulate the happy couple. Last amid the groups came Florence and [. The bride kissed the beautiful child; so did Marion, and as she What emotion was it which sent that divine flush surging up in rosy waves from bosom to brow? raised her head, our eyes met. My eyes must have asked the eager question, for her own drooped. If a blind man should have the sense of. sight fully and suddenly developed in the midst of earth’s most enchanting beauty, he would not In the course of the brief festivity which preceded the experience a more rapid joy than did I. departure of the newly-married pair, Marion sought out Florence, the most delicate flattery she could pay to me. ‘*T knew your sister at Mrs. Chester’s,’’ she saidtome. ‘‘I believe she stole*the place in our teacher’s heart which I used to occupy. This interested me in her—her beautiful voice, too; and so, and so it was that we chanced to hear about you’’—and again that flitting blush and glance. Of course we called upon tht bridal party after its return, It was no presumption in me to follow up an acquaintance so encouraged. False pride melted away before the real appre- ciation and sympathy of a most delightful family, among whom Marion remained a guest all that auspicious winter. That she should be rich and [ poor was reason for the most maidenly encouragement she gave me; it was sufficient to induce me, in an hour of love and hope, to put into language the dream which had grown into reality. I have come to the conclusion that Iam more ef a lover than an artist, after all. It was a severe shock to my artistic vanity, when I visited the home of my sweet wife, Marion, to find there, in her father’s gallery, ail those va- rious works of mine which I had been so grati- fied to find meeting with such rapid appreciation and sale. assimed name by which my modest patron had covered up her good deeds ; her father and ‘*Miss Smith’? had been only the friends had also assisted her in the good work. ‘* Don’t think it was because I admired your pictures so much, Paul,’’ she said, while a little lurking smile flashed through her tears with the most piquant effect ;.‘‘ it was because Mrs. Chester told me of your noble devotion to your little sister. me in you. acquaintance, thinking it would do no harm for you to receive a little of the praise and en- It was that which first interested I induced my cousin to make your couragement you deserved. Your love for your sister gave us ail confidence in your goodness. Though I won’t say that sisters, or pictures, or anything else, had influence after I had once met and spoken to you; it was pure affinity, then, Paul; we loved each other because we were born to; our ‘marriage was made in heaven !’”’ Yes, it was:indeed made in heaven ! ‘* But we shall love little Florence none the less for her part in the matter,’? added Marion, as the child came fluttering into our presence, gay as the birds of morning. ‘She shall lose nothing by losing her brother.”’ ‘‘ You know, little one, you didn’t want me to marry a wife ?’’ I said to her. ‘* Ah, but if I had known it was she you were thinking of, that evening !’’ answered our dar- ling. And by the happy smile on her face, it was plain that she also was contented with the arrangement. MANUFACTURE OF PINS. We often hear the expression used, when talking of anything comparatively useless, that ‘¢it’s not worth a pin ;”’ and from this we might be led to suppose, did we not know it to be otherwise, that a pin was a very worthless thing, instead of being what it is—one of the most useful that is manufactured in this or in any other country. As the use of pins is principally confined to the female portion of our community, perhaps the following short account of their manufacture may not be uninteresting to our readers :— Pins are made of brass wire. The first pro- cess which it undergoes, by which any dirt or crust that may be attached to the surface ig got

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70 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. rid of, is by soaking it in a diluted solution of sulphuric acid and water, and then beating it on stones. It is then straightened, after which it is cut into pieces, each about long enough for six pins. These latter pieces are then pointed at each end in the following manner: The per- son so employed sits in front of asmall machine, which has two steel wheels or mills turning rapidly, of which the rims are cut somewhat after the manner of a file: one coarse for the rough formation of the points, and the other fine for finishing them. Several of these pieces are taken in the hand, and, by a dexterous movement of the thumb and forefinger, are kept continually presenting a different face to the mill against which they are pressed. The points are then finished off by being applied in the same manner to the fine mill. After both ends of the pieces have been pointed, one pin’s length is cut off from each end, when they are re-pointed, and so on until each length is con- verted into six pointed pieces. The stems of the pins are then complete. The next step is to form the head, which is effected by a piece of wire, called the mould, the same size as that used for the stems, being attached to a small axis or lathe. At the end of the wire nearest the axis is a hole, in which is placed the end of asmaller wire, which is to form the heading. While the mould-wire is turned round by one hand, the head-wire is guided by the other, until it is wound in a spiral coil along the entire length of the former. It is then cut off close to the hole where it was commenced, and the coil taken offthe mould. When a quantity of these coils are prepared, a workman takes a dozen or more of them at a time in his left hand, while, with a pair of shears in his right, he cuts them up into pieces of two coils each. The heads, when cut off, are annealed by being made hot, and then thrown into water. When annealed, they are ready to be fixed on the stems. In order to do this, the operator is provided with a small stake, upon which is fixed a steel die, containing a hollow the exact shape of half the head. Above this die, and attached to a lever, is the corresponding die for the other half of the head, which, when at rest, remains suspended about two inches above the lower one. The workman takes one of these stems between his fingers, and, dipping the pointed end of a bowl containing a number of heads, catches one upon it, and slides it tothe other end ; he then places it in the lower die, and, moving a treadle, brings down the upper one four or five times upon the head, which fastens it upon the stem, and also gives it the required figure. There is a small channel leading from the outside to the centre of the dies, to allow room for the stem. The pins are now finished as regards shape, and it only remains to'tin or whiten them. A quantity of them are boiled in a pickle, either a solution of sulphuric acid or tartar, to remove any dirt or grease, and also to produce a slight roughness upon their surfaces, which facilitates the adhesion of the tin. After being boiled for half an hour, they are washed, and then placed in a copper vessel with a quantity of grain tin and a solution of tartar; in about two hours and a half they are taken out, and, after being separated from the undissolved tin by sifting, are again washed; they are then dried, by being well shaken in a bag with a quantity of bran, which is afterwards separated by shaking them up and down in open wooden trays, when the bran flies off, and leaves the pins perfectly dry and clean. The pins are then prepared for sale. Pins are also made solely by machinery. There is a manufactory for this sort, where nearly 3,250,000 are made daily. A pin, then, is not such an insignificant arti- cle, after all. “We see it has to go through a great many processes and hands before it is finished. If we take one, examine it closely, 4 and mark how nicely it is made, how neatly the head is fixed on to the shank, how beauti- fully it is pointed, and how bright it shines, we shall see a very good specimen of what the ingenuity and labor of man can do upon a piece of metal. It is really surprising what a large number are made, and how many perggns are employed in*their manufacture. In conclusion, we would recommend our readers always to bear in mind the excellent maxim which Franklin attached to a pin, viz., ‘*A pin a day, a groat a year.” ~___+eeoe>__— TO POESY. BY MRS. A. M. BUTTERFIELD. My spirit mother, how I’ve looked to thee, In hours when life was but a weight of pain, And gazed on thee with fond idolatry, Till I was sooth’d to peace and hope agai! But as a babe who, on its mother’s breast, Is filled with thoughts beyond its tender years, And vainly strives for words though fondly prest, And weeps with passionate and fruitless tears— E’en thus am I! but yet draw life from thee, Of thy high being still imbibing part, Into thy soft sad eyes to gaze am free, And feel the throbbings of thy glorious heart— Aad dare to hope that I may lisp, in time, The words thou dost repeat with silver chime.

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WHAT THE BY R. ‘Art the world’? shook their heads with disapproval when Nina Elton married. Not for wonder that a youthful maiden should have voluntarily ‘‘thrown herself away,’’ for sage romantic young ladies are prone to reckless marriages ; but at the greater mystery that her parents had given their consent to such folly. Society had expected something brilliant from Miss Elton; she had beauty, wealth, and position, with all the advantages that such a rare conjunction alone could bestow. She danced well, sang well, dressed well, and her whole career since her débat had been a de- cided success. No prospects of enjoyment were more flattering than hers, and yet, in her second season, when her conquests were the theme of every tongue, as her beauty was the cynosure of every eye in hér admiring circle, the world was surprised by receiving her wedding-cards. Never was the world mere startled, especially her admirers, when this obscure stranger, whose existence was not even suspected, .so coolly bore off the prize for which they were contending. No one had him or knew anything of him, and all the bidden guests were on the gui vive for something respecting seen him. He was ascertained to be from an obscure town ‘‘out West,’’ and Mrs. Pry, remembering a relation whom she had forgotten resided in the same place, immediately dispatched a let- ter of inquiry. From the family it was understood that he was a son of a college chum of Mr. Elton, Sr. ; that family misfortunes had caused them to move West; that he was a man of talent, ra- pidly rising in his profession, and the family were greatly pleased with him. Nina herself admitted he was not handsome, and the world found out for itself that he was poor. No wonder that the world felt shocked at such a violation of all rules of prudence, and thought the whole family demented together. That one so delicately reared should forego all the luxuries and pleasures of life, and bestow her hand on a poor young lawyer, one that would deprive her of wealth and position, and bury her “‘ out West’’ away from all society— it was incredible. Many were the sad prognos- tications of the fleeting nature of the romantic happiuess she expected to enjoy. Had not Hal Battledore addressed her? A gay youth of WORLD SAID. H. unbounded wealth and undoubted position, an only son, and regarded a prize by all the mam- mas in the circle. And she, forsooth, had dis- Dissi- pated—what wife could not reform a husband carded him because he was dissipated. whose only fault was an occasional glass of did “‘what the world was coming to.’’ The idea of a girl discarding Hal Battledore ! and, worse still, that parents should humor the romantic fancies of “like did.”’ ‘* Marrying for love was all very well, but Nina wine? Mammas not know their daughters, those Eltons Elton would find herself mistaken, would find it did very well in novels, but when it came to real tife, Omy!’? And mammas with marriage- able daughters looked pointedly at their Janes and Marys, as if they said, ‘‘ You would never be guilty of such folly!’’ and they, having been trained by these prudent mammas, looked hurt at the bare suspicion. Eligible, in their appreciation, meant, ‘‘ he may be moral, intel- lectual, or handsome, as it happens; but rich any how.’’ The other qualifications were so much more to be glad of, but the ‘‘rich’”’ was the broad basis of acceptance. Alas for the Janes and Marys of society! But sweet Nina Elton had implicit faith in marrying for love; and, revering and esteeming the noble qualities of her betrothed, she had given her woman’s heart to him, unreservedly, without a thought of his eligibility. Knowing his small fortune and arduous toil, she had gladly consented to share his lot, to be a help- meet to him, to lighten all sorrows, comforting and strengthening him by her earnest love; hoping, as married lovers (most brave and holy sight!), toso live through time and all eternity. What wonder that such love was sanctioned by her parents, who had themselves lived in most Truly they rejoiced in their child’s happiness as one who had found a trea- sure without price, that greatest boon—sincere, devoted human love. Nina had wished for a private wedding, but had been overruled ; the star that had shone so brilliantly must culminate before it set. Most magnificent preparations were made, and the world began to fear it was mistaken, after all. But on that very morning the anxiously ex- pected letter of particulars came to Mrs. Pry. Immediately that self-sacrificing individual, 71 loving union?

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with her usual philanthropy, sallied forth to spread its contents. All day long she gossiped and visited, and before evening all knew the private history of the person on whom Nina had ‘‘ thrown herself away.”’ The letter spoke highly of his talents and conduct: he had risen rapidly in his .profession, notwithstanding a clog to retard his progress in ¢he shape of his mother and five brothers and sisters, who were entirely dependent on his exertions. His father, a man of wealth and distinction, by some com- mercial crisis had lost all, and, dying soon after, left his entire family to the charge of his son. He, though but twenty years of age, had de- voted himself to the task, and had succeeded, until, two years ago, an uncle, dying, left to But while their support was incumbent upon him, his mother a comfortable independence. he had, in default of other means to help them, for five years actually taught schoo. No wonder that sociéty held its breath to listen to this incredible fact! Indignant, and more curious than ever, everybody attended Eagerly all eyes sought the bridegroom ; little groups whispered apart ; the the wedding. tide of criticism was unceasing and malicious. Intellectuality strongly marked the man, andthe radiant happiness of his face made him almost handsome, yet all were disappointed. ‘“ Com- monplace’’ was the mildest .epithet bestowed upon him. ‘‘ Point lace and diamonds to marry a school-teacher,’”? said Miss Wall Flower. **Magnificent bridal presents to carry to a log cabin,’? sneered Miss Detraction, as she saw the table loaded with plate. ‘*Confound the fellow! I wonder what she*saw in him!” said Hal Battledore. And Mrs. Prudence pursed up her lips and shook her head mysteriously— ** We'll see, we'll see.’’ Let us leave the woria to its nine days’ won- der, and accompany, the bridal pair to their new home. The lover had refitted his cottage for his bride. It was a little nest of a place, with roses in profusion, and shaded by stately oaks, large enough for two when love should make his home with them. Not fitted with magnificence, yet with many little elegances and luxuries, looking lovely in the soft shadow- ing of the May moon that smiled on it as our lovers first entered it. Happy faces greeted the ‘*new sister,’’ and the mother embraced her as they installed her in her new place—his hence- forth. How charmingly she graced the board ! And when all departed, leaving ¢4hem alone, they, with their one domestic, knelt together in their first family prayer. Blithely she en- tered into all her duties; those delicate hands, GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, though all unused, were soon expert in the mysteries of bread and puddings, and all the details of a well-ordered home. The society of the place she found almost as polished as that she had left. Many persons of reduced fortune had come hither, bringing with them the re- finements of cultivation, hoping to* soon rise again into affluence. The place was rapidly improving, and Nina searcely felt the loss of the society of the city in the picnics and boat- ing parties she enjoyed, or the social tea par- ties that were frequently held. Years passed on. In the city Nina was al most forgotten, or only mentioned with a pity- ing shake of the head, as ‘‘ poor Nina Elton, she threw herself away ;’’ or as an example when young ladies whose hearts were not en- tirely ossified, sometimes dared a preference for some one beneath them, and alarmed mam- mag instanced the advantages of marrying prudently. Hal Battledore had marritd a gay girl who had been bridesmaid ‘at Nina’s wed- ding. The.little sentiment she had possessed was enlisted by a young man who was a “‘ bad match,’’ and her friends had advised against it. Wealth and pofftion were necessities to her, and the brilliant offer of Mr. Battledore was too tempting to be resisted. Alas, how much does love borrow of opinion! how many could resist out-marrying any of her set, and take one whom she fancied more, but whom others thought so decidedly ineligible ? Gratified vanity she mistook for love. Daz- zled by the rich gifts and alluring promises of her lover, sh confidently expected, with so handgome a husband and an elegant establish- ment, to be happy. Her diamonds were the handsomest, and her equipage the most elegant of all her acquaintance. The trousseau, and succession of parties that attended her mar- riage kept up the excitement of her vanity for some months. That her husband had faults she knew; but when her eyes were opened to all his vices her happiness was atan end. The wine cup was more and more attractive, and the bride of a year’s time saw her husband brought home nightly in a state of intoxication. He had married her from a variety of motives, and incapable, in his shallow selfishness, of loving anything sincerely, his love had van- ifhed with the novelty of possession. Passion- ately addicted to gambling, he had kept his losses in reason, so they were only whispered before his marriage. . Now he left his impulses unrestrained, and was rapidly dissipating the patrimony that his father had toiled to secure. Miserable in her splendid home, yet with a

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THE USE AND ABUSE OF COLORS IN DRESS. 73 woman’s instinct she suffered in silence; her life was one of the many that matrimony made a failure. Too proud to complain when the crisis came, and all was lost, she nobly bore the cross assigned her, and she, too, went ‘out West,’’? but with a husband to whom duty alone bound her. Every effort that she could devise was untiringly put forth, but in vain. A temporary reformation was only fol- lowed by deeper degradation, and after drinking the cup of shame and sorrow to the very dregs, what wonder that she gladly hailed the liberty that his infamous death at last yielded her? World-weary and sad she returned to her na- tive city, and having no other asylum, became governess in % friend’s family. Let us look in again upon our friend Nina. The cottage is nowhere to be seen, but instead, a stately mansion rears its head. We inquire for Mr. B of a stylish servant, and he tells us that ‘‘Senator B is expected from Wash- ington that evening.’’ We enter, and find our fair matron, older by some twenty years than when we last beheld her, but fair and beautiful still. A counterpart of what she then appeared is half reclining on a couch in lively conversa- tion with an elder brother, and three lovely children complete the group. But whom do we see in conversation with the mother? Verily, the old dragon, Mrs. Pru- dence, who said ‘‘We’ll see.’? And in the snatches we hear, we recognize the words ‘‘ Hal Battledore,’’ and ‘‘I told you so,’’ with a pur- ring ‘‘I have always said to Jane and Mary” (meaning, gentle reader, the two spinsters on the balcony, who have, as a desperate venture, come husband hunting out West), ‘how happy I would be if you could only marry as Mrs. B did !”’ THE USE AND ABUSE OF COLORS IN DRESS. BY MRS. MERRIFIELD. THERE is one class of persons possessed ‘of more money than taste, who estimate colors by their cost only, and will purchase the most expensive merely because they are expensive and fashionable. Of this class was a certain lady of whom it is related that, in reply to Sir Joshua Reynolds’ inquiry as to what color the dress of herself and husband, who were then sitting, should be painted, asked which were the most expensive. ‘Carmine and ultrama- rine,”’ replied the artist. ‘Then,’ rejoined VOL. LXIV.—7 | to the complexion. the lady, ‘‘ paint me in ultramarine, and my husband in carmine.”’ We hear constantly of fashionable colors, and these fashionable colors are forever changing ; moreover, we hear more of their novelty than of their beauty. All who wish to be fashionable wear these colors, because they are fashionable, and because they are new; but they do not consider whether they are adapted to the com- plexion and age of the wearer, or whether they are in harmony with the rest of the dress. What should we say to a person who with the right hand plays an air in C major, and with the left an accompaniment in F minor? The merest novice in music would be conscious of the discord thus produced; yet, as regards colors, the educated eye is constantly shocked by combinations of color as startling and inhar- monious. As the object of all decoration in dress is to improve or to set off to the greatest advantage the personal appearance of the wearer, it follows that the colors employed should be suitable to the complexion; and, as complexions are so various, it is quite impossible that the fash- ionable color, though it may suit a few indi- viduals, can be becoming to all. Instead, therefore, of blindly following fashion, as a sheep will follow the leader of the flock, even to destruction, I should like to see every lady select and wear the precise shade of color which is not only best adapted to her peculiar com- plexion, but is in perfect harmony with the rest of her habiliments, and in accordance with her years and condition. The Orientals and other inhabitants of tropi- cal countries, such as the negroes of the West Indies, love to clothe themselves in brilliant and positive colors—reds and yellows, for in- stance. They are quite right in so doing ; these bright colors contrast well with their dusky complexions. With us ‘pale faces’’ it is dif- ferent ; we cannot bear positive colors in imme- diate contact with the skin without injury to the complexion. Of all colors, perhaps the most trying to the complexion are the different shades of lilac and purple. The fashionable and really beautiful mauve and its varieties are of course included in this category. In accordance with the well- known law of optics, that all colors, simple or compound, have a tendency to tint surrounding objects with a faint spectrum of their comple- mentary colors, those above mentioned, which require for their harmony various tints of yellow and green, impart these supplementary colors It is scarcely necessary to

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observe that, of all complexions, those which turn upon the yellow are the most unpleasant in their effect, and probably for this reason, that in this climate it is always a sign of bad health. : But, it will be asked, is there no means of harmonizing coiors so beautiful in themselves with the complexion, and so avoiding these ill effects? To a certain extent this may be done, and as follows : Should the complexion be dark, the purple tint may be dark also, because by contrast it makes the complexion appear fairer ; if the skin be pale or fair, the tint should be lighter. In either case, thercolor should never be placed next the skin, but should be parted from it by the hair and by a ruche of thulle, which produce the neutralizing effect of gray. Should the complexion still appear too yellow, green leaves or green ribbons may be worn as trimmings. These will often neutralize lilac and purple colors, and thus prevent their im- parting an unfavorable hue to the skin. Scarcely less difficult than mauve to harmo- nize with the complexion is the equally beau- tiful color called ‘‘Magenta.’’ The comple- mentary color would be yellow-green ; Magenta, therefore, requires very nice treatment to make it becoming. It must be subdued when near the skin, and this is best done by intermixture with black; either by diminishing its brightness by nearly covering it with black lace, or by introducing the color in very small quantity only. In connection with this color, I have recently observed some curious effects. First, as toits appearance alone: if in great quantity, the color, though beautiful in itself, is glaring, and difficult to harmonize with its accompani- ments. Secondly, as to its combination with black: if the black and the Magenta-color be in nearly equal quantities—such, for instance, as in checks of a square inch of each color—the general effect is dull and somewhat neutral ; if, on the contrary, the checks consist of Magenta and white alternately, a bright effect will be produced. Again, if the ground be black with very narrow stripes or cross bars of Magenta- color, a bright, but yet subdued effect will result. This last effect is produced on the principle that, as light is most brilliant when contrasted with a large portion of darkness— like the stars in a cloudless sky—so a small portion of bright color is enhanced by contrast with a dark and especially a black ground. Yellow, also, is a difficult color to harmonize with the complexion. A bright yellow, like that of the buttercup, contrasts well with black, and is becoming to brunettes, when not placed GOPEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. next the skin; but pale yellow or greenish yellow suits no one, especially those with pale complexions. Its effect is to diffuse, by contrast, a purple hue over the complexion, and this is certainly no addition to beauty. FROM GLOOM TO GLEAM. BY J. @. THOMPSON. Tue spirit has left its clay-built home, And the silvery cord is severed ; Tlie pallid lips, at the parting breath, Like the falling rose-leaf quivered, Gently quivered. Fold her hands on her snowy breast, And dim not your eyes with weeping ; Her spirit has passed from gloom to gleam ; Tis her body that here lies sleeping, Calmly sleeping. Lay her in peace ’neath the emerald sods, And scatter her grave with flowers; Leave the stars to watch and the dew-tears to fall. Throughout all the lone night hours, The sad night hours. Through the white-robed elders about the throne, Who cry “Giory, glory”’ solely— Through the sevenfold lamps before the throne, She passed up to the Holy, The risen Holy. We toll the bells; but the angels above A joyful pan are ringing, For a sister has come with a golden harp, To join in the angelic singing, The heavenly singing. And, friends, when we pass from out the dim, To enter the life immortal, We know that one will be waiting for us, Beside the heavenly portal, The pearl-made portal. Tue Exvpest Cutnp.—The eldest child of a family holds a position, as it regards influence and importance, scarcely second to that of the - parents themselves—often called upon in the temporary absence of the father and mother to direct home affairs, always looked up to as an oracle in matters of taste and opinion by the junior members, who draw inferences and shape conclusions even without the help of spoken words, even from so slight tokens as a raised eyebrow, or shrugged shoulder, or impatient gesture. Do elder brothers and sisters think enough of this? In after life they may, alas! but toe sorrowfully, when they find themselves repeated in myriad forms of thought and ex- pression, by those who then hung unnoticed upon their lips.

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as he res ed NOVELTIES FOR JANUARY. NOVELTIES FOR JANUARY. Fig. 1.—Charming breakfast-cap, with a full muslin border ; ornamented by a band of violet ribbon and knots of daisies. Fig. 2.—Coiffure for evening. A flat wreath of deep red English daisies, with a céche peigné Fig. 2. of cherry velvet, suitable for persons having thin hair, and wearing it chiefly in front. Fig. 3.—Headdress for home wear (see Chat) ; the bows may be of black velvet, or any suit- able ribbon ; sometimes two colors are used, as Magenta and black, dark blue and black. Fig. 4.—Chemisette for a surplice dress, a habit-shirt with two worked and gauflered ruf- Fig. 4. fles. Many ladies baste these ruffles, one or two, as may be fancied, into the neck of the dress, and secure the same effect. Fig. 5. Fig. 5.—Sleeve to correspond with the above, very suitable for the Francis lst, or ball dress sleeve.

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GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. Fig. 6.—Habit-shirt and chemi- sette, intended for dresses with rolling collars, or revers; its ad- vantage over the usual form is the addition of the chemisette, which covers the chest quite to the throat, and is at once stylish, and safely worn by persons who are obliged to use care in the pro- tection of the chest. It is one of the favorite shapes of the season. Fig. 7.--Mathilde fichu, com- posed of white muslin, with wash illusion quillings. It is very sim- ple, and suitable for a young girl; the slight fulness of the flume insures a good fit on the shoulder. Fig. 8.—A nice petticoat body for a little girl. Fig. 9.—Little girl’s walking- dress, made of buff pique, and trimmed with white braid. A BEAUTIFUL MOSS BASKET. THE appearance of moss on the outside of ladies’ baskets is pro- duced by worsted of the same kind as that used for embroidery in worsted. Four or five shades of green, and as many of brown, in regular gradations, should be selected; the darkest shades of green being of an olive tinge, and the lightest of a yellowish hue, in preference to grass green, which has not the mellow antumnal tint of the colors before mentioned.

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WORK DEPARTMENT. 77 One skein of each color is sufficient for a pair of baskets. The shape, or body of the basket, is formed of pasteboard, and is usually round or oval, and made with or without a handle across, according to fancy. The pasteboard shape is covered, inside and out, with green silk; and if a handle be affixed, it should be sewn on, outside, where the joining will be covered by the moss, so that the silk may appear neat within. The worsted of each color should be wound into a separate ball, and knitted, either flat or round, like a stocking ; a piece of thread should then be passed, by means of a needle, through the last row of loops or stitches, and fastened at each end, in order to prevent the knitting from unravelling. The worsted should then be thoroughly wetted or soaked in warm water, and placed in an oven of gentle heat until perfectly dry. After this, the respective pieces must be unravelled and made up into small bunches, which are to be sown so thickly ANOTHER FORM FOR A SONTAG. ou the silk, with which the outside of the bas- ket is covered, as to leave no apparent spaces between them. Each bunch should be com- posed of about three shades of color made up in the following manner: The several pieces of knitting being selected, a few rows of each are to be unravelled, and all the. ends being taken up at the same time, are to be held between the thumb of the left hand and the side of the hand, as low and near the joint as possible ; the upper part of the thumb being then slightly relaxed, the worsteds are, with the right hand, wound round thethumb and finger of the left hand, like a figure 8, and held in that position while the middle, including the ends with which it began and left off, is sewed together with a piece of silk. The bunches should be placed in heaps, according to their respective shade, and sewn on the basket, according to taste, intermingling the hues, so as to avoid the appearance of for- mality. oof -—--——

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*smoq o31e] Aq por9a0d bie syexood eyy, ‘apyus oy} OAoge ysnf poovd ‘ox,U90 oY} UI SU07z}Nq YIM ‘sez}0801 WIS JO MOI e sey pur ‘agus payuid v fq paropi0g st uoide ayy, “spuvq y[IS 9014} Aq 1943030} YAZuvO Zursq sejjoze1q oy, “uoade ,sessiy—'z “31g *Z@A]94 JO SMOL PUB YIS Jo Suyud v yy pozusureusO ‘yIIS yOu|q Jo uoAde Aouvg™—"{ “31 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, "1 “31g “ ‘SNOUdV AO SHTALS MON

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WORK DEPARTMENT. 19 LACE PATTERN IN APPLIQUE FOR NET AND MUSLIN, (See engraving, page 24.) Tus design, when worked, will be found ex- tremely pretty for trimming an evening dress. Round the top of a low body, and for forming short sleeves, either to a light colored silk, ora dress made of any white material, with the ends of a ceinture to match, worked in the same pattern, completes a very elegant dress, fit for any evening occasion. A clear, but not too fine Brussels net should be selected on which to commence the work, and a fine muslin, or still better, a cambric, should then be laid evenly over the net and tacked down at both edges and several places between. The pattern is then traced in soft embroidery cotton, and every line sewn over very neatly. The centres of the flowers are worked in solid spots on the net. All the intermediate parts of the muslin are then carefully cut away, leaving the pattern in the muslin. A finer embroidery cotton should be taken for sewing the lines over than that which is used for tracing the pattern. The outer edge should be finished with a line of fine buttonhole-stitch, as it requires to be a little stronger than the other parts. One of the sprigs would be sufficient to form the end of the ceinture. KNITTED SOCK. tee oe” “4 ‘ y ) Knit the foot of the sock in ribbed stitch, and the top in an open fancy stitch.

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*AOUMIMAATOD JINS 0} peta oq AvUT SeAveT OY} pu ‘A1;U09 BY} UT pvaq You tq B YALA ‘YIO[D pal UI JNO JN SLOMOT SUT] ZL SALAg OY] JO PRezsuy Ano ‘19uuEM eurvs ey} UL Epvut st UIe}QVd JeY}O OY, “peusg; St YBvVeIA OY} pu¥ ‘ueqj}0 Yove Yno1Yy passed ory Yor ‘syooy OM} ULC] OF punod porting uay} 918 eit pedioutd ayy jo spue ey} {41 punor punos st feded used jo duys Mosivu & pur ‘permmbead St YjVaIM OY} VY} YSU] OY} O11M JeyJouR punel Po}SIM} O1¥ SALLIAG PUR Seavey] eseyy, ‘“sseooid ojduis ysom 943 st ‘xem oy} OFUL poddip puv ‘pus eq} 4 4040 jUEq ‘WeYy} panos pazstay Jeded usei3 YM ‘eI A JO SUA] WOYS WY *UOT[IULIGA YITM pasojoo ‘x¥M pez[OUT 017131] B JO OpwUT oe SeTszEq OY | YLVIS OY} SUILO} YOry A ‘eat ZuyQoefod oy} punos Jepurvuas ey} Surystmy puv ‘yt 1940 seded need yo days mouva & Saysed fq umop y Sayueysey puv ‘youg oy} ye etA OUg Jo YWBua_ yoys v Zuyousd Aq payunout Oq ISNUL SeALvAT Say} { OUTOY 4v 4YNO ynO aso, UvYY yoojsed esoUL Youu ere Avg}. st ‘(mey} Ajddus uvo om) pesvyound oq ysNU Soave] EY, ‘AyNIAXA 04 eidus Ayjenbe ese Yyos jo 430q ‘susazqed om} Oa13 OAK “yoo AyQaad A194 B OAVY puL ‘eyvuUt 07 AsS¥O OZINb o1v So]pULO OY} 410} SYRVOLM 01971] ABAH, > —Y//p “THUAN | on SHLVAUMATANVO ONVId

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WORK DEPARTMENT. 81 HEADDRESS. Tus little headdress is very sim- ple, and very easily made. It is composed of two black lace lappets and six rosettes, the rosettes having in the centre of each a small gold star or ornament. Take a piece of wire, twenty-four inches long, bend it in the form shown in the illustra- tion, and fasten a piece of coarse, stiff black net at the back, on which to arrange the bows and rosettes. Take the half of one of the lappets, fasten it on the wire in the middle of the front, and catch it down to the wire at intervals of three and a half inches, making the remainder of the lappet into a bow, with a short end falling on each side. The other lappet is then looped at the back, having two long ends falling in the centre; a large rosette is placed in the middle of the head- dress behind, with rosettes of gra- duated sizes fastened to the wire where the lappets are caught down. The rosette in the middle is small, the two next rather larger, and the two at the sides larger still. For variety, the lace could be orna- mented with gold stars, ete. NAME FOR MARKING, eth: = sass 2 32°: Se*% ts

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82 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. EMBROIDERY. MATERIALS required : Eight rows dark blue beads, five rows light blue, five rows white, seven rows yellow, ten rows deep green, four rows dark red, nine rows light red, and six black beads.

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WORK DEPARTMENT, INSTRUCTIONS FOR KNITTED MITTENS AND CUFFS. Our readers will find the following instructions very easy to work from. There may appear to the uninitiated a redundancy of repetition, but some of the books on knitting are only adapted for proficients, and many a face is bent over them with an expression better fitted for work- ing a problem in algebra. The colors named will be found ment on the sickly hues too often employed. We shall continue them throughout the year. an improve- LADIES’ MITTENS, IN NETTING SILK. Black and green, black and scarlet, lilac, blue, white, etc. The pattern is given in black and green. Pins, 18. Sixty to sixty-four or sixty-six stitches are to be cast on (loosely), according to size. As an average size, we will say sixty. Cast on sixty stitches in green. lst row.—Knit across plainly, and back in open work; that is, put the silk forward, and take two stitches together. 2d, 3d, and 4th—Black. 5th— Green. Plain knitting. Across in plain knitting, and back in open work, as before. 6th, 7th, and 8th—Black. Plain knitting. 9th—Green. Across in plain knitting, and back in open work, 10th, 11th, and 12th—Black. Plain knitting, increasing one stitch on the Jef? hand side, in the front of the work (in the last stitch but one) in the 11th and 12th rows. 13th—Green. Across in plain knitting, and back in open work. 14th, 15th, and 16th—Black. Plain knitting, increasing one, as before, on the /ef? hand side in the 15th and 16th rows. 17th—Green. Knit across in plain knitting, and back in open work. 18th, 19th, and 2Cth—Black. Plain knitting, increasing one, as before, in the 19th and 20th rows. 2lst—Green. Across in plain knitting, and back in open work. 22d, 23d, and 2Ath—Black. Plain knitting, increasing one in the 23d and 24th rows, as before. 25th— Green. Across in plain, and back in open work, 26th, 27th, and 28th—Black. Plain knitting, increasing one in the 27th and 28th rows, as before. 29th— Green. open work. 30th, 31st, and 32d—Black. Across in plain, and back in Plain knitting, 83 | increasing one, as before, in the 3lst and 32d rows, 33d— Green. open work, 34th, 35th, and 36th—Black. Plain knitting, increasing one, as before, in the 35th and 36th rows. 37th— Green. open work. 38th, 39th, and 40th—Black. Plain knitting, increasing one, as before, in the 39th and 40th rows. 4lst— Green. open work. 42d—Black. Plainly knit 20 stitches only, on the right hand side, with a third pin, leaving the retuaining should now amount to 56) where they are, for theepresent. 43d and 44th—Black. Plain knitting. 45th—Green. Across in plain, and back in open work. 46th, 47th, and 481h—Black. 49th— Green. open work. 50th, 51st, and 52d—Black. 53d— Green. open work. 54th—Green. Across and back in open work. Cast off the twenty stitches loosely, which will form the thumb, returning to the other stitches (for the hand), resume at the right side. 42d, 43d, and 44th—Black. Plain knitting, increasing one on the left, as before, in the two last rows. 45th—Green. Across in plain, and back in open work, : 46th, 47th, and 48th—Black. Plain knitting, increasing one, as before, in the 47th and 48th rows. 49th— Green. As before. 50th, 51st, and 52d—Black. 53d—Gireen. As before. 54th—Green. Across and back in open work, as before. Cast off, loosely, the sixty stitches. It is preferable to avoid joining the silk as far as possible, and it is very easily taken up the side of the work, if not drawn too tightly. The other mitten is made precisely in the same manuer, exeept that the stitches are in- creased at the right hand side, and the thumb formed on the left. : They are to be neatly drawn together, with a needle and black sewing-silk, on the right side ; the lines being exactly matched, and any joints in the silk sewn, to prevent its coming untied. The green must be a bright shade. Across in plain, and back in Across in plain, and back in Across in plain, and back in stitches (which Plain knitting. Across in plain, and back in Plain knitting. Across in plain, and back in Plain knitting.

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84 It is necessary, to prevent mistakes, to take particular notice that the thumb is always on the opposite side to the increased stitches. - ~-2oo or BELL FLOWERS. (See engraving, page 23.) A pretty and simple manner of making a paper flower may be required for the numerous festive occasions of the season; we give a small design of one which is very graceful for differ- ent ornamental purposes. It is formed of a GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. strip of pure white paper of about seven inches in depth and eight in length. Both edges are cut in a very fine fringe and curled over a knife. The two ends are then gummed together. A strong crochet thread is then tightly tied in the exact centre, which forms the two bell-shaped flowers given ip the illustration. The leaves are cut out of the same kind of paper according to the design, and attached to the bells where they are tied in the centre, hanging down grace- fully. About three in number are required for each double bell. LAMP MAT IN CROCHET. “Tay. é J = d ¥ » 4 ae” Ss + pa” Joy a “ea, 3 ‘3 os?” 64 > Fd Bp ws 6] 4 “n> >? oS Tue material is zephyr of five different shades —black, deep scarlet, orange, sea-green, and white. The centre, in plain crochet stitch, is of sea-green. Make a chain of five stitches, and join by passing the,needle through the first stitch and uniting it to the last. Form five rows of green, widening at first every third, then every fourth stitch. The next row is of white, in close shell or pineapple stitch. Again a row of green, four stitches in depth. The next color is black, then whiet again, following the pattern, as given in the engraving, in the three colors, black, green, and white. When the last row is made, take the scarlet for the border. Knit as seen in the engraving, of scarlet and orange, until the two last rows, the edge being of white, and the row next it black. The effect of this mat, when it is neatly made, is very beautiful, and it is handsome for either lamp or vase.

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WORK DEPARTMENT. 85 DOAK KIRK, I, LARA BARN OK AA sania RY Yo ix PRA ARN 0 ld PO IR Materials.—Sufficient silk and velvet forthe slipper of one color, but of two shades—say of green or mauve, the velvet to be a shade darker than the silk; a skein of sewing silk the same tint; about five yards of gold cord, nat braid ; a skein of gold-colored fine crochet silk, or twist, and a skein of very fine sewing silk the same shade as the gold. A wide, rich lutestring ribbon will be Sound better than silk for the foundation of the slipper. A sheet of white tissue-paper. First, trace off on tissue-paper the pattern and size of the slipper; draw a line the exact size ; then cut half an inch beyond this, which serves for turning in when the slipper is made up. Now, cut the silk and velvet to the extent of the paper pattern; tack these carefully to- gether in several places; now tack the pattern carefully on, and with the yellow silk run, very 8 iS i x fa salaietas through paper, velvet, and silk, and also run the line which defines the size of slipper through the three substances also. Now tear away the paper, and cut the velvet close to the running of the pattern, though not so close but that it will be secure on the silk. Now, with the crochet silk or twist, overcast the velvet on to the silk, as if’it were muslin; this must be thickly, but not too broadly, done. Finally— on the inside of this, close to the overcasting on the velvet—sew the gold cord with gold- colored silk round, making the stitch straight over thecord, if in the latter the gold is straight ; but, if slanting, then with the stitch slanting. Bind the shoe with very narrow ribbon the same color as the silk; line with silk quilted Jinely, the pattern which is traced on the paper | on a layer of flannel. VOL. LXIV.—8

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RECEIPTS. 87 Receipts, &e. AIR AND EXERCISE. ON THE IMPORTANCE OF GOOD AIR. Air is as necessary to existence as food, and its total deprivation is still more rapidly fatal; but the quality of.the air‘inspired is also of nearly equal importance, though this is not quite so readily proved. Nevertheless it is an admitted fact that pure air, uncontaminated by either decomposing animal, vegetable, or mineral pro- ducts, is of the greatest consequence to the health of the human race, ON EXERCISE. Exercise comes next to air and food in its bearings upon the healthy development of the human frame, but its effects are dependent upon a very different chain of laws. In all machines made by man the workmanship is completed before the machine is calculated for use, and every day’s wear and tear has a tendency to injure it, except in the case of very delicate instruments, which require a certain amount of liberty in their joints before they are at their best—as in musical instruments, for instance. But in the animal machine the use or exercise of an organ is necessary to its full development, and, wp toa certain point, the more it is used the more fully is it developed. Thus, a blacksmith’s arm is much larger, in proportion, than his leg; while the pedestrian’s or opera dancer’s leg is more fully developed than the arm. Whatever muscle is used in a more violent manner than the rest of the body becomes enlarged, and by its increase of size more powerful. But, besides this effect upon the actual muscles employed in any particular action, a proper amount of exércise also promotes the due per- formance of all the functions of the body, increasing the activity of the circulation, and in that way influen- cing the neryous system and the general secretory appa- ratus. All this is so fully recognized and well understood by those who have investigated the subject that it is almost unnecessary to allude to the fact; and it will probably be allowed as a rule by those who read these pages that exercise is necessary to the long enjoyment of health. Exercise intended to maintain health may be taken in three different ways: Ist, by the use of the organs of locomotion in the natural way; 2d, by employing the natural organs of offence or defence ; and 3d, by the use of gymnastics, or artificial exercises. Locomotive exercisés include walking, running, leap- ing, swimming, skating, and riding. These are all more or less desirable in strong and robust habits, and may be varied with advantage, so that they shall not become tedious or uninteresting. None of them are so service- able to those who have recourse to them when they are not pleasant as they are to those who enjoy the muscular exertion which must be employed. Thus a mere walk taken for the sake of health degenerates into a disagree- able task, and does not promote health nearly so much as it would if voluntarily undertaken with some plea- sant object in view. The same is the case with riding, skating, or swimming; they are always useful when they give pleasure, and, though not injurious, yet they lose a great part of their benefit when they are reluc- tantly employed, or when they have become tiresome by a too frequent repetition. No exercise is equal to walking or running, especially for the young who have just completed their growth, and who require a consi- derable amount of muscular exertion to carry off the quantity of nourishment which their appetites cause them to take, and which the growth of the frame has hitherto demanded. Offensive and defensive exercise is no less useful to the body when it can be taken in a good and wholesome air; but, as is too often the case, it is comparatively valueless when the combatants exert their skill in a close and confined situation. The system of taking exercise by the guarded use of the organs of offence and defence is the most valuable of all those offered to man, because in this mode the mind is engaged as well as the body, and asa consequence the latter benefits much more than it does in a more tame and uninteresting muscular exer- tion, wherein one great object is lost sight of—namely, the stimulus to the nervous system. Gymnastics have been invented to supply the place of both the previously described kinds of exercise, and for atime they succeed admirably. But it is only for atime, as it is always observed that the pupils of a gymnasium after a while lose their interest, and cease to derive any benefit, The exercises described under the two previous heads are generally included in an extended course of gymnastics, which term, indeed, literally means ezer- cises, but in a limited sense it is used for those which are taught with a view only of developing the muscles, and preparing them for the further progress in walking, riding, fencing, etc. Thus mere swimming, though often taught as a part of gymnastics, is certainly not usually considered gymnastic, nor is riding or walking ; and, therefore, it is better to confine the term to those exercises which may be carried out by means of an ap- paratus of poles, boards, etc., in a limited space, but in the open air. Such is the ordinary acceptation of the term; and when a similar object is to be carried out for the female sex, the term calisthenics is made use of. In both cases there is a call upon certain muscles of the body not generally used, and for the male sex a spirit of emulation is excited, which makes the effort much more beneficial. With the aid of this effect on the mind, gymnastics are of considerable benefit ; but as this emu- lation cannot be kept up very long, the good effect soon ceases, and gymnastics proper must be replaced by some one of the exercises described under the two last para- graphs. For the female sex, calisthenics are always open to the same objection; and in their case, dancing, with the aid of the excitement produced by music, ina healthy atmogphere, is a much better substitute. I confess that, except as a mechanical aid for defects of formation, I have never seen much good derived from either one or the other, and in the case of the female sex less thanin that of boys. When they are intended to remedy dis- eafe, the case is somewhat different ; but for the purpose of maintaining health, I look upon pure gymnastics as only useful when employed as a good introduction to pedestrianism, riding, fencing, etc. But, independently of detail, it should be impressed upon all young persons that nature has implanted in them a law which, if neglected, surely leads to disease. That law is, that every organ (with very few exceptions) becomes wasted by disuse, and that all are dependent one upon the other, so that if one set is allowed to lie dormant, all the cthers sympathize with it. This is even true with reference to the mental faculties, which require a healthy body in order to allow of their full play ; while, at the same time, if the whole energies are wasted upon bodily objects, and the mind is allowed to

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88 lie fallow, it will suffer in its powers, and gradually become more and more weak. But though muscular exercise renders the brain as well as all the other organs in a condition fit to exert themselves to advantage, yet it can do no more; and if they are still suffered to remain idle, in spite of the perfect condition of their machinery, no fault can be imputed to the bodily powers, on account of the high state of health in which they are existing. The amount of exercise necessary for health is very variable, depending upon natural constitution, educa- tion, sex, and age. For men from twenty to fifty, eight or ten miles a day of walking exercise may be taken as the average; and for women of the same age about half this quantity will suffice. Less than this will go.a great way, but for keeping up high health the above amount, omitted only on thoroughly wet days, may be considered necessary. PRINCIPLES OF CARVING, Tue general principles upon which carving is, or ought to be, conducted are very plain, and the only real difficulty consists in the necessity for practice to enable the carver to hit the joints, either between the several bones of a piece of mutton or veal, or in any of the va- rious kinds of poultry or game. Each of these must, therefore, be separately considered ; but with regard to butcher’s meat, one rule may be laid down as almost, but not quite, invariable, and that is, always to cut across the fibres of the meat, and not in the same direc- tion strings in the month, which are by no means pleasant. If, therefore, the carver will only examine into this point, and ascertain the direction of the grain or fibres of the meat, he will at once be able to cross them with The excep- This insures a short grain, and avoids those long the knife, and gain the desired advantage. tion alluded to is the under side of the sirloin of beef, which is always cut in the direction of its fibres, though I really do not see why, as it is much improved in flavor by cutting it in the same direction as the upper side— that is, parallel with the bones. This, however, is not a very easy task with a bad knife, as the meat is apt to slip from the bone. The next rule to be observed is to make the knife and fork assist each other—that is to say, the fork should steady the joint for the knife, or where the fork is used as the means of division in removing the leg of a fowl, the knife must take the office of steady- ing the body of the bird, and the same remark spplies to the carving of any other kind of poultry or game; and, thirdly, it is very important, in an economical point of view, to cut all slices, either of meat, game, or poul- try, completely down to the bone, so as to leave no ragged portions behind. In carving fish, the following directions apply :— In carving salmon, itis only necessary to take care to avoid breaking the flakes unnecessarily, by attempting to divide them at right angles with the long axis of the fish. There isa great difference in the flavor of the back, or thick part, and that of the thin part of the fish; and therefore most people like to be asked which they prefer. This being done, the knife is carried down to the bone longitudinally, and removes a thick slice of either or both, according to the choice. Mackerel! are split at the tail, and the upper half raised at that part from the bones; after which the bone is re- moved from the lower half of the fish, and that in its turn is served, either in one piece or divided into two, according to its size. Most other enall fish are carved much in the same GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, way ; that is, either by serving them whole, or dividing them with the knife into sections, according to size. DIRECTIONS FOR CARVING JOINTS. The haunch of mutton or venison is carved very differ- ently by different people. The usual plan is to cut through the flesh between the leg and loin, and then to tun the knife from this to the lower end of the loin, cutting parallel slices in that direction. A much better plan, however, consists in making these cuts in one sweep, carrying the knife directly from the outside of the leg to the end of the loin, and thus getting a beauti- ful long slice of lean, with the fat atthe end. There is, also, a delicious mine of kidney fat in the loin of mutton, under the flank, which is often too high in venison; but if fresh enough, is even more rich and palatable in that moat than in mutton. The saddle of mutton is carved in three different ways —Ist, by longitudinal slices along each side of the bone, by which the lean and fat do not come in the same slice ; Qd, by transverse slices, taking in the bones, and which therefore must be thick and clumsy ; and 3d, by oblique slices, slightly curved, which is far the best plan, in which the knife begins at the bone near the tail, and, after cutting off the outside, takes a series of parallel slices all throngh the joint. In carving & shoulder of mutton or lamb, the first thing for the young housekeeper to ascertain s the posi- tion of the bone, which is near the edge on one side. Here the knife must not be inserted, because it would be stopped at once; but by trying the opposite side a deep cut may be made, and from its two surfaces slices are readily obtained. When this part is exhausted, slices may be procured along the sides of the bladebone, and again on the under side some few good cuts will be met with. The fore-quarter of lamb must be commenced by sepa- rating the shoulder from its bed, carrying the knife all round it, and raising it with the fork; after which a lemon should be squeezed into the cut surface, and a little pepper and salt then sprinkled over it; but all this may be much better done in the kitchen than on the dining-table. In order to carve this part, the same di- rections will apply as are given in the last paragraph ; and for the remaining portion it is only necessary to separate the thin part, called the brisket, from the ribs, and then divide each into transverse sections. One rib is usually served to each plate, and with this many people like a small division of the brisket; but the question ought always to be asked before giving either or both. A breast of veai is carved in the same way as the bed of the fore-quarter of lamb after the shoulder is removed. The fillet of veal merely requires successive horizontal slices of meat to be taken off with a sharp knife, serving with each a small portion of fat and forcemeat, unless disliked by the person for whom it is intended. A loin of veal is usually divided into two portions, the clump end and the kidney end. The latter merely requires to be divided into portions, at right angles with its length, every other one of which contains a bone, and the intermediate one is of meat only. Most people like some of the fat on the under side round the kidney spread on toast, and seasoned, when it eats like marrow. The chump end has the tail attached to its upper side, and this must be taken off horizontally, after which, successive slices of meat are served without any bone, which is all in one piece, and therefore not capable of being divided.

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RECEIPTS. The shoulder of veal is carved like the shoulder of mutton by some people, but the best plan is to begin on the under side, and then cut slices from the thick edge opposite the bone and parallel with it. When stuffed, a portion must be served on each plate. The sirloin of beef is usually carved by cutting the upper side in slices, parallel with the bone, and com- mencing at the edge, the brown of which forms the first slice. On the under side the knife is generally made to cross the grain, cutting through the middle down tothe bone, and removing slices on each side. This part, however, tastes much better if cut on the same plan as the upper side, that is, by commencing at the edge; but in this way the siices are small, and do not look so handsome, for which reason the ordinary mode is gene- rally preferred. The round of beef requires the same management as the fillet of veal. The inferior joints of beef must all be cut by cutting across the grain. The brisket is no exception to this rule, the bones being neglected in carrying it out. MISCELLANEOUS COOKING. Brisket or Beer Stewep.—Stew it in sufficient water to cover the nieat; when quite tender, take out the bones, and skim off the fat; add to the gravy, when strained,a glass of wine and a little spice tied up in a muslin bag. Have ready either mushrooms, trufiles, or vegetables boiled, and cut into shapes. Lay them on and round the beef; reduce part of the gravy to a glaze, lay it on the top, and pour the remainder into the dish. Itisa good piece to stew, as it may be cut from the bone, and of any size. Broitep Romp Streax.—Cut the steaks about three- quarters of an inch thick, from a rump of beef that has hung until] quite tender; let the gridiron be hot, well rubbed with beef suet, and the fire clear. Lay on the steaks, one by one, turning them frequently with steak- tongs—a fork should never be used; when brown on both sides, lay them on a hot dish, and send them in- stantly to table, for, if not eaten hot, the steak will be- come soddened. Should it not have hung long enough to be tender, beat it with a rolling-pin; put no salt on, or it will harden the steak. The grand secret is a quick clear fire, frequent turning, and quick cooking; for if the meat be long upon the fire it will be hard. As regards turning it frequently, or only once, that must depend upon whether the steak is to be done in the usual way—that the gravy may not be drawn out on either side; or whether it is to be done “ rare’’—that is to say, very much wnderdone. In the former case, the steak should be cut only half an inch thick, and turned Srequently—but, if “‘rare,’’ three-quarters of an inch thick, turning it.only once, and the fire should be more brisk than in the former case; by which means the meat will be sufficiently scorched on both sides, without being burned. It is not eaten in perfection if served with anything else ; a little minced shalot and a table- spoonful of ketchup may be put into the dish, and it may be garnished with horseradish ; to pepper the steak is to spoil it. Ten minutes will be sufficient to cook a large steak if it is to be done rare; but if well done, from: ten to fifteen minutes. The fat should be separated and put on the gridiron first and taken off last, soas to broil it halfaslong again asthe lean. That makes it pulpy, like marrow. g* To Hasu Berr.—If the meat is raw, hang it till it is quite tender; then cut some thin slices, and put them into a stewpan with just water enough to cover them, a bunch of sweet-herbs, an onion, and a little pepper and salt; cover the stewpan close, and let them stew till tender ; then put in a glass of port wine, and a table- spoonful of shalot vinegar. When it is warm, pour the gravy through a hair-sieve to clear it from the herbs and vegetables ; then put it back into the saucepan with the hash, and thicken it with butter kneaded in flour, with a little brown sugar. Thisisanexcellent dish, and may be made from the trimmings of large joints of meat, If the meat has been cooked, mince a shalot and an onion; fry in a little butter; then add a spoonful of flour, a little gravy, and a spoonfal of walnut liquor or ketchup. When it boils, put in the slices of beef cut thin; let them get hot through, but not boiled. Sliced potatoes and onions may be added if approved. Observe that it is owing to boiling hashes or minces that they get hard. a second time, should be only simmered. All sorts of stews, or meat dressed Lea or Mutton Roastep.—A leg of mutton intended for roasting should be kept longer than for boiling; it should be carefully attended to during the time it is hung up, constantly wiped to prevent any mustiness gathering on the top and below the flap, and in hot weather lightly dusted with flour or pepper to keep off the flies. The kernel in the fat on the thick part of the leg should be taken out by the butcher, for it taints first there; and the bloody part of the neck should also be cut off when first brought in. Remove the thick skin very carefully; trim off the piece of flank that adheres to the fat, and flatten the fat with acutlet-beater or chopper ; cut off the knuckle, and nick the cramp-bone, to allow it to become more plump, asinthe haunch. Put a little salt and water into the dripping-pan to baste the meat at first; but then use only its own gravy. Serve with jelly. A leg of mutton is usually roasted whole, but can be divided advantageously for a small family. Cut the knuckle into a good-sized joint, and boil it until tender ; but put a coarse paste over the lower part of the thick end to keep in the gravy, and roast it; or if the skin be raised gently from the outside of the leg, to about six or seven inches wide, two or three good slices may be cnt off for steaks, and the skin then fastened down with skewers. Bonep QuartER or LAMB.—Take off the shoulder and bone it; stuff it with fine forcemeat, and skewer it ina handsome shape. Braise it with two ounces of butter, add a teacupful of water, stirring the braise until the gravy isdrawn. Then cut the brisket into pieces, and stew them in white gravy; thicken it with cream and eggs 80 that it shall be very white; ent the long bones into chopsand fry them ; thicken the gravy of the braise, add anything vegetable in season. Place the shoulder in the centre of a dish with its own sauce, lay the bris- ket covered with white sauce round it, and place the fried chops at the edge. To Brom. A Fow..—Split the fowl down the back; season it very well with pepper, and put it on the grid- iron with the inner part next the fire, which must be very clear. Hold the gridiron ata considerable distance froin the fire, and allow the fowl to remain until it is nearly half done; then turn it, taking great care that it does not burn. Broil it of a fine brown, and serve it up with stewed mushrooms or a sauce with pickled muash- rooms. A duck may be broiled in the same way. If the

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90 fowl is very large, half-roast it, then cut it into four quarters and finish it on the gridiron. Wiip Ducks must be roasted ata very brisk fire; they take from twelve to twenty minutes, according to taste. Some people are of opinion that they should only fly through the kitehen; by epicures they are considered to be in true perfection when they come up dry and brown, and, when cut, flood the dish with gravy. The means of insuring success consists in a very ardent fire, rapid motion of the spit, and constant basting. The carver should score the breast of the duck, put a piece of butter on it, and cut a lemon in half, putting on one half a spoonful of salt, and on the other a spoonful of cayenne ; put the two together, and squeeze vigorously over the duck ; then pour over them a wine-glass of hot port wine. VEGETABLES. To Dress Eao-PLAnt.— Parboil the egg-plants till they become soft, then cut them in half lengthwise. Scoop out the inside, leaving the skin whole; take half of a small onion to about seven egg-plants, with half a pound of butter, and put them over the fire in a pot for a few moments; then mix with it half a goou-sized loaf of bread which has been soaked in milk; mix it all well together ; put in salt, black and red pepper, and a little parsley, and let itstewanhour. Then take some grated toast and strew over it, and put it for half an hour over the coals on a gridiron, then reiurn the mixture to the shells, and serve them. To Fry Eae-PLant.—Cut the egg-plant into slices quarter of an inch thick; let it lie for several hours in salted water to remove the bitter taste. Heat a small when very hot, put in the slices; Let them cook tho- quantity of butter; turn them when one side is done. roughly. Wiwrer Sqvasnu.—This requires rather more boiling than the summer kind. Pare it, cut it in pieces, take out the seeds and strings; boil it in a very little water till it is quite soft. Then press out the water, mash it, and add butter, salt, and pepper to your taste. From half to three-quarters of an hour will generally suffice to cook it ParsneP Fritters.—Boil six parsneps tender; then skin and mash them; mix with them one or two eggs well beaten, and two teapoonsfuls of wheat flour. Make them up in small cakes, and fry them in a little lard or beef gravy, made boiling hot before the cakes are put in. A little salt should be added to the lard or gravy. Toryips 1x Gravy.—To a pound of turnips sliced and eut into dice, pour a quarter pint of boiling veal gravy, add a small lump of sugar, some salt and cayenne, or white pepper, and boil them quickly 50 to 60 minutes. Serve them very hot. Potato Je1.Ly.—Is made from the flour, only boiling water must be poured upon it, but care must be taken that it be absolutely boiling, or the complete change into jelly will not take place. It does not take many minutes to thus change a raw potato into this substance, which is not only highly nutritive, but extremely agreeable to the palate when flavored with a little sugar, nutmeg, and white wine, To Bort Ontons PLary.—Peel them and soak them an hour in cold water; put them into boiling milk and water, boil them till tender, and serve with melted but- ter. Or, boil the onions in two waters. | | | GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, MISCELLANEOUS, Creanina MAnsie.—One quarter of a pound of pearl- ash, one pound of soft soap, and three quarts of water ; boil for three hours, then bottle it. When used, mix some with whiting into a paste, spread it upon the mar- ble, and let it remain for a day, then wash it offf Warm the paste before you use it. To TAKE ovt Grease FROM THE LeAves or BooKs,— After having warmed the paper stained with grease, wax, oil, or any fat body whatever, take as much of it out as possible by means of blotting-paper. Then dipa small brush in the essential oil of well-rectified spirits of turpentine, heated almost to ebullition (for when cold it acts but weakly), and draw it gently over both sides of the paper, which must be kept warm, This operation must be repeated as many times as the quantity of the fat body imbibed by the paper, or the thickness of the paper, may render necessary, Whenthe greasy substance is entirely removed, recourse may be had to the follow- ing method to restore the paper to its former whiteness, which is not completely restored by the first process: Dip another brush in highly rectified spirits of wine, and draw it in like manner over the place which was stained, and particularly round the edges, to remove the border, that would still present a stain. By employing these means with proper caution, the spot will totally disap- pear, the paper will assume its original whiteness, and if the process has been employed on a part written on with common ink, or printed with printer’s ink, it will experience no alteration. To MAKE Paper FirrePproor.—To do this, it is only ne- cessary to dip the paper in a strong solution of alum- water, and when thoroughly dry, it will resist the action of flame. Some paper requires to imbibe more of the solution than it will take up at a single immersion, and when this is the case, the process must be repeated until it becomes thoroughly saturated. Destrorine Crickets.—I will tell you how I got rid of hundreds, by means of a common white glazed jar, about nine or ten inches high, put in the place they in- fest, with a slice or two of cucumber in it, and one live cricket, asa decoy. They will hop in, and strange to say, have not the power to hop owt. When the jar is one-third full of insects, have it filled with boiling water. I got rid of them by this simple method. Black Beetles may be destroyed in the same way ; but the jar should be rough outside, so that the insects can creep up. With a jar of this kind, glazed with white inside, we have seen a great quantity destroyed, without any bait or decoy ; the beetles, from curiosity, or some other motive, creep in, but cannot creep out again. To CLEAN TurKEY CARPETS.—To revive the color of & Turkey carpet, beat it well with a stick till the dust is all got out ; then, with a lemon or sorrel juice, take out the spots of ink, if the carpet be stained with any ; wash it in cold water, and afterwards shake out all the water from the threads of ithe carpet. When it is thoroughly dry, rub it all over with the crumb of a hot wheaten loaf; and if the weather is very fine, hang it out in the open air a night or two. How To RexovaTs THE Tops oF Kip Boots.—Defaced kid boots will be greatly improved by being rubbed well with a mixture of cream and ink. Frencn Mix or Roses is made with rose-water ; tine- ture of benzoin, tincture of storax; of each of the two latter one ounce put into the rose-water ; to increase the scent a little spirits of roses is added.

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Enitors’ Gable. EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND SIXTY-TWO, The present moment's all our store; The next, should Heaven allow; Then this will be no more; So all our life is but one instant, now. ConaREvE. In these four lines the poet describes, with the force and terseness of an apothegm, the life editorial. It is with us a perpetual now. Our New Year greetings seem but the echo of our Christmas good wishes; we feel that the multitude of patrons who will this day welcome the Lady’s Book to their homes and hearts are the same noble, generous friends, or their counterparts, whose pleasant smiles and kind letters have been the sweetest record of our literary life. God bless you, dear friends! with his divine gifts of faith, hope, and love, is our earnest prayer. This New Year may not—will not, we should say— bring success and earthly enjoyment to us all. The dark clouds of trials and sorrows are over our beloved country, and who can escape the shadow, even if shel- tered from the bursting storm? Let us not despond. The Lord reigns; He can bring gladness out of gioom ; the sunshine of his favor is happiness. If we all could enjoy this blessing ; if we had faith in God, and could truly say ‘‘Thy will be done on earth as in heaven ;” if we had hope in the promise that the Saviour came to bring ‘‘ peace on earth and good-will to men ;”’ if we had the true love (or charity) which “‘ suffereth long, and is kind,” which “envieth not,’’ ‘‘thinketh no evil,’ “is not easily provoked’’—in short, the love ‘“‘that never faileth,’’ but even to our enemies is kind and forgiving, might not we women of America do much to restore the peace, happiness, and prosperity of our beloved land? Should we not be teachers and exemplars of ‘‘ whatso- ever things are pure, lovely, and of good report?” Shall we not, beginning this day, seek to gain and use these good gifts and graces of heart, soul, and mind, that will make our influence, like the Divine Mercy, a blessing to the world, and render eighteen hundred and sixty-two forever memorable as the YeaR when WOMAN did what she could for the good of humanity? QUIET CHANGES. Sue kissed me and put a white flower in my hand, And said it would last till the morrow; But the love that had prompted the gift would live on Forever—come joy or come sorrow. The flower in my hand and the vow in my heart, The words of our parting were spoken :— Her love has been dead, oh, this many a year!— Still fragrant, though withered the token. The dream was as bright and as pure as a cloud, Rose-tints from the morning light taking ; Yet so quietly passed it away from our hearts That we never once thought of their breaking. CHILDREN. (Sex Titie-Paar.} The Garden of Eden is the freehold of youth. Chil- dren naturally live in the place of flowers all the year round, Turn to our title-page, you will forget that win- ter is over us, while you see the charming spring of human existence opening, for both sexes, in happiness, from the pure buds of infancy to the sweet blossoms of girlhood ; while iittle brothers are the welcome play- mates, and thus they are taught by smiles of love and home pleasures the lessons of innocent enjoyment; the memory and sweetness of these happy days will brighten the roughest and darkest paths of man’s life. In the gloom that now pervades the present, should we not turn our thoughts and hopes to the future? If we must pass through an ordeal of bitter affliction, at least these little ones may see happier days. How dili- gent, then, should we be in preparing the children under our care and influence, so that they may be fitted for the stage of life when we leave it! Many parents, by mistaken indulgences, injure their buds of fairest promise, and thus the fruit is blasted ; lovely, happy ¢hildren become, as adults, discontented, disagreeable, and vicious. Now is always the season of duty when we see childhood before us. Women always have a great and glorious work ready for them, because they are the educators of humanity. Homes, schools, benevolent associations ; these are means and places in and by which character is formed and citizens are trained for the weal or woe of the State. By right be- ginnings with the pliant minds of little children, by cultivating the good and correcting the evil tendencies of their dispositions, we, women of America, may do more to promote the real greatness and true happiness of our country than has as yet been done by legislators, philosophers, and warriors. “‘Eschew evil, and do good,’’ is the precept of the Apostle ; in no other way can its realization be attempted so hopefully as with the waxen heart of infancy. Is it not consoling, when we see our own bright days passing away, our great expectations failing, to trust to the better improvement of time and opportunities in the lives of our children, because of their better training ? It is not in magnificent cities, nor in arts, science, wealth, devoted to material comforts and physical im- provements, that the true glory of the age must be found ; man is nobler than his best works; woman is angelic only in her faith and love when these are divinely di- rected to her duties. The children of the country are the true exponents of the character of this generation. If the youth of our land are in heart, sonl, and mind trained in the way of righteousness and conscientious- ness ; if they have been taught that usefulness is the key of human happiness, that obedience to God’s laws is the perfection of moral excellence, and that Heaven is the place of Holiness, where nothing that defileth can enter, then we may surely expect the Divine blessing of ‘‘ well done” on the past, and the Divine aid in sustaining our path of duty through the present year. 91

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GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, LETTERS FROM OUR FRIENDS. Tuere is “sweetness” in “the hearty counsel of frieuds,’’ so the Bible bears witness. It is pleasant to be praised. It is good as well as pleasant to know that what we have aimed to do, believing it to be right, duing it in faith, hope, and love, trusting that it would be beneficial to all who took interest in it, has been appre- In proof of this, we shall give extracts from letters that encourage us to go on in the course which is so warmly commended by disinterested friends, intel- ligent, accomplished, Christian women, whose favor it is our happiness to acknowledge thus openly :— ciated, Letrer I, P. , Now. 1, 1861. Dear Mrs. Hate: I take the liberty to send to you an extract of a letter received from an invalid friend, to whom I sent a huge pile of the Lady’s Book, as a “‘ com- panion and consoler of her vacant hours.”’ Some of her praises of the Book, which I could not so properly address directly to yourself, may, I hope, be not unsuit- able nor unagreeable as the grateful opinion of a third person. I should add that I consider the Book also quite “suited to the meridian” of a large and healthy family, and that the arrival of the Lady's Book in mine is the never-failing signal for applause and delight. Whe shall get it first? One for this purpose, and one for that; one for “the Fashions,’’ one for “the patterns,” one for ‘the rest of the story,”’ and one for “the newest plan of ” Each and all are eagerly and impatiently waiting theirturn. 1, who know they will all be satis- fied in time, can only pray them to be quiet, and let their mother finish Mrs. Haven’s last sketch, in deference to age and importance. If you could only see their faces, you would need no more complimentary testimony to the attractions of the Book. But Iam running on, when I meant only to give you a note from my invalid correspondent. You must know she has been confined for more than a year entirely to her couch, from the effects of a fall, and is indebted to her friends for such alleviations of the tedium of a con- strained position and the confinement of a sick room as they may be able to offer her. Most truly yours, e * # a cottage. (Etract.) “Thanks, my dear E——, for the pile of good things you were so kind as to send me, and which I now return, without their suffering any injury. Nobody who has not been confined week after week and month after month can have any idea of the weary occupation of the mind with pains and aches, nor how a little diversion is a great blessing. Many ofthe hours seem so leaden-winged, I long so for noon, for night, for morning ; I long so for the little rarity, the trifling deli- cacy ; I fret so at the pain, the slow ache; I vex myself with refuting the good things that have been said about convalescents and the joys of the sick room; I look for the improvement which adversity should have brought, and find only fretfulness, impatience, and hopelessness. In this state, too ill in body and brain to undertake a book ; too weak to lift ‘The Netherlands,’ too languid to touch ‘Great Expectations,’ which has been lying in wait for the last fortnight, think of my delight at receiv- ing by express a nice, great bunch of Lady’s Books! Enough, and not too many ; light, easily handled, they don’t tire me. Full of stories, long, and not too long; aad wise, and not too wise, the gentle excitement was good for my tired brain, which wanted occupation and relief. Then you will be glad to know that I have embroi- dered a quantity of watch-cases, from the pattern in the June number, and have been entirely successful. In time you shall have better proof than even my assertion ofthis. I was so glad to find something so easy to hold in my hand, and so pretty in itself. The last number gave Jenny the newest fashions and a pattern for the boys to draw from. I am ashamed to tell you how many plans of houses I have drawn out, lying here, sometimes copying from Mr. Sloan’s designs, but oftener varying his suggestions, and literally making castlesintheair. When] first began, my staircases were necessarily ascended round a pole in the middle of the edifice, or my drawing-room would be discovered without a window, possibly ; but by degrees I am found capable of much architectural acuteness and ability, and am con- sidered great in the matter of building closets. This agreeable variety to my long day I owe to your Lady’s Book, too. You have said much, but not too much of its merits, for, though you have dwelt rather on the good spirit of its literature, its attention to the development of feminine traits, and its usefulness in directing the young mind to high and worthy aims, I was not pre- pared for its amusing variety of instruction. I can truly say it is a good thing in a family, and do not wonder at its popularity, though this is really the first time I have seen it.” Lerrer II. New York, Nov. 20, 1861. Dean Mrs. Hate: Many thanks for that exquisite volume, ‘‘ Agnes and the Little Key.’’* It has indeed proved a “balm to a wounded spirit.”” I cannot con- ceive of a ‘memorial monument’’ more touchingly beautiful and delicate than this. Truly Dr. Adams, in the record of his own earthly sorrows, has spoken to all who are in affliction throughout a mourning world. A friend tells me that every incident through the whole book is literally true, that “ little Agnes’’ was his own first-born, and that the wife-who at that time soothed his sorrows now sleeps by the side of Agnes. What a beautiful tribute he pays her memory when, speaking of his own deep grief and her efforts to comfort him, he says :— “She had the greatest skill in managing my feelings at all times, without any show of power over me. I worshipped her, almost, as a superior being, leading, guiding me in times of great excitement, and always bringing me out with self-respect, and with augmented reverence for her.”’ How I wish this could be sajd of more of our wives and mothers! Is it not for want of thoughtfulness, and judgment that there are so many unhappy homes? How true that it “‘is more easy to win love than to keep it!” And yet, my dear Mrs. Hale, do you believe, if the same constant effort was used to keep the affections warm which was used at first to win them, that love would ever change? Is it natural to suppose that a man will forget to love a being whom he has chosen to adorn his home, to cheer and welcome him when his day’s labor has ceased, one around whom all his hopes cluster, and for whose life he would lay down his own? Would it not be well if every wife who sees her husband is ab- senting himself from his home, or feels his love is grow- * Published by J. E. Tilton & Co., Boston.

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Te we SSS |! EDITORS’ TABLE, ‘ng cold, to ask herself, Have I done all in my power to «eep the love which once was mine? Cousin William, in speaking of his wife a few days since, said, ‘‘ he little knew what a gem he was winning in Kate; that she was so high-minded, honorable, and thoughtful that each day he found something new to admire in her character, and that he felt confident she would always honor his choice.” How many might receive the same commendation if they would only study to make their homes the chief centre of attraction! Katie was not a little amused and gratified a few eve- nings since. It was dark and rainy, cold and dreary; with her usual thoughtfulnegs, she dressed herself as neatly as possible, kindled the fire a little brighter than usual, and, throwing her husband’s dressing-gown and slippers upon his favorite chair, seated herself at the piano, and commenced playing a sweet but lively air, when Mrs. Brown, her husband’s mother, who was visiting her, came into ihe room, and, seeing everything so bright and cheerful, exclaimed— “Why, Kate, are you expecting any one this rainy night?” “No one but my husband,” replied Kate, smiling. “It was so cold and cheerless without that I thought I would make my home more attractive, if possible, than usual, so that William will feel that, however the outer world may change, whatever storms there he may have to buffet, or tides to stem, his home will ever be cheerful and his wife ready to welcome him with a smile.” “ Kate,” said Mrs. Brown, at the same time imprinting a kiss upon her lips, ‘ we all ought to love you; if for no other reason, because of your entire devotion to your husband.” I could not help contrasting Kate with Cousin James’ wife. Ann is a good, kind woman, but seems to lack judg- ment. She is very agreeable all day, and I enjoy visit- ing her very much, for you know she is quite an intelli- gent woman; but the moment James comes into the house she commences complaining, and she continues to do so until he retires for the night. You know, my dear Mrs. Hale, that the spirit of fault-finding and com- plaining grows fearfully upon any one if they allow themselves to indulge in it. There is enough in this world always to trouble us, and unless we make it a conscientious principle to look at.the bright side of everything, and avoid speaking or dwelling upon those things which are disagreeable, we lose half the enjoy- ment cf life, and make ourselves and all about us un- happy. I have sometimes thought if Cousin James was not one of the best men in the world, he would never pass an evening at home; yet no person can, if they choose, make themselves more attractive than Ann. I do not think she is aware how this habit of fault-finding has grown upon her. I have sometimes thought it was our duty to tell her, lest her husband, after a. time, should weary of constant complainings, and pass his evenings at a club-house or some place of amusement. But you, my dear friend, are familiar with these matters ; your Lady's Book is the constant advocate of household accomplishments and has been the means, under the divine blessing, of making many a home happier and better by its examples of character and teachings of the right way. Most truly your friend, een Booxs ror Home READING AND FAMILY LIBRARIES.— Two kinds of literature are particularly suited to the present state of the public mind, viz., religious works ; we have noticed many such published by the Carters of New York, Lincoln & Edwards of Boston, and others. Next to these the standard poets, English and American, are of great merit in elevating the imagination and puri- fying the taste of the young, now exposed to the de- moralizing influences which constant excitement always produces, and which the wild and often false rumors, so rife on every side, cannot fail of increasing fearfully. , Girls, as well as boys, are, under this delusion, rendered: careless, if not incapable of common modes of mental improvement. They need reading that appeals to the heart and the imagination with power to compel atten- tion, while its lessons shall be the highest truth in the mostattractive form. Poetry, over many young minds, has this power. We intend giving a list of these best books in some of our notices. A Noste Exampre.—Among the names of women whose deaths last year made many mourn, we must not omit from our Record the Lady Jane Ogilvy, of Baldo- ran, near Dundee, Scotland. She was the daughter of the late Earl of Suffolk, and wife of Sir John Ogilvy, Bart. The noble pair possessed kindred sympathies for the poor, the sinning, and the suffering. In 1848, Lady Ogilvy founded “The Home,” an institution for the reformation of fallen women, and sustained it from her own purse. A year or two after, she established the Baldoran Orphanage. In 1853, with her husband's as- sistance, she founded an asylum for idiot children, which they jointiy maintained. Last year she organized, in Dundee, a Convalescents’ Hospital. Her private chari- ties were also very great, and bestowed with remarkable judgment. Women’s Unton Mission Socrety oF AMERICA FOR HEATHEN Lanps.—One year ago this day we told our readers of the plan of sending Christian women as teach- ers to Christianize and civilize heathen households. Mrs. Ellen B. Mason, wife of Rev. Francis Mason, Baptist Missionary in Burmah, had founded a School for Karen girls ; it had proved eminently good and useful, and become self-supporting, We asked our friends to assist in founding, on a similar plan, a School for Bur- mese girls. Mrs. Mason was here soliciting aid. The prospectus was sent out. The plan required $2,000 a year for five years. This money to be raised by one hundred ladies, Collectors, each one pledging to collect and pay over $20 per year for five years. Ladies of all Christian denominations were invited to unite in this effort ; each denomination to have its share of the bene- fits of these Missions. We have now the pleasure of re- cording the full success of our plan. We have the one hundred Collectors, formed by the union of Episcopa- lians, Presbyterians (0. 8. and N. 8.), Baptists, Metho- dists, Congregational, and Dutch Reformed Christian women, all earnest co-operators in this work of faith, hope, and love. The subscriptions for 1861 (over $2,000) are paid in. The teacher, Miss Sarah Hall Marston, for the Burmese School is on her way to that Missiom; the teacher for Calcutta, to be devoted to the instruction of poor Hindoo widows, is provided for, and funds are ready for native Bible-women, one in each mission, of all the denomina- tions united in the work. Have we not good reasons for thankfulness? Nor have we recorded all the good gifts: a Sewing-Machine, of the best kind, from Wheeler & Wilson—a box of valu- able medicine from Perry, Davis, & Son—and donations

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94 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. amounting to over $100, sent the Editress of the Lady’s Book for this Mission—these are to be added. | We consider that the past year has conferréd on our country a great blessing in the formation of this Mission of Woman to Woman. Shall the present year fail to carry on the wonderful work? Read the book* Mrs. Mason has written to show what has been done in Bur- mah, and you can hardly fail of giving us—at least— your sympathies. Tue Women’s HosPITraL OF PHILADELPHIA.—An insti- tution known as the “‘Women’s Hospital of Philadel- phia,”’ was chartered by the last legislature. The Managers have opened, for the reception of patients, a cemmodious building on North College Avenue, near the Girard College. The Hospital is designed for the treat- ment of non-contagious diseases of women and children. Mrs. E. H. Cleaveland, one of the Professors of the Fe- male Medical College, is the Resident Physician. She has just returned from a visit of inspection to the hospi- tals of Europe. We shall have more to say about this Hospital. Miss 8. J. Hate’s Boarpine AND Day ScHoon FoR Youne Laptes, 1826 Rittenhouse Square, 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. The moral training 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.; and others. To Ovr CoRRESPONDENTS.—We accept the following : “Carrie’s Doings’’—“ After Ten Years of Wedded Life’’ --““Aunt Debby’s Visit to Brother Reuben’s Folks’ — ‘Our Life Boats”’ (the other poems not wanted, nor prose articles at present)—“ Ennerstine’’—and ‘Our Amy.” We decline these articles: ‘‘ Father Anselm’s Love’’— * Song’’—“* Musings” —“* How Lovely”’—‘“‘ Dead” —“ The Weather’’—“ Evangel’’ (the writer can do better)—“ Mi- gration and its results’—‘‘ My Sister and I’’—“Sing Merrily’’—and “‘ Never write Letters.”’ We have other MSS. on hand to report next month. ’ Health Department, BY JNO. BTAINBACK WILSON, M.D. MEDICAL EpucaTion oF WoMEN.—WHERE SHALL THEY Be EDUCATED ?—If regular physicians would give that encouragement tothe medical education of woman which might be expected from a profession which boasts of its liberality and philanthropy, and which is so urgently demanded by the wants of the community, all of our principal medical colleges would have a separate course of lectures for the special benefit of women who might wish to qualify themselves for the practice of Medicine. This might be done very readily by having a suitable corps of instructors to deliver a course of lectures in the interim between the regular courses. The advantages of such an arrangement are numerous and obvious. We will only mention some of the-most prominent of these. * “ Great Expectations Realized.”’ lst. The great expense of erecting new college build- ings would be saved. 2d. Woman could be assured of a regular orthodox education, untainted by the errors and corruptions of quackery. 3d. Being regularly received into the profession and being greeted by the approving smiles of regular phy- sicians, they would become our warm personal friends, and the strengest advocates of the claims of regular scientific medicine, instead of enemies to us, and perhaps to our cause. But we fear, from present indications, that this policy will not be adopted, and that women seeking a medical education will be forced to obtain it either in some irregular college, or in separate independ- ent institutions designed for their exclusive benefit, Two such colleges have already been established under favorable auspices—one in Boston and the other in Phii- adelphia. They both have a full corps of professors; and as we bave reason to believe that the course of in- struction isas thorough and as regular as that of our men’s medical colleges, we wish them great success in the cause in which they are engaged. And this success, we verily believe, will be attained whether regular physicians favor oroppose. Educated female physicians or doctresses is a want of the age, and the want will be supplied. In our opinion, the day is not far distant when medi- cal colleges for the education of woman will be needed in the West, and in the South, as well asin the North. And as the multiplication of such institutions will in- crease the facilities for obtaining a medical education, and consequently the number of students, we hope to see the day when each of the three great sections of our country will have at least one flourishing college for the medical education of women. These colleges should be liberally endowed by private contributions, and their success thus placed beyond allcontingency. Will not the women of America sustain the colleges already es- tablished, and aid, by their influence and by their con- tributions, in erecting others whenever and wherever needed ? A Sap Picture oF ALCOHOL AND ITs Dotnas.—Professor 8. H. Dickson, in a last year’s lecture before the students of Jefferson Medical College, says: ‘ All Christendom should shudder at hearing that, while yet the Asylum for Habitual Inebriates, undertaken to be built by the munificent State of New York, is not half finished, appli- cations have been made for reception by not less than twenty-eight hundred of these unfortunates; of which number—it is enough to make one’s heart bleed to record it—upwards of four hundred were women! Not women of the pariah cast, which society makes and then tram- ples in the mire, but women in a condition, either of themselves, or through their friends, to bear the expense of such accom modations.”’ Another writer, speaking of the causes of intemper- ance, makes the following remarks, which are peculiarly appropriate when applied to women: “The cases of intemperance are not to be found in the glittering temptations of the bar-room, nor sensuous seductions of the sparkling cup. They are found in wrong-doing on the part of the parents, who, conceiving children in physical sin, train them, by example and precept, toa false, artificial, and unnatural life; illustrating in their own lives the effects of their personal follies, and trans- mitting depraved appetites to their offspring, who, with such an inherited tendency, find vent for their clamor- ous appetites and passions in debauchery and sensuous indulgence,”

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wr r- LITERARY NOTICES. Witerarp Dotices, Books By Mati..—Now that the postage on printed matter is so low, we offer our services to procure for our subscribers or others any of the books that we notice. Information touching books will be cheerfully given by inclosing a stamp to pay return postage. When ordering a book, please mention the name of the publisher. From T. B. Peterson & Brorners, Philadelphia:— LADY MAUD; THE WONDER OF KINGSWOOD CHACE; or, Earl Gower : or, The Secret Marriage. By Pierce Egan, author of “The Flower of the Flock,” ‘Love Me, Leave Me Not,” “‘ Lady Blanche,” ete. ete. We do not deny but Mr. Egan has produced an attraction, perhaps a fascinating book, and one in which there is no ordinary amount of talent and skill displayed; a book, moreover, which is likely to obtain an extended circulation, and find multitudes of admiring readers. 3ut we never greatly appreciated romances whose cha- racters are made to stalk through the story like actors upon a stage, throwing themselves into theatrical pos- tures, and declaiming, at every opportunity. And the author of this book is particularly hard upon the poor individuals whom he has seen fit to bring before the public; keeping them constantly upon the strain, and compelling them into all sorts of melodramatic absurdi- ties. The book is somewhat carelessly written, gram- matical inaccuracies occasionally marring the page. Price $1 25. THE ZOUAVE DRILL. Being a Complete Manual of Arms for the Use of the Rifled Musket, with either the Per- cussion Cap or Maynard Primer. Containing also the Complete Manual of the Sword and Sabre. By Col. E. E. Ellsworth, Late Colonel of the Regiment of the New York Fire Zouaves, and late Colonel commanding of the United States Zouave Cadets of Chicago. With a Biog- raphy of his Life. The title of this book is sufficient in itself to recommend it to general attention. Price 25 cents. From James CHALLEN & Son, Philadelphia:— THE SKELETON MONK, and other Poems. By Fran- cis de Haes Janvier. Our readers, familiar with that beautiful ode, ‘‘ The Union Forever,’’ will warmly wel- come this volume, by the same elegant writer. Mr. Janvier excels in the language of poetry ; its difficult, varying measures seem like playthings to him, flowing from his pen as his natural mode of expression. This is @ rare gift and marks a high degree of merit in the true poet. The volume contains over forty poems, the longest, “The Skeleton Monk,” is a legend of strange power, with its wild fancies, quaint humors, and perfection of rhythm, rhyme, and diction. This will especially please men. Our lady friends will find ‘‘ The Voyage of Life”’ an exquisite poem. Many of the shorter pieces, particu- larly “ Dreamland,” ‘‘Spring,’’ and “‘ Two little Stars,”’ are rich in the peculiar beauties of the author’s genius, fine fancy, tender sensibility, and the moral vigor of soul which gives expression to the noblest feelings of humanity, not as poetic flourishes, but as the sacred principles of life and conduct. The Elegiac poems are remarkable for deep pathos and variety of delineating true sorrow; while the patriotic songs stir the blood like the sound of a trumpet. We think these poems must bring Mr. Janvier not only high praise for talents, but for the higher merit of genius devoted to pure mo- rality, that there is in the book “no line in dying he would wish to blot.” From E. H. Butter & Co., Philadelphia :— A GALLERY OF DISTINGUISHED ENGLISH AND AMERICAN POETESSES. With an Introduction. By Henry Cuppée, A. M., Professor of English Literature in the University of Pennsylvania. While looking over this splendid volume, containing nearly a hundred illus- trations and selections from about sixty popular writers, we felt deeply grateful to the man of letters who has devoted so much care and displayed such rare judgment in selecting specimens of woman’s genius. Here we have the exquisite gems of thought and feeling which the feminine intellect has produced in the highest do- main of literature—poetry. So many and varied excel- lencies of imagination, taste, learning, and religious feeling are rarely found in one book ; and the perfection of the illustrations add greatly to its value. We think this ‘‘Gallery”’ of beauty and genius should adorn the centre-table of every lady who can afford to display such a perfect collection of feminine literature. It is only the well-merited tribute of respect we owe Professor Coppée when we thus praise this volume, and commend it as a New Year’s present, which will keep his name in remembrance as the eulogist of woman. From Harper & Brotners, New York, through J. B Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia :— THE OKAVANGO RIVER. A Narrative of Travel, Exploration, and Adventure. By Charles John Ander- son, author of ‘‘Lake Ngami.’’ With numerons I]lus- trations, and a Map of Southern Africa. Mr. Anderson, in his present work, gives the result of his explorations in South Africa between the thirteenth and twenty-third parallels of latitude, explorations embracing more than a year in duration, and which were conducted in spite of many serious obstacles. He has given a careful ac- count of the appearance of the country, as well as of its productions and animals, and of the few natives that he fell in with during his journeys. He has also added material information concerning the coast and rivers, and their practicability for the uses of commerce, partly the result of his own observation, and partly gathered from the descriptions of previous navigators and travel- lers. Though the book is minus the gorilla hunts of du Chaillu, there are numerous adventures with elephants and lions to make amends for this. Price $2 00. THE LAST TRAVELS OF IDA PFEIFFER: Jnelu_ sive of a Visit to Madagascar. With a Mamoir of the author. Translated by H. W. Dulecken. This book, edited by the son, and prefaced by a brief biography, of the remarkable woman whose last travels it describes, gives from Mrs. Pfeiffer’s own notes a full and interest- ing account of her journey to Madagascar, and her ob- servations and discoveries while there. Though the style is simple and straightforward, still the reader can- not fail to perceive in these writings the evidences of a mind deeply observant, and of more than common breadth and capability. She displayed all: the charac teristics of the true traveller, and the records of her journeys should be faithfully preserved and duly prized as the labors of one who has done much for science and general knowledge. Price $1 25.

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96 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. From Rupp & CarLeton, New York, through Perer- son & Broruers, Philadelphia :-— THE CLOISTER AND THE HEARTH; or, Maid, Wife, and Widow. A Matter-of-Fact Romance. By Charles Reade, author of “‘ Never Too Late to Mend,”’ ‘‘ Peg Wof- fington,” ‘‘Love me Little, Love me Long,” ‘‘ White Lies,” ete. With due regard for, and a high appreciation of the productions of Dickens, Lever, Collins, Brooks, and others who have favored the world with some of their best efforts during the past twelve months, we yet scarcely hesitate to say that Reade, in the work under considera- tion, has in artistic skill surpassed them all. His novel will compare favorably with the best of Walter Scott’s, and is worthy to go down to posterity side by side with those of that illustrious author. It is a historical novel, the scene laid in Holland, and the period the latter part of the fifteenth century. That it is a faithful picture of those times no one need doubt, for the author has evi- dently been a careful student of the works of Erasmus, the pictures of Van Eyck, and those of other medixval writers and painters. The hero ana heroine of the story are none other than the parents of the former, while a sister of the latter occupies a place of minor importance. He acknowledges his indebtedness to Eras- mus for “‘some of the best scenes” of his book, and therein Mr. Reade shows the power of his genius to the best advantage, by his skilful adaptation to his own story of these numerous quotations from that author. It is not so much a new field that he has entered, but rather an old, forgotten mine that he has opened to us with all its treasures. The author’s own peculiar quaint- ness of style, together with the language, descriptions of costumes, etc., all in harmony with the period which it chronicles, serve to render the book little less thana literary curiosity, completely a literary treasure. Price $1 25. ESSAYS. By the late George Brimley, M. A., librarian of Trinity College. With an introduction by R. H. Stoddard. Before having quite completed the perusal of the ‘Recreations of a Country Parson,” the above- named volume of essays has been laid upon our table, and we find ourselves all the better prepared to appre- ciate it from having the remembrance of the beautiful thoughts and chaste language of the ‘‘ Country Parson” still fresh. These essays, or rather reviews, have for their subjects the works of various poetical and prose writers, among whom are numbered Tennyson, Words- worth, Bulwer, and Dickens; and the essayist has proved himself competent to the fulfilment of the self- imposed task by appreciating with the rare faculty of a kindred genius all their merits, and entering into their thoughts with the subtility of a rarely refined mind. Price $1 25. THE LAST POLITICAL WRITINGS OF GENERAL NATHANIEL LYON, U.S.A. With a Sketch of his Life and Military Services. The substance of this volume consists of a series of articles written by the late Gene- ral Lyon, in the summer and fall of 1860, and contri- bated to a western journal. The memoir is brief, and appears to have been hastily written, or perhaps thrown together. Price $1 00. EUGENIE GRANDET; or, The Miser’s Daughter. From the French of Honoré de Balzac. Translated by 0. W. Wight and F. B. Goodrich. This book is no © doubt a tolerably faithful picture of French life and French character, and that must be its chief recommenda- tion tothe reader. Monsieur Grant is weli and naturally drawn, while his daughter, Eugenie, is represented as simple and artless to a degree unknown and scarcely to be understood in our country. ‘ Big Nanon,”’ the faith- ful servant, shows a touch of nature in her affection for her master and his family ; while Charles Grandet dis- plays the predilections and vices of a fast Parisian gentleman. There are, to our belief, many French authors whose works would be better appreciated, and who, avoiding the French view, and taking a more general one of life, are free from the greatest faults of the writer under discussion. Price $1 00. From Dick & FirzgERA.p, New York, through Perer- son & Brotuers, Philadelphia :— EAST LYNNE; or, The Earl’s Daughter. By the author of ‘‘The Heir of Ashby,” ‘‘The Earl’s Secret,” etc. A well-written romance, in which is illustrated by a powerful and capable pen the sorrow and remorse that must invariably follow the commission of sin. As the story progresses it enlists to the utmost the attention and sympathies of the reader, and the finale is pathetic to the last degree. Price 50 cents. From Casseiu, Porter, & Gauprxn, New York :— CASSELL’S ILLUSTRATED FAMILY BIBLE. Parts 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, and 38. This is truly a magnificent work, far surpassing anything of the kind ever befure published in this country. Price 15 cents per part. CASSELL’S POPULAR NATURAL HISTORY. Parts 27, 28, and 29. This history has reached the ornitholo- gical department, and is profusely illustrated. Price 15 cents per part. ss From Rosert Carter & Brotuers, New York, through Ww. 8. & Atrrep Martien, Philadelphia :— PARLIAMENT IN THE PLAY-ROOM. By A.L. 0. E. This is a spirited and well-told story by a favorite au- thor, whose name is a sufficient guarantee that her work will be not only interesting but improving. WEE DAVIE. By Norman McLeod, D. D., author of “The Gold Thread,’’ ete. A most touching and interest- ing account of the power of a little child to soften the heart by his life, and by his death to raise the thoughts of the sorrowing survivors to his eternal home. SELF-SACRIFICE: or, The Pioneers of Fuegia. Com- piled for the Presbyterian Board of Publication by Sarah A. Myers. Philadelphia. This volume contains a very interesting and pathetic account of the attempt made by Captain Gardiner, and his devoted assistants, to carry the light of Christianity to the forlorn outcasts of Terra del Fuego and the adjacent mainland. Unsuccessful as it was in its direct object, the mission has done a great work by giving us such examples of devotion to God and to man. The story is told in a very lively and graphic style, and cannot fail to interest those who read it. JUVENILE BOOKS FOR THE HOLIDAYS. We have received from the Protestant EpiscopaL Scunpay-Scnoon Union several volumes suited for young people. ROUND THE FIRE—by the author of “ Mica,” and “Uncle Jack the Fault Killer’’—is perfectly fascinating to children from five toten years old, from its simplicity and pathos of style, and the dramatic interest of its in- cidents. Itisacollection of tales; six little girls, sitting round a Christmas fire, are supposed to tell incidents in their own lives. Each tale impresses, without a word

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AL nd ing ity ing sin ord GODEY’S ARM-CHAIR. 97 of “ preaching,’’ or a sentence of ‘‘moral,”’ some im- portant Christian truth or duty. We can scarcely com- mend the book too highly. THE BROTHER’S WATCHWORD ranks with the “Sunshine of Greystone” and ‘ Lewis’s School Days,” as to the age of the readers it is intended for, and in real value. The story is made to bear upon the effect that a constant recollection of God’s presence will have in the guidance, comfort, strengthening, and perfecting of our lives. Its motto is ‘‘Seeing Him who is invisible.”’ IDOLS IN THE HEART. By A. L.0.E. Suited to young people of the same age, and characterized by the well-known excelience and directness of purpose which are ever possessed by these well-known initials. The idea of the book is this, that each person cherishes some idol, which stands between them and their duty to God ; often unconsciously, and that God so directs the circumstances of the lives of his children as to reveal to each his idol, and to ‘‘ break it to their faces,’’ centering all their affections upon him, while those who persist in turning away are punished by the very idol so fatally cherished. It is a tale of much power, and illustrates its moral clearly. ’ ° Godeys Arm-Chair, Gopey ror JANvARY.—But what yearare wein? Real- ly, they roll round so fast that we can hardly keep the run ofthem. Yes, thank you, 1862 it is, and the Lady’s Book in its thirty-second year. Well, we can’t make a speech here; it is already made in our Prospectus, to be found on the cover of this book ; and what we say there we mean to do. Unlike a political speech, which we once read, where the speaker, after relating what he would do, if elected, concluded: “And now, fellow- citizens, you will find, as much as I have promised you, if Iam elected I will perform less.” This may be the plan of other magazines, but we will say: As much as we may have promised you, before the year is ended you will say we have performed more. We now present to our subscribers the stxty-fourth volume of Godey’s Lady’s Book, with thanks for the prosperity we have enjoyed, and with our vost wishes for their health, peace, and happiness. Ovr ILLUsTRATIONS.—“ A Sister’s Influence,’’ an origi- nal design by the celebrated artist, Mrs. Lilly Martin Spencer. The idea was suggested by a nursery ineident in our own home. Both the designer and engraver have given good effect to the subject. *“*A Slow Coach”’ is another original design, making two original subjects in this number. “Youth,” our title-page. Fer a description of this we refer to Mrs. Hale’s department, page 91. This last de- sign contains ten figures. Drawing Lesson, printed on tinted paper, is an imita- tion of a lithographic drawing. Our Fashion-plate contains seven principal, and two subordinate figures. Here are as many as are given in four months by other magazines. We think our sub- scribers will see an improvement even in this depart- ment, where they probably supposed none could be made. CivBs.—From present appearances, we anticipate a glorious year. Clubs and single subscribers are received in great profusion. VOL. LxIv.—9 WE ask attention to our literary matter in this num- ber. Miss Townsend, Miss Janvrin, and Mrs. Victor each contribute an article. We are willing that our literature should be put in comparison with that of any other magazine. WiIrH a club of $20. One year ago I could prevail with but one lady to join me. Confident that this arose from being unacquainted with the book, I loaned my numbers during the year to friends, and although they are almost past binding I am amply repaid by being able to add this mite to your list. Many thanks and much love to you and Mrs. Hale for your successful efforts to please and instruct us. Money cannot repay you. Yet to know that your names are household words, linked only with the good and beau- tiful, in thousands of homes in our land must be some compensation. Pardon me for intruding on your time, but my pen glides as though writing to an absent friend. Mrs. H., Wis. CIRCULARS PLACED IN THE LApy’s Book.—We again caution our subscribers about circulars placed in the Book by dealers. We do not put any in, as it is against the post-office laws. We only hope that they will never order a Book from any bookseller who thus makes our work a vehicle to circulate catalogues of his trashy pub- lications. . Tue best 83 00 and the best $2 00 monthly are offered one year for $3 50. Godey’s Lady’s Book and Arthur's Home Magazine. Arthur’s Magazine, as far as a high rank of literature is concerned, is decidedly the best two dollar magazine.— Middletown Rainbow. Arthur's Lady’s Home Magazine.—The best of the two dollar monthlies.—Richmond Religious Herald. Arthur’s Home Magazine.—This still gives new and additional proof of being the very best of the two dollar magazines.—Rushville Times. Home Magazine.—This is the best two dollar magazine published.—Henopin Tribune. Fully maintains the wide reputation of being the best two dollar magazine published.—Canton Ledger. We could fill pages with notices to the same effect. SrRANGE TRADE.—A youug woman lately made her appearance before the Bankruptcy Court in London, who described her occupation as ‘“‘an enameller of ladies’ *’ We wonder if she warrants her work ‘to wash.’’ Cana lady, thus enamelled, feel if a fly settles on her? or the kisses of herchildren? Mayshe laugh? faces.’ What would be the result of a smart shower of rain on her? A queer trade. LIKSNESS OF GENERAL McCLELLAN.—We have received from H. A. Brown, 25 Winter Street, Boston, a steel en- graved likeness of the General. It is in the first place an exquisite engraving, and secondly, the likeness is the best we have seen. This portrait corrects the erro- neous impression that he is a dark-complexioned man. McClellan is fair, and extremely good-looking. This is a portrait worth having, as it is not only a faithful like- ness, but it is a beautiful specimen of the combined styles of line and stipple. Proof impressions are $1 25 Prints, 50 cents. Sent toany person onrollers. Address as above. Tae Garibaldi Shirt in this number is also much worn by misses and boys.

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98 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. MaKE UP your CLUBs.—Remember that the Lady’s Book is the best work for ladies published in this country. We have more than one thousand private letters testifying to this fact, and the press throughout the country is unani- mous in saying that the Lady’s Book is the best magazine of its kind in this or any other country. The difference in the club price of the Lady’s Book and that of other maga- zines is only a few cents, and for these few cents you get nearly one-third more reading and engravings, besides other more expensive embellishments that a low-priced magazine cannot afford to give. Clubs must be for the Lady's Book alone, with one exception, and that is “‘ Ar- thur’s Home Magazine.’’ One or more of that work can be introduced in a club in place of the Lady’s Book, if desired. Any person, with a very little trouble, can get up a club for the Book; we have frequently been so informed by ladies—the work is so popular. It is but to call and get a subscription. Clubs are always in time, as we are able to supply numbers from the beginning of the year; yet we like them sent in soon, to know how many we shall print. Remember, that a work with 150,000 subscribers can give five times as much as a work with only half that number, and the embellishments can also be made of a very supe- rior character. Our terms are made plain and explicit, so that they may be easily understood. We are often asked to throw in an extra copy. In no instance can this be done, as ovr terms are so low to clubs that it cannot be afforded. A shop- keeper would look amazed, if a purchaser should ask him to throw in an extra yard because she had purchased twelve. And yet we are asked to add an extra copy be- cause twelve have been ordered. It cannot be done. Dreer’s Boverers.—Mr. Dreer, No. 327 Chestnut Street, possesses an exquisite taste in making up bou- quets. But taste is natural in the Dreer family. Ovr Lireratvre.—While paying every attention to the ornamental department of our Book, we do not neglect the solid matter. While we have such writers as Marion Harland, Metta Victoria Victor, Mrs. Janvrin, Mrs. Haven, Miss Frost, Mrs. E. F. Ellet, and Mrs. Hale, the literary department is well cared for. Excellent specimens of the abilities of some of the above will be found in this number. A BEAUTIFUL litile illustrated guide to the cultivation of flowers and house plants, the care of bulbous roots, etc. etc., called ‘‘ The Parlor Gardener,” has been lately published by Messrs. J. E. Tilton & Co., Boston, in their well-known elegant style. They will send it, post-paid, on receipt of its price, 60 cents. They are publishers of that valuable illustrated guide to drawing and painting of all varieties, called “ Art Recreations,"’ which they will also send, post-paid, on receipt of price, $1 50. They have ready a new price list of artist’s goods, which they will send free. Current Money.—We ask our subscribers to send us as good money as they can get. Last year the discount on notes of the Western banks we received averaged from ten to fifteen per cent. Treasury notes make a good remittance. Let it be distinctly understood that we have no agents for whose acts we are responsible, and we are only account- able to those who remit directly to us. We have no agents that solicit subscribers. Money must be sent to the pub- lisher, L. A. Godey, Philadelphia. OUR MUSICAL COLUMN. Exceptin@ the resumption of the delightful Saturday afternoon concerts by the Germania Orchestra, under the leadership of Carl Sentz, who has returned from the wars—by the way, a very sentzible move of Carl'’s—we have no new musical feature to chronicle. October went out with two indifferent performances of opera at the Academy, nor shall we probably have any more, good, bad, or inditferent, excepting German Opera, until Feb- ruary. In response to the requests of several of our friends, we devote most of this month’s “Column” to an enw meration of late new sheet music for the piano, urging all to make what use of it they may, as we shall proba- bly have no new music to name next month. Easy Songs and Ballads. Price of each 25 cents. Around the Fire, The Maiden’s Prayer, Through Cloud less Days, Oh, Sing me thy Favorite Song, Oh, Lady, Touch those Chords Again, Black-Eyed Nell, I am Thine, Maud Adair and I, Oh, Would that in the Quiet Tomb, Bessie Green, Only Just a Year Ago, Shake Hands and be Friends, Fare thee Well, for we must Part, by Boyd ; The Harpist’s Death; He Sleeps Beneath the Heather, song in memory of Burns; Lucy’s Flitting, Scotch bak lad ; Good-Night, Fair Maiden; From Early Morn; In all the.World; In my Swift Boat; Hark, Hark, how Sweetly ; Song of the Lark ; Poor Ben the Piper, sixth edition, sung by Ossian E. Dodge, Mr. Bailey, and others at their Ballad Entertainments, a song everywhere re- ceived with favor. The Grave of Old Grimes; Thine Eyes are like Gems; Oh, it is Pleasant, barcarole from Oberon; Ah, Take me Now, by Abt; The Passing Bell, or Home Returning from the Wars, one of the most popular of the recent publications of Firth, Pond, & Co. ; Inthe Lovely Month of May ; How Charming and Cheer- ing; Nannerl, by Willis; The Miller’s Daughter, poetry by Tennyson ; !t was the Early Winter; Far, Far Away ; My Song shall be of Thee; The Quiet Eye; None shall Breathe a Sigh for Me; Thoughts of Thee; ’Tis Because thou art Here; Mary Vale; Ella May; Cottage Behind the Hill; Serenade, by Conant: I am Contented; Just from the Bud. The above list is the finest we have ever given, and should command the attention of our musical friends. By an arrangement made with publishers, we can send, free of postage, on receipt of $1, any five of the above songs. Polkas, Waltzes, Rondos, etc.—Silver Wreath Polka, 25 cents; Institute Polka, 25 cents; Repeat Polka, 25 cents; Galop di Bravura, 25 cents; Flight Waltz, 25 cents; Favorite Flower Quadrille, 35 cents; Patty Cake Polka, with full page colored lithographic title, 50 cents. The following are for advanced performers: Valse Melo- dique, 30 cents; Udollo Polka, 30 cents; Nocturne, by Galos, 25 cents ; Nocturne, by Brinley Richards, 35 cents ; Prayer in the Chapel, by Neustadt, 30 cents; Variations of Annie of the Banks o’ Dee, 35 cents; Variations of Star of the Evening, 50 cents. Any of the above to the extent of $2 50 will be sent for $2. Orders for music, and all musical correspondence, should be addressed to Philadelphia, to J. Starr HonLoway. Sometnina New.—A new agency is brought forward in the advertising columns of the London Morning Post. It is as follows: ‘The widow of an English nobleman would be willing to introduce into the best society a young lady of fortune, who from her own station would be unable to move in the higher circles unless under the chaperonage of one in high position.”

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st. an ra ld she GODEY’S ARM-CHAIR. 99 To Preserve Heauts. A Worp To THe Lapies.—The old adage aptly says, ‘‘ An ounce of preventive is worth a pound of cure.’’ ease consumption is, and how comparatively easy it is to avoid it, we are more than ever impressed with the truth of this old proverb. During the last few days, we have been amazed indeed at the folly of women, whom we have seen promenading the streets in low, paper-thick shoes, thinner than the thinnest worn by men in sum- mer time. Will the sex ever exhibit common sense in regard to this matter? There is but one proper covering for the foot of a woman, in either cold or sloppy wea- ther, and that is a Wellington boot, such as every gentle- man uses. In fact, the protection which it affords to the leg, especially against wet, is more necessary in the case of women than of men, because, in such a case, the damp skirt flaps against calfskin or morocco, instead of against the limb. Weare glad to see that within a few years these high boots are beginning to be worn by ladies ; but they are by no means universal, as they ought to be, wad it isa pity that the leaders of fashion, if there are any such in Philadelphia, would not set the example, both of walking and of wearing water-proof boots. When we consider how fatal a dis- For daily walking is as requisite to health as the wearing of impervious shoes. The wives and daughters of our rich men, who never take exercise except in a carriage, are undermining their constitutions quite as effectually as those of their sex, who, unable to keep coaches, yet imitate them in wearing their drawing- room shves. The one is injured by wet feet, the other hy want of proper exercise. It is a common thing, at this inclement season of the year, to hear ladies congra- tallate themselves on their warm rooms; yet often these farnace-heated apartments are only less deleterious than the unprotected hovel of the beggar. We often enter parlors, where the thermometer is eighty, where the air is fairly scorched, and where, to cap the climax, every door is shut so as to exclude the possibility of ventila- fion. Yet many females remain in such rooms, at this season of the year, week after week, without once going out, especially if they are in circumstances too good to campel their working for a livelihood, yet not good enoygh to enable them to ke@p a carriage. The con- sequences are impaired digestion, or hysterical affections, or incessant headaches, excessive liability to catch cold, and, what some, perhaps, will think more than all, loss of color and beauty. There are, therefore, two faults characteristic of Ame- rican women, one a neglect to exercise and the othera wo thin style of dress in winter. Every female, who cam. possibly do it, ought to walk, in the open air, from one to two hours every day. If suitable clothing was worn, and especially if the feet were properly protected, a daily walk, even in winter, would be more conducive to health and lovelimess than all the panaceas ever concocted, or all the drugs prescribed by the faculty. It would give elasticity to the step, bloom to the cheek, brilliancy to the eye, gay spirits, brightness of intellect, sound slumbers, every hlessing, in short, that vigorous physical health bestows, and of which, alas! so many American women practically know nothing. Vitality would be strong and high, the deficiency of which ir most cases isthe beginning uf consumption. The lungs, too, would have needful play, for no one can go out, on a bracing winter morning, without inflating the lungs fully ; and the air, at such times, is always the purest. If you would escape pulmonary complaints, ladies, if you would live toa good old age, if you would enjoy life while living, if you would add to your personal charms, dress warm and dry, aud take daily exercise in the open air. Let nothing keep you in doors but in clement weather ; but be always clothed to defy cold and wet, especially to vour feet. Wird a club of $10. Your Lady’s Book has been taken in my father’s family for three years. We have always liked it, but never better than at present. Each number seems to attach us still more strongly to your excellent book, and we would scarcely think we could do without it. We find both amusement and instruction in it, and much practical knowledge. The first year we subscribed for it we were the only ones in the place; now I learn that there are eighteen subscribers for next year. May your numbers increase as rapidly in every place! M. P. C., N. i. Tue Sunbury American says: ‘‘The Lady’s Book is perhaps the most extensively borrowed periodical pub- lished, a certain test of its popularity.” Oxtp Post-Orrice Stamps.—Our subscribers are in- formed that the old post-office stamps are now of no use. The post-office has issued new stamps, and the old ones are valueless. Lapies SHovutp Reap Newspapers.—It is a great mistake in female education to keep a young lady's time and attention devoted to only the fashionable literature of the day. If you would qualify her for conversation, you must give her something to talk about—give her education with this actual world and its transpiring events. Urge her to read the newspapers and become familiar with the present character and improvement of our race. History is of some import- ance; but the past world is dead, and we have nothing to do with it. Our thoughts and our concerns should be for the present world, to know what it is and im- prove the condition of it. Let her have an intelligent opinion, and be able to sustain an intelligent conversa- tion concerning the mental, moral, political, and reltg- ious improvement of our times. Let the gilded annuals and poems on the centre-table be kept a part of the time covered with weekly and daily journals. Let the whole family—men, women and children—read the newspapers. CANADA TO THE REscve. Altogether Godey’s Lady’s Book is without a rival, and we do not wonder at its talented publisher having the title of ‘*W. B.”’ (“‘ Woman’s Benefactor’’) bestowed upon him, as we know of no man who has done more to deserve it. Long may he flourish.—British Whig, Kingston. As we all know, Alboni is not only celebrated for her beautiful voice, but also for her bodily size. The late Madame Girardin is reported to have uttered the follow- ing bon mot respecting the great vocalist: ‘‘ What is Alboni, then?” asked some one, evidently no habitué of the opera. ‘‘What is she?’’ replied Madame Girardin. “Why, she is an elephant who has swallowed a night- ingale.’’ Frrrarr KNow.epar or Grograpny in Lonpon.—An English paper says, ‘‘ People in Washington city are not as busy as those of New York, Pennsylvania, and other large cities.”

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GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. JUVENILE DEPARTMENT. Articles that Children can muke for Fancy Fairs, or for Holiday Presents. THE SHELL PINCUSHION. Many of this kind are extremely pretty, and are easily made. Take a piece of calico, aud cut out a pattern of the shape of Fig. 2, and large enough to go round just inside the shell; cut out another piece, Fig. 3, sew them together, leaving a small hole to put in the bran; fill it, and stitch up the remaining portion. Take a piece of Fig. 2. blue or red velvet, the shape of Fig. 2, and sew it all round. Glue the two shells on to the cushion, then fin- Fig, 3. ish it off with a small bow of the same colored ribbon as the velvet. MAMMA’S WORK-BASKET. Materials.—A piece of white fillet, a little blue crochet silk, a frame, some white and blue satin, card-board, and blue gimps; a yard of blue satin ribbon. Cover your frame with white satin on the outside, and blue in the interior, the bottom being slightly stuffed with wadding. The sides are put in rather full. For the pockets you will take a niece of blue satin double the depth of the basket, fold it in two, with a thickness of fine wadding scented with pot-pourri within it, and sew it in six pockets in the inside, plaiting in the fulness at the bottom, and concealing the stitches with a chenille gimp, which also edges the top. The outside of the basket is covered with the white netting, darned accord- ing to the design, in blue silk. It is edged at the top with three different gimps, and at the bottom with two, of blue and white intermingled. The handles are neatly covered with chenille, and further decorated with a hard gimp, besides being finished with bows and ends. This is a most elegant and appropriate gift for the holidays. It may be madein any other color, if desired; but should crimson or any deep color be used, black fillet would be more appropriate than white. A NEW GAME FOR THE HOLIDAYS. Tris game must be played by five or more people. Take a strip of paper, let No. 1 write upon it an article and an adjective, then double over the end of the paper so that No. 2 may not see what is writ- ten. No. 2 writes a noun, doubling the paper before passing it to No. 3, who writes a verb, turns down the paper, and hands to No. 4, who writes another article and adjective, hides it, and passes to No. 5, who writesanother noun. The paper is then opened and read, and the combination makes very funny sen- tences: for instance, No. 1 writes a milk-white; No. 2 Hottentot; No. 4, caressed; No. 4, a singing; No. 5, baby :— A milk-white Hottentot caressed a singing baby. The fact that no one knows what the other has written, makes the most absurd contrasts between the adjectives and nouns, while the verb will place opposing nounsin the most ludicrous positions. It is a very amusing game for a merry circle. When more than five play, the dif ferent parts of speech are more amusingly distributed, as 6 can begin, 7 continue, and then | gets a verb instead of an adjective, and each time sends her a new part. ON WORSTED WORK. So all-absorbing grows my taste for wool, That, like the sheep, “I ery a whole bag fall ” Dates now but take their impress from my work, Empires may fall—I care but for the Turk! Spare but the ottoman, I beg, I pray; Divans and ottomans must have their sway ; Immortal Cowper! thine was not a Task To muse on sofas; ‘tis a boon I ask— Chairs, couches, covers, all-inspiring themes, With cushions to be worked they mingle in my dreams. Then as my needle plies its busy hour, Those I love I blend with every flower. Imagination weaves those buds so fair Into a bridal wreath for ‘‘ Minnie’s”’ hair; That wreath of laurel, of unfading hue, Brings one, the loved and lost, again to view. This graceful ivy twining round my hand, The cherished tendril of my native land ; And last, this bunch, forget-me-not, the name All that I covet on the page of fame.

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~- Poe & GODEY’S ARM-CHAIR. GOTHIC COTTAGE, Designed expressly for Godey’s Lady’s Book by SaAmuEL StoAn, Architect, Philadelphia. PERSPECTIVE VIEW. Turis cottage is essentially gothic in its character. Its appointments indicate its suitableness to the habits of and would form a pleasant feature in almost any land- scape, | northern life. It is quite picturesque in appearance, | Principal Floor.—A porch, 8 by 16 feet; B hall, 8 by 16 feet; C parlor, 18 by 16 feet ; D sitting-room, 18 by 16 feet ; E dining-room, 18 by 13 feet; F kitchen, with store-room at- tached; G summer kitchen; H veranda, Second Floor.—I hall, JJ J chambers, K bed-room,

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102 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, SOME HINTS. Iy remitting, try to procure a draft, and don’t fail to indorse it. Address L, A. Godey, Philadelphia, Pa. That is suffi- cient. If a lady is the writer, always prefix Mrs. or Miss to her signature, that we may know how to address a reply. Town, County, and State, always in your letter, If you miss a number of any magazine, always write to the publishers of the magazine. If Arthur's, address T. 8. Arthtr & Co., Philadelphia; if Harper's, address Messrs. Harper & Brothers, New York. When a number of the Lady’s Book is not received, write at once for it; don’t wait until the end of the year. When inclosing money, do not trust to the sealing matter on an envelope, but use a wafer in addition. Mrs. Hale is not the Fashion Editress. Address “ Fash- ion Editress, care L. A. Godey, Philadelphia.” When you send money for any other publication, we pay it over to the publisher, and there our responsibility CLHeasecs. We can always supply back numbers. Subscriptions may commence with any number of the year. The postage on the Lady’s Book, if paid three months in advance at the office where it is received, is four and a half cents for three monthly numbers. Let the names of the subscribers and your own signa- ture be written so that they can be easily made out. PHILADELPHIA AGENCY. No order attended to unless the cash accompanies it. All persons requiring answers by mail must send a post-office stamp ; and for all articles that are to be sent by mail, stamps must be sent to pay return postage, Be particular, when writing, to mention the town, county, and State you reside in. Nothing can be made out of post-marks Mrs. D. B. 8.—Sent pattern Cordova cloak, October 16th. Miss 8. A. J.—Sent patterns 16th. Mrs. M. C, J.—Sent bonnet by Adams’s express 17th. C. E. M.—Sent apron pattern 18th. G. 8 P.—Sent patterns 20th. Miss 8. P.—Sent pattern for Marine jacket 20th. Mrs. H. E. 8.—Sent worsted 21st. Mrs. M. C. G.—Sent floss silk 22d. Mrs. L. G. F.—Sent hair bracelet and ring 23d. Miss J. L. —Sent hoop skirt by Adams’s express 24th. Miss M. A. W.—Sent pattern gored dress 25th. Miss A. M.—Sent sleeve pattern 25th. J. M. D.—Sent hair jewelry by U. 8. exprese 25th. Mrs. J. P.—Sent materjals for paper flowers by Kins- ley's express 27th. Mrs. 8. A. M.—Sent lead comb 27th. Mrs. G. W.—Sent headdress by Adams’s express 28th. Miss F. G.—Sent slippers 29th. Miss M. J. T.—Sent patterns 30th. Miss A. F.—Sent patterns 30th. Mrs. E. R.—Sent hair ring 3lst. J. B. W.—Sent apron and waist patterns, Novem- ber lst. Mrs. H. W.—Sent hair guard chain 2d. Mrs. C. BE. K.—Sent patterns 2d. Mrs. W. J. C.—Sent gloves 4th. L. H. V.—Sent pattern for Marine jacket 4th. A. 8. A.—Sent. patterns for working table-cover 5th. Miss M. L. P.—Sent edging 6th. Mrs. C. W. W.—Sent muff by American express 7th. Mr. P.—Sent dress pattern Sth. H. & W.—Sent pattern Natalie cloak 8th. Mrs. P. C. T.—Sent pattern Eugenie cloak 8th. Mrs. J. B. B.—Sent package 8th. Mrs. E. M.—Sent pattern for Marine jacket 8th. rs. J. P. M.—Sent shawl 9th. P. R.—Sent articles 11th. rs, J. M.—Sent chenille 12th. rs. K. P. L.—Sent pattern of bonnet 14th. A. A. C.—Sent pattern of loose sack 14th. Mrs. E. R. K.—Sent infant’s dress, &c., by Adams’s express 14th. E. L. R.—Sent working pattern and silk by Harnden’s express 14th. A. C, B.—We don’t know what a person should take, but we know what they would deserve for making any experiment of the kind. M. B. M.—We decline recommending anything for the removal of superfluous hair. Apply to a physician. Miss E. V.—Look at Lady’s Book for next month. Mrs. L. A. H.—Send the designs that we may judge of them. If the one you refer ta will do fora steel plate, we will pay you the price you ask. Miss A. R.—Solferino is a name given to a color pos- sessing & more lilac tinge than Magenta; it is a sort of Magenta pink. Miss C. M. and E. C. 0.—The purl stitch is explained on page 452 November number. are not permitted to answer. Mrs. D. E. A.There is a difference of opinion about knitting the first stitch in plain knitting. We believe it makes a more even edge to slip it; either, however, is allowable, BEEF E The other question we oOo Chemistry for the Poung. “LESSON XX.—(Continuat.) 452. Nitric Acid.—Having procured a bent glass tube closed at one end, or a smali glass retort of this shape, put into it about a teaspoonful of powdered saltpetre, otherwise called nitrate of potash, and which is a combination of nitric acid and potash. Pour then in upon it by means of another tube, in such a manner that the neck of the apparatus may not be soiled, about six teaspoonfuls (a teaspoon must not be used as the measure) of oil of vit- riql ; append then another tube, as here represented, and, applying the heat of asmall spirit-lamp flame to the mixture, distil, keeping the receiving tube cool by enveloping it in strips of wet blotting paper. The result is nitric acid, or aquafortis. The decom posi- tion which has taken place is exceedingly simple. We had in the tube retort nitrate of potash, we now have sul- phate of potash ; in other words, the sulphuric acid has chased away the nitric acid, and has taken its place, as may easily be demonstrated by getting out the contents of the tube retort, dissolving them in water, and sub- jecting them to the tests for sulphuric acid detailed in 395. —————S—

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rw aS eP ~ CENTRE-TABLE GOSSIP. 103 453. How shall we know that the liquid which has distilled over ig nitric acid? First of all, that it is an acid may be demonstrated in the usual manner, by means of blue litmus-paper, which it reddens; secondly, we may know that it is nitric acid by various specific tests, of which I shall select two as having already come under our notice. In our investigations on the metals tin and antimony, it will be remembered we proved that neither of these was soluble in nitric acid; but, on coming into contact with it, became resolved into a white powder, whilst red-colored fumes were evolved, 332. Only ni- tric acid will produce this result; hence if the liquid result-of our distillation give rise to a similar phenom- enon, it must also be nitric acid. There are, however, other tests for nitric acid. Touch the finger, or a quill, ora piece of white tlannel, with a little of this liquid, and remark after the lapse of a few hours, the yellow stain. Remark, too, how the color of the stain becomes deepened by contact with ammonia (hartshorn). This test becomes valuable when nitric acid has been admin- istered with the object of committing murder. 454. Having demonstrated that the fluid is really nitric acid, add very cautiously to it portions of liquor potas- se, in such a manner that a little acid may preponderate, a point which may readily be determined by testing from time totime with blue litmus-paper. Moisten some slips of blotting-paper with this solution; set them aside to dry, and when dry, preserve them. Put the solution into a saucer, place the saucer on a hot grate- hob, and let it remain there untildry. If the operation have been carefully conducted, crystals will be seen, which are crystals of nitre. We have given the nitric acid, that which we took from it—potash ; and thus nitrate of potash results. 455. Touch a slip of paper just dried, with a piece of glowing charcoal, in such a manuer that the paper may be ignited, but not with flame. Observe the peculiar manner in which the paper burns. It is now touch-paper. Oaly four classes of salts are capable of making touch- paper; they are the Nirrares, CuLorates, BRoMATEs, and Iopatres. That our present salt is a nitrate we know, seeing that we have made it give up its nitric acid; but we need not even have given ourselves this trouble—a much simpler plan would have sufficed. Put & little nitrate of potash along with some fragments of metallic copper into a test-tube, add two or three drops of sulphuric acid, apply heat, and observe the orange- colored vapors. Any substance capable of yielding these under the circumstances indicated, must be a nitrate. 456. Throw a little nitre, or, indeed, any nitrate, upon a piece of burning coal, and remark the deflagration which ensues. This, in point of fact, is merely another form of the touch-paper experiment; in one case, the paper furnishes the carbon ; in the other case, this ele- ment is furnished by charcoal. Puta little nitre in a German glass test tube, ignite the tube stronyly, either in a spirit-lamp flame or in a coa! fire, and remark that, notwithstanding all the heat applied, the nitre will not burn. Now drop in a fragment o charcoal, or a chip of paper, or of wood, and remark th» deflagration. 457. Mix very intimately in a mortar about twenty-five parts by weight of nitre, five of charcoal, and three of sulphur. The result may be considered as gunpowder— not in grains, like the gunpowder of commerce, for the gtaining operation is purely mechanical ; but, chemically speaking, it is gunpowder. Centre-Gable Gossip. FANCY WORK OF THE WINTER. Ovr centre-tables are no longer exclusively decorated with brilliant chenille, and wools, and Broderie An- glais. Even the inevitable Afghan has given place to the long-banished stocking ; and, economy having be- come the fashion, shirts have taken their old place in the work-baskets of our lady readers. To give them what aid and countenance we can in this laudable re- form, we have inquired as to “‘the latest fashion” of collars, wristbands, etc., and are indebted to the new and stylish house of Taylor & Co., in the region of the New York Hotel, for the information we are able to give. Mr. Duescher, well remembered in the same de- partment at Genin’s Bazaar, we learn that collars may “stand up” or “turn down,” as is most becoming to the wearer, and be equally fashionable. The ‘ De Joinville” (stand up) is about two inches wide, meeting at the throat when the wearer follows the prevailing fashion, and carries a smoothly shaven chin; rounded off when there is a beard to be accommodated. ‘ The Paragon” is about the same width, turned over on a band ; but, instead of square points, the ends slope gra- dually back—say for three-quarters ofaninch, This is a decided novelty, also; the stitching, which, instead of being the width of the seam only from the edge, is full hal/ an inch, making a decided change. The wristband is straight, four inches or more deep, and stitched in the same manner. The button is near the sleeve, as in the old wristband, the buttonholes for sleeve-buttons at the other end of the wristband, which does not turn back at all, but falls straight over the hand, shaped in a slight, easy curve on the under side. Fancy shirts, say a set of a half dozen, have tho bosoms laid in longitudinal plaits in groups of different widths, The prevailing style is three plaits of moderate width on each side. French flannel shirts are more worn than ever before. We were shown by Mr. Deuscher a large variety, of plaids and plain colors, They seem well suited to tra- vellers, very soft and warm ; worn with a white collar; the bosom is plain, one square plait in the middle, For the benefit of those who make useful holiday pre- sents to husbands and brothers, we inquired as to the fashion of neckties, and were shown small scarfs, as the most fashionable wear; black, black and crimson, black and green, etc. etc. They are made up with a narrow band to pass under the collar, and are perhaps four inches wide (double) and eighteen to twenty-foug long. “The Cardigan Jacket,”’ a novelty of the season, may be described as a very elastic ribbed worsted shirt, in high colors. It is intended to serve the purpose of a lady’s sacque, ‘‘a wrap up,’’ to be worn ander a coat for warmth. EVENING DRESS. Ovr plate and its description give much seasonable information, but other items may not be amiss. Simple evening dress of white muslin, the skirt trimmed with a number of narrow flounces placed on the bias, and surmounted by a headed flounce, traversed by a puffing, in which a ponceau ribbon runs. Body gathered. Round waist. The sleeves have two puffs and four frills on the shoulder. Duchess sash of white

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104 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE,

ribbon, bordered with ponceau or whatever color may be run in the skirt trimming. A simple robe of white tarletane, terminated by a deep flounce, surmounted by @ full ruche of tarletane découpée. Corsage draped be- hind and before. In the hair a ruche at one side and a tuft of white violets on the other. Again, a robe of very thin Indian muslin, the flounce lined with rose-colored taffetas. One other: a robe of sky-blue silk, with six little flounces at the bottom of the skirt, each flounce garnished with a bias of white silk ; these flounces tra- verse the robe to one side, where they are finished with a bow of ribbon. The corsage is a berthé of fulled thulle illusion, quadrilled with blue ribbon velvet; this gor- gerette is surrounded with two little flounces to corze- spond with the trimming of the skirt, bordered by sprays of rose foliage, with a large full-blown white rose on the bosom and on the shoulders. Sprays of Thé roses and their foliage also decorate the ornaments that tra- verse the skirt. The coiffure is of Thé roses, disposed @ la Greek. ; With this very radiant toilet we observed a marvel- lous Arab bournous, of white Algerine tissue, with great glands and tassels, white and gold. HEADDRESSES. Tuese are mostly of flowers, velvet and blonde, blonde and flowers, velvet and feathers, etc. Flowers alone are only suitable for full dress. We give a description of some we have seen :— One was a black velvet coronet, on the right side of which was a large group of sweet peas. A piece of black lace, about two inches wide, was put on rather full round the back, and finished off on the left side with a black lace lappet, made into a bow and ends. Another, very suitable for an elderly lady, worn in place of a cap, was composed in the following manner: Puffs of black velvet, mounted on a wire, formed the foundation; a black and white lace was then sewn round, full on the inside, the front lace falling over the head; on the left side were arranged two small white ostrich feathers, put on under the lace; and the other side was finished with a bow and ends of black velvet. This headdress was extremely stylish, and suitable for the purpose before named. Another was composed of scarlet ribbon, four inches wide, and marabout feathers. The ribbon was made into four bows, with three ends, the ends different lengths, the longest being half a yard. Three small feathers, placed on the left side of the back, completed this truly elegant headdress for the back of the head. Another was made of black and white narrow blonde and cérise velvet, two inches in width ;,the blonde was quilled and made into small rosettes, which were placed on a wire pointed in front. The left side‘was then fin- ished with small bows of velvet laying back, and a large bow <rith ends half a yard long completed the back. Anoter pretty light headdress was made in the following manner—with blue ribbon, black lace, and white leafless roses. The ribbon, which was three inches in width, was arranged in small bows ona wire founda- tion, pointed in front, with a bow of black lace between each blue one, the bows all laying from the front to the back. Quite in the centre of the front was placed a large leafless rose, whilst three of the same flowers fin- ished off the back. Another, very pretty for slight mourning, was com- posed of edged black thulle, the thulle quilled and

mounted on a wire as before; a white rose, with steel leaves and buds, was placed quite in the centre of the front, while a larger rose of the same description com- pleted the back of this simple yet pretty headdress. Another was a black velvet coronet, ornamented in the front with small steel stars; two bands of velvet, one inch wide, edged with narrow lace, crossed over the back of the head, and formed two loops each side of the back ; betweep these loops a group of roses, of a bright pink color, was placed ; whilst a lace lappet was looped over them, with the ends falling over the shoulder. Headdresses are made in this shape with various mate- rials, and are pretty and simple, made in full quillings of silk to correspond with the dress worn. CLIPPINGS AT OUR CENTRE-TABLE. WHAT THE ITALIANS MANUFACTURE. Now that Italy has once more a national existence, the country is beginning to rise in manufacturing and commercial importance. They have had an “ Industrial Exhibition” of their own, which writers describe as but the commencement of what they expect to accomplish. We find that the silk-growers of Upper Italy appear to bear away the palm from all their rivals in the quality of their raw silk, both white and yellow; and that produced by the Romagna seems the most inferior, both in color, strength, and richness. Among the manufac- tured specimens, the furniture brocades turned out by the looms of Piedmont and Lombardy, and some of those sent from Naples, are of a splendor, both for design and quality, which halts but a little, if at all, behind the manufactures of Lyons. Gold and silver moire, and gold- brocaded silks for church vestments, too, are among the most advanced branches of this industry. The linens and damasks for table use, although very far behind what England can show in beauty of finish, are yet in all respects very promising, and have generally in Italy the advantage which a great number of our most plau- sibly elegant table-linen manufacturers have not—of containing no admixture of cotton, and of consequently enduring unfrayed the scrubbing and thumping of seve- ral generations of washerwomen, as did the household linen piled in the lavender-scented oak-presses of our grandmothers. Tuscany furnishes a great quantity of the best goods of this kind, as well as all the varieties of towelling, sheeting, etc. ; less tempting to look at, but more reasonable and far more durable than ours. Versatile Naples has contributed products of all kinds to the National Exhibition. Pianos, carriages, silks, linens, hemp cloths, and a dozen more kinds of mann- factured articles, besides a very beautiful, though not very numerous display of wrought coral ornaments, which, with singular bad taste, have been crowded into two lower shelves of a sort of glazed ¢étagére, where they make no appearance whatever, and where numbers of visitors never discover them at all. Nothing can exceed the elegance of the bracelets, brooches, and other orna- ments of mixed red and white, or of pale rose-colored coral, worked with infinite taste into knots, posies, and cameos of rare delicacy and finish. The Florentine and the Roman mosaics, handsome as they are, look heavy and graceless beside this exquisite manufacture; and one feels quite provoked at the stores of good material wasted in cutting those massive strings of rich flesh- colored coral beads, which look too heavy to adorn any throat but that of a Juggernaut idol, when they could be turned into such elegant and becoming trinkets as these.

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uv) FASHIONS. 105 A WOMAN'S ANNUAL. Amone the most superb English gift-books of the year is the “‘ Victoria Regia,’’ dedicated, by permission, to the Queen. It is edited by Adelaide Proctor, and printed etttirely by women. The typographical execution is spoken of as very fine. There are gentlemen among the contributors, however; Tennyson, and, in fact, all the best English writers appear in its list. It isa long time since a really fine annual has been published, aad we hope this will be a success. Fashions, NOTICE TO LADY SUBSCRIBERS. Havine had frequent applications for the purchase of jewelry, millinery, etc., by ladies living at a distance, the Editress 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, jewelry, envelops, hair-work, worsteds, children’s wardrobes, man- tillas, and mantelets, will be chosen with a view to econo- my, as 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 for the proposed eaxpen- diture, to be addressed to the care of L. A. Godey, Esq. No order will be attended to unless the money is first received. Neither the Editor nor Publisher will be account- able for losses that may occur in remitting. Instructions to be as minute as is possible, accompanied by a note of the height, complexion, and general style of the person, on which much depends in choice. Dress goods from Evans & Co.’s; mourning goods from Besson & Son; cloaks, mantillas, or talmas, from Brodie’s, 51 Canal Street, New York ; bonnets from the most celebrated establishments; jewelry from Wriggens & Warden, or Caldwell’s, Philadelphia. When goods are ordered, the fashions that prevail here govern the purchase; therefore, no articles will be taken back. When the goods are sent, the transaction must be considered final. -—— DESCRIPTION OF STEEL FASHION-PLATE FOR JANUARY. EVENING-DRESS. Fig. 1.—Dress of white tarleton, silk, or muslin; it can be made of either material. The skirt covered by quilled flowers or ruches, in a peculiar and graceful ar- rangement. At the back of the dress they are placed in the ordinary manner; on the front breadth they are qgurved or rounded on, the ends on each side passing over the back flounce, and caught upon it by a single rose with foliage. The waist is composed of similar flounces, with one placed en bretelle at the sides; the rose trimming is carried over it. Sleeve, one flounce, with a single rose. Simple rose wreath for the hair, which is arranged incurls. (See Chat.) Fig. 2.—Dress of black velvet, with a tucker of white lace in the neck, fastened by a blue velvet bow or ro- sette. Mantlé of rich black lace. For the hair a jewelled aigrette, with a blue plume laid to the left; a similar one is placed in the back of the hair, curving downward. Fig. 3.—Costume for a fancy ball. Maize-colored pet- ticoat, trimmed with rows of black velvet ; purple jupe caught up by bows of black velvet; black velvet bod- ice laced in front. Apron, sleeve, rufties, and berthé of white muslin, with a ribbon ruche. Fig. 4.—Dress of pink erépe, over pink silk. Skirt, bouffante, or puffed, each breadth being held in its place by two tongue-shaped ruches of white blonde, having the appearance of lappets, between them, on the hem, a plaited ruche of pink ribbon. The upper ornament has aspray of roses, buds, and foliage. Grecian waist ; shell- shaped sleeves, edged by white blonde and caught with roses. Fig. 5.—Full dress for opera, of white satin, with su- perb black lace flounces, headed by a ruche of white satin ribbon. Sortie dg bal, or opera cloak, of white satin covered by black lace, and edged by a ruching of white satin ribbon. Coronel of Parma violets. Bouquet of violets, with a single rose. JUVENILE FIGURES. COSTUMES FOR A FANCY PARTY. Fig. 1.—Greek nationaldress. Buff gaiters. Crimson trowsers, very full, and braided on the pockets. Full blue sash, white vest, blue jacket braided with gold. Greek cap, of crimson, blue, and gold. Fig. 2.—Peasant dress, of apple green silk, cut square at the throat; the chemisette crossed by bands of black yelvet. White muslin apron and head tire; the latter has a narrow ruche of green ribbon. CHITCHAT UPON NEW YORK AND PHILADEL- PHIA FASHIONS, FOR JANUARY. To commence with that important part of every wo- man’s dress, the bonnet, we shall describe several of the most tasteful hats on view at the establishment of Miss McConnel (so well-known by all Philadelphians), Clin- ton Place, New York. Weshall describe what are called “undress,” “ walking,’’ or ‘‘ second bonnets,’’ by people who wear two or three in a season—which are suitable for any occasion except a full dress reception—reserving **dress bonnets” until our next. Those favorite piqgué or quilted hats are worn quite as much as last year, and are very suitable for young girls, or fortravelling hats. At Miss McConnel’s we noted the most simply tasteful one we have seen this season; the quilting in black silk, a fine diamond pattern, put on to the frame plain, of course; black velvet cape, turned up and corded with apple green. The only ornament a shaded ruche of silk, from the deepest to the lightest shade of apple green, graduated so as to be very full and wide at the top, narrower towards the ends; this is placed towards the front of the brim from point to point. Half bonnet cap of thulle ; diadem of green velvet flow- ers arranged in black lace. For a young gir!, bonnet of drab quilting, with cape of Magenta velvet; an ornament of Magenta velvet, in close plaits, across the top of the hat. Magenta flowers and thulle cap inside the brim. Drab and ponceau (a very bright shade of scarlet) is also a good contrast. Plain dark blue velvet hat, with a coque (plaited or- nament) of blue veivet on the top; from this extends a plaiting of blue velvet, in the fashion of a wreath around the crown. The cape is of lacecovered with blonde, the under cape bound with blue velvet. Half bonnet cap, and a double row of large Marguerites, or field daisies inside the brim. This will give some idea of the height of the brim from the forehead—to allow two rows of flow- ers. This is the best shape of the season. The low brim flatted down to the head, with the flowers concealing all

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106 the hair, so much seen on Broadway early in the season, has never been adopted by the best people. is as we have described it previously—a low, rather small crown, and a gradual ascent to the edge ofa high brim, higher than has been worn for years past. There is a new deep brown, called Capuchin. At Miss McConnel’s, we wete shown a bat of this color in uncut velvet; itis a red brown, somewhat like the old-fash- ioned cinnamon. The hat was slightly full; the fulness confined by one large cord, drawn through the middle, and spreading after the fashion of a broad ruffle on brim and crown. This appearance was increased by the ful- ness of the crown coming over the edge of the crown a little, and showing a black lining; three short plumes the same shade as the velvet, on top of the brim ; inside, The shape a half cap of blonde, with two large “cloth of gold” roses with their foliage placed in lace across the top. Black strings. One more, and we leave these fascinating creations for the present. Black velvet hat. crown of spotted silk illusion. The front slightly ful’; puffed On the top, flat loops of scarlet velvet and rich black lace, anda beautiful plume placed so as to fall back over the crown, with a slight inclination to one side. Inside the brim, the inevitable half cap of blonde and thuile, with a diadem of half black, half scarlet roses, divided in the middle by a wave of rich black lace. To sum up our general information on this point: the brims of bonnets are high, and the trimming mostly dis- posed on or near the top, but by no means so stiffly as ordinary taste would place this dangerous style of orna- ment. Black lace and blonde are both used on capes, which are only moderately deep and slightly pointed. A half cap of thulle and blonde comes in all the best French bonnets, the flowers being arranged in adiadem, set in lightly, and without formal stiffness as to the largest being exactly in the middle. They are usually softened by waves of blonde or black lace. Strings from five to six inches wide, and a full yard long, tied under the chin. To go on with walking-dress, we may notice the vain attempts of Brodie to induce our ladies to wear their cloaks of the length now really the style. He has short- ened them all that the popular taste will allow, and has succeeded in showing one-half at least of the lower trimming of the dress skirt. been, his rooms are always well filled, and Pennsylvania Dull as the season has Avenue displays more of his styles than ever before, as well as Broadway and Chestnut Street. We note among the favorite cloaks a large loose sacque, much like the old Raglan pattern so universally popu- lar, except that the sleeves are the Mousquetaire instead of the full Oriental, and not carried up to the neck, but set in to the sleeve. This may be called the most popu- lar cloak of the season, being made in all materials, from plush to velvet. To describe one of them, in an entirely new material, a kind of Astrachan cloth, of a peculiarly soft tint, formed by diamond-shaped tufts, of The sacque has no seam behind, quite loose from the figure, the front breadths have a binding stitched on, and lap over the back of the sacque slightly, being fastened by a pale brown and white, on a mode cloth ground. new style of buttons about the size of an eagle; they are a silvery steel in effect, and are called metallique. The same buttons run along the Mousqnuetaire cuff and fasten the front to the waist. Collar small aud neat in shape, With only a stitched binding. GODEY’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, | | Sacque of chinchilla cloth ; a thick woollen velvet, soft gray and black, as its name denotes. It is trimmed with small patées of crochet and jet in place of buttons. Pointed pockets in front. Sacque of cloth, the side seams running back, having the appearance of a flat plait (an inch wide) corded on each side, and trimmed, as are the sleeves, with patées of crochet, in the shape of linked rings, of flat silk, sur rounded by lace or crochet. Even in the richer materials—velvet, piqué, or silk Marseilles—this inevitable shape meets us, though we note a very elegant pardessus of Marseilles (a thick silk fabric, with a lozenge figure, woven like Marseilles vestings, the outside black, the lining violet), made to fit the figure, with a round cape coming nearly to the waist. The best and newest cloak exhibited by Brodie is quite plain on the shoulders, fitting closely. The fulness of the cloak is set in at about the depth of a yoke, in three plaits, pointed at the top, and these poirts edged by trimming, a handsome crochet ornament on the centre one; the plaits are confined by a loop of braid at the waist. The sleeves are flowing, an excellent shape, and set into the shoulder in three plaits to correspond with the back. One more, and we are done. the fulness set in in plaits. A cloak with a real yoke, The yoke is covered by a gored cape, scalloped on the edges; a bouquet of passe menterie is the centre ornament, and patées are added in the scollops. The cape is tippet-shaped in front, termi- nating in pointed, and forming fanciful pockets. We regret being compelled to defer completing our street dress by a notice of Genin’s furs until our next. ‘““Worsted armor,’’as Dickens calls all fanciful knitting for children, was never more popular than now. At Reynold’s, Canal Street, we were shown an entirely new style of knit tippet, in the shape of the fur collars so much worn, and an excellent imitation. The collar is kuit of a ribbed stitch, pointed and edged with a sof ruche of worsted in colors. Their knit and woven hoods for children are in the most brilliant shades, black and Magenta, black and blue, ete., for older children, and have most comfortable capes. For very little ones, white and pale blue, white and pink, etc. ete. For school-boys this establishment makes great use of a deep gray shade for turban-shaped felt hats, soft and warm for the season; seasoned square hats, with round brims, and flat cloth caps, half military. At Taylor’s new establishment, Broadway, we find the Godenski taps for boys, the most stylish of all the worsted caps of the season. It hasa flat round crown in “ orange-peel”’ figure on a plain ground, a rucheand ear- lappets of two colors, and a handsome cord and tassel falling low to the shoulder. For instance, a white cap for a baby boy, lined with white silk, the figures rosettes in the ruche and lappets of pale blue. Chinchilla ground, gray and white for a boy of three, dark maroon, black, or green figures, etc. The lappets are united under the chin by an elastic band. ‘The Godenski” is also the hat adopted for ladies’ skating costume, which reminds us of the Balmoral hose, also intended for this sport. They are to be had at the same place, and are in rounds of half an inch or so, of black and Magenta, black and blue, etc. etc. Imagine the distinguished appear- ance of a young lady with Balmoral boots, bright Bal- moral petticoats, and still brighter Balmoral hose, ona rainy day, in Broadway or Chestnut Street! FASHION. "

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a aS ir " «@ NEW AND RARE PREMIUMS TO GETTERS-UP OF CLUBS! .% Arthur's Home Magazine for 1862. Wolumes SIs. and ==. EDITED BY T. 8. ARTHUR AND VIRGINIA F. TOWNSEND. Devoted to Social Literature, Art, Morals, Health, and Domestic Happiness. In announcing the Prospectus of the nineteenth and twentieth volumes of the Home Magazine, for 1862, the publishers have little to say beyond an assurance that the work will continue in all re- spects to maintain the high ground assumed in the beginning. Our purpose has been to give a magazine that would unite the attractions of choice and elegant literature with high moral aims, and teach useful lessons to men, women and children, in all degrees of life: a magazine that a husband might bring home to his wife, a brother to his sisters, a father to his children, and feel absolutely certain that, in doing so, he placed in their hands only what could do them good. Still more eminently will this feature of Sl my interest and usefulness in the reading matter of the Home Magazine be regarded in the future volumes. Our work is for homes ; and we seek to make homes happier. All the departments, heretofore made prominent in the work, will be sustained by the best talent atcommand. The Literary Department; the Health and Mothers’ Departments ; the Toilet, Work: Table and Housekeeping Departments; the Children’s Department, etc. etc., will all present, month after month, their pages of attractive and useful reading. ELEGANT ENGRAVINGS Will appear in every number, including choice pictures, groups and characters, prevailing fashions, and a great variety of needle-work patterns. This part of our work will be very attractive. Besides the usual variety of short stories, sketches, and more solid articles from the pens of our large corps of accomplished writers, two new serials will be given in 1862. One entitled BATTLE-FIELDS OF OUR FATHERS. A Tale of the Revolution, BY VIRGINIA F. TOWNSEND. WHAT CAME AFTERWARDS. BY T. 8. ARTHUR. To all who make up clubs for the Home Magazine, will be sent one or more of the following ELEGANT PREMIUMS. Our premiums for 1862 are, beyond all question, the most beautiful and desirable yet offered by any Magazine. They are large sized Photographs (15 by 10 inches), executed in the highest style of the art, of magnificent English and French Engravings, four in number, as follows :— 1, HERRING’S “GLIMPSE OF AN ENGLISH HOMESTEAD.” 2. THE SOLDIER IN LOVE. 3. DOUBTS. 4. HEAVENLY CONSOLATION. The prices of the engravings from which these splendid Photographs have been made, are, for the first and third, $10 each; for the second and fourth, $5 each. We give these prices, in order that the true excellence and value of the premiums may be understood. Herring’s ‘‘ Glimpse of an English Homestead”’ is one of the celebrated pictures of the day; while the other three en- gravings are the favorites of connoisseurs everywhere. Besides these, the two premium engravings offered last year, ‘*Seventy-Six,’’ and ‘‘He Knew the Scriptures from his Youth,’’ are still épen for selection. YEARLY TERMS, IN ADVANCE. And the other, 1 copy Home Magazine (and one of the premium plates), $2 00 2 copies (and one of the premium plates to getter-up of Club), 3 00 3 ‘* (and one of the premium plates to getter-up of Club), 4 00 4 ‘ (and one of the premium plates to getter-up of Club), 5 00 8 ‘* (and an extra copy of Magazine, and one premium plate to getter-up of Club), 10 60 12 ‘* (and an extra copy of Magazine, and two premium plates to getter-upof Club), 15 00 17 ‘* (and an extra copy of Magazine, and two premium plates togetter-up of Club), 20 00 GF It will be seen that each single subscriber who pays $2 is entitled to one of the premium plates. > All subscribers to the Home Magazine who desire the premium plates can have them for fifty cents each. (FF In ordering premiums, three red stamps must be sent, in every case, to pay the cost of mailing each premium. It is not required that all the subscribers to a club be at the same Post-office. Specimen numbers sent to all who wish to subscribe, or make up clubs. CLUBBING. Home Magazine and Godey’s Lady’s Book, one year, $3 50. Home Magazine and Harper’s Magazine, one year, $3 50. Home Magazine and Saturday Evening Post, $3 00. GS The January number will be ready, as a specimen, by the frst of December. Address T. 8. ARTHUR & CO., 323 Walnut Street, Philadelphia.

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Notices of Godey’s Lady's Book. What family would be without Godey ?—Journal, Sand- wich. The engravings and double-extension fashion - plates contained in each number are honestly worth more than the price asked for the magazine.— Mail, Niagara. As we have said scores of times, Godey is, without excep- tion, the best Lady’s Book published. You will find no cheap engravings in Godey ; they are all of the best that can be procured.—Herald, Ingersoll. Godey furnishes the best and cheapest ladies’ magazine in the world.—Advertizer, Waterloo. Ladies, if you wish a treat, coax your husbands, fathers, or brothers to subscribe for Godey.—Herald, Walkerton. The literary contributions are of a superior order to similar ones in the ordinary magazines.—Christian Secre- tary, Hartford. . We do not hesitate to pronounce it the best and cheapest literary magazine in the world. The best writers in America contribute to its pages.—Journal, Pittsfield. Persons desiring the cheapest and best magazine in America should take Godey’s.—Pudblic, Paris. Godey’s is the best ladies’ magazine extant.—Free Dem., Galesburg. All efforts to rival Godey in its steel engravings, immense double-sheet fashion-plates, etc. ete., have sigually failed. It is the best ladies’ magazine in the world, and the cheap- est.— Union, Champaign and Urbana. It well sustains the reputation acquired by the magazine as the “‘ Queen of the Monthlies.”"—Republican, Carthage. We can only repeat what we have often said before, that it is the best Lady’s Book published.—Chronicle, Cam- bridge. For the richness and variety of its engravings, fashion- plates, designs, and patterns for needle-work, fancy and toilet articles, its receipts, and in everything which renders the Book an indispensable companion for every lady of iutelligence and taste, this magazine stands in advance of all works of its class. We have known and prized the Lady's Book ever since we were old enough to read, and unhesitatingly recommend it to our lady readers. — Youth's Temperance Visitor, Rockland. We are an early recipient of this favorite, this indis- pensable magazine of the ladies. What the dear creatures will do when Godey, in the course of nature, steps into another sphere of being, we are at a loss to imagine. Who will wear hs mantle? Let them make the most of him while they have him, for nature and art combined can never make a second Godey.—Farmer, Augusta, Our lady folks say, ‘“‘Oh, what a splendid fashion- plate!” And then everything about the book is as ‘‘ nice us can be.” —Advertiser, Brownville. Godey’s Lady’s Book is gorgeous, valuable, and inte- resting.—Dem. Banner, Morristown. Godey’s Lady’s Book is the newest, the freshest, the best of all the monthlies published for the ladies; a monthly casket, sparkling with the latest fashions, gems of litera- ture, valuable receipts, aud useful lessons, and costs less than a penny a day—a fourpence a week, only twenty-five cents a mouth, Sarely there is no lady but what can afford a penny a day for mental food, to say nothing about & peep at the engravings and the bewitching dresses, and hats, and other etceteras and soforths shadowed forth in the unrivalled fashion-plates.—Commonwealth, Frankfort. Its fashion-plates, its valuable yveceipts, its beautiful engravings, and its choice literature make it alike attractive to the matron and the maid. We find so much of the useful, the excellent, and the elevating in it that we have Jong since ceased to wonder at its great popularity. In all that com prises superiority in a publication for the refined nnd intelligent ladies, Godey’s stands without a successful rival.— Democrat, Elizabethtown. It is the best and most popular ladies’ magazine pub- lished in the United States, and no lady should be without it, especially if she wixhes to be posted in regard to the latest fashions. —Herald, Stanford. The engravings are superb, and the fashion-plates all that the ladies could wish them to be. The matter is chaste and unexceptionable as well as interesting and entertaining. Indeed, the Lady's Book is a model institu- tion In the literary world. It should be regarded in ever family as the reading book for the family circle.—Shield, Snow Hill. It is the Queen of Monthly Magazines in, America, and, in fact, the only magazine worthy of the patronage of the American ladies.—Hoosier State, Newport. This magazine is an {ndispensable article to weil-regu- lated families.— Review, Elkhart. It is a little the best magazine published in the States.— Democrat, La Grange. As usual the Bouk is worthy of a place on the centre table of the refined and educated of any country, and may be read by all with pleasure and profit.—Journal, Alligan It seems that Godey has but one idea in view, and that is to get up fhe best lady’s book published in the world. It is the best of the kind, no family should be without it.— Record, Alligan. No lady who has once used Godey’s unrivalled patterns, can be without the Book.— Visitor, Rising Sun. It is the queen of monthly magazines in America, and, in fact, the only magazine worthy of the patronage of the American. ladies. — Hoosier State, Newport. This magazine is unquestionably the best in the world.— American, Brookville. There is no magazine which for beauty and excellence can be compared with this Book of Fashion.—Argua, * Darlington. This is emphatically the best magazine published.—Ba- zaar Friend, Pennsburtg and Sunnytown. It is useless for us to remind our readers that this is the best Lady’s Magazine in the country.—Church Advocate, Lancaster. Godey is lying on our table, and, although we have but taken a peep into its contents, we feel assured that, as usual, it comes to us laden with its freight of good thoughts, and pure out-gushing melody from many a poetic lyre, besides mapy a useful hint to the young housekeeper, nurse, and mother, with its beautiful patterns. We welcome it with the same heartiness with which we would greet an old friend, both for its silent converse with our inner selves and its valuable instructions in domestic economy.—Allas, Terre Haute. It is in reality a gem of a monthly, and an elegant orna- ment to every household, and every lady of taste and refinement will patronize Godey for the latest fashions and everything pertaining to an elegant toilet.—Enterprise, Kewaunee. A contemporary, in noticing the Book, proposes Godey for President. Don’t he know that in this country the ladies can’t vote, and true merit is not appreciated as a general thing by the men? No, no, the ladies don’t want hiin to leave the Book.— Times, Janesville. Godey has arrived—everything is to pay—took the Book home—at dinner time—Book took up so much time—we had no supper till the next day—everybody at our house to look at the pictures, ten quires of newspapers cnt up into patterns from Godey already, and the end is not yet.— Union and Democrat, La Crosse. Every husband and father should make it a point to place this valuable magazine in the hands of his wife and daughters, as it is the best publication of its kind in the world.—Tribune, Middleburg. It is the best ladies’ monthly in America, and is monthly improving in all its various departments. Godey is just the man to please the ladies; he studies their wants and wishes, and leaves undone nothing which can make him appreciated by them.—Democrat, McConnellsburg. The letter-press is unexceptionable. The moral tone which pervades this work is a strong inducement to those who desire a good magazine for the family circle. —Advo- cate, York. The reading matter is of the most refined and interesting nature, while its engravings are of the rarest character, indeed beyond comparison. It is ahead of all other maga- zines, and the lady who does not enjoy the advantages of a constant perusal of Godey, is deprived of much pleasure and useful knowledge.—Echo, Johnstown. It contains the best engravings, the best fashion-plates, the best patterns, the best receipts, and the best reading matter of any Magazine published in America, and is de- servedly esteemed as THe ladies’ periodical of this country. Godey stands at the head always !—Jvurnal, Meadville. This is decidedly the best family periodical published in this country, and ought to be on the table of every family in this land.—Journal, Easton. Of its kind, it excels all other magazines.—Gospel Tid- ings, Canal Dover. its fashion-plates are a little more’ popular than any rival. There is three times the value, in good sound read- ing, of what the magazine costs, and no family should be without it.— Times, Goshen. No lady should deny herself the exquisite pleasure of reading this world-renowned Magazine. It is richly worth five times its cost.— Yeoman, Frankfort. We have said that this was the best magazine for the ladies published in this country, and we still say it.—Re- porter, Plattsbarg. It sustains its world-wide reputation, as being the best —It is THe Lady's Magazine of America.—Z'imes, Picton.

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LA MARQUISE. A Morning Robe, made of striped flannel,-and trimmed with quilted ribbon. VOL. LxIv.—10 115

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MORNING ROBE. Gored Morning Robe, made of dark blue cashmere, trimmed with silk. The body is cut sur plice. Linen collar and cherry silk neck-tie. Coat sleeve, with gauntlet cuff. 118

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THE ALPUXERRIAN, (From the establishment of G, Bropig, 51 Canal Street, New York, Drawn by L. T. Vora, from actus articles of costume.) Tris style is mde in any desired color of cloth, and is trimmed with galloons, Upon the back they are laid flat ou the collar to afford support to the body of the garment 121

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NAMES FOR MARKING. Brdaivde. C3wale 3 wD a J OFS aay So ————__ 8 2 eo eo ———— SHORT NIGHT-DRESS. i i} a O (Po O > So WN Sees S) EN

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