Godey's Lady's Book And Magazine 1862-07: Vol 65

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ng is ur GODEY’S PHILADELPHIA, JULY, 1862. ——— EASTERN RAMBLES AND REMINISCENCES. VISIT TO THE DEAD SEA, The desert and the forest, lone and solemn, May know in time the work of mortal hand ; There may arise the temple, tower, and column, Where only waved the tree or swept the sand. L. E. L. I looked again; I saw a lonely shore and a waste Of dreary sand ; I heard the black seas roar, And winds that rose and fell with fearful haste. There was one scattered tree, by storm defaced, Round which the sea-birds wheeled with screaming ery. Ere long came on a traveller, slowly paced ; Now east, then west, he turned with curious eye, Like one perplexed with an uncertainty.—Howirr. Wuat with the bustle of getting the horses ready, and with all the little et ceteras necessary for a journey to the Dead Sea, including some tobacco to keep the Bedouins in a good temper, and ‘‘something snug’’ for the Sheiks, and a few eggs to float upon its waters, and a lot of things that everybody said we should want, and which we were always wishing everybody had never said a word about, I really was quite in a glow, although the morning was raw, and Abdallah had made the coffee at least two hours before it was wanted. Now, really, it is no joke getting up a private expedition to the Dead Sea, for some want to do this and others to do that; some to go one way and the rest to go another; and the unfor- tunate caterer of the party—I had that honor- able post—is almost driven crazy. At last all our party were mustered; every- body had everything he wanted for the journey, and the sheik having given the word, eight Englishmen, two Prussians, four Arabs, and seven Bedauwi rode from the city of Jerusalem at seven o’clock in the morning, and were soon ou the road to Bethlehem, having crossed the o% valley of Hinnom and passed along the plain of Rephaim. In about an hour and a half after we rode through the Jaffa Gate of the ‘‘ Holy City,’’ we were standing before the Greek convent of Mar Ely4s, near to which is a well, said to be the one in which the star appeared to the eastern magi. The view from the convent is very fine, commanding the Zion portion of the ‘ Holy City,’’ and the hills round about her. To the westward of the road, upon a slope, is an old ruined tower, called the house of Simeon the Just, who, when he met the infant Saviour, exclaimed: ‘‘ Lord, now lettest thou thy ser- vant depart in peace, according to thy word: for mine eyes have seen thy salvation’’ (Luke ii, 283—30). There are two roads from the convent of Mir Ely4s leading to Bethlehem, and as the one to the right passed close by Rachel’s tomb, we preferred it to the other. The tomb lies in a valley, and is kept in order by the Mosiems. It is a small, square building, resembling the tomb of an Arab San- ton, being surmounted by a dome, and is said to cover the spot where Rachel, the wife of Jacob and mother of Joseph and Benjamin, was interred. It is almost needless.to say that the building is modern, having been erected within the last eleven hundred years, before which there was a pyramid of stones, possibly the remains of the pillar Jacob placed upon her grave, which, we are told, was ‘‘in the way to Ephrath, which is Bethlehem’ (Gen. xxxv. 19, 20). It looks somewhat picturesque and lonely in the valley, surrounded by Moslem tombs, its white dome contrasting with the dark moun- tains and scanty shrubs around. 29

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30 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.

Afar off to the westward is the village of Rama, where of old there was ‘‘a voice heard: lamentation and weeping, and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children and would not be comforted, because they are not.”’ Now it is almost deserted, a poor and miserable vil- lage, mourning, as it were, amid the remains of its former greatness. The ruined buildings from whence the strains of music and songs of praise resounded are/now mouldering fast. “The harp is broke, the song is fled, The voice is hushed, the bard is dead.”’ We wended our way through the dusty roads, with a fierce sun pouring his rays upon us, and no refreshing breeze to cool our scorched faces. By and by the scenery became more pleasing ; luxuriant vines clambered over stone fences, and a few silver-leaved olive-trees, shad- ing the dusty road, relieved the landscape ; then we saw fields of wavy corn in the valleys

below us; and here and there clusters of fig and olive-trees, and dark, towering cypresses. A few paces more we have turned the cor- ner of the road, and the village of Bethlehem, with its high walls and embattlements, standing upon the summit of a terrace-cultivated hill, bursts upon us. ** Rouhh! Yallah!” shouts the sheik; and our party trot past the camels that are crawling along the rugged pathway. ‘‘ Tait!’ (good), we have passed under the pointed archway of the gate, and are now within the town, sur- rounded by the crowd of people ready to welcome our troop, and offering for sale amulets, crosses, bowls, cups, and other things manufactured from the fetid limestone of the Dead Sea; and boxes, beads, and crucifixes of mother-of-pearl, carved with more labor than ingenuity or taste. The town of Bethlehem contains about 3,000 inhabitants, who gain a living chiefly by agri- culture and the manufacture of the articles mentioned above. They are a quarrelsome set

of people, and have not a prepossessing appear- ance. Passing through the crowd, and leaving the town, we proceeded at once to the Latin con- vent, built by the Empress Helena, but left unfinished (at least according to the original plan) for want of the necessary funds. It isa large building, with massive, high, and embat- tled walls, like a fortress, covering a great space, and standing on the brow of the hill. The original gate is partly walled up, and alow and narrow door left for the entrance of pil- grims, but too small to admit of the lawless Arabs riding into the court within. As we en- tered this roofed court or ante-chamber to the convent, we heard the distant pealing of an organ, evidently played by a first-rate musician. Following a lay-brother through a great many passages, we arrived at the chapel, where the priests were performing the services of their Church. I paused and listened to “The clear slow-dittied chant or varied hymn, Till all my soul was bathed in ecstasies, And lapped in Paradise.”’ It was a solemn thing to stand on the spot where the Saviour of the world was born, and listen to the sacred sounds of that organ and the voices of the priests raised in praise of the Redeemer. The part where we stood was adorned with some excellent paintings of the Spanish and Italian schools, which were much prized by the priests. One of them represented the presentation of the infant Jesus to the magi, a perfect chef-d’eurre in the Paul Veronese style; but although I could distinguish the date of 1702, the name of the painter was il- legible. The convent monopolized all our time in Bethlehem, as it contained nearly everything that is interesting in the village. A priest having conducted us to the chapel of St. Cath- erine, and furnished each of us with a lighted taper, we descended a flight of steps leading into a subterraneous grotto. A small chamber eut in the rock, with a rude pillar supporting its roof, was shown to us at the bottom of the stairs as the sepulchre of the babes that were slain in Bethlehem by order of Herod; a small altar is placed over the pit into which the bodies were thrown. A few paces further, we were shown the spot where Joseph sat when our Saviour was born, and where the magi presented their offerings ; an altar is erected to mark this place. <A dark, narrow passage leads to the Chapel of the Nativity, which is about forty feet long and eleven feet wide. The roof is rough, and blackened by the smoke from four-

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he sir rt nd nd he ras ing ing the ‘ere rall lies ere our ited this the yrty f is yur- EASTERN RAMBLES AND REMINISCENCES. 31 teen lamps, that pour their softening light upon all around ; they have been presented by Chris- tian potentates, and are kept burning night andday. At the eastern end of the grotto there is an altar placed against the side of the rock, and in front of it a circle of agate and jasper, surrounded with a silver glory, and encircled by the words Hic de Virgine Maria Jesus Chris- tus natus est.* This appears to attract many of the devotees, who are told that this is the spot where the star which went before the magi rested. Near to this gate is a very remarkable curiosity—the manger where our Saviour was laid! On inquiry, however, we learn that the low stone trough now shown is not the real man- ger, which was removed to Rome during the pontificate of Sixtus Quintus. Over the altar which accompanies it is a good painting, repre- senting the stable, and five lamps are placed behind an iron railing, and kept constantly burning. We now returned towards the Chapel of the Innocents, and entered a chamber hewn out of the rock, immediately in front of it. Here we saw the altars erected over the tombs of the Roman matron Paola and her daughter Euta- chia; the tomb of St. Jerome, and the cell in which it issaid he studied the Scriptures for fifty years, and prepared the translation in Latin known as the Vulgate; and close by is the tomb of Eusebius, who assisted St. Jerome in his undertaking. Having seen enongh of the curiosities and sights below, we ascended the stairs and pro- ceeded at once to examine the larger or upper church, called Santa Maria di Bethiehem, which is built in the form of a Lativ cross. Itisa handsome church, but it is in a very dilapi- dated state. From the church we proceeded to the Chamber of Antiquities, where the priest- guide showed us, among several other curiosi- ties (?), the arms of the innocents massacred by order of Herod, and what he termed a tongue, also belonging to an innocent ! Our curiosity was now fully gratified, and, being hungry, we repaired to the refectory, and did ample justice to the viands placed before us by the sacristan; then, presenting him with some money for the poor of the convent, we mounted our steeds, and rode forth from the village towards Hebron. After riding for about half a mile, we entered a narrow rocky valley, inclosed by steep hills, which is watered by a silvery rivulet, winding amid the vineyards and orchards, filled with ade and tempting * Here juin Christ was born of the Virgin siaey. | fruit. This, we were informed, was the Vale of Eschol, where the spies sent by Moses ob- tained the large bunch of grapes they bare between them to Kadesh. A short ride brought us to an old Saracenic fortress, beneath which, a short distance to the northwest, are the Pools of Solomon, the three reservoirs which formerly assisted in supplying Jerusalem with water. They are so arranged on the sloping ground that the water can descend from the first into the second, and from that into the lowest reser- voir; they measure about 270 feet in breadth, and are about 660, 600, and 480 feet in length, respectively, and communicate. with an aque- duct that conveyed the water to Jerusalem. As we were pressed for time, we now pushed on for Hebron at a gallop, passing the Cave of Adullam, in which David hid himself, and then we entered upon a more interesting kind of scenery, the hills being studded with olive, sycamore, and fir-trees, mingled with dwarf and flowering shrubs, vineyards, and watch-towers. Some peasant girls bearing their pitchers of water, some shepherds driving home their flocks, or a distant caravan filled up the other- wise deserted roads. Circumstances obliged us to return imme- diately to Jerusalem, without even visiting He- bron, and to proceed by another route, one more generally taken, and, perhaps, far more agree- able. As soon, therefore, as our affairs were again arranged, we proceeded along the dry bed of the brook Kedron towards Mar Saba, amid a dreary yet grand kind of scenery, which became more wild and gloomy as we approached the Convent of Santa Saba, which we entered about five honrs after we had started from Je- rusalem. The monks received us with a hear- tiness that we little expected; but our stay was of short duration. We slept there the night, and at three o’clock in the morning were winding along the wild and gloomy road among the picturesque mountains of Engedi. At length the waters of that gloomy sea ap- peared in the distance, and we all pushed on as fast as the steep and uneven road would allow us. We had read all sorts of extraordinary stories connected with this sea, and were full of con- jectures respecting its peculiarities. Some said that no living creature could exist near to it; others that birds flying over it dropped down dead; and, in fact, all that was true and won- derful, untrue and impossible, were stated and commented upon during our ride to its shores. On our road we saw and procured some of the famous apples which grow

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‘Near that bituminous lake where Sodom stood,’’ and which are said to “‘Tempt the eye, But turn to ashes on the lips.” They look like a small orange externally, and some of them that were dried and shrivelled sounded as if filled with sand when we shook them., On pressing them, they burst like a puff-ball, and left oniy the rind and a few shreds in our hands. At length we halted upon its pebbled shores, strewn with pieces of wood, branches of trees, and fragments of blackened rocks, that gave a sad and unnatural aspect to the whole scene. This lake has received various names. In the Scriptures we find it called the ‘‘ Sea of the plain’”’ (Deut. iii. 17; iv. 49); the “salt sea’’ (Deut. iii. 17; Josh. xv. 5); the ‘‘salt sea eastward”? (Numb. xxxiv. 3); and the ‘east sea’’ (Ezek. Ixvii. 18 ; Joel ii. 20). The Greek and Roman writers frequently mention it as the ‘Lake Asphaltites’”? (Aiuym Acgadatitw), and the Dead Sea (Mare mortuum). It has been called in more modern times the ‘‘ bituminous lake,’’ the ‘‘Sea of Sodom,” and the ‘‘sea of the desert.’? The natives of the country call it Bahr Luth or Lat (the sea of Lot); Bahr el Mont (the Dead Sea); and sometimes Bahr Mutneh (the stinking sea). Josephus estimated the length at 724, and its breadth at 183, Roman miles ;* and Diodo- rus Siculus nearly agrees with him; but it is almost needless to state that this estimate is not correct. Dr. Robinson reckons its length at 50, and its breadth at 12 English statute miles, which is generally admitted to be pretty accurate. The depth of this lake varies con- siderably. Molyneaux sounded to the depth of 225 fathoms (1,350 feet) in the northern part, without ascertaining that the lead had reached the bottom. It was ascertained by the United States Expedition, under the command of Lieu- tenant Lynch, that the part of the sea to the north of the peninsula is deep, and that which lies southward of it is shallow. In the former, the soundings, which were very extensive and exact, show 4 depth of 116, 173, 1774, 218, 184, and 195 fathoms; in the iatter, the soundings suddenly decrease to 3, 2}, 12, and 1 fathoms ; and at the extreme south, between Usdum and Safieh, to half a foot. It therefore appears that the bottom of this sea consists of two submerged plains, one elevated and lying about 13 feet * A Roman mile is equivalent to 1614 English yards, or very nearly eleven-twelfths of an English statute wile. GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, below the surface; the other depressed, and averaging about 1,300 feet below the surface. The grim mountains of Moab rise to about 2,000 feet above and from the verge of the sea on the east, forming one of its boundaries, and the western shores are girt by part of the hills of Judea, which rise to about 1500 feet above the sea. Both these ranges are intersected by numerous gorges, down which the mountain torrents rush wildly along, With a fearful sound, Leaping o’er rocks with a giant's bound,” depositing gravel, mud, and sand on the shores of the ‘‘ Salt Sea’’ below, where they furm in- numerable small deltas. The western shores in some parts are covered with large boulders of conglomerates, blanched by the sun, and in- crusted with salt, contrasting very strongly with the scorched and brown hills that form its boundary, and the slimy mud deposited along its margin. On the eastern margin of the sea, near the Wady-el-Méjeb or River Arnon, the huge boulders of trap and tufa seem to vie, in the intensity of their sombreness, with the arid hills that tower above them, looking like a vast heap of volcanic ashes: the whole forming a strong contrast to the yellow mud of the delta at the mouth of the Arnon, and the waters of the lake itself. The exact level of the surface of the Dead Sea has frequently been disputed within the last few years; but it has now been decided. In March, 1838, Messrs. Moore and Beke first observed the level of this sea to be considerably below that of the Mediterranean, by means of the boiling point of water; and, from various barometrical and thermometrical observations, they inferred that its surface was about 500 feet below the level of the Mediterranean.* A few months afterwards Professor Schubert made some barometrical observations, which led him to conclude that its depression was 598.5 Paris feet ;¢ whilst Messrs. Russegger and Berton, in 1838, made the depression nearly 1,400 feet below the Mediterranean, by barometrical ob- servations.t We are indebted to Lieutenant Symonds, of the Royal Engineers, for deciding this contested point by trigonometrical obser- vations. This officer, after surveying two dif- ferent routes, ascertained the level of the Dead Sea to be 1,337 feet below that of the Mediter- ranean. It is said that the level varies from 10 to 12 feet at times, being raised during the * Journal of the Royal Geographical Society, vol. vii. p. 456; v. ix. p. 64. t Aligemeine Zeitung. Nos. 83 and 109. t¢ Bergham’s Almanac for 1840, p. 481. CUE eee SS eS eer act tai:

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~~ =a ~~ eS * sT @w~ EASTERN RAMBLES AND REMINISCENCES. 33 rainy season by the influx of the Jordan, the monntain torrents, and other streams, and low- ered during the hot season by evaporation. The mountains around the sea are chiefly limestone, with occasional strata of flint orcoarse agate, projecting a little from the surface ; but at Usdum, which is towards its southern ex- tremity, there is a ridge about nine miles long, uneven and very rugged, varying from 100 to 150 feet in height, composed wholly of rock salt, with layers of chalky limestone. The salt is intensely bitter, and has a dark, dirty ap- pearance. Dr. Robinson and his party discov- ered 4 cavern terminating in a gallery, which extended nearly 400 feet into this ridge, the floor, sides, and roof being composed of salt; a rapid stream of water passing along the bottom. The United States Expedition, under Lieutenant Lynch, discovered a pillar of salt, capped with carbonate of lime, cylindrical in front, and pyramidal behind, on the eastern side of Usdum, about one-third of the distance from the north end of the ridge of salt. This pillar was about 43 feet high, resting on a kind of oval pedestal, from 40 to 60 feet above the level of the sea, and the peculiar shape is supposed to be caused by the winter rains. In some parts of the northern extremity of the sea there is a black shining stone, which partially ignites in the fire, emitting a smell like bitumen, and leaving a whitish kind of stone behind, and if friction is employed, the same odor is perceptible on account of its being strongly impregnated with sulphuretted hydro- gen; it is the “‘stink stone’’ described by Buckhardt, Maundrell, Pocock, and others. This fetid igneous limestone is called by the natives ‘‘ Hagiar Mousa,’’ or ‘‘the stone of Mo- ses,” and is probably the stone that Josephus says “‘is cast up at certain times of the year, and cannot bear the touch of blood.’’ As it is capable of being polished, it is made into cups, bowls, amulets, rosaries, etc. Sulphur and nitre have been picked up in some parts; the former in the northern, and the latter on the southern shores ; and also bitumen, or asphal- tum, which is sometimes called Jews’ pitch ; it is said to be thrown up ina liquid form from the bottom of the lake, and afterwards hard- ened by the heat of the sun; but the natives say that it is seldom found in large quantities in the sea, although several thousand pounds of it were obtained by them after the earthquake in 1837. The general opinion as to the source of the bitumem appears to be the existence of active voleanoes under the lake, which, at cer- tain periods, pour out their contents, and thus contribute to preserve to the water its peculiar properties. Dr. Shaw calculated that the Jordan sends into the Dead Sea six millions and ninety thou- sand tons of water every year, and yet there is scarcely any visible increase or diminution of the height of its waters. Several of us bathed in the sea, and endea- vored to swim, but such was the extraordMmary buoyancy of its waters that I found myself kicking my legs fruitlessly in the air, and throwing water over my head, a feat that soon made me terminate the performance, asmy eyes, nose, and mouth had received such a dosing that I was half mad with the pain caused by the acridity of the waters, and my hair was sticking out ‘‘like quills upon the fretful por- cupine,’’ in consequence of its incrustation with salt. How any one could remain in its waters, picking a fowl, loading and firing a pistol, or writing a letter, is a mystery to me, for that bath in the Dead Sea gave me a week’s pain, and the thought of it, even now, makes me tingle as if I had the prickly heat. Its waters are intolerably salt, bitter, and nauseous, and as the analysis of them is inte- resting, I snbjoin those made by Dr. Marcet in 1807, and Dr. Apjohn in 1839 :— INGREDIENTS. MArcerT. | APJOHN. Gpeciie Grewity .. « « « tee 1211 1153 OC ¢-«- 6 5 es wos — 221° F. Chloride of Magnesium. . . . . 10,246 7.370 ““ ns + ss « & 3.920 2 438 “ Gates ws aw. 10.360 7.839 e PD. ow ie -.0! de _ 0 852 “4 Manganese . + - a 0.005 Sulphate ofLime....... 0.054 0.075 Bromide of Magnesium. ... . 0.201 24.580 18.780 Ws « & oy 8 hem © oe 75.420 §1.220 100 100 The water analyzed by Dr. Apjohn was taken half a mile from the mouth of the Jordan, in the rainy season; and his analysis does not give so great an amount of salts as those that were examined by other chemists ; neither did he detect alumina or ammonia, discovered by Gmelin; or iron, silica, and bitumen, by the Messrs. Herapath. It was & solemn scene, that calm lake of heavy waters before us, bordered by barren hills and shores, devoid of life, and the stillness around, only broken by “The surge's distant moan; All else is hushed! so silent, so profound, As if some viewless power presiding round With mystic spell, unbroken by a breath, Had spread for ages the repose of death.”

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GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. A sad landscape, uncheered by even a blade of grass; but “Where desert grandeur frowns in pomp sublime, For beneath those waters lie the damned Cities of the Plain.” In a few hours after we had gazed our last upon its waters, we were in Jerusalem settling with Abdallah for the escort; another hour found us galloping along the Jaffa road, and in six hours and a half after we left Jerusalem we were seated in a Jaffa café, enjoying ourselves after the fatiguing ride. This was our last night in Palestine, a region of the world possessing the highest interest, and therefore I could not help regretting that my stay had been so short ; but the recollection of the visits to its many interesting sights is as vivid and pleasing now as when they were entered in my journal; and though I would fain remain longer amid the places which from earliest childhood I had desired to visit, I am compelled to leave for another land, and to say to Palestine—farewell! a word that must be, and hath been—a sound which makes us linger ; yet—farewell ! SPLITTING THE DIFFERENCE. BY 8. ANNIE FROST. ** Comine to-day ?”’ *: Yes,’ ** Why can’t she stay at school a year or two longer ?’’ ‘* Because she is getting too old. She is now eighteen, and her father wishes her to come here for a year before she joins him at Paris. We must submit, I think, Walter, though I dread the visit as much as you do.”’ **It is a horrid bore !’’ And having arrived at this sage conclusion, Walter Hart turned his head wearily on the sofa cushion and went to sleep. His mother sat sewing for a few moments, and then quitted the room, closing the door after her softly, that she might not disturb her son’s slumbers. Who are they? Yes, to be sure; I forget that you do not know them as well as I do. Mrs. Hart was the widow of a retired banker, who, after squaring up his money matters so as to insure his family a handsome fortune, re- tired finally from worldly cares, leaving his wife, handsome and rich, with one chiid, the hero of our story. Devoted to her husband through his life, Mrs. Hart would have been inconsolable for his loss, had not the child filled up the gap in her affections. From his early childhood Walter had been very delicate. Without any chronic disease, he inherited from his father a tendency to troubles with his lungs, and a disposition to severe headaches. Living secluded from her neigh- bors, in a lovely country-seat near Philadelphia, Mrs. Hart had given her whole life to her son. Every pain he suffered was the subject of the most anxious solicitude, and questions were put every moment, till the boy really sought for symptoms till he fancied he felt them. He had gone through school life and college with a fair amount of credit; but, never exerting his really fine intellect to its full capacity, he had done no more than pass his examinations cre- ditably, never making any mark among his classmates. Once home again, the anxious maternal care, and a dawdling, lazy disposition, made him at first imagine, then reai/y suffer from ill health. Let me daguerreotype him as he lay upo the sofa on the day my story opens. A tall, well-developed figure, with broad shoulders, smail, well-shaped feet, and hands white and delicate as a lady’s ; a face with well-cut, regu- lar features, shaded by curling dark brown hair; pale, rather sallow complexion; a heavy brown moustache, and long black eyelashes. His eyes, when open, are large, dark hazel, with a dreamy, listless expression, in perfect keeping with his languid movements and low- toned, drawling voice. The room was still; only the soft June air sometimes lifted the lace curtains or stirred the leaves of the clematis that hung over the win- dow. The house was still; the servants were sitting idly in the kitchen, and Mrs. Hart was lying down in her own room. A carriage drove up to the door slowly and almost noiselessly on the well-kept gravelled road. ‘*Open the door!’’—and an impatient hand rattled the carriage-door handle. ‘‘ Mercy on me !’’—and out sprang the occupant of the carriage. ‘‘I say,’? she said, turning to the driver, ‘‘if you ever want a situation as driver of a hearse, send to me, and I’ll recommend you. Shameful, too, to drive the way you do, with such a team as that.’”’ And, jerking off her gloves, she began to pat the horse nearest as es. sm Ohl

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SPLITTING THE DIFFERENCE, 35 her on the neck. ‘Soh, pet! See, he likes it! Soh! easy! easy!’’ ‘Mrs. Hart is lying down. Will you walk in ?’’ said the girl who had opened the door. “Lying down? Is there anybody else at home ?”’ ‘*Mr. Walter is asleep.’’ ‘Asleep! The idea of a young man sleeping in the middle of the day !’’ ‘* Shall I show you to your room ?”’ ‘*Yes. Here, John, Jerry, Bob—”’ ‘*My name’s William, miss,’’ said the coach- man. ** Well, William, send somebody to carry up my trunks. Now, Araminta Elizabeth, lead the way.” The smiling girl, first suggesting that her name was Hetty, led the way to a large, cool room, exquisitely furnished ; and, having as- sisted in the unpacking of the trunks, left the young lady to refresh herself after her journey by a bath and nap, if she saw fit. The bath over, toilet made, and no sleepiness suggesting bed, Miss Kate Arnold began to take a survey of the surrounding country from her window. Do you want her portrait ? She is like Mrs. Hart in many respects, for her mother was that lady’s twin sister. A graceful figure, medium height, small hands and feet, jet black hair of great length and profusion, large black eyes, good features, and white, even teeth the ladies possess in common; but years have stricken the bloom from Mrs. Hart’s cheek, planted furrows in her brow, and sown gray threads in her hair, while her niece retains the beauties of youth and perfect health. The ruddy blood mantles on her smooth cheek, relieving the dark, clear complexion, while her eyes flash with energy, merriment, or passion, as the mood takes her. Boarding-school has failed to tame her, and with a fine mind and talents, she has passed through her studies brilliantly, but with star- tling marks of insubordination and unruly con- duct against the glowing list of prizes awarded for music, composition, drawing, and languages. Having taken a survey of the lawn from one window, the wide stretch of wood-dotted coun- try from another, and examined the furniture and arrangement of her room, Miss Kate began to grow restless, and wish somebody would come to welcome her. She twitched the smooth, glossy braids of hair into a lower sweep on her cheek, adjusted the neck and sleeves of her delicate pink lawn dress, took a look at her little slippers, and having decided that for once in her life she looked neat, she started to find her aunt and cousin. The door of the sitting-room stood open. One look showed her her aunt, whom she recognized as a lady who paid her formal visits while she was at school; and another revealed the tall form on the sofa, whom she supposed was her Cousin Walter, as yet unknown. Mrs. Hart was sewing on a piece of elaborate embroidery, and there was no sound in the room save the deep inspirations of the sleeper. ‘* Why, Aunt Martha, you did not know I was here, did you?’’ And the clear, rich voice was pitched to a tone of rather loud surprise. Mrs. Hart’s finger was laid on her lip. ‘‘ Soft- ly, my dear; don’t waken your cousin! Iam very glad to see you,” she added, in a low tone; ‘‘but I thought you might like to rest after your journey.”’ ‘*Oh, I wasn’t tired! I stayed in New York last night with Mrs. Lawson, my friend Laura’s mother.’’ ‘*Speak lower, dear; see, you disturb Wal- ter.’’ And in truth the sleeper stirred, and turned his head on the pillow, so as to face the ladies. ‘* What’s the matter with him ?’’ said Kate,, taking a long, curious look at her cousin. ‘*He’s been suffering all day with one of his bad nervous headaches.”’ ‘* His headaches! Is there any particular kind that he appropriates entirely ?’’ ‘*My dear, don’t jest on a subject that gives me such constant pain.’’ ‘*T didn’t mean anything; kiss and make up,’’ said Kate, penitently. At this moment Walter woke. ‘‘ Mother.’’ ‘‘Oh, murder,” said Kate, in a kind of stage aside, ‘‘hasn’t he got any more voice than that !’’ ‘* Your cousin has come, Walter.’’ ‘* Yes, here lam. How do you feel?’? And Kate held out her hand, as if she was afraid her cousin might fall to pieces if she touched him. ‘*Not very well,’ was the languid reply. ‘*Why, what a color you have! Are you feverish ?” ‘*Feverish! Thank you, no!”’ ‘*Do you mean to say that you always have such cheeks ?’’ ‘““Why, certainly. Why not? well.’’ ‘* Happy girl!’ sighed Walter. ‘‘ Ah, me! health is a blessing I shall never enjoy.”’ ‘* Why not? anything chronic ?’’ asked Kate, her eyes flashing mischievously. I am always

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86 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. Walter muttered something about heartless- ness, and turned away witii a weary sigh. Tea-time brought a little tray of toast and tea te the side of the interesting invalid, and Mrs. Hart, having seen that he was comfortably propped up, led the way to the dining-room. With a quick perception, sharpened by the prospect of a dull, lugubrious visit, Kate began already to have some inkling of the true state of things. A few questions, made with an appearance of sympathizing interest, drew from Mrs. Hart long accounts of her boy’s sufferings, and Kate drew the shrewd inference that her cousin’s troubles lay as much in imaginary as in real sickness. ‘*Yousay Dr. Holmes recommends exercise ?”’ ‘*Yes; Walter rides whenever he feels equal to the exertion.”’ “Tam glad I bought a new habit. Father wished me to ride well, and I have gone to riding-school for four years.’’ **Your cousin very seldom rides on horse- back ; he’ goes in the carriage. We have a very careful driver.’’ ** But that ’s not erercise,’’ persisted Kate. **It is as much as he is equal to.” Walter was sitting up when they returned to the sitting-room; but his hand supported his head, and a bottle of eau de cologne stood on the table beside him. “You are better, my son ?”’ asked his mother. “A little easier just at this moment, but I shall see Dr. Holmes to-morrow. I am con- vinced that there is danger of congestion when the head feels as mine does.” **Good gracious!” said Kate. that killed peuple.’’ ‘It is very often fatal,’ said Walter, pa- tiently. ‘* My dear son ?”’ said his mother, pleadingly. “T guess he won’t die to-night, auntie,’’ said Kate, gayly; ‘‘don’t look so forlorn. Ain’t you ashamed to worry her so?’ she added, turning fiercely upon Walter. Mother and son exchanged glances of dismay at the young lady’s utter want of sympathy, and Mrs. Hart said :— “*T thought ‘* Young people who are in high health can-. not appreciate the sufferings of those who are ill, unless they see some outward sign of pain— a broken limb or brain fever.’’ “* Yet,”’ sighed Walter, ‘‘ the more dangerous diseases‘are subtle ; slow of growth, and seldom cause alarm until it is too late for remedy.” “You don’t mean it!’ said Kate, flying to the glass. ‘I wonder if I am in a dangerous state. You suggested fever just now. I—I feel faint; I—’’ And she staggered back. With one quick bound, Walter sprang to her side, and caught her as she fell. Lifting her in his arms, he bore her to the sofa, to be re- warded by aclear, ringing laugh, and a “‘ Thank you, ever so much! I had no idea a dying man had muscle enough to carry such a heavy weight aslam! Now, don’t be angry, cousin ; it was only in fun. Confess! You are better ; the exertion has done you good?” And she laid a little hand coaxingly on his shoulder, and looked into his face with a winning smile. ‘* Any sudden excitement will give an artifi- cial strength,’’ was the reply. ‘‘I could, under the impulse of the moment, lift more than your weight, not so tremendous, after all,’’ he said, smiling; ‘* but the reaction will come.” ‘* It was cruel to alarm us so for a mere jest,’’ said Mrs. Hart, gravely. “Yet I proved Walter’s chivalry,” pleaded Kate. ‘‘See how he flew to catch me. I won’t do it again.’’ The dreaded reaction did not come that eve- ning. Twice Walter found himself laughing at Kate’s merry account of her harem-scarem freaks at school, and actually recounted some of his own college anecdotes, with an animation that surprised his mother. At ten o’clock all retired, but the reaction had not yet come, The next morning, however, Walter sent for his mother at breakfast-time, and Kate saw neither of them again for some hours. She tried to practise, but a servant was sent to say that Walter could not bear the noise. Then she went to the stable. “William ! William !’’ The clear, high call soon brought the man, whose heart Kate had carried entirely, by her admiration of his well-groomed horses. ‘Ah, there you are! Have you got any saddle-horses ?’’ ** None fit for a lady.” ‘Any fit for my cousin? I guess I can ride anything he can.”’ ‘*T don’t know, miss,”’saidtheman. ‘‘ When Mr. Walter once gets astride of a horse, that ’ere horse ’s got to mind, I tell you. He’s got the best seat and the strongest arm ever I see, and his hand on the reins is as delicate as a lady’s. He’s a rare rider when he’s once ona horse; but laws bless you, miss, he rides less and less. When I first come, it was nearly every day to saddle up (that was the year he come home from college), but now it’s months together that he don’t look at a horse.” “Oh, William,” cried Hetty, coming into

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or er eos @ Ff SPLITTING THE DIFFERENCE. 37 the stable at that moment, “‘you’re to go to town for Dr. Holmes, right off. Mr. Walter’s took worse, sudden, and Mrs. Hart’s a’most scared to death.’’ William made a plunge into a dark corner for a saddle, and Kate went rapidly to the house. Her heart was full of sorrow and self- reproach. Had she been mistaken in her esti- mate of her cousin’s illness? Was the quick, generous impulse to save her from falling really the result of over-excitement, and was this the dreaded reaction? Quick steps brought her soon to the door of her cousin’s room, and her loud rap brought her aunt to the door. **TIs he very ill?” ** Quietly, dear; your rap startled him dread- fully. His nervous system is so delicate that we avoid all sudden noises.”’ * But, Aunt Martha, what is it ?”’ ‘* He is afraid he has ruptured a bloodvessel. He complains of strange feelings in the chest and a fulness about the heart.” ‘‘Ruptured a bloodvessel! Catching me?” gasped Kate, turning very pale. ‘* Mother !’’ came, in a feeble voice from the room. ‘fT must go, dear. You will find books in the library and pictures in the portfolios ; amuse yourself as well as you can.”’ Amuse herself! Kate crept away from the door feeling more guilty and miserable than, in her usually high state of spirits, she had ever imagined it possible for her to feel. The thought that, by a freak of mischievous gayety, she had startled her cousin into an exertion ending so disastrously, completely sobered her, and even Mrs. Hart herself did not wait more anxiously for the doctor than the young girl who had ridiculed her cousin the previous day. The doctor had made his visit, written his prescription, cheered Mrs. Hart, persuaded Walter that there was no immediate danger, and was walking slowly across the entry, when a hand was laid on his arm, and a low “ Haw is he ?’’ came in trembling tones to his ear. ** Another anxious female,” was his inward comment. Aloud he said: ‘I think he will do very well.’’ ‘*Has he ruptured a bloodvessel ?”’ ** Botheration !—I mean no.” **He hasn’t? Hurra!’’ Back came the color to the fall cheek, and the light to the dark eye. ** Excuse me, doctor, but—ain’t it jolly? Then he ain’t very bad, only—but bless me, doctor, this is the second fatal disease he has been threatened with since yesterday.” **'Y-¢-e-s.”” VOL. Lxv.—3 ‘Are they always so dangerous—these at- tacks, I mean?’’ ‘* Who are you?”’ said the doctor, abruptly. “Me? Oh, I am Kate Arnold, Mrs, Hart’s niece. I’m to stay here for a year, and then go to my father; he’s in Paris.”’ ‘*Kate Arnold !”’ said the old doctor, drawing the young girl upto him; ‘‘dear! dear! sucha big girl! Why, my child, I knew your mother from her birth till her death, when you were a wee tot of athing. So you’ve come home from school. Yes, yes, Mrs. Hart was telling me you were tocome.”’ Anda fatherly kiss fell upon Kate’s ferehead. ‘*Tell me,’”’ said Kate, coaxingly, ‘‘is it al- ways so stupid here? How often is my cousin sick ?”’ ‘* Well, pretty often. You see, my dear, your cousin wants stimulus to exertion. He fairly creates illness by looking so hard for it.” **Then he is sick to-day.”’ ** Yes, feverish and languid.” ‘* Are you coming to-morrow ?”” ‘* Not unless Iam sent for. I have left some pills that will make all right, I hope.’”’ And away went the doctor. **Congestion of the brain, and rupture of a bloodvessel in the space of twenty-four hours,”’ thought Kate. ‘*No wonder he’s sick if his fancy takes such freaks as that.”’ Four days passed, wearily enough for Kate. Her cousin kept his room, and her aunt was only visible at meal times. On the fifth day, driven desperate by having nothing to do, and the quiet tedium of the house, Kate donned her riding habit, and made William saddle. Nero, Walter’s horse, and off she went for a ride. She soon found that she had undertaken as much as she could manage: Nero, a spirited horse at any time, was not aceustomed to such a light weight; the heavy cloth skirt annoyed him, and he soon became restive. Alone in a, to her, new part of the country, with a shying, kicking, self-willed steed, Miss Arnold was in her element. It was a trial of determination and strength, or what the young lady herself would have denominated ‘ pluck.”’ The interesting invalid, feeling better, came down to the sitting-room in the afternoon. His mother arranged his pillows, and he was lying lazily watching the clouds when Kate daslied in, her habit draggled with dust, her hair dis- ordered, and her hat missing entirely. **See here, cousin,’’ was her salutation, “why don’t you teach that horse of yours to mind the rein better?”

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88 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. ‘* Why, where have you been ?”’ said Walter, sitting up in astonishment. ‘*T hav’n’t the slightest idea. Over some of the roads round here. We had a fearful fight ; Nero—”’ **Nero! You ride Nero ?’’ ‘*Why not? But I won’t brag, for he had the best of it. He threw me off near the gate here, but William was in time to catch him.”’ “Threw you off? Are you hurt?” ‘*There ’s something the matter with the left wrist ; nothing much, I guess.” ** Let me see !”’ ‘* Bother !’’ was the laughing reply; then in a serious tone the gypsy added: ‘‘ No! you are very kind, but I’m afraid you will discover a compound fracture with dislocation and inflam- mation, while I believe now that it is only a slight sprain, and I had rather continue in that belief.’’ Walter finshed at the bantering tone, and then said, quietly— **T hope you will prove correct.’’ ‘*How are you? You forget that I have not seen you for four days; not since that bloodvessel broke—it is mended?’’ ‘*T am better.”’ ** Don’t look so grave. I am a rattle-brain, I know; but I was terribly frightened at first, Iassure you. Seriously now, cousin,’’ and she sat down beside him, ‘‘ don’t you think you would feel better if you did something ?’’ ‘* Did something? I am sure I do everything ; I try every remedy—’’ **Oh bother! I don’t mean that; I mean something useful—learned a profession, or went into business, or something ?’’ ‘*T cannot. My wretched state of health is a bar to any continuous exertion. I shall not cumber this earth long,’’ with a long sigh. ‘Dear me, anything new? Brain fever? consumption ?’’ ‘* I fear so; Dr. Holmes does not understand He advises exertion when every ex- ertion is followed by fearful prostration. I am convinced that my lungs are affected. Place your ear here on my chest. Don’t you hear a rumbling noise ?’’ ** Yes, | hear it. Are you sure you have not swallowed a horse and cart—or wait, it sounds more like a rattlesnake. Why, Walter, it’s your shirt front.”’ ‘* Hang the shirt bosom,’’ was the polite re- ‘* Pardon me, I did not mean to be rude, my case. ply. but—”’ ‘I provoked you, it’s all right! in retaliation. I believe I laugh at you, and give you leave to be rude if it is any relief to your wretched state of health.’’ ‘A truce!’’ cried Walter, holding out his hand. ** Agreed !’’ was Kate’s reply, as she shook it heartily. ‘‘To seal the contract, ride with me to-morrow.”’ **T am afraid.” *T ain’t. It won’t kill you. mise.’’ ** But your wrist ?’’ ‘* A mere nothing !”’ But the wrist proved the bar in the way, after all. Inthe morning it was so much inflamed that Mrs. Hart insisted upon sending for Dr. Holmes, and the old gentleman pronounced it a dislocation, very much aggravated by the night’s neglect. The painful operation of bring- ing the joints back into place was borne un- flinchingly, only an ashy whiteness round the young girl’s lips betraying how acute was the Come; pro- suffering. Walter complimented her upon her fortitude, and was thanked by asmile, that was intended to be cheerful, though the white lips writhed with pain. For several days the young lady had to sub- mit to be waited upon by Hetty, while her arm hung useless ina sling. Not once did a word of complaint fall from her. She ran with her free light step from one room to another, now turning over pictures, now playing scraps of tunes with one hand, now singing gay songs, ever cheerful and gay, ever the life of the house. She was sitting at the piano one afternoon, playing over an air with her right hand, when Walter came in. ‘* Let me hear you sing,”’ he said. ‘‘ Hear me sing—certainly.’’ ‘*] will play your accompaniment.”’ ‘*You! Do you play ?’’ “Yes. Now, what will you sing? Try the soprano—”’ ‘*Contralto, my friend ; I caunot sing scprano songs well.” ‘*Contralto. Suppose we try the prison duet from ‘Il Trovatore.’ Here is the score.”’ A few chords by way of prelude, and then Walter began to sing. His voice was a. pure, mellow tenor, and both vocally and instrument- ally, his musical talents showed high cultiva- tion. Kate’s clear, rich notes blended with his, and the music sent a thrill of pleasure through the mother, who listened in the next room. While his cousin’s cheerfulness during days of suffering was silently rebuking his own desponding spirit, Walter kept about, looking

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SPLITTING THE DIFFERENCE. 39 and feeling better than he had for months; but the day that Kate first played for him with both lands free for the piano, he had an attack of headache that sent him off to bed early in the day. The next day brought him down again; but his fears of incipient inflammation of the brain kept him very quiet for several days. Kate’s spirits, kept in training while she was crippled, flew out of all bounds with regained freedom of action. The house rang with her high voice, the piano fairly trembled with the vigorous polkas and waltzes she made it per- form, and total annihilation was threatened to Walter’s nerves. She nearly tormented him to death. Now a pin popped up from the sofa cushion to meet his cheek, and as he started, a merry laugh informed him from whence it came. Now the mixture in his medicine bottle was found to have been exchanged for a dose of molasses and water, while his pills tasted mar- vellously like raw dough. His eau de cologne was scented with turpentine, and his slippers filled with wax. At last he was driven to his own room for refuge, and Mrs. Hart, having sent for a doctor, informed Kate that she was fearful that there was inflammation of the lungs impending. A nervous cough, heard now and then from the sick room, was pointed out as confirmation of the melancholy fact. Dr. Holmes met the young lady on the porch as he went in. ‘* Well,’’ he said, after greeting her affection- ately, ‘‘ what is the matter to-day ?’’ “‘Oh, very serious,” said Kate, pulling ona long face. ‘‘ Inflammation of the duoginum.” ‘The what ?” ** Well, there’s something inflamed. Cousin Walter has been inflamed all over since I came; but now the inflammation is somewhere else.’’ “Indeed! Perhaps his heart’s affected,” said the doctor, smiling. **Not a bit of it; his heart is nothing but a circulating medium for blood that inflames.”’ “Tam afraid you are something of a mad- cap.”’ ‘*T am afraid I am.”’ And so the conversation ended. Not so the effects of it. From his open window Walter had heard every word uttered by the two, and Dr. Holmes, to his surprise, was greeted with ‘‘ So you think I am a hypochondriac ?”’ **T do and I don't,’’ was the answer. “Not satisfactory.” **T will explain. I know you are not in ro- bust health; but I think that, if you were to forget your own feelings for a time, and not search so closely for the meaning of every ache or uncomfortable sensation, you would really lose these sensations.’’ ** How can man forget his feelings ?”’ ** By having an interest in something else.”’ **You think selfishness is at the root of all my troubles ?’’ ‘*Frankly, I do.” “‘Thank you! Shake hands.’’ **You see you have the right stuff in you, or you would be offended.” “*T’ll remember what you say. Now, then, what is the first step towards getting rid of feelings ?”’ ‘*Plenty of exercise in the open air, plain diet, and sleep from fatigue, not opiate.” **T ll try it.” ‘*Good! Call on me when the prescription cures.”’ “st will.” Kate was considerably astonished to see-her inflamed cousin coming down stairs, an hour later, in his riding-dress, instead of the dress- ing-gown he had worn every day since she came to her aunt’s; she was still more aston- ished when he invited her to ride with him; and her surprise reached its climax when the York wagon was brought to the door, and, after handing her in, her cousin sprang lightly after her, and whipped the horses to a full trot. ‘Hurrah! that’s something like,’’ she cried, ‘That ’s a splendid team, Walter ; p? gleefully. that off horse is a perfect beauty “You have been my doctor,’”’ said Walter, abruptly. ‘*Now you must agree to hear some wholesome advice from me.”’ ** Go ahead,”’ was the reply. ‘*To begin, your manners want polish; your movements are too abrupt, and your language partakes too much of the—excuse me—rowdy nature.” ‘*Hey! go in, cousin! with a vengeance.”’ ‘*Suppose we agree to try to split the dif- You ’ve waked up ference, and while I try to grow more energetic, you try to subdue your high spirits, to become, in short—”’ ‘‘Ladylike. I know the word; I heard nothing else from morning till night at school. Well, it is a bargain.”’ This was the first of the rides, but they be- came daily occurrences ; sometimes on horse- back, sometimes in the more sociable wagon. The evenings were passed with music, chess, and conversation, and the afternoons sometimes with a walk, oftener with books. The terrible racking headaches became of less frequent occurrence, and when they did come,

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40 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, Walter had a new hand laid softly on his fore- head, a new voice softened for his ear. Seeing how he strove to throw off the old habits, all the woman in Kate rose before his real suffer- ing, and no one was more ready to minister to his wants at such times than his hoyden cousin. She had been but three months at her aunt’s when her father, most unexpectedly, summoned her to join him at Paris; an escort was found, and her arrangements made to leave. She was to leave for New York in the morn- ing, and the last evening together had come. Mrs. Hart left the cousins together, and to Kate’s surprise, Walter asked her to give up her journey, to make his home hers, to be his wife. ‘*T cannot, cousin.”’ ‘* But why not?” *‘T could not be happy with—with—forgive me if I pain you, but I cannot love a man who has no aim in life, no object, no ambition.’’ ‘What would you have me do? I have no occasion to go into business; I have as much money as I want.” ‘*Is money-making the only object of life ?”’ ‘Tell me what you would have me do.”’ **T would have you work, work for others, learn a profession, and practise it for good. I would have you leave this idle, useless, aimless existence, to ‘Give the world assurance of a man.’ Do you remember Longfellow’s lines, cousin ?— ‘In the world’s broad field of battle, In the bivouae of life, Be not like dumb driven cattle; Be a hero in the strife!’” ‘* And then, when I come to you as a work- ing man, you will—”’ **T will come home to you. In the mean time, trust me that I will earnestly endeavor to do my part in the ‘world’s broad field of battle,’ and also to conquer the faults that grieve you now.”’ There was a tender parting, and Kate started to cross the broad Atlantic. Three years later. Mr. Arnold has come to Philadelphia to live, having retired from business and being weary of Parisian life. Among the parties given to the rich merchant and his daughter, was one at Mrs. Lawson’s, the mother of Kate’s old schoolmate, and here we meet our heroine again. She was standing in an easy, graceful attitude near one of the marble-topped tables, conversing with a French gentleman, whose ignorance of English threw him upon her ten- der mercies for entertainment, when a stir in the groups near the door made them both look towards it. ‘It is Dr. Hart,’’ said Miss Lawson, ap- proaching the couple. ‘‘ Since his return from Washington, he has been quite a hero.’’ ‘‘ Returned from Washington ?’’ **Yes. You know he studied medicine years ago, but dropped it from ill health. About three years ago he resumed his studies, tock his diploma, and commenced practice. Last summer he went down to Washington to attend on the sick as nurse and physician, and has re- turned to meet the horor he so fairly earned by his fearless, energetic devotion to the suffer- ers.”’ ‘* My hero in the strife !’’ said Kate’s heart ; and ‘*My Cousin Walter!’ her voice cried, a moment later, as a tall, manly-looking gentle- man held out both hands to greet her. ‘¢ Miss Arnold,”’ said a voice just near enough to be heard by the cousins, ‘‘ brings from Paris its most finished manners.” Kate looked at Walter with all the old mer- riment in her eyes. ‘‘We’ve split the dif- ference,’’ she whispered. ** And you are mine ?”’ ** Yours.” —_->——_——- NOT A PUFF FOR QUACK REMEDIES. BY 8. 8. B. Founrarns of health, royal roads to learning, and philosophers’ stones, are phantoms which haunt every age. There is an aching in the human heart for a certain path to certain good, a yearning for some panacea for all ills, physi- cal, mental, and spiritual. I make this sort of a preamble, that I may own myself in the wrong in a respectable way, in common with the rest of my species. I have always had a tender leaning towards all universal restoratives; an exuberance of faith, I have called it, though some of my neighbors have dubbed my peculiarity as akin to folly. When I first woke to a consciousness of the needs of my whole being, it was to an alarming sense of deficiencies, both internal and external, secret and evident. I almost had much that was desirable; but every attractive trait or feature was marred by some drawback, and seemed to need the touch of a fairy’s wand to realize the original intention of Dame Nature. My masses of waving hair would have made a headdress fit fora Juno; but, alas, they were of ligh not hel; sibl wha In h but or d out the sear took H nost polit ply. for v I the wavi my my | buzz saccl wond nic, 1 accor I vai sé bee As my v fectu: as co by th

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NOT A PUFF FOR QUACK REMEDIES. 41 the hue of an aged carrot. My skin was fair as the early blush-rose, but every breath of spring or summer sowed it with unwelcome constella- tions, which I studied before my looking-glass, without need of Herschel or even Burritt to expound them. My eyes were large, brown, and expressive, but the red rims which sur- rounded them served as a continual halo to dim their brightness. My small taper fingers were dotted over with warts, which came like squat- ters, without leave or license, and obstinately held possession in spite of all the potent exor- cisms of my school-fellows. My tall, well-formed person would have been queenly, but for an obstinate stoop; and as for my foot, it was “‘a love” in its way, but ah me! bunions made a timely protest against my growing vanity, and promised me future aches and pains enough to whisper of ignoble martyrdom. So much for my bodily deficiencies. In mind, Nature seemed to have served me no better. I had adim notion that there was something in me, a fire which ought to give light at least, though its flickering flame might not serve to warm or invigorate. A certain helpless bashfulness, however, made it impos- sible for anybody else to more than conjecture what my real gifts and attainments might be. In heart I was all vague yearnings, and kindly, but effectual impulses, without any condensing or directing power, to call harmony and beauty out of the chaos. Such I found myself when at the ripe age of sixteen; I went through witha searching self-examination, and merchant-like, took an account of my stock in trade. Here was certainly a bitter need of panaceas, nostrums, and beautifiers. The demand, as political economists say, necessitated the sup- ply. I found what Isought: I had not a defect for which there was not a promised remedy. I need not dwell on my assiduous use of the unrivalled compound which rendered my waving locks a rich, dark brown. What was my horror, when, instead of human admirers, my head was ever surrounded by swarms of buzzing, rejoicing flies, come to revel on the saccharine mixture, which had effected the wonderful change! Shall I ever forget that pic- nic, where I was the centre of astonishment, as, accompaniéd by a persevering, winged throng, I vainly dashed about with more than a single ‘bee in my bonnet !”’ As for the preparation which was to remove my vexing, tormenting freckles, it but too ef- fectually fulfilled its engagement. My face was as completely skinned by it, as was my tongue by the ice-cold door-knob, to which I one win- 3* ter’s day applied the “unruly member;” an experiment suggested by my mischievous bro- ther. After much bitter experience, I fell on a mode of treatment for my warts, that made them ‘fold up their tents like the Arabs, and as si- lently steal away ;”’ but it was only to give place to new pests of the same kind, which seemed to come like pigeons to an “ old pigeon ground,’’ in greater numbers every year! But enough of my dabbling in quackery for my physical deficiencies. I felt that the higher, nobler part of my being needed too its purify- ing, renovating, and uplifting. How I thought and studied, memorized ac- cording to rule and without rule, made ab- stracts and marginal notes, wrote essays and criticisms, and composed high-sounding, non- sensical verses ! I read Goethe, Emerson, Carlyle, and Kant, and planned exquisite conversations on the ‘‘me and the not me,’’ the subjective and the objective, and the ‘‘ tendency to introspection, which was a part of my idiosyncrasy.” These interesting discussions were doomed to be only the companions of my solitude; in company I was painfully bashful, and could only eject monosyllables at intervals, and then resume the biting of my nails, which seemed the only relief to the gnawing misery which prevailed within me as soon as I was thrown among my fellow-beings. This cruel, blighting, obscuring bashfulness must be overcome; my determination was taken. Society, constant mingling in gay scenes was recommended, and without a mrr- mur I bowed my head to the necessary stroke. Tall, awkward, and silent, I frequented public places, I danced, I promenaded, I made a goose of myself generally. After months of such experience, I was not able to see a gentleman approaching me for conversation without a painful sense that my face was on fire, and my disfigured hands were twisting themselves in the most unlovely contortions. Worn ont with my effort to shine in society, I gave up in despair, and turned my thoughis to my moral qualities. I read all the quack works on the perfection of human nature; I labored and struggled to be seilf-poised, self- sustained, pure and noble, according to the directions of the best philosophers ; but there was ever a sinking within me, a helpless sense of want and misery, which no subtle reasoning could cast out. One happy day I met with a grand old Book which contained recipes for the cure of all my defects, either by rooting them out or by ren-

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42 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. dering them null and void. I found that I was not a creature of chance, sent into the world unfinished, to be eked out by some wonderful invention; but a part of a great plan, and doubtless an instrument intended for some pe- culiar work. It seemed that the very hairs of my head were numbered, and their every curve and shade foreknown. One who knew my vain heart had put vanity far from me; a Friend who understood my pride had made it impossi- ble for me to shine in the arena of wit or reign nid the homage of the drawing-room. For my wild yearnings there was a solution! For the chaos of wy heart there was a regulat- ing power! I had done with quackery forever ! The Great Physician had cured me with a touch! I have never married, but life is for me full of joy. There are tiny, rose-tipped fingers that fondly point out my freckles; there are young hands that admiringly smooth my now silvery hair; there are hearts that love me in spite of my many defects and shortcomings. I have ceased to care for my appearance, or to waste my tiwe in profitless self-scrutiny. I have tried to love and to be useful, and a better joy has sprung up for me than follows the belle in her triumph or the vain beauty encircled by her frivolous admirers. THE VGICES. BY WILLIE E. PABOR. A roune child lay where the water flowed From a little spring near the beaten road, And flowing away among the trees Grew into a river by degrees. The summer's sun and the summer’s heat, The butterfly chase by eager feet, Had tired the child, and he lay at rest On the green sward by the streamlet’s breast. In murmurs the cool stream flowed along, And the birds of summer sang their song, And the roses bloomed their life away On the languid breeze of the sultry day ; And there as he lay the young child’s eyes Beheld a form in an angel’s guise, And a voice, low as a mother’s prayer, Was heard as if in the upper air— “O Spirit of Light! the future trace On the pearly lines of the young child’s face, And say if the coming years for him Are with pleasure bright or sorrow dim.”’ The angel bent on the child her eye, And sweet and sad came her low reply— “The warp and the woof of life I see, But I may not trace his destiny ; I see two paths, and I see two hands, Each beckoning on to distant lands, And I see a thousand eager feet Hurrying on their fate to meet.” The angel paused ; and from upper air Cume the voice low as a mother’s prayer— “© Spirit of Light! look once again! The veil of the future rend in twain, And tell me which hand the child will take Of the two that beckon, for sweet love's sake.” “Both paths are fair, and both beckoning hands,” Said the angel, “‘ lead to sunny lands At first, and the fairest roses grow At either gate! but not always so; One path is narrow and one is wide, And at starting they are side by side; But I see them turn aside at last, And over one there’s a shadow cast ; But I cannot tell, though for sweet love’s sake, Which of the two roads the child will take.” Then another voice, as if from the stream, Took up the low burden of the theme, Saying, ‘* Pledge the child to water clear, And I'll watch over him, year by year.” “And who are you?” said the voice in air; “*And who are you?” said the angel fair; “Il am a spirit without pretence,” Said the voice; ‘‘my name is Temperance ; I walked with Adam in Paradise, And now, when his children live in vice, I plead with the erring and guide the feet Of the young to where cool waters meet ; Health, wealth, and strength at my hand await Who walk with me fear no adverse fate ; The storm may come and the tempest sweep, The winds wail over the restless deep, But safe in haven are they who stand In ranks of Temperance through the land. I’m the widow’s friend, the orphan’s guide, The shield of the bridegroom and the bride, The rock of strength to the ones that roam, And the light of loving ones at home.” Then the voice in air and the angel fair Said, ‘‘ Take the young child and lead him where The tides of Temperance bathe the soul, And waves of health and happiness roll. Take him and make him to all his kind As strength to the weak and sight to the blind. Though in the future we cannot see, Yet faith reveals the child’s destiny.” Then the voice in air and the angel fair Faded away in the summer air, And the child, at rest beside the stream, Awoke, and lo! it was alla dream; But the voices of that summer day Through life his memory kept alway. Tur Homan Veice.—God has made the whole earth vocal with sweet sounds. The untravelled forest echoes the notes of the wild bird, and the habitations of men are made glad by the song of the feathered minstrel. But, above all, the hu- man voice, that combines the highest charm of sweet sounds with the inspiration of thought, is given for no ordinary purpose of earthly pleas- ure. In its whisper of affection how grateful! For its participation in joy how unspeakable! 8a! sea Nes sliy to | stu P full stu the: tien that aid. chai knit quic ate drev shot the wise was matt Sine infar year of sp

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rhole elled i the ng of e hu- rm of ht, is pleas- efull able ! DEBORAH FLETCHER. BY HESTER DUNK, In hereasy-chair behind the stove, inthesnug- gest corner of the room, sat the invalid wife and mother, wrapped in a large shawl; yet she shivered occasionally as the wind swept in fearful gusts around the house, and roared and shrieked in the chimney, while the snow beat heavily against the windows, and, sifting through the chinks, lay in little drifts upon the window-sills and on the carpet just below. All day long the storm had been raging, and it seemed only to increase as night and darkness deepened. On the other side of the stove a table was drawn up so as to bring it a little more within the limits of the Temperate Zone, as John Fletcher said. The young gentleman himself, a tall, well-developed youth of eighteen, with his stockinged feet upon the stove-hearth, was bending in a very studious attitude over a Latin author, quite uncertain in his own mind whe- ther, after all, he was likely to pass muster in his examination before the authorities of College, and be allowed to enter so much in advance as he wished. His sister Rose, a year and a half younger than himself, was seated near him, getting her materials in readi- ness for making him the much-needed pair of slippers, which slippers, be it understood, were to outshine anything of the sort that college student had ever worn before. Perfect quiet reigned in the room. Rose was fully occupied in sorting her worsteds and studying her pattern, while John now and then turned the leaves of his dictionary impa- tiently, vexed that he could not render this, that, or the other passage perfectly without its aid. Meantime the mother leaned back in her chair, closing and unclosing her eyes by turns, knitting her forehead and catching her breath quickly sometimes, as if with sudden pain, and at every fresh gust of wind she started and drew her shawl a little more closely around her shoulders. The expression of her face was for the most part mild, patient, resigned; other- wise there was no trace of beauty. The cheek was very pale, the eye sunken, the hair pre- maturely streaked with silver. What wonder? Since that blooming daughter was a wailing infant, she had not known health, and for six years she had been the almost helpless victim of spinal disease, passing her time between her bed and her chair, lifted from one to the other in the arms of her husband, and now, in his absence, by this stalwart son. The door opened from the kitchen, and, work- basket in hand, a lady entered; a young lady, we had well nigh said, for she looked almost youthful in the soft light of the astral lamp, with such a rich glow upon her cheek. She was tall, and not ungraceful in her form and movements. The head was not perfectly well- shaped, nor the features very regular; yet the auburn hair was parted so smoothly from the fair forehead, the whole face was so fair, the eye turned and lighted so quickly when you spoke to her, the mouth parted into smiles so easily and so sweetly, she was most agreeable to look upon, certainly, if not positively hand- some. Her age it was quite impossible to guess. The three occupants of the room looked up as she entered. Rose, being nearest the door, smilingly offered her comfortable seat, situated as it was, teo, most convenient to the light, and retired herself a little farther from the stove. Deborah Fletcher, after a little gentle opposition, took the vacated chair, and, setting her basket upon the table, took therefrom a bit of snowy linen, and applied herself diligently to stitching. The various articles of apparel, useful and otherwise, that were to form our student’s outfit had kept her eyes and fingers in rapid play for some weeks past. John, indeed, declared that they made almost as much fuss “ fixing’’ him off for college as they would, when the proper time came, in getting Rose ready to be married. John was a little given to extrava- gance, however; he was not to have a stock of clethes reasonably sufficient to last a lifetime, and a bride generally does. ‘¢ Well, Aunt Deborah,’’ said Rose, ‘‘ our new girl is going to be just like all the rest of them, I suppose. You give her all the directions about breakfast the night beforehand, and then get up in the morning as early as she does to see that she attends to them.’’ Deborah smiled a reply to this; but she was looking anxiously towards her sister-in-law. “You feel worse than usual to-night, 1’m afraid, Sarah.’’ ‘“‘O no; I’m a little more nervous, that’s all. How the wind does blow!” as a wilder blast than ever shook every door and window- 43

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44 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. pane. ‘The whole house fairly rocks. It isa dreadful night.”’ John had not observed his mother’s dis- quietude before. He laid aside his books in- stantly now, flung open the stove door, crowded in more wood, and, with the clatter of poker and tongs, created altogether quite a diversion. ‘* Anything but a snowstorm this time of year,” said he, shivering and holding out both hands towards the fire. ‘The tenth of April— it is ridiculous! I shall emigrate to a milder climate as soon as I am my own master. I won’t live up here in these frozen regions any longer.”’ ‘The tenth of April? so it is,’’? said Mrs. Fleteher. ‘Why, Deborah, it is your birth- day. Had you thought of it?” “Certainly. I thought of it the first thing this morning.”’ ‘Why didn’t you mention it, Aunt Deborah ?” said John. ‘* We would have had a little bit of a celebration.” “Thank you,” she answered, laughing; ‘‘but ladies of my age do not care to have much notice taken of their birthdays; the less said about them the better, generally.’’ ‘*How old are you, aunty ?’’ queried Rose, who had no memory for dates. ‘I never can keep the run of it.” ‘*Tell her twenty-six or seven,” suggested the nephew; ‘“‘you might pass yourself off easily for that.’’ ‘Perhaps. But what are you going to do with that faithful witness, the old family Bible there? ‘Deborah Fletcher, born so and so,’ all down in black and white, in my father’s own handwriting—to say nothing of the three or four uncles and aunts still alive, who stand ready to give in their testimony on the shortest notice. No, it won’t do; I am thirty-five, Rosy, dear, at your service. Dreadful, isn’t it??? Rose evidently thought it was, judging from the expression of her face. Her aunt regarded her with much amusement. ‘*It is not so very bad, after all,’’ patting the plump cheek. ‘You are looking at it in the light of childish prejudices and girlish notions. By and by, when you occupy a different stand- point, you will be surprised to see how different itappears. I don’t think of myself as very old, I assure you, and certainly I do not feel Jlium Suit to be written upon all my joys. The little Latin I am mistress of I get off occasionally for your benefit ; you understand, Mr. John.” ‘*But seriously, now, Aunt Deborah,”’ said Rose, ‘“‘don’t you wish sometimes that you could be set back again—be young once more as I am now ?’’ ‘*Never!’? She spoke very decidedly, and her brow contracted for a moment as if with a painful memory. Then she laughed lightly. ‘*What do you think, Rose? At your age I was a tall, overgrown, awkward girl—taken to be a great deal older than I was always—anid very plain, looking every way; with red hair, John, your particular aversion.”’ ‘*It has darkened, then, until it is the most beautiful color in the world,” said the young gentleman, passing his hand caressingly over the soft and shining bands as she bent her head again over her work. ‘‘ And you have but just a good height and stately proportions now,”’ glancing disparagingly at his sister, who was decidedly under-sized. ‘* And everybody is always telling you you have such a youthful face, so fair and fresh,”’ added Rose, not condescending to notice the slighting expression directed towards herself. ‘Ts she really prettier now than she was when a young girl, mother?” ** Much !’’ exclaimed Mrs. Fletcher, with in- voluntary earnestness. She sighed as she spoke. Was she thinking how beautiful slre herself had been considered once? How worn and faded she was now? But the pang passed inamoment. She looked towards her sister-in- law with affectionate admiration. ‘* You never looked otherwise than well in the eyes of your friends, you know, Deborah, though you seem to grow handsomer and handsomer every year.”’ Rose was in deep reflection. The subject appeared to be one of great interest to her. ** After all,’’ she said, slowly, ‘‘I should want to be always young if—’’ if she never married, perhaps she was going to say, but she left the sentence incomplete. ‘‘It seems to me it must be very unpleasant passing through the tran- sition stages out of girlhood into—’’ ** Old maidenhood,’’ laughed Deborah, as her niece hesitated. ‘* Perhaps it is ; I don’t know anything about it by experience. All things continue with me just as they were from the beginning. Properly speaking, I never had a young ladyhood, so I had not that to lose. The girls at school were forever talking of my good, sober, motherly ways, and treating me accordingly; while to yourg men I was never anything but a kind of aunt or elder sister. They all liked me, I be- lieve: they were fond of me ina certain way— just as my nephews and nieces are now. It is all one and the same. I see no difference.”’ Rose puzzled over this aspect of the case app Ri if th have ford an il ‘ec little Uncl “ ] “ . as he that away Aunt very corres not s¢ Mrs some and t] what did n¢

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- ut rly DEBORAH FLETCHER, 45 awhile in silence. ‘‘ But, Aunt Deborah,’ she said, at last, ‘‘ you had a great many gentlemen friends and correspondents. The other day, when you were looking over old letters, I saw packages labelled ‘Peter Hartley,’ ‘Henry Cooper,’ ‘Thomas Barton,’ ‘ Edward’—I don’t know what. I thought surely some of them were—”’ ** If you thought any of these gentlemen more than friends to me, my dear, you were mistaken. There is nothing in the letters you might not see. Some are of a purely literary character ; some ask advice—just as John here, when he gets into a scrape, always comes to me; some are confidential, bursting with a happy secret, just as this same John, when he falls in love and is accepted, won’t be able to rest a minute until I know it and offer my congratulations.” John laughed and blushed a little. ‘‘You’d be the grandest woman to go to, aunty, under such circumstances, I don’t doubt. It was mean of those fellows, though. I don’t like them at all. They showed very bad taste.” ‘““Why? Because they didn’t choose me for awife? I bear them no ill-will upon that ac- count, I assure you.”’ ** And so, Aunt Deborah, you—never—had,”’ began Rose. ** Dosee that girl!’’ exclaimed John. ‘* Aunt Deborah, it ’s a case of lifeand death. You’ll have to tell her whether you ever had any offers, or whether you are an old maid strictly from necessity.’’ ‘*T never had any that I cared to accept, it appears,’’ she answered, calmly. Rose looked at her questioningly, wondering if there had ever been any one whom she would have accepted had the opportunity been af- forded. But she did not quite dare put such an inquiry into words. ‘* Speaking of old letters,’’ said John, after a little pause, ‘‘ wasn’t there a package from Uncle Charles among the rest ?’’ ‘Not that Iremember. No.” *“Why,’’ and John looked towards his aunt as he spoke, ‘‘I recollect, when he was here for that visit he made us so long ago (you were away, you know, Aunt Deborah—it was when Aunt Maria was so sick and died), he inquired very particularly after you, calling you his old correspondent, and regretted so much he could not see you.”’ Mrs. Fletcher had been looking uneasy for some time. She opened her lips now to speak, and then closed them again as if at a loss just what to say. Deborah’s color rose a little; she did not answer quite readily. ** Yes, he was one of my very good friends, too. I have his letters somewhere.’’ ‘*T don’t think he’s been a very affectionate brother to you, mother,’? remarked Jobn. ‘** Just that one visit was all he ever made you! And Aunt Jane has never been at all. Father writes that perhaps he shall be able to persuade him to come up with him now from Albany ; but the Legislature will be breaking up just at the time when the roads are most execrable, and I fancy he will give us the slip, after all.’’ Deborah was turning her work nervously. She bent her head, too, as if her eyesight were failing her a little. Mrs. Fletcher answered— ‘*Seventy miles by stage, my son, takes rather more time than a hard-working lawyer can well spare. And you know he always speaks of his wife as very delicate. When we get our new railroad, he promises that we shall see him often.” (The reader will understand that the scene of our story is laid in one of the northern coun- ties of New York. Mrs. Fletcher’s brother, Charles Stephens, resided in qnite another part of the State, and the facilities of commu- nication at that time were not such as to favor much intercourse except by letter. The broth- ers-in-law, however, were spending the winter together in the capital. Mr. Stephens was a Senator ; the other a Representative.) ‘* Well, I hope we shall see him again some time or other; Iliked him somuch. He isa right noble fellow; I think I am going to be like him.”’ ‘*John,’”’? said Mrs. Fletcher, suddenly, ‘*I think I must go tobed soon. Just step in and light my fire, will you? Betsy made it all ready, I believe, this morning. And do put up your sewing, Deborah; you look tired.” ‘Tam not tired.”” She began to fold up her work immediately, however. ‘‘I wish there was something I could do for you. The wind does not blow quite so hard as it did, I think. I hope you may be able to sleep.’’ John was out of the room ten minutes, per- haps. Rose was just saying, ‘‘I can get mother to bed without your help, Aunt Deborah,” when he returned. “IT second the motion,’’ he responded, promptly. He had been thinking up a bright thought while waiting for his fireto burn, ‘I tell you what it is, Rose, the sooner you qualify yourself to get along without her the better. We sha’n’t keep her always.’’ ‘* What do you mean ?”’ ‘*Well, I don’t know how many offers she may have had in her younger days, but I know

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46 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. she’s had more lately than any lady in the town, and she’s likely to have more and more every year for a dozen years tocome. The old excuse that she can’t be spared from us won’t serve her much longer, now that you are getting so much a woman, and we shall have her spirited away in spite of everything.” **Don’t be uneasy,’’ said Deborah, smiling ; ‘*there is no danger.”’ **IT don’t know about that. I’Jl bet any- thing now that, after having lived a single wo- man so long, you ’Il end by marrying after all. It’s the way old maids do, sooner or later. They are never satisfied without making a trial of the conjugal state even at the eleventh hour. I tell you it’s gospel truth”—waxing eloquent as Deborah shook her head, still slightly smil- ing. ‘‘Just look around and see what has happened, right in our own immediate neigh- borhood, to the most confirmed, inveterate cases. There was Betsy Brown, fifty-six years old if she was a day, and wholly dried up and gone to seed, to all appearances. Yet first any body knew she was metamorphosed into Abram Johnson’s third wife, with ten sons and daugh- ters ready furnished to her hands. And Phebe White, the tailoress, forty and past without doubt: the gossips made her out much older than that, but, as she never would tell her age, of course they took care to pitch the figure at least high enough. What has she done but gone and married Peter Franklin with all his butter and cheese, and his six little ones to look after, though she doesn’t know the first thing about dairy-work, and never had the care of a child in her life. A pretty time she has of it, they say, in her new sphere of action. She ’s wished herself back in the good old com- pany of her press-board and her goose, a great inany times, I guess. But you see what you are coming to, if you don’t take care.”’ *‘T am not in the least alarmed, my dear John.” ‘*No? You don’t see your danger as I do, then. Why, you are the most eligible woman there is anywhere around for a second or third wife. All the widowers in town have got their eyes on you—Deacon Adams, and Squire Bron- son, and Judge Armstrong, and I don’t know how many more. I see how they look at you in church; I know what they are thinking. They have all your various recommendations carefully considered and at their tongues’ end, you may depend. ‘Snug little property; smart, capable, energetic woman; understands all kinds of business—manages everything about the house, you know, her brother’s wife is such an invalid; good-looking, too, and the sweetest- tempered creature in the world ; capital to get along and bring up children: look at that fine nephew and niece of hers, if you want a speci- men.” Here John broke down laughing and out of breath. His auditors were laughing, too, but not with quite so keen an appreciation of his wit as he thought it deserved. **You are not altogether indebted to me for your good qualities—if you have any,’’ said Deborah. ‘* Your parents have had something to do in making you what you are.” John stood at the back of his mother’s chair, ready to trundle ber into her own room. He lifted one of her thin hands and pressed it be- tween both his most affectionately. ‘*Of course. You get all the credit of it though, with those plaguy widowers, aunty. I declare, I’m almost sorry Rose and I are such model young people, if it’s going to be the means of our losing you. I sha’n’t have any peace of my life while [am away. Every time I hear of any poor woman’s dying I shall trem- ble in my shoes—and slippers, if I ever get them—saying to myself, ‘ There’s another va- eancy which Aunt Deborah will be invited to fill in a year or so, I suppose.’ However, there is no use in struggling against fate. Some day you are sure to get your feelings worked upon by the sight of some poor man left forlorn and desolate, with his two or three or half dozen motherless littie ones, and youll feel it your duty to try and comfort him, and see how use- ful you can make yourself. See if you don’t, now.”’ Mrs. Fletcher had been undressed and laid carefully in bed. Rose lingered, passing her hand softly over the pale forehead, stroking the gray hair, and striving by every gentle endeavor to soothe away the pain which every movement increased to such acuteness. Gradually the face grew quiet in expression; the patient sufferer opened her eyes and looked tenderly at her danghter. ‘That will do, darling; I am better now. But you had better come to bed yourself soon. And tell John not to sit up late.” Rose still lingered. ‘‘ Mother,’’ she said, speaking very low, ‘‘I want to ask you a ques- tion. Wasn’t Aunt Deborah in love with some one once ?” Mrs. Fletcher was taken by surprise. She did not answer, but the expression of her face was quite enough. ** Mother, was it Uncle Charles ?”’

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DEBORAH FLETCHER. 47 Mrs. Fletcher was more and more astonished. She had hardly begun to realize that her daugh- ter was a child no longer. ‘*What a womanly acuteness you are get- ting, Rose. But you must never speak of this again. If your aunt ever had any such un- happiness, she bore it in silence and alone. I knew nothing but what I suspected, and | may have been mistaken. I never mentioned my suspicions even to your father, and my brother did not dream of such a thing, Iknow. Rose!” after a pause, ‘‘ don’t look so excited, and get your sympathies so wrought up. All this was fifteen or sixteen years ago, you must remem- ber. If she could have met Charles oftener, seen him with wife and daughter, she would have grown quite easy concerning him very soon. As it is, it has not been a settled grief with her at all; don’t let your romantic little head suppose it has. It is only a painful re- membrance coming up occasionally like the shadow of a passing cloud. I know no happier woman than she is. How can she be otherwise than happy, so unselfishly as she lives, so faith- fully as she discharges every duty? Let it be a lesson to you, my child.” The dark eyes of the young girl swam in tears. ‘‘It will be my own fault,’’ she whis- pered, ‘‘if [ am not all a woman ought to be. Such a noble aunt, such asweet, patient mother as I have had for my teachers. Her life and yours are both better than any sermon.”’ Deborah Fletcher went to her own room. Wind and snow were beating against the win- dow. A wintry frostiness was in the air. She heeded nothing. to shut the whole world out, and setting her light down upon a large old-fashioned piece of furniture, half bureau, half writing-desk, at which she always read and wrote, she threw a Barring her door, as if glad shawl hastily around her and began pacing restlessly to and fro. Memories and associa- tions had just been awakened which would not at once be laid to rest, and the flushed cheek, the dilated eye, and the compressed mouth, bore witness to the power these memories had to give her pain. It was but for a little. Gradually the step grew gentle and regular, and a softened ex- pression came to the face. She even smiled in wonder and pity for her weakness as she sat down before her desk and quietly reflected. How wrong and foolish she was in calling up what was so long past, and feeling it again as And what was Had her girlhood, of which she if it were actual and present! it, after all? had been thinking so bitterly, really been an unhappy one, upon the whole? True, the lightness, the grace, the nameless charm of youth had not been hers; she had never known the tribute which such things bring to their possessor, and because of this there had some- times been a pang at her heart which none knew of or suspected. But had she, therefore, been lonely or neglected? No. Both with her own sex and the other she had been a favorite even, and for attentions of a certain sort she had never lacked. How pleased her young friends always were to have her with them! what confidence they had reposed in her! what dependence placed upon her judgment! How had all little misunderstandings among the girls, all lovers’ quarrels been left for her to settle! Whocould reconcile and smooth matters all around so well asshe? The love, the friend- ship, the gratitude she had received in return Though she had not relished the unenviable superiority of her position, though she had inly wished it dif- ferent then, could anything have been so plea- were something, certainly. sant to remember and to look back to now? One dark cloud there had been at the last. Yes ; its shadow reached far forward; it fellupon hereven now. Charles Stephens she had loved ; there had been a time when she believed that His letters—she took from a secret drawer the package, and, not loosening the ribbon which confined them, held them in he loved her. her hand, steadily gazing at them—there had been only kindness and friendship in them, but she had read much more from them once. The words had carried a deeper meaning than they bore now, interpreted as they had been by the response of her own heart, and for a brief, brief season she had lived in a bewildering dream of happiness, wholly given up to blindness and delusion. Well, the delusion had been rudely broken ; that letter—she singled it out with her eye from all the others—that letter came, telling her of his successful love for another, and asking her congratulation. This she had freely tendered ; but then she had knelt in her wild agony, and prayed to be allowed to lay down the life which had no longer any charm. ness, had pardoned her that sinful prayer; he had spared the life she would so recklessly have flung away, and made it a most precious gift—if not to herself, to others. Unalloyed health, energy, capacity had been granted her, and a constant field for the employment and exercise of all her powers. To her brother’s wife—O how Nght her own trial in comparison God, in His good-

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48 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. with that of one who must simply suffer and be still!—to her brother’s wife she had been a ne- cessity ; to the children everything. Her days had been crowned with usefulness, and now she was reaping her reward. In blessing others, how blessed she had at length become herself! Where was there a wife and mother so honored, so beloved, so glad as she? Deborah’s prayer that night was like a song of praise. Towards the evening of a very warm day in the month of July, Mrs. Fletcher and Deborah were sitting quietly together. Mr. Fletcher, now for the first time introduced to the notice of the reader, was leaning out of a window in the back part of the room, watching, with some fatherly pride, the neat little figure of Rose, as she flitted hither and thither among the flower-bordered alleys of the garden, water- ing-pot in hand. He drewin his head, however, and faced about quickly as he heard the click of the front gate and the sound of John’s step in the hall. Glancing at the large, powerfully- built frame, the kindly, hearty, yet roguish expression of face, we see at once where the said John got some of his principal characteris- ties. ** Another letter from Uncle Charles, mother.”’ And the young gentleman tossed it playfully into her lap; then he drew her chair up to the window, that she might have the benefit of all the daylight that yet remained. **Charles is growing very brotherly indeed, since his wife’s death,’’ remarked the husband, dryly, as Mrs. Fletcher proceeded to unfold and read the letter, first to herself, and then aloud. ‘*The only trouble is that his letters are just alike. He’s written you four or five in as many weeks, all precisely to the same effect.’’ ** Poor Charles !’’ said Mrs. Fletcher, sighing. Deborah was looking absently another way. Mr. Fletcher regarded them very gravely for a moment; then he burst into a laugh. “I have heard women called quick to take a hint,”’ he remarked; ‘‘ but you are both of you as blind as bats. I wonder now if it’s worth my while to try to beat anything into you? Just observe what he says, won’t you? ‘His own grief and loneliness he can endure better than the sight of his daughter’s. The aunt who would gladly receive her into her family is a most injudicious person, with whom he cannot tliink of leaving her. He cannot have her at home simply with the servants; he cannot bear the idea of sending her away to school.’ So what can the poor man do? My dear Mrs. Fletcher, my dear Miss Deborah, do you feel yourselves capable of giving any advice ?”’ ‘“‘T have understood him well enough all along, I suppose,’’ returned the wife; ‘I think he wishes to send the girl here. But I did not quite like to propose anything of the sort; the trouble, you know, will necessarily come prin- cipally upon Deborah.” Deborah raised her clear eyes. ‘‘My dear sister, I am very sorry you should have given yourself any uneasiness upon that account. If you choose to have her come to you’’—with a slight accent upon the last word—‘‘I am will- ing, certainly.” ‘* But,” replied Mrs. Fletcher, hesitatingly, **T do not fancy, from what Charles says of her, that she will be very easily managed. He speaks of ‘ her delicate physical and mental organization as being a source of so much anxiety to him ;’ of ‘her inconsolable grief for the loss of a perhaps too fond mother,’ and so on. However, I will write and ask him to come and make us a visit, and bring her with him. He can then judge for himself whether this is the right place for her, and leave her or take her away, as suits him best. What do you say, Ezra?’ she added, turning to her husband. ; ‘* You ladies must do as you please,’’ said Mr. Fletcher, rising from his chair and looking about for his hat. He had just remembered a political meeting which he had promised to at- tend. ‘Only I hope the girl won’t resemble ‘the too fond mother’ now deceased.” ‘*Why, father,’ said John, who had been listening to the conversation in some little won- der, particularly at the last remark, ‘‘ what do you know about Aunt Jane ?”’ ‘* Nothing at all; that’s the trouble. I used to read all my letters from home to your uncle last winter—your mother’s, and Deborah’s, and Rose’s, and yours—and he always seemed very much interested in them ; but he never returned the compliment, mind, or said anything about his wife unless I questioned him directly. That struek me as rather suspicious; and then he looked unhappy, too, just as a man does when all isn’t right at home. However,’’ glancing at his wife for the mild reproof he knew he should see in her eye, ‘‘it’s none of my business, I know, and I’d better have kept it to myself. But if there has been anything unpleasant in Charles’s domestic life, I know him too well to think the fault could have been his.” Mr. Fletcher went out by the hall door as he finished, and John disappeared into the garden | in pursuit of his sister, to be the first to tell her Qew @ oO te ht

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ill- een ron- , do ised ncle and rery ned out ‘hat | he hen g at yuld is, I self. t in ll to s he rden her DEBORAH FLETCHER. 49 the news. ‘‘ Where are you, Miss ?’’ he called out once or twice, for she was not at first in sight. ‘‘Oh, here behind the rose-bushes— yourself the fairest Rose. Well, now, mother has got another letter from Uncle Charles. Guess what he writes !’’ **Is he coming here?” Rose turned quite pale as she spoke, and the watering-pot dropped from her hand. **Dear me! you needn’t look so frightened. Of course he’s coming, and going to bring his daughter with him. I thought you would be pleased.’’ Rose stood in an attitude of deep reflection. “‘ How strangely things do come around in this world,’’ she said. ‘‘ To think that last spring, when we were talking so much about Uncle Charles, he should have been called homesosud- denly by the sickness of his wife. She died so very soon afterwards, too. And now he is com- ing here under such very different circumstances from what we could have expected then.’’ John did not understand what had led Rose to take on such a moralizing tone. ‘ Jenny, as her father calls her,’’ he carelessly remarked, ‘* will be a great deal of company for you, for all she ’s three or four years younger than you are, and you won’t miss me so much. Do you know, I think you ’ve been quite pining away this summer? You must look in better trim the next time I come; I may bring my chum with me. You know he’s dreadfully in love with you already.’’ **T don’t know how that can be when he has never seen me,” Rose answered very gravely, though she blushed in spite of herself. ‘* Well, I don’t know whether it was the slippers, or the daguerreotype, or the glowing account I gave of you. Altogether they did the business pretty effectually.”’ ‘* Pooh !’’ said Rose, turning and walking to- wards the house. John followed her. One term in college had not changed him very materially, except for the worse, as his friends all told him; and he was, if possible, a more incorrigi- ble teaze than ever. “You see I am willing to do what I can for you, Rose, in a brotherly kind of way. I don’t know as I should care to have you an old maid myself. Aunt Deborah is splendid; but one in the family seems to be about enough. Let’s see, you are a few days past seventeen, aren’t you? Really, the case requires immediate at- tention.”’ “ Now, John, do talk a little sense, can’t you, for once ?”’ ** Why, Rose, you know you wouldu’t like to VOL. LXv.—4 play such a part as Aunt Deborah does—have no love affairs of your own, and so be able to enter all the more heartily into those of others. You are going to prefer a little personal experience.’’ His sister made no reply, and John’s thoughts were presently diverted into another channel. “The worst of it,’’ said he, ‘‘about Uncle Charles’s coming is, that he’s awidower. He will be proposing to Aunt Deborah in a week or so, I'll warrant.’’ “ John, don’t, pray don’t say a word to her about it!’’? exclaimed Rose, catching hold of his arm in her earnestness. ‘‘ Promise me you won’t.”’ John would not promise, and often after- wards, for many successive days, he made various pretences of approaching the forbidden subject, for the sake of seeing Rose start and look so uneasily and threateningly at him. Still he faithfully remembered and attended to the request, contenting himself with saying once or twice to Deborah in a pitying tone: “‘ What a shame, aunty, that you have got to take another child to bring up, just as you thought you were going to have such an easy time of it. However, there ’s one good thing about it: it will serve to keep you in practice. And then, if Cousin Jenny proves as trouble- some as father and mother seem to expect, it will make you think all the more of Rose and me. I don’t believe you ever quite appreciated us.’”? The summer, the autumn, yes, and the long winter passed away, bringing with them scenes and incidents in the lives of our friends, the Fletchers, which must be left to the imagination of the reader. And now the year had rolled quite around since the opening of our story, and April had come again. A very different April from the last —sunshine, soft airs, life and beauty every- where; this was spring indeed. John, who had been teaching a part of the winter (for his father thought it quite as well that he should be indebted for his education somewhat to his own exertions), and had but just come home from the scene of his labors, acknowledged that the weather for once had his unqualified appro- bation. Rose and Jenny, too, were in high spirits with the prospect of getting out into the fields and woods again. There was only one drawback to the happiness of all—the invalid was suffering more than usual, and for some days had been confined altogether to her room. Leaving her charge asleep one afternoon, Deborah stole out to the open window of the

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50 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. sitting-room to look at the young people just commencing operations in the garden. She watched their animated faces with pleasure, returned the smiles and nods with which they greeted her appearance, then sat down to the never-ending sewing, thinking some very plea- sant thoughts. Occasionally fragments of the conversation going on without floated to her ear. Indeed, judging from the frequent glances which John directed towards her, as well as from the raised tone in which he spoke, some of it was intended principally for her benefit. ‘*So Judge Armstrong has been here again, has he? I met him right by the gate as I came in.”? Rose’s reply was inaudible, but John’s voice came again very distinctly— “She gave him his walking-ticket, then, this time, I guess. He didn’t look very much elated. Poor man!’’ was added presently, ‘‘I suppose he really thought he stood some chance. A judge, a Congressman, and the greatest land- holder in all these parts! Aunt Deborah is rather difficult to suit.’’ Rose apparently made some remarks expres- sive of her contempt for such merely external advantages, for the answer was: ‘‘ Well, but such anappeal as it was to her benevolence, then. The judge himself begins to look rather seedy, with no wife to look after him, and then there ’s a blind sister, and a lame son, and a teething baby, and I don’t know what besides. Where will she ever see another such an opening for making herself generally useful ?” Deborah could not forbear smiling at the saucy look cast in her direction at the close of this speech; but his next words grated harshly upon her ear. ** It’s curious, now, that the first thing a man does when he loses one better half, is to set abont looking up another. The deacon’s wife had been dead just a fortnight when he started oa his search, the doctor’s five months, the squire’s seven months, three weeks, and two days, to be very exact. The judge has behaved very respectably, to be sure—waited rather over a year, actually; but there isn’t another such case on record—in the annals of this town, at least. Rose, what makes you look so wrathy ? Jenny, don’t bite my head off, I beg of you. If either of you should happen to die before your husbands—that are to be—they would go mourning to the end of their days, I have mo doubt. But common women mustn’t expect anything of the scrt.’’ Jenny twitched her little hoe nervously through the dirt; then looked up with flashing eyes. ‘‘My father won’t ever marry again,’ she exclaimed, in an excited, indignant tone, while the veins swelled in her neck and the hot blood mantled cheek and forehead. ‘I know he won’t.”’ John was quite confounded for a moment; he had forgotten that he was venturing upon such delicate ground ; but’he would not retreat now, and he began, laughingly, to offer apolo- gies and explanations which only made the matter worse. Deborah, however, heard no more. By a singular coincidence, a letter was handed in to her just at this moment. It was from her brother—a very few words announcing that the Legislature had closed its session, and that he and Stephens might be expected ina day or two, at least. A postscript was added, which ran as follows :— ‘* By the way, Charles will take his daughter away from us very soon, I suppose—as soon as he gets her another mother. He has been quite a lion here this winter, you must know, since he made his great speech in the Senate. I can’t tell how many widows and single ladies of uncertain age have set their caps for him, to say nothing of girls hardly out of their teens. I didn’t know he would ever be able to make up his mind among so many; but he has made his selection, he tells me—one that does great credit to his taste, only he seems quite afraid that he shall get ‘no,’ instead of ‘yes,’ for an answer. Very modest, for a widower, isn’t he? What do you think of his chances for success ?”’ It was well there was no one present to see how the paper shook in Deborah’s hand as she read, and how pale her cheek became. As by a lightning flash, her soul stood revealed to her, and she was filled with self-reproach and humiliation. Oh, she had been no wiser than in her youth. The old love had come back to her, his face bearing so strongly the marks of care and sorrow, and she had not been able to resist the hope that it might perhaps be hers to light it again with happiness. Again she had allowed her heart to thrill beneath his glance, and her pulse to quicken at his lightest tone. His daughter, a slight, fair girl, with dark eyes —her father’s eyes—and with many naturally noble traits of character, though passionate, proud, self-willed—indeed, altogether ungov- erned—this daughter Deborah felt that she had taken to her heart, and watched over and trained with more than a mother’s solicitude. She had thought, as the father at each suc- cessive visit observed the gradual improvement in his child, that he prized the change all the more because her hand had wrought it.

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~~ “se FP mew wewy Tt F = Vv VT |S " Co nmrmuvu ns FS Lae) DEBORAH FLETCHER. 51 —_ She had fancied that his eye followed them, and lighted up eagerly as the girl hung upon her caressingly, calling ‘‘ aunty,’’ ‘‘ Aunt Debo- rah,” with a lovingness of tone that Rose even had never exceeded. Yes, unconsciously she had been cherishing a bright hope for the fu- ture; far in the distance a beautiful vision had hovered; and now this was to be the end; just as before the light must go out in darkness, the vision fade away; another was to reap the benefit of all she had done. For herself, she was always to pour out her life, as it were, and never meet with any adequate return. As these bitter reflections swept through her mind, she heard the young people coming in, and rushed impetuously to her own room. Then there was one instant’s convulsive clasp- ing of the hands, one wild look of despair. She glanced at the darkening corner where, sixteen years before, she had knelt in the extremity of this same mortal agony ; fora moment it seemed as if she would have cast herself there again to weep and moan as piteously. This trial, surely, was not less to her than that had been. The girlish heart had hardly loved with the full strength of womanhood; she felt that her whole soul had not been poured out so fervently then as now. But there was a difference; she had learned something from the experience of the past. Though it was hard, when the bitter cup had been once drained to the dregs, that it should be refilled and held again to her lips, she could drink it submissively as coming from her Father’s hand. And it was not so long to look forward to the end of life; heaven seemed very near; of its eternal bless- edness she felt secure. Many earthly joys, too, yet remained to her. Even if it were other- wise, why should she complain? Remembering who came, not to be ministered unto, but to minister, could she not rejoice that it had fallen to her lot in life to give rather than to receive ? She was quite calm now. She went down and quietly handed the letter to Mrs. Fletcher, say- ing, in answer to the inquiring looks of the others, ‘‘They will be here to-morrow,” with a calmness that surprised herself. When Jenny, bursting into her room at bedtime, flung herself into her arms, sobbing out: ‘‘Do you believe my father will ever marry again ?” she replied, calmly: ‘‘ Yes, from what my brother writes, I think he will, very soon ;’’ and went on in persuasive accents to point out to her the path of duty as well as of happiness, pleading an- other’s cause as she would never have thought of pleading her own. When Jenny, more diffi- cult than usual to be persuaded, exclaimed: ‘*T don’t believe he ever did love poor mamma! I heard her tell him once that he didn’t,” she hesitated but a moment, then took out from her desk that sacredly-guarded, that fatal letter, filled as it was with the warmth and tenderness of his love for the choice of his youth, and calmly put it into the child’s hand. Nothing that she could do to make his life happy should be left undone ; the self-sacrifice should be com- plete. Even when Jenny, subdued and soft- ened, whispered with her good-night kiss: ‘‘I will do whatever you wish me to; but what shall I do withont you? Oh, if you could only have been my second mother !’’—even then she restrained herself, and breathed only words of hope and cheer. Calmly next day she set about making pre- parations for the arrival of the travellers. Calmly she could have met them when they came, had she not been suddenly disconcerted by the warmth and eagerness of Charles’ greet- ing. As she could not but seg, his eye singled her out first of all, and remained fixed upon her, even while he clasped his daughter in his arms. Then he was so different from what he had been before, so much more like the Charles of other days. The radiant smile had come back; alas that it should have been another touch than hers which had kindled it again! She was glad to see it, to be sure; still she could not bear to be much in his presence ; she almost feared she should betray her weakness. Fortunately there was afforded her a pretext for keeping herself a good deal out of sight. As it happened, their one domestic had been un- expectedly called away, while of course there was much extra work to be done. Never had Deborah been so long in clearing away the supper service as upon this particular night ; never had she so pertinaciously declined all assistance from Rose and Jenny, and insisted upon doing everything herself. The two girls left the kitchen laughingly, declaring that Aunt Deborah was really getting quite contrary for once. Rose looked a little excited and anxious. For almost a year, now, she had been planning for everything to turn out just like a story-book ; and she was in such a conflict between hope and fear that though she sat down by the table where John and Jenny were just getting started on their favorite game of chess, she could do nothing but cast her eyes into her mother’s room, where the new-comers sat, one on each side of the invalid’s chair, and wonder what Uncle Charles did really mean todo. Aftera while, she softly rose and closed the door, as

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52 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. she heard them talking of what she knew she ought not to hear. Not having any such deli- cate scruples ourselves, we prefer to remain and listen. ‘* You will stay with us some time now, won’t you, Charles ?’’ said Mrs. Fletcher. Mr. Stephens colored high, and answered, hesitatingly: ‘‘I don’t know yet; I cannot tell just how long.’’ ‘*Charles’ affairs are in rather an unsettled state, you know,’ spoke up Mr. Fletcher, laughing. ‘‘I thought he’d find it all clear sailing when he got here, but you and Deborah look so solemn I begin to think I may have been mistaken.”’ Mrs. Fletcher looked from one to the other, and comprehended in a moment how the matter stood. ‘*That was all your nonsense, then, Ezra,’’ she said, a little reproachfully, ‘‘ about Charles’ marrying an Albany lady. Rose and I suspected as much, but it made some of the family considerable trouble. As ill-luck would have it, John had got to talking, just before the letter came, about widowers always marry- ing again so quick, and poor Jenny had worked herself up to a terrible pitch of indignation. Deborah spent half the night, I believe, in arguing the point with her, and finally persuaded her, Rose says, to remember the duty she owed to her father, and receive her new mother with all fitting respect.’’ Charles Stephens looked excessively an- noyed. ‘Really, Fletcher,” he said, glancing at his brother-in-law, who seemed ready to shake to pieces with merriment, ‘‘ really, this jesting was rather ill-timed. I shall hardly make a confidant of you again.’’ **T didn’t think Deborah could have been so stupid as to misunderstand me,’’ replied Mr. Fletcher, bursting into another langh. ‘‘I only said you had picked out a woman to make your wife, provided she would have you; I didn’t say it was one of the Albany ladies. So don’t go to challenging me to mortal combat until you know whether there is any harm done. Go and find Deborah, and see what she will say to you. She is out in the kitchen, I believe ; just the place where a sensible man ought to look for a wife. Sarah here doesn’t look as if she thought your prospects very dis- couraging. Deborah has had as good offers as you can make her, to be sure—some that I’ve wondered very much she didn’t accept ; but I can’t but hope that Providence has been keep- ing her for you. I would rather spare her to you than anybody else; you will appreciate her, I believe, as she deserves.”’ Mr. Stephens wrung the hand stretched out to him so cordially ; then, leaning over his sis- ter, whispered, ‘* You will think me very selfish in wishing to take her away from you.”’ ‘*My dear brother,’”’ was the answer, in a trembling voice, ‘‘I shall miss her more than I can tell you, but it is the dearest wish of my heart to see her your wife ; some day ! will tell you why.” The spacious kitchen which Charles Stephens hesitatingly entered seemed at first wrapped in pitchy darkness. By degrees, various articles of furniture stood out dimly to view. Finally, at the ferther end of the room, he discerned a little paich of moonlight upon the floor, and there by the window, shrinking back into sha- dow, was the object of his search. She rose as he approached her, and would have passed him by, saying, lightly, ‘‘ Oh, Sarah is wanting me, I suppose. I got so romantic here in the moonlight, I quite forgot myself.” **You are not wanted; let me sit here with you awhile,’’ he said, gently leading her back to her seat. ‘I feel very romantic, too,’’ he added, as he placed himself very near her and laid his arm over the back of her chair. She almost felt the touch of his hand upon her shoulder. . It was coming, then, she said to herself. Again she must receive his confidence, and listen to the story of his love for another. Well, she could bear it now. She would hear it pa- tiently to the end. The story did not prove quite what she had expected. It began far back with the time when he had made a mistaken choice—chosen a wife for her beauty and attractiveness, as exhibited in society, without a thought whether her mind and disposition were adapted to his, and whether they could make each other happy. He touched with a reverent hand the errors of the dead. They were buried with her; he could not, if he would, revive them now. On her death-bed she had asked and received his full forgiveness; he did not feel in looking back that he had been quite free from blame. All that was now gone by. But could there, he asked, be the dawn of another hope for him ? Could his home be cheered and brightened by the presence which seemed only another name for light and sunshine here? ‘‘I know I am not worthy of you, Deborah,’”? he added, in conclusion, ‘‘ but I love you, I believe, as few women are ever loved ; sometimes I have dared to hope that it had been reserved for me at this late day to awaken the affections which surely SOV the it 1 not

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it h ly ll th ck he nd er ing re, m ? me am few red his ely KIND WORDS. 58 exist in such a woman’s heart as yours, though your brother tells me they have never, he thinks, been called out.’’ Something of the emotion with which she had heard him was visible in the dim light. She seemed to have no language at her com- mand, for she tremblingly laid her hand in his without a word. ** Does the heart come with it, Deborah ?’’ “*It does, assuredly. But, Charles, my brother was mistaken. I have loved deeply and de- votedly before.’’ He started. If there had been light enough, she might have seen a shade of disappointment pass over his face. He was selfish, as even the best of men will be. Though he could not give her the first, fresh love of his youth, he had fondly hoped that it might be his to unseal the fountain in her heart and receive the first gush of the overflowing tide. ** Who, may I ask, was—No,’’ he added, hastily, ‘‘I have no right to question you; I do not wish to know. If I may have your affec- tion now, it is more than I have often allowed myself to hope for.” ‘* And did you never suspect, then, years and years ago, how very weak I was? howI had given away my heart unsought ?’’ ‘**Suspect you of an unrequited attachment? Never !’’ ‘* Your sister saw it, I am sure. I feared so much once that you had divined it, too; yet the time has come when | take a strange plea- sure in having you know it all.” He partly understood her now. She felt the eager clasp of the hand which held her own, and how the arm which lay upon her chair had suddenly encircled her. ‘‘ Charles,’’ she whis- pered, as he bent his head until his dark locks swept her forehead, and his cheek touched hers, ‘‘ dear Charles, my first love and my last are one.”’ KIND WORDS. BY J. Cc. Wuen I was young, my happiest possession was a little plot of ground, only a few yards square, in my father’s garden. I remember one sweet morning—and those spring mornings were sweet—finding a tiny grain of wheat among a packet of mignonette seeds that I was sowing. My first impulse was to throw away the little grain, and I took it in my fingers ; but it fell, and got covered over, so that I could not find it again. When the mignonette was 4* ‘coming up,’’ I found a little emerald spear, that shivered at every breath of wind among the green leaves, and I let it stanc; and all that summer I was delighted to watch the plant growing and growing, in stateliness and beauty, every day, until the ear burst from its case of leaves, and growing brown as the summer de- parted, ripened ; and when I plucked it in the autumn, I found that one little shrivelled grain of wheat which had eluded my grasp had mul- tiplied itself more than a hundredfold. The grain of corn, dear reader, was like a kind word. Sow it singly, and it shall grow and flourish. There is scarcely any soil too sterile for its tendrils to find room to twine themselves ; scarcely any spot so barren that it will not grow on. And it is even so with kind words; sow them when you will, sow them singly, or sow them broadcast, as the farmer scatters the wheat over the field, and they shall produce a plenteous harvest, and your delight in watching their growth will be of the purest and sweetest earth can afford or generous heart desire. Have we not all—ay, even the happiest and best of us—sometimes need of kind words and loving hearts, without which life would indeed be desolate? Kind words have made many a weak man noble ; harsh ones many a vacillating one criminal. There are times when the scale is evenly balanced, when kindness will send it swinging down for evermore, with the weight upon the right side, the side of truth, honesty, and manly virtue, and when a rough word will turn the scale, balanced for the last time, on the side of wrong, and even falsehood. That is the divinest of maxims which tells us that a gentle answer turneth away wrath. It is not when a man has fallen deeply into error that a kind word can alter his course of life; but a continuous series of kind actions, like the dropping of the feeble spots of water on the stone, will wear their way to his heart, just as those same drops of water beat their course into the granite of the mountain, and wear away the stone till it becomes a well-worn bed. But there was a time when the scale was evenly balanced, even with the most hardened man; a time when sympathy might have saved him. Look what a chance it is that makes one man an idiot and another a poet. Look what cir- cumstance can and does do every day to alter the current of men’s lives, and turn the stream awry; and then do not shudder, least of all scorn the fallen, for there was a time when that heart was as pure and guileless, reader, as your own. There was a time—ay, and there are moments even now of keen and bitter anguish,

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54 GODEY’S LADY’S BCOK AND MAGAZINE. when that fallensistercraves for yoursympathy, and for the priceless pearl of virtue, which, but for an unseen accident, probably, would never have departed from her grasp. A sequence of evil fortunes go to make a man a great criminal ; he was not born so. Perhaps his natural dis- position was far from lovable; perhaps he did not bridle his passions in youth; the more need had he, then, of kind words; the more need of your pity now; for just as you would not censure an idiot because he is not a poet, so in many instances should you not condemn a eriminal because he is not virtuous. I know this only applies to some cases; alas! I know there are other cases in which men let them- selves down from bad to worse, in spite of kindly word, and gentle warning, and loving remonstrance ; but, happily, these are few. Look back into your own life, my dear reader —you, who have been surrounded with gentle influences, and tender, loving friends—look back, and see if there was not a time in some period of grief, when you yearned for sympathy and kind words; when you did not feel secure in your own thoughts, and did not care to trust yourself alone withthem. I have known such a time, and have felt under such circum- stances the kind words, and even the silent sympathy of a stranger, to be a priceless boon. What you have suffered and withstood, others have sunk beneath, because the weight has been thrown ia the wrong scale when they were equally poised. We all suffer alike in the be- ginning. The little child of want, that cries itself to sleep upon the door-step, has its times of enjoyment and delight, just as the child that passes by in its father’s carriage. Those chil- dren have, also, common griefs; but the mea- sure by which their futures shall be judged are different, for their opportunities are separated by a wide, wide gulf. The friendly hand, the kind word, that lead the one are wanting for the other; and from the day that one slept on the step and the other rode by in the carriage, there may be an ever-widening distance between the purity of their lives. But you don’t know what kind words might have done—you don’t know to what struggles that child was subjected before she succumbed. My subject has led me into ground I did not mean to touch upon. These are isolated cases, and the object I had at heart when I wrote “Kind Words’’ at the head of this article was to show how much happiness we all hold at arm’s length, and too often refuse to make our own and bestow upon others. It is in our own households, in our daily intercourse, that kind words and gentle ways, twin sisters as they are of lovely mien, will produce the happiest results. I remember once passing a few days in a coun- try clergyman’s home, where such a sweet feeling pervaded the whole tenor of life, that I felt it to be the greatest blessing in the world to live for a day or two among them. I have heard people say kindness would not do with servants ; reader, if unhappily you have ever thought so, dismiss the false notion, for it is base and untrue. What kindness cannot do, anger can never achieve; and that parsonage is an instance of what a really kind-hearted family can do; for people so loved, so faithfully served, so venerated, it has never since been my happiness to witness. I want you not to keep your kind words for one person, place, or time, but to give them to all persons, all places, all times, then shall this year be the happiest and best that ever blessed God’s earth. For it will not be your kind words alone; the happy results they produce will extend beyond the narrow sphere of your individuality, and they will increase and spread around yon, just as the circles on the disturbed lake spread and widen till they cover the whole surface of the water. It is the little grain of wheat falling upon the fruitful earth, that by and by shall multiply and re-multiply a hundred thousand fold, till it is enough to feed the world. This is what your individual kind word may be; it may mo- mentarily make one life happier; eventually, benefit the whole human family. I sometimes wish I were mistress of one of those infant schools—the national schools—where there are bundreds of children, because of all the work in the world, there is none other so fertile in golden opportunities as theirs; none other fraught with such an immense power over the future of our people. The vocation of the school- master and schoolmistress may be irksome, but it offers ‘‘an exceeding great reward,’’ for it is in their hands to instil into the hearts of future men and women feelings that shall add still greater lustre to the people of our land. But, it may be said, we are generous as a people ; is there in the world a more generous or open-na- tured people than ourselves? I think not. But are we as kind as we might be? Do we deal as gently one with another, and speak as kindly as we can? Iam afraid not; and while kindness would always give us a great deal of pleasure, and never cost us anything, it is but an honest plea that I make to every heart that has suffered, to lighten the suffering of others. Genuine sympathy is far more powerful than many of us think. tee! stec unc as 1 and the: alle thoi he ° gi he t clai! to h he’:

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weet that orld with ever it is , do, age rted ally een t to 3, or ces, iest or it ‘PPy the they } the iden iter. the iply till yhat mo- lly, mes fant are ork e in ther the ool- but it is ture still But, -na- not. ) we k as hile al of but that han FROM MAY TILL NOVEMBER. BY MISS MARY DURFEE. (Continued from page 570.) CHAPTER V. Tue death of my father gave rise to the usual hurried investigation of his affairs, not so im- mediately by the persons chiefly concerned as by those more active individuals who find their daily food in seeking some new thing. A few days served to spread abroad and bring to our own household the bruit of his insolvency, and the consequent destitution awaiting his family. The rumor of the simple facts was not so much &@ surprise to me; but, I confess, it was not without pain and indignation that I became aware of the tone of comment by which they were accompanied. In Hannah’s expressive phrase, ‘‘ it made me provoked.’’ ‘They ’d ought to know better, I’m sure they ’d ought to know better,’’ the garrulous Hannah reiterated, as, with knitted brows and teeth that came together with the spring of a steel trap at each pause, she belabored the unoffending pillows. ‘‘They’d ought to know as well as I—and I know it; I’ve lived here off ’n’ on, now, this seven year next October, and ef ’Square Heath ain’t an honest man, there never was an honest man! As [I tell ’em, I know, ef anybody knows; my wages was allers paid regilar. It’s jest mallus-afore- thought, nothin’ more ’n’ less, to be hintin’t he made over Greystone Farm to Mr. Sands, *g’inst you come to be Avis Sands. How come he to have it to give, Iwonder? He never laid claim to it, as I ever heerd, and I’d be’s likeiy to hear’s anybody. He keep the papers, when he’s gardeen for Thane! it looks likely! That boy thought’s much of the Square as ef he was his own father, every bit; ’n’ naminy- paminy ain’t the word for him; he’d know gold from glitter, I warrant. As I was sayin’, *tain’t a bit better’n murder right out to pull folks to pieces so—afore the sod’s rooted on their graves! I tell °em—’n’ I know, if any- body knows—there ain’t cleverer folks in the hull world than the Square ’n’ Avis. ’Tain’t my place to say anything ’gin his wife ’n’ her darlin’—darlin’ she is, I ’low that, though I can’t make eur folks of em, with their fussy ways! But now the ’Square’s gone ’n’ Avis goin’, I reckon I’ll be goin’ tew, though I’m jest a part of the house ; but then that’s a-goin’, as folks think. I’ve said over ’n’ over ag’in I’m jest a part of the old house, ’n’ jog, jog, for all the world like A, B, C, clear down to an-pre-zand. I know what’s to be done every day in the week, Sund’, Mond’, Tuesd’, Wednesd’, Thursd’, Frid’, Saturday, from one year’s end to another. ’Twull be a long day *fore they find anybody ’d fill my place, I guess. I’m a fixter, ’n’ ye might’s well cut the head off the body ’s leave me out.”? And the speaker enforced her figure by striking out her long arm, and vigorously severing the head from the body of the bed. Thus this stanch friend of the ’Squire and Avis, this valuable ‘‘ fixter,’’ as she not inaptly styled herself, held forth, in a kind of spasmo- dic soliloquy, unconsciously throwing into the evolutions of bed-making the indignant energy of her discourse, and scarcely directing a glance at the poor listener, who sat stitching at the window near by. But when her task was ended, and she was about leaving the room, she turned full upon me, and her countenance, warped with the strong censure to which she had been giving utterance, changed suddenly to the not less wiry anxiety of self-reproach. ‘Talk of cuttin’ off heads,’’ she muttered ; ‘mine ’d better come off, just to put a stop to this everlasting clack. Avis, child,’’ she con- tinued, more distinctly. (Hannah called me always by my given name, and held me, still, as little better than an infant. ‘‘ Why,’’ she said to Kate, who ventured to object to the familiarity, ‘‘what’d ye have mecallher? She hadn’t left dandlin’ her dolls when I come here to live. She’d think me mighty toppin’ to call her Miss Heath or Miss Avis, I warrant. It’s well enough for chicks like you to call her miss, but I’m an old woman, ’n’ ’tain’t proper like, you see.’’) ‘‘Avis, child, don’t you mind. Here I have been runnin’ on so, makin’ you look like a ghost, for all the world. I can’t help it; it does make me so provoked. Folks needn’t tell downright fibs. S’posen Thane did go ’n’ sell Cherryton—what is it? Cherry- wine or Cherry-rum, I say—’tis jest’s good; I never could bide these tiptoe fine names! But s’posen he did go ’n’ sell Cherry-st-stun— Grey- stun Farm, I mean—to Mr. Sands. I’mind he’d’s lives you went there ’s anybody. S’posen you wouldn’t marry him, he don’t bear no mal- 55

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56 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. lus; such folks’s he never does; and ’twan't no part of a man to stay dawdlin’ round takin’ on about it. Love will go where ’tis sent, ’n’ that’s to queer places. I don’t mean Mr. Sands; but ef you cou/d have liked Thane, ’n’ we ’d all come to live there together! Grey- stun place ain't Heath place, anyhow; but— there, I’m runnin’ on jest so. Well, never mind—it’s brought the red into your face agin.” And Hannah was bustling out of the room. ‘* Who told you all this?’ said I, arresting her. : She hesitated a moment; but finally, as see- ing her way clearly, answered, with deprecat- ing tone and manner :— ‘* Why, it’s only what folks say, that’s all; *n’ ef I was you, I wouldn’t care for ’t; J don’t, I’m sure !”’ ‘Well, Hannah,’’ I returned, as composedly as I could, with the amount of feeling I was striving to control, ‘‘folks, then, have fallen into strange mistakes. In the first place, my father had nothing to do with the transfer of Cherrywold; did not even know of it at the time. Then, it was not sold by Thane, but mort- gaged in his father’s day to Mr. Sands, the elder, and thus has come to Ross by inheritance.’’ This latter clause, though the simple truth, I gave not without qualms. ‘‘ And, as for Thane, Hannah, we were to each other just brother and sister, nothing more, as you well know.”’ **Yes,’’ assented Hannah, witha self-satisfied smile. ‘‘I know ef anybody knows; only ’s I was sayin’, ef ye could have come to like him.”’ ‘** That is not to be suggested,”’ I interrupted, impatiently, yet well aware that any attempt to disabuse the mind of the steadfast Hannah of a favorite crotchet was much like plunging acork under water: it would be bobbing upon the surface the moment it escaped the tran- sient pressure. ** One thing, Hannah,”’’ I added, after a little pause, ‘‘do not repeat this to Mrs. Heath.” **Not I,’’ was the prompt response. ‘‘ She shouldn’t know what’s to pay, ef I could help it. She didn’t know the squire like us ; ’tain’t as though she ’d been born ’n’ brought up with him. But she’s been told of it, somehow. She was in the liberry when I cum up here— so riled—I couldn’t help it.” ‘*But how could you know she has heard these rumors ?”’ **I knew who ’d been ’n’ gone, ’n’ what he ’d be like to talk about.’’ ** And who was that ?”’ ‘*Mr. Hoard!’ and the ruffled speaker gave her head a contemptuous toss. ‘‘I wish you ’d jest go, Avis, ’n’ tell the woman that’s cryin’ in the liberry, there ain’t a grain of truth in him—no, not so big’s a mustard seed !’’ What could have brought him here, I was querying within myself; however, if he had business, could he not have carried it to Lawyer Crofts? For some moments after Hannah left the room, I sat gazing into the gray fog, which so filled the atmosphere that scarce a feature of the landscape was visible. It was all the same to my vacant eyes; for, properly, they were turned within, striving amidst painful bewil- derment to discern the true figure and position of our family affairs, that, just now, seemed wound in a haze equally impenetrable. During my father’s illness, I had refrained from making to my step-mother any statement of our pecuniary prospects; partly through want of exact information, having simply the foundation of Thane’s letter, and my father’s anxious labor to support such a statement ; partly from a vague notion that, to a person of her tastes and pursuits, no loss was compar- able to loss of fortune. Since my father’s death, I had not the less shrunk from premature dis- cussion of affairs that might be brought to a more favorable adjustment than we had appre- hended through the judicious management of Lawyer Crofts, who, at the joint request of my step-mother and myself, consented to engage in the arduous task of settling the estate. That Mr. Crofts had as yet made no certain report to my step-mother, I was assured; but Hannah’s remarks indicated the propriety of more openness in our relations. Hannah was right ; I must go to the library and seek a frank conversation with my mother. Would that she had a maintenance in her own right to fall back upon! A simple maintenance might, indeed, be saved for her, but not a competence in her sense of the word. I dreaded the work before me. Money matters and concerns of property are of all topics most distasteful to me at any time, and at this time, under the existing cir- cumstantes, seemed to me especially complex and annoying. But what did it signify ? I went sick with nervous worrying into the library. No.one was there. With a momen- tary sensation of relief, I sank into the familiar arm-chair, that stood yet in its accustomed place at the writing-table. Mournful remem- brances crowded upon me, and bore me, almost before I was aware, into a paroxysm of weeping. I understood how my step-mother, impassible as she appeared for the most part, might have been overpowered by a similar tide of feeling, and inferred, also, the probability of a mistake “ec rejo Che bacl He : nevi imm affec I sai tion plait belie that T hoy distz shad in x you I tht gloo1 flitte was with to m unde So pour

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yin’ 1 in hat ring ess, fts? the h so e of Ame yere wil- tion med ned ent ugh the er’s ‘nt; rson par- ath, dis- to a pre- it of ein tain but y of was ank she yack eed, her fore erty any cir- plex the nen- iliar med em- nost ing. ‘ible ave ing, take FROM MAY TILL NOVEMBER. 57 on the part of Hannah, who had come upon her under such circumstances. Amidst the grief to which I had yielded my- self, a well-known step startled me—a hand was on my shoulder, then an arm, soothing and supporting, enfolded me. ** Avis,”” said Ross, with kindly chiding, “this is not right. Why should yon come in here to cherish fruitless grief? Come away with me!’’? And he drew me forth into the hall, into the pure sunshine, for the morning mists were gone, into my favorite arbor. It was to Ross, instead of my step-mother, that I talked that morning ; not that he was altogether unaware of the fioating rumors, but I chose to tell him myself what I had gathered concerning my father’s affairs, and our future prospects. I did not omit Thane’s letter even, or the idle gossip about the transfer of his estate, and failed not to mention my anxiety to find the paper to which he had reforred. *“*What did it matter,’’ Ross said, ‘‘if we were to be penniless? though he did not be- lieve it would be so bad as that. But, admit- ting such to be the case, could not he take care of me?” **My mother and Alice ?’’ ** He would take care of us all, certainly; he rejoiced that he had the ability to do so— Cherrywold out of the question ; that might go back to its former owner at once if I said so.’’ He agreed with me, however, that Thane would never receive it except upon recovering full proof of his title, and he urged me to search immediately for papers relating to the affair. I admired this nobleness, this singleness of affection. I told him so. ‘It is very plain,’ I said—afterwards I wondered at the infatua- tion that urged me to say so much—‘‘it is plain that it is my very self you care for. I will believe for your credit, if for no other reason, that this same self cannot be altogether unlovely. I hope I have gotten the better of that silly self- distrust, which brought with it, as a coustant shadow, distrust of others. I mean to believe in myself, and certainly, Ross, I believe in you!” fixing my eyes openly upon his face as I thus concluded. Was it merely a fancy of mine? was it the glooming of the cloud that at this moment flitted between us and the sunshine? or what was it that made the face into which I looked with such assurance of love and trust, appear to me to fall, to grow anxious, and finally blank, under my look of earnest confidence? Some return Ross indeed made to this out- pouring from me. Perhaps nervous irritability made me exacting. Surely the noble disinte- restedness he had just manifested was enough. I could not desire fulsome flattery, and yet I could have wished, not so much other or more words—I could have wished simply that the darkness had not fallen where I sought for light. I found awaiting me a letter from Aunt Relie. We had wondered at the absence of herself and Thane from the funeral. This letter was her first recognition of the mournful occurrence that had befallen. The sight of it well nigh brought again the outburst of the morning; but I imposed upon myself the calmness which, I began to find, could be maintained only by strenuous endeavor. It is a strange thing to be done, the forcible taking up of regretful thought, of a great heart-trouble, and heaving it mechanically, as it were, apart, to fill its place with whatever substitute comes to hand ; but it is, to certain natures, the only safe way. When substitutes come readily, it is well; but when there comes only a dreary blank, or, worse, when every cord and lever gives way, strained and broken by the too heavy burden, then is the hour of helplessness ! I thought of the goodness of Ross, of the goodness of Heaven in providing me the great resource of his love. It is so needful for poor humanity to have these outposts of visible human love as an earnest of that which is unseen and divine. ** Dear, dear Avis,’’ wrote Aunt Relie, ‘‘ how deeply we grieve with you! You must think it strange that none of us have come to you in your trouble. You will believe that only very sufficient reasons have kept us away. They were these: Aunt Matty has been so much more feeble for several weeks that I could not leave her at all; hence I could not come; and Thane has gone, I really don’t know where, to seek his fortune. We have heard from him once since he left us, and have reason to believe him well, and not discouraged in the search. It has been so unfortunate and so very sad all around! But, Avis, you must come and see us, right away. We are wonderfully cozy in the old maids’ lodge ; we have made the little nook out of the sitting-room serve for Aunt Matty’s geraniums, and upon a little plot under the window, I have scattered seeds and put out afew slips. It makes the town seem pleasanter to have these things. ‘* Aunt Matty, who is somewhat better, sends her best love, and says she mourns with you. She says, with me: Come, Avis, directly to your impatient friends, Aunt Marty anp Aunt RE.IE.”

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58 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. Aunt Matty more feeble! but I was glad to hear the home at Drayton seemed so cheery and comfortable. I handed the letter to Alice, and watched her as she read it with humid eyes. Very winning was that mobile, girlish nature, so naively expressing, by word and action, the feeling of the moment, whether of sympathy in the joys or sorrows of others, or the gushing of her own free, full heart—a fresh young vine, tossing abundant tendrils through very wealth of life. I have often wondered if her mother were like her at her age; if discipline might so repress and mould one. ** And so you should, as they say, go and see them, Avis, and take me with you, won’t you? But not yet, unless mother can go too.’’ Alice said this as she returned the letter, adding, after a thoughtful moment or so: ‘‘ Mamma is not well to-day; she has headache, and will not come to dinner.’’ CHAPTER VI. Bur few weeks had gone by since I watched, with Cousin Thane, the sunset, ruddy with propitious glow. Those weeks should rather have been years, for the growth they had urged upon me. Something like this came into my mind as I stole to the little arbor I have called my favorite retreat. Was the growth of which I was thinking like that of the wild masses of vine I there found trailiag in untrained exuberance here, there, anywhere? The honeysuckle had been neglected; I busied myself twining the luxuriant shoots, pleased with the fine promise of clustering coral. Through the openings of vine and lattice, the road, a few rods distant, with the walk to the house, was distinctly visible to me, while, from the greater obscurity within the bower, I was myself concealed from the view of passengers. Ross would come to me this evening. Owing to the recent mournful event, our union had been indefinitely postponed ; but our attachment could well bear this slight test. On the mor- row, as I knew, business called him away, and I should not see him again probably for weeks. While, therefore, my hands wandered somewhat fruitlessly amidst the light twigs, easily guided, but swaying wilfully to the old bent as soon as left to themselves, my eyes wandered, from time to time, beyond the green covert to the road and accompanying points of interest. The road, it must be owned, considering it simply as a long reach of bald yellow sand, won greatly more than its due share of atteution. Save that the verdure of summer now happily ful- filled the gay promise of spring, the landscape that met my gaze was the same which had called forth the eager comments to Cousin Thane at the time to which I have above al- luded. The same clear sky bent over all, the same rosy light embosomed the broad disk that again sent its rays in serried splendor over the bay. I recalled that, my last interview with Thane. Thane had gone ‘‘ to seek his fortune,’’ so wrote Aunt Relie. Good Thane! I understood now the dreariness that was surging in that deep heart, and all the considerate kindness which restrained its overflow. But, mocking Thane, why do you so persistently ask of the joy fore- shadowed on that evening? Yes, I have had joy, though grief came side by side with it. And now, in this bright glow, also, are there yet happy omens? I murmured, under breath, Thane’s couplet-— “Oh, lady, we receive but what we give, And in our life alone does nature live ;” shaking my head, as I mused on, in perverse commentary— ‘* Interpenetrating this grosser atmosphere, overlying these substantial forms, there is a something—ethereal, invisible, call it what you will, spiritual reflector or whatever else—which is to spirit what yonder water is to light; what yonder rocky hill or vacant building is to sound. It renders back the moods of my own soul; not less, if I stand at the proper angle to catch it, of yours, also, or of my neighbor’s, hinting the good or ill in store for me.”’ Thus I involuntarily dropped into the old vein of vagary and light discussion, in my thought of Thane. I missed him more than I knew. Ross? Yes, Ross was all tome; only, what Thane was Ross could not be—I did not wish him to be, perhaps. The taciturn gravity which I chose to regard as a perpetual chal- lenge to'wild discursive chat; the dry repartee provoking the lively sally, or eager self-defence ; these, and many traits of Thane, suited espe- cially to awaken in me activity of fancy and intellect, were quite incompatible with the frank, impulsive, and comparatively matter-of- fact nature of Ross. In truth, when with Ross, it was I who was taciturn; he it was who sug- gested topics, discussed them, and finally dis- posed of them. Interested attention, a smile, an occasional word of intelligent assent, these were full inspiration for him. Moreover, if I speak truly, what I did not so well recognize the

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ve nl- pe ad al- he 1e, rse re, 3 8 ou rat nd. nl ; tch ing old my nI ly, not al- tee ne 5 pe- ind the SS, ug- lis- ile, ese if I lize FROM MAY TILL NOVEMBER. 59 then, while I followed with docile pleasure the lead of Ross in conversation, the lines of thought peculiarly mine had little or no hold upon him, were, it is probable, rather irksome to him. Perhaps, just the feminine aptitude for list- ening, usually more attractive to a man than the best talent for discoursing, had, more than aught else, served to draw Ross to my side. Be this as it might, Ross loved me; so he had said, so he had convinced me; and what like love has power to call forth love? I had already forgotten or ignored the shadow which had an- noyed me. The low breathings that began to be heard in the old chestnuts on either side the gate reminded me of the evening chill, and I turned to gather about me the shawl I had dropped from my shoulders. When I again bent my glance upon the road, it encountered two figures, just arrived at the brow of the hill which, spreading into a spacious plateau, formed the site of the homestead. **Ross and Alice !’? murmured I, with a sen- sation of uneasiness I was ashamed to own to myself, yet which I proceeded unconsciously to define. ‘*] did not know that Alice was abroad this evening. Whatthen? And supposing, even, she walked with Ross? Had not I, myself, encouraged her to become his companion in little excursions for pleasure? When I was needfulgy occupied, yes; but now there was less demand upon my time. True, but if she prove the more agreeable !’’ I forced my features into a wry smile, for by this time I understood myself. ‘‘ Not unlikely, my green-eyed lady! and, as you are doubt- less ready to acknowledge, a gentleman of good taste must perforce admire most the most admirable. Of one thing you may be assured brown eyes are more charming than green.” Thus, with sarcastic chiding, I shamed the unwelcome doubt into quiet, till, as the couple walked leisurely up to the gate, I found myself in a frame to observe, with a certain pleasure, how the fine figure and manly bearing of Ross harmonized with the classic beauty of Alice, who stepped through the gate, as he held it open for her, with the easy grace that never deserted her in motion or at rest. Iam unable to say whether my good or evil genius ruled, to restrain me from going out to meet them, as I at first intended. Eagerly as i had looked for Ross, I felt no haste to greet him. They were talking as they came up the walk, in voices modulated to the quiet of the hour. They spoke of the loveliness of the evening, perhaps ; for, when they had arrived within a few yards of the arbor, they paused simulta- neously, and turned their gaze upon the glow- ing sky. Was the bright flush upon Alice’s cheek a reflection of the sunset fire ? It did not surprise me that the distant gaze of her companion was speedily diverted to the contemplation of beauty nearer the eye. The lustre of that beauty was never more apparent to myself. Alice had not adopted the mourning habit worn by her mother and myself; merely modifying her attire for the occasion of the funeral, and returning to the light fabrics that so well became her. I admired her as she stood, then, in the sunset-flush, the delicate muslin enhancing the flexile grace of her airy figure. How beautiful in its soft whiteness the rounded arm! How dainty the lithe fingers that she winds among the dark straying curls to disentangle them from the roses in her hat ! Ah, her efforts in this direction only serve to increase the entanglement, for the bracelet which she wears is so twived with the hair as to call for assistance, which the gallant knight tenders with alacrity. And now, emulous of many another knight in like circumstances, he fails to relinquish the hand he has rescued ! Upto this moment I had enjoyed the tableau with lively artist-relish, amusing myself, mean- while, by outlining, with trifling exaggerations, a sketch for the later entertainment of its very unconscious subjects. But the tones that now reached me, though low and sweet, smote harshly upon my sensitive ear. Had I not heard those same tones, with words of like ten- der import, addressed to—whom? To her who here learned their insignificance and annul- ment. ‘*Let me keep it,’’ Ross entreated, as Alice would have released the imprisoned hand. ‘* Alice, dear Alice !’’ he continued, with energy, ‘*T know you too late! too late!’’—and the knight—true or false ?—clasped the hand in both his own, and bent his glowing gaze upon the half-averted face with an earnest question- ing not to be mistaken. I fancied that a thrill in the slight frame of Alice was perceptible to me. Her otherwise motionless pause might, of itself, have be- tokened agitation. I cannot say; I felt my- self, in a degree, blinded and benumbed. Yet I looked and listened still. I saw that she at length—oh, it seemed long to me !—withdrew her hand, and heard her ask, simply, but in a voice that seemed choked— ‘* Where is Avis to-night ?”

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60 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. I saw the recoil with which Ross received this interrogatory, and heard him murmur in a hollow voice— ** You are right; I am bound !’’ Unable longer to retain my erect position, I staggered to the seat at the end of the arbor, stunned, and with a strain upon my poor heart that, thenceforward, has rendered the idea of a broken heart, even in its literal, material sense, nomyth tome. Mine did not break; I did not even lose consciousness ; for, in a little time, I heard the passage of Alice into the house, and shortly after that of Ross. Then, gathering all my drooping energies, I dragged myself from the covert which had brought to me, as its sister coverts have so often done to so many others, the distasteful fruit of eavesdropping, and entering the house by a side door reached my room unobserved. Already Alice’s light footstep echoed in the hall. She was seeking me. Instinctively, I stepped into the room opposite, with a view of retreating by the rear of the house; but, struck with the strange aspect my voluntary absence must present, I made a circuit, and awaited her at the head of the staircase. ** Where have you been, Avis ?’’ cried she, **but, no matter, I have found you at last !’’ She looked flushed, and spoke hurriedly, as from seme nervous agitation; and when near enough threw her arms around me caressingly. I was in a mood somewhat repellant, and did not respond promptly; but I do myself only justice in saying that I probably understood and appreciated this little act of reparation better even than the young girl herself. Alice was four years my junior. With the same years she would have been younger than I. In her nature, as I have before hinted, the emotional element ruled; not that the intellect was at all inert, but tardy by comparison, thus leaving her often, wherever immediate action was demanded, to the sway of feeling. And this peculiarity, especially characteristic of childhood, when retained later as we often see it, is, as I conceive, the true elixir of youth. It is, on the other hand, equally characteristic of maturity, that the perceptive and reflective processes falling more immediately, become in a manner responsible for the emotions and pas- sions of which they are cognizant even in the tender gerin. It would have been impossible for me to oc- cupy the position that Alice now held, for I felt assured her }vzart was already deeply, yet un- consciously interested ; but these remarks will indicate my apology for her, and how it was that a round of thought led me to overcome my instinctive avoidance of one to whom I was indeed tenderly attached, but who had become, however involuntarily, banefal to my happi- ness, and to step back, ere I passed down the stairs, in my turn bestowing the caress from which I had recoiled. As I looked into that young face, still flush- ing and paling from the newly awakened emo- tions, yet unsubdued, unrecognized even, I could but indorse Ross’s admiration—his love. Mentally I sketched my own portrait in repul- sive contrast. I determined upon my course. ‘* How very pale you are, Avis!’’ Alice ex- claimed, as she returned my intent gaze. ‘* You are not well, or’—glancing at the walls and windows—‘‘ is it the light in this room ?”’ “The light—yes, it is a bad light,’’ I re- plied, quickly, and hastened from her. If it be true that in certain natures the in- tellect, recognizing emotion at its dawn, becomes responsible for its advance, it may be not unaptly argued, as the result of such intellectual sanction to the growth of any passion, that, though shorn of its intensity, it thereby wins greatly in fulness and pervasiveness, so that its subjugation or expulsion can be achieved only at peril of jarring and rending the whole soul- fabric. I need not say I shrank from such a conflict, even though in my own case there had been but tardy, and perhaps never the com- pletest, submission of reason, shadowgd as it had been by that haunting doubt, of the folly of which I had but just persuaded myself, when its wisdom was attested by the development above narrated. As I had apprehended, the time of tempta- tion had come to Ross. He had yielded, and when now, in my security, I was unprepared. But the circumstance of having revolved the possibility of such an issue enable*® me more readily to discern my duty in a strait so trying. Hence, as I have said, I at once resolved upon my course. This must be my last interview with Ross ; I knew it well. I could not, how- ever, make it known tohim. A great trouble seldom comes to one, at least to myself, in its full strength and volume; it grows, a rapid growth, but certain processes of thought and feeling work to this end. While I might sub- due these processes, all activity of mind and heart, I should be calm; but the immense ten- sion that was needful to maintain such calmness —deadness, I might rather say—made me fully aware cf the necessity of its maintenance, at whatever cost, in the presence of Ross. It was to be wished, therefore, that the evening should li eh oe -—f, - -— wa th th lef m lif of hu

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FROM MAY TILL NOVEMBER. 61

pass naturally, as hitherto; but the repression I paused here, arrested by vague doubts and which I was exercising was too broadly effective questionings, which I was then but little dis- to admit of this. I was painfully constrained, posed to analyze, which the endeavor of a life- and it is hard to say whether my suffering was time may not have sufficed to resolve. mitigated or aggravated by a manner, unwonted Yes, I would write to Ross, however; beyond in Ross, of preoccupation and inattention, which that slight but significant finger-post might my quickened senses enabled me to interpret stretch the long, long vista of dreariness. I but too keenly. would renounce my love for Ross, and free him I will not harass myself by recalling particu- from the bond that had become so odious. lars of that evening ; it was draining the last As I emptied a compartment of my portfolio drops from a cup which I had learned to be a to find the materials for my purpose, a card poisoned one—poisoned not less for Ross than | strayed from the contents. It came to me an . for myself. opportune token of the past; so I thought as I vl In the solitude of my own apartment I at held it in my hand and contemplated the task ‘d length gave way to the pressing tide which, before me. In a moment of trifling I had while with Ross, I had held aloof with all the clipped a coil from the abundant brown locks m gathered forces of my nature, lending for a time which I so much admired, and attached it to every fibre to the fierce rebound of pent-up | this card. The reverse of the card bore an te feeling, the chidings of indignant faith, the impromptu, written in a like spirit of badi- ry “i wild surge of passion swaying broad and deep nage :— ot in the gusts of bitter thought. Bitter thought ; “Lo, this coil of silken strands, al I do not deny it; as thought came, bitterness Emblem of the steadfast bands ‘ woke also; bitterness toward Ross and Alice; That moor my life-bark to the Sands a bitterness supreme, as directed toward my own — Se namete emp! ‘ 4 7 Brittle, aye, the anchor stable ; ts “oe and unfavored being. Changing Sands the grounding table!” ut let me say, in passing, that retros i : . ly ee repr I recalled the smile of superior content with |. reveals to me the wonderful tonic property of f . , ‘ ‘ é which the owner of the lock surveyed me as I . this element in the mental as in the animal : . : nes , , traced the three former lines; the feint of dis- -" economy. Stimulated by its pungency, I-rose, : ‘ : ; pleasure and deprecation which sought to forbid my and, by repeated stern efforts, was finally ena- iad : ti left to 1 I had 4 verished heart ! om eft me to love. 1ad no use for a heart; let Ny me, then, thrust it from my being. With it Hearn Puacr, Jily —. on life would be torture ; without it, a hard, blank The sight of this prophetic memento. will, ne thing. Let it be the latter; a life of sensation, under the circumstances, be a sufficient evi- ild of the intellect; cold, bald ethics to rule in | dence to you that the change in our relations human relations ; and to my God— is not unknown to me. In confirmation, liow-

VOL. Lxv.—5

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GODEY’S LADY’S BCOK AND MAGAZINE. ever, I will say that I awaited you this evening in the honeysuckle arbor, and was there, in a manner, an involuntary listener to the regretful declaration which you made to Alice. This is not written by way of blame, but, with an earnest desire for your present and future hap- piness, to release you from all bonds to Avis HEatu. Mr. Ross Sanps. I wrote the above rapidly, without a pause, searce drawing a full breath in the quiet I had imposed upon myself. A vivid remembrance is still with me of the pain that racked my head—teeth even, which seemed to set them- selves as a vice upon the strife of bitter thought and feeling. I folded the brief note, inclosing the card with a grimace of dismal satisfaction, if I may name as satisfaction an ugly recogni- tion of the trueness of that instinctive distrust which, baffling all my efforts at mastery, had lurked throughout my association with Ross, as in this foolish bagateile. One task more. The little gifts from Ross ; they were all at hand—not many, not import- ant for their moneyed value; but pretty and well chosen; priceless to me as the media of sweet regard. These I collected, and arranged carefully in a package. “Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.”’ But my hand closed lingeringly upon one—the miniature. I held it unclasped, and raised the lamp to examine once more the familiar features. ** Away with it !’’ said the stern guard within. **This once !’’ my heart pleaded. I replaced the lamp resolutely. The sharp click of the spring clasp might have been the echo of a breaking heartstring, if such things were. I was not incredulous. The clock in the hall below sounded one as I deposited the package, with the note, in my writing-desk. Only three hours gone of this drear misery, and a lifetime to come! The bravery which had borne me through the pain- ful work forsook me in the simple endurance. In my*short-sighted cowardice, I would fain have laid down life when I lay upon my bed, the frame tense and sleepless from excitement. (To be continued.) ———- —Pege — — — Ay old author says: ‘‘A good wife com- mandeth her husband in any equal matter, by constantly obeying him. She never crosseth her husband in the spring-tide of his anger, but stays till it be ebbing water. Her clothes are rather comely than costly, and she maketh plain cloth to be velvet by her handsome wearing it.’’ | | TERPSICHORE. BY MRS. G. HILTON SCRIBNER. THERE ’s a genius more bright than dwells in bowers, In sportive zephyrs and perfumed ficwers— ’Tis the genius of mirth In its joyous clime That, in flowing, gives birth To the tuneful chime Of “‘ Love’s young dream”’ in its morning time. Tis a fanciful muse, whose wing unfurled Soars aloft and afar o’er the misty world Of picturing—dreaming— And visions bright, In quest of the beaming Beacon light Of new joys to arrest her capricious flight. Tis a spirit as wild as the mountain air, As sportive and free as the fairies fair— Whose magical wand Invokes from above— From the vague dream-land Of fame aud love— The phantoms for which men live and rove. In the radiant faces and jaunty curls, In the bursts of mirth of boys and girls, It sparkles and gleams With a fitful ray, It lives in their dreams By night and by day, And rules their hearts with a magic sway. It lurks in each note of the social song, Where voices united, loud and long, In musical numbers Awaken the sprite That never slumbers By day or by night, Where joy is unbounded and hearts are light. There ’s a genius more bright than dwells in bowers, In sportive zephyrs and perfumed flowers— Tis the breath of the spirit, The heart’s life of all; We feel, see, and hear it In cot, grove, and hall— It is only beclouded ‘neath Death’s sable pall. MARY’S HOMAGE. BY REV. DANIEL EMERSON. Mary, thy name through all the earth is spread : As far as rivers run and mountains rise, And God’s swift Worp with wings of healing flies, So far are thy blest name and influence shed, And sweetest blessings rained upon thy head. Mary, that precious ointment, thy rich hoard, Thy chosen Lord to greet so freely poured, Still make thee live, although thy form has fled. Mary, as ointment in its richness given, Thy name, thy praise, thy spirit still are here, Our acts to guide, our spirits, too, to cheer, And through us breathe the holy air of heaven. Mary, through all the world thy name is known, And through the choirs that see thee sit near Jesus's throne.

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THE HAUNTED HOUSE. BY MARY N. ROCKWELL. CHAPTER I. There is a lonely homestead In a green and quiet vale, With its tall trees sighing mournfally In every passing gale.—Mrs. Lonp. THERE lingers in my memory a scene of beau- ty, and at the same time of desolation. The sun is shining over a beautiful landscape, the trees of which are tinged with the gorgeous hues of early autumn. On a slight elevation stand the remains of a stately mansion, sur- rounded by large and once carefully-tended pleasure-grounds, shaded by magnificent fruit and forest trees, and commanding a fine view of the surrounding country. It must have been a pleasant dwelling; but why this desolation? Surely those stanch oaken timbers should have withstood the storms of centuries; but now they seem unjointed, and in many places the clapboards have fallen from them. Above the leaning doorways and gaping casements, which glass and sash have long deserted, most elaborate carving is mouldering away; while through the lofty halls, the spacious parlors, up the wide, wide stairway, and through the roofless chambers, the autumn winds hold wild revels; now shrieking in apparent laughter, anon dying away in low moans. Those living near the ‘“‘ Haunted House”’ tell strange legends of marvellous sights seen there at dead of night: of gleaming lights, of dusky forms that tread the ruined halls of the ‘‘ pale faces,’’ and above all of the shadowy forms of a young Indian chief and his pale-faced bride, whom he encir- cles with one arm, while, with the other, he hurls defiance at some invisible foe. For a long time after the mansion was de- serted by the family to whom it belonged efforts were made to have it inhabited; but each ten- ant left it after a short trial, and it was finally abandoned to its fate. A popular tradition says that this house occupies the site of an ancient Indian burial-ground, where many chieftains of a once powerful tribe are laid to rest; and after many wrongs had been inflicted on the descend- ants of these dreamless sleepers by the proud master of the mansion, those dusky shades were awakened which caused it to be deserted. But we will give the story at full length. It was in the latter part of the last century that Edward Templemore, a young Englishman of wealth, emigrated to this country, and by chance wandered to the vicinity of the place we have described. Being pleased with the sur- rounding country, he resolved to settle there ; the ground was as _ yet covered with lofty trees, beneath whose shade reposed the wigwams of the remains of the tribe of Indians which has been mentioned. Although the adjacent region was fast becoming populated by the whites, these still retained their hereditary hunting- grounds and the burial-place of their fathers. Here they lived happily, and hoped to remain till the Great Spirit should callthem away. But in an evil hour came the young Englishman from beyond the ‘‘ great water’ among them, and by his handsome person and winning man- ners became a favorite with them all, and par- ticularly with their chief, a stately-looking man already past the prime of life, who had known many sorrows and borne them with the usual stolidity of his race. He had seen the gradual wasting away of his tribe; of a large family of children there remained to him but the young- est, an active boy of a few years, in whom were centered the hopes of his few remaining people. When the ‘‘ Young Eagle’’ was but an infant, his mother was removed to the spirit- land, and from that time a cloud rested upon the heart of her husband; for the ‘‘ Morning Star” had ever been the light of her rude home, and but for her child that home would now have been desolate indeed. The neighborhood of the whites had brought with it that fearful curse ‘fire water,’’ and tradition saith that our Indian friend was not unsusceptible ofits influence. The young Eng- lishman was not long in discovering this weak point in the chief’s character, and proceeded to take advantage of it. He coveted the heritage of the Indians, and his efforts to purchase it had been unavailing; for they received the propo- sal with indignation. ‘‘ What! shall we sell the bones of our fathers ?’’ exclaimed the chief; ‘*their spirits would leave the happy hunting- grounds and come back to curse us!’’ But his resolves proved useless; for Teinplemore met him one day at a neighboring settlement, and under the guise of friendship supplied him liberally with ‘‘ fire-water,’’ and while under its influence easily persuaded him to make over to him his inheritance; and that, we are told, far short of its actual value. The remorse and indignation of the chief after his intoxication had passed away may easily be imagined ; but it availed him nothing; for the treacherous 63

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64 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, friend had been careful to make the purchase in a legal form, so there could be no retraction. On a lovely morning in May the unhappy Indians took leave of the forest home, now theirs nolonger. Their last chant rang mourn- fully among the grand old trees; they bade an eloquent farewell to the tombs of their ances- tors, and we are told that it was not with bless- ings that the treacherous ‘‘ pale face’’ was remembered. With heavy hearts they bent their footsteps towards the setting sun, and it is said that after a few days’ journey the young son of the chief disappeared, and could not be found. The unhappy father thought that his child had been spirited away as a punishment for his own sin, and died soon after of the com- bined effects of grief and intemperance. Of the fortunes of the remaining Indians thus left without a leader, tradition further saith not. Templemore had now gained his object, and proceeded to erect a large mansion and lay out extensive grounds. For the site of his house he chose the burial-ground (not being supersti- tious, we suppose). With admirable taste he left many of the forest trees, intermingling with them rare fruit trees and beautiful flowering shrubs. When all was completed, he brought from a neighboring village a fair bride to share with him his beautiful home; and there was not in the country a happier or more prosperous man than Edward Templemore. The legend here passes over an interval of many years. —_ CHAPTER II. Ye drive them from their father’s land, Ye break of faith the seal; But think ye from the courts of Heaven To exclude their last appeal ?—Mars. SIGoURNEY. Wuew the narrative is resumed, we find Mr. Templemore a stately, middle-aged gentleman, with the fire of his eye undimmed, and but few threads of silver mingling in his dark locks. But where is the young wife whom we saw just entering her new home? Alas! she has long been a tenant of that narrow home whither we are all hastening. During her life she exerted a softening influence over the stern will of her husband, rendering him more amiable; but after her death, his old harshness returned ; and though not an unkind father, he was re- garded with somewhat of fear as well as love by his only child. If tradition is to be believed, Edith Temple- more was a maiden of rare beauty, of stately form, and noble features. She inherited her father’s broad brow and dark eyes, and there was sometimes an expression which seemed to say that she lacked not a portion of his spirit also; but her mother had carefully sought to counteract all that was self-willed in her daugh- ter, and had in a measure succeeded. A short time after the loss of this invaluable friend, Edith was sent to a distant city to complete her education. Here she became an inmate of a fashionable seminary for young ladies, and was occasionally taken into society with others of her schoolmates by the teachers. On some of these occasions they met the students of a col- lege located in the same city; and there was one whose eagle eyes soon learned to seek out Edith ; and we are told that she did not regard him with indifference. What cared she that upon his lofty brow there lingered a dark shade that, with his uncurled raven locks, proclaimed his Indian lineage? She only thought, as she watched those magnificent eyes, and listened to his brilliant conversation, that he was the very standard of perfection ; and it is to be pre- sumed that his opinion of her was equally flat- tering, as in a short time they were plighted lovers. Not until she was acquainted with his past history, however, did Allan Lisle ask her hand, ‘* You are undoubtedly aware, Miss Temple- more,’’ said he, ‘‘ that by birth I am an Indian ; my recollections of my people are very limited, as I was separated from them when a child. Yet I still retain a pleasant memory of my early home, of boyish sports beneath the tall trees and around our rude wigwams. I was the hereditary chief of our tribe. I well remember the affection of my father, a stately chieftain, and also our taking a melancholy leave of our beautiful home, and have a faint idea that it was through the injustice of a white man that we were obliged to go. On the second day of our journey, while our party were resting from the noontide heat, I was attracted by the bril- liant plumage of a bird which flew toward a thicket near, and following its slow flight, I soon lost sight of my companions; but being accustomed to wandering alone in the forest, this gave me no uneasiness. After some time I became weary and lay down to sleep. My slumber must have been of several hours’ dura- tion, for when I awoke the stars were shining brightly in the sky ; a sense of loneliness came over me; and rising hastily I endeavored to return to my people, but in vain: I only be- came entangled in the dense shrubbery of a swamp. At last, yielding to despair, I sat down and remained motionless until morning, when I resumed my fruitless efforts. When the day fF FF eae ee eee ee ee the said Indi “ec excl: ** Bu room his | word

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THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 65 was nearly spent I heard voices near, and hast- ening in their direction, found not my friends, but a party of white men engaged in hunting. My own surprise was equalled by theirs in find- ing an Indian child alone in the woods. My story, told in imperfect English, won for me the sympathy of the kind hunters, and after a vain search for my pecple, they carried me home with them. One of the party, a wealthy and childless man, fancied me notwithstanding my swarthy color, and adopted me as his son. It is the name of this beloved benefactor that I bear, and to him I am indebted for my education and prospects in life. I shall endeavor to realize his bright hopes in the profession which I have chosen—that of the law—as you are aware; and it will be the object of my life to repay, as far as possible, the kindness which he has shown toa nameless wanderer. And now, fair lady, having said thus much of myself, allow me to ask—”’ We are not gifted in the way of describing love scenes, but think that the question of our black-eyed friend must have received a favor- able answer, for it was soon reported in the seminary that Edith Templemore and the hand- some Indian lawyer were engaged. Soon after these events, the young lady returned home. Her lover being admitted to the bar, and re- ceiving the approbation of his adopted father, intended soon to visit her and obtain her father’s consent to their union. When Edith arrived at home, she found that her father had received some inklings as to the state of affairs, and was not very favorably disposed towards her lover. She endeavored to remove his prejudices, and trusted to a per- sonal interview to dispel them altogether. At length Allan came. It happened that Mr. Templemore was away when he arrived. We need not describe the happy meeting of the lovers. After the first greeting was over, Allan remarked— “It is singular, Edith, that this place does not seem altogether unfamiliar to me; this peculiar rise of ground—where can I have seen the resemblance of it ?’’ ‘It was a strange place to build a house,”’ said Edith, ‘‘for there is said to have been an Indian burial-place here.’’ ‘* Ah, it is indeed the home of my childhood !”” exclaimed Allan, springing from his chair. ‘** But how changed !” As he spoke, Mr. Templemore entered the room. A scowl of deadly hatred settled on his brow, for he had heard the young man’s words, and knew (what he had before suspected) 5* that the son of the man whom he had so deeply wronged stood before him. Edith arose to in- troduce her lover; but was interrupted by her father. ‘‘I am well aware,’’ said he, ‘‘ that this is the Indian vagabond who seeks your hand ; but with my consent he shall never have it.” Allan’s dark eyes flashed ; drawing himself proudly up, he said: ‘‘From no other man, Mr. Templemore, would I endure such language; but you are the father of my beloved Edith, and as such entitled to my forbearance. I have come to ask your consent to our marriage; but do not suppose that I am ignorant of the wrong inflicted on my people, or the fact that you have deprived me of these broad acres. The memory of the past I am willing to bury in oblivion, if you grant me but this request.” Edith had drawn near him as he spoke, and now placed her hand in his. Ungovernable rage sparkled in the old man’s: eyes as he beheld them standing thus, and suddenly raising the heavy walking-stick, he inflicted a fearful blow upon Allan’s temple! Without a groan, he fell upon the floor. For a moment did Edith gaze upon her horror- stricken parent, and that gaze, so full of woe, haunted him to his last hour; then, with a wild cry, sank beside her murdered lover. The servants, hearing that fearful shriek, rushed in and saw their master looking like one stupefied upon his work of destruction. What a scene was there! ‘The noble form of the young In- dian lay extended in death, and on his out- stretched arm, with her dark hair and white dress dabbled in the blood which gushed from her mouth, lay the idolized young mistress of the household! Medical aid was summoned. The young man was dead, and for Edith, who had ruptured a bloodvessel, there was no hope. In a few hours she died, forgiving her father with her last breath, and requesting to be buried beside her lover. That request was granted, and they rest side by side. Mr. Tem- plemore was wealthy, and we are told that riches cover a multitude of sins; so no very strict legal investigation was made. But, although unscathed by justice, who shall say that he went unpunished? From that day he was an altered man, with blanched hair, and his stal- wart form bending as with the weight of many added years. And from that fearfui day, tra- dition telleth us, has Templemore Mansion been uninhabitable. This violence done to their last descendant aroused the shades of the dusky warriors who slept on the hillside, and now they hold forevermore wild revels in the ruined home of the oppressor.

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HOW THE WRONG WAS DONE AND RIGHTED. BY VIRGINIA FP. TOWNSEND. ** Anp now, Cecilia, I want to make assurance doubly sure. You will not go to Central Park with this friend of your cousin’s while I am absent ?’’ ** Yes, Horace, you may depend upon me; I will not go to Central Park with him or with any one else. Does that satisfy you, now?’’ And the last speaker looked up in the gentle- man’s face with a smile whose exceeding sweet- ness had just that little touch of wilfulness which made it only the more attractive. They were standing by the piano, the young lady and gentleman of whom I write, and their whole attitude and expression plainly indicated that some intimate relationship existed between them ; and appearances were not at fault this time, for Cecilia Howard had been the betrothed wife of Horace Nicholls for the last three months. They made a pleasant picture to look upon. There was a warm background of crimson cur- tains and cushioned chairs, and the carpet had a vine of blossoms whose golden flagons were drawn on a russet ground. Cecilia Howard’s years hovered among their early twenties. There was much that was sweet, and lovely, and of good report in her character ; there was much which was fair and attractive in that young face, where the fresh carnations hovered about her cheeks as the smiles did in her lipsandeyes. But her beauty, her grace, and all the natural charms of her manner had not alone won for her the love of Horace Nicholls ; he was too sensible a man for that. He knew that the freshness and beauty of youth must fade with years, and that the most disagreeable, repellant, and malicious old women are often those who had nothing to supplant the bloom and grace of their youth, women who lacked cultivation of heart and of mind, and who have no stores laid up to beguile the weariness or lighten the burden of their old age, and who from a frivolous and empty youth pass into a fretful, selfish, mise- rable old- womanhood. “God, in His good mercy, deliver me from such a wife!’’ prayed, reverently, the strong, brave heart of Horace Nicholls. The woman of his choice was not faultless, any more than he was; but Cecilia Howard had a warm, quickly responsive heart, that most beautiful thing in woman. She was the only daughter 66 of her widowed mother, who only escaped making an idol of her child, and had been over-indulgent with her; but Mrs. Howard was a woman of good sense, and she had spared no pains nor expense which her limited means allowed in the education of her child. Horace Nicholls was the nephew of a bank president, who had adopted him into his own large family on the death of the boy’s parents, and generously afforded him every advantage which he bestowed on his own half dozen boys. Horace was naturally thoughtful and studious. He had graduated at college, and because his uncle’s penetration convinced him that he had more force and capacity than any of his own sons, he had offered him a lucrative and re- sponsible position in the bank of which he was president. He did not look more than his years, and they were twenty-eight. His face was, I think, a fair index of his character. It was a good, manly face—intelligent, cultivated. Most peo- ple regarded him as somewhat reserved ; yet, with those who knew him well, he was singu- larly frank and spontaneous. There was a magnetic charm about Horace Nicholls to the few to whom he disclosed him- self, but his character rested on a basis of solid Christian principle, and the great aim of his life was not simply to please the esthetic tastes of those over whom he had most influence. But although his character was ‘‘drawn on a grave reserve,” it was abundantly veined with humor, and a half covert sportiveness flashed its light all over his conversation. ‘‘Yes, that answer more than satisfies me, my little girl,” replied Horace Nicholls to the question of his betrothed. ‘‘I am not exacting ; I am quite satisfied that you should go to the Central Park, only not in company with this Mr.. Marshall. I know, notwithstanding his gentlemanlike appearance and personal accom- plishments, that he is not a man of sound moral principle, not a man of right heart or life. And the one flower I have gathered to wear in my heart must not waste any of its sweetness or beauty on a man like this one.” Cecilia Howard looked up and blushed a little betwixt her smiles, as what woman would not at such sweet flattery? Then her thoughts touched on something which troubled her.

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°° oO etm t ~ FP HOW THE WRONG WAS DOXE AND RIGHTED. 67 ** What is it?’’ asked Horace Nicholls, read- ing her face. ‘*Oh, I wish you weren’t going away! A week seems a long time, Horace, and I shall be so lonely without you!” The young man looked down on her before he answered, with one of his rare, sweet smiles, which it was evident from its mingled expres- sion touched on many feelings ; but the tender- ness triumphed. ‘‘And whenever you feel lonely, darling, remember that my heart answers to yours, Cecilia. The week looks very long to me now.”’ She thanked him with a smile, half shy, half fond, and altogether sweet. ‘* But this is not the way to talk of it,” said Horace Nicholls. ‘‘ We will put this week of our absence to all good work and uses, and when we see each other again, be a little better man and woman for the teaching of the days which are gone.”’ ‘*T don’t intend to waste the hours, Horace ; I expect to make some strong leaps in my Ger- man before you return, besides devoting myself to various other work of a more decidedly fe- minine character which I ’ve laid out to do.’’ It was very ‘hard to leave her; Horace Ni- cholls’ face bore witness to this as he looked at his watch. ‘**Ts it time ?’’ asked Cecilia. ** Almost ; there is time for one song before I go; let me have it.’’ She swept her fingers over the keys of the piano, and then her voice—it was naturally a fine one, and had received careful cultivation— flowed through an old, quaint ballad, whose mingled pathos and joy of tenderness gathered itself up at last into a triumphant close of faith and trust in the eternal love and wisdom which shall satisfy and auswer with ‘‘fulness of joy” all hearts that put their trust in it. And the sweet air, as it throbbed and surged along the ballad, was only a new echo and disclosure of its sentiment in all its finest shades. Horace Nicholls was silent when the last notes ceased to palpitate on the air. He was exquisitely susceptible to the power of music, and it seemed as though the quaint old ballad and the sweet air had expressed somewhat in his heart that words could not. He drew Cecilia to him, and his last speech, solemn and tender, went beyond this life, even as the life of Horace Nicholls did: ‘‘ The Lord bless and keep thee, my darling, and give thee peace!’? Then he went away without another word, Three days had passed ; the cold white flan- nel of winter had rolled thick over the earth, hiding as was best the woe and desolation from her face, for the beauty of the summer and the stately splendor of the autumn had departed from her. But on the fourth day the low, sul- len clouds were swept away by the triumphant sunshine; the storm of wind had lifted up its banners and come on; the storm of snow ceased at last. ‘*Everybody was out that day.’’ So said Helen, the cousin of Cecilia Howard, a pretty, kindly, frivolous girl, as she came in, just be- fore lunch. ‘Cecilia, I’ve come for you,’’ said the young lady, bestowing her cape and muff on one-half of the sofa and herself on the ether, ‘‘and I sha’n’t have any denial. You're to go to Central Park with me this afternoon.” **Oh, I can’t think of it !’’ ‘‘That ’s exactly what I want you not todo” —with a toss of her head and a little twitter of alaugh. ‘‘ You’re not to think at all; only to go. Why, the skating is perfectly charming, and the day, coming out of three of storm, is probably the fairest we shall have this January. Let me have some coffee and cake with you, and then we will go.”’ Helen Eustis, without any real force of cha- racter, had a certain promptness and vivacity, which often served to bear down any slight op- position, and compel acquiescence. The day certainly was attractive, and three indoors had prepared Cecilia to relish a walk. Then, like most young ladies, she enjoyed intensely the new pleasure and excitement of skating, and would have entered eagerly into her cousin’s proposition, if it had not been for the remembrance of her promise to her be- trothed. And this memory held her back. ‘There is no use to urge me, Helen,’’ she said, with quiet determination, and yet with a little lurking regret in her tones, which pre- vented her cousin from abandoning the matter. ‘‘T cannot go out this afternoon; I have good and sufficient reasons for it.’’ ‘‘ What are they, Cecilia?’’—in that abrupt manner which in another must have seemed impertinent, but which was Helen’s ‘‘ way ;’’ and the words were partly warranted by an intimacy which had existed betwixt Cecilia and herself since their infancy. Cecilia hesitated a moment, and then, think- ing the best way was to meet her cousin in her own straightforward fashion, answered, qui- etly— “I promised Horace that I wouldn’t go to Central Park while he was away.”

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68 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. "IT thought so!’? There was a very faint curl of the lip which said vastly more than, with all her freedom of speech and manner, Helen Eustis would have ventured on. ‘‘ Dear me, I’m thankful I’m not an engaged young lady, if I should in consequence have to be shut up like a nun in a convent.”’ “*T don’t know that J am.’’ There was a little shade of annoyance in her voice and manner. ‘‘ The promise was quite of my own making ; Horace didn’t ask it.”’ ‘*Oh well, that alters the case. I thought it was singular enough that he should be so ex- acting as that. Of course he wouldn’t care at all, if you rode up to the Park with brother Daniel and me,” seeing that Cecilia’s last re- mark had given her another stand-point from which to renew argument and persuasion, That hercousin had made an advance on her objections was evident enough by Cecilia’s half doubtful reply: ‘‘I don’t know that Horace would care, but then I promised him, you know.”’ ‘What made you promise him such an ab- surd thing ?”’ There was a little flutter of embarrassment in Cecilia’s face. ‘‘There were good reasons; I can’t explain them, though.” Helen Eustis was a shrewd girl. She sus- pected the truth at once; and this suspicion gave her a fresh motive to induce her cousin to accompany her. She was well aware that Hor- ace Nicholls had no respect for the man who was her acknowledged lover; and this know- ledge, while it offended her, stimulated her desire to triumph over her cousin’s betrothed. The truth is, she had never liked Horace Ni- cholls. She felt, intuitively, the moral antago- nism of their characters and aims in life, and the real estimate in which he held hers. This conviction galled the girl’s pride, and her vanity was piqued because she had never succeeded in gaining the admiration of Horace Nicholls. She felt that he had penetrated farther into her real character, into the motives which moulded it, and controlled her living, than any man had done before ; and that in his heart he had pronounced her worldly, vain, and selfish. And this knowledge not only galled her proud spirit, but gave her a thirst for some petty re- venge, and a desire to wound the man through his affections, although she would not have acknowledged this even to her own conscious- ness. “Excuse me, Cecilia,” subjoined the lady, playing with the tassels of her muff, and feeling her way softly along the new ground she had gained, ‘‘I didn’t mean to intrude on any pri- vate reasons you might have for this promise, but I’m altogether certain that if Mr. Nicholls were here, he would insist upon your going with Daniel and me this afternoon. You know what he gaid, the last time I was hera, about the absolute necessity of a woman going out of the house every pleasant day at least.’’ ‘*T remember,”? more and more inclined to the ride. ‘There goes the iunch-bell. Say you ’ll go. Come, now! Horace will not say a word, I ‘ll wager a new pair of gloves. Shall you be always just so careful and obedient, my little cousin? What a model wife you will make!” The speaker had come over to her cousin’s side now, and was stroking her hair, and her smile was a very bright one, only it concealed several things ! **T ’m neither fearful nor obedient,” nettled again, as Helen meant she should be, under the soft words. ‘‘ It was wholly my own pro- mise, not Horace’s asking.’’ “Why don’t you go, then, when you are cer- tain he wouldn’t wish you to keep it under the circumstances? Come, Cecilia, I’m famishing for a sandwich and some coffee.”’ ** Are you sure, Helen, that no one is to go with you, excepting Daniel ?”’ ‘He and yourself are the only persons to whom I have spoken of it.”’ Helen thought that she had spoken the truth, for she had too much self-respect to utter a base falsehood ; but she concealed something which made her remark only true to the letter. ‘*Well, I'll go, I believe,’ was the audible conclusion of Cecilia’s meditations, the burden of which was, that if Horace was there he would certainly approve of her doing so; and yet it was singular that she had to repeat this so many times to herself, in order to satisfy her own mind. ‘*There ’s adarling.’? And Helen kissed her cousin, and there was a flash of triumph in her eyes. Great was the surprise and consternation of Cecilia Howard when, three-quarters of an hour later, she entered the parlor of her cousin’s residence, and Mr. Marshall rose up from the sofa, with a couple of his most graceful bows to the ladies. Helen’s surprise was well acted. ‘Is it pos- sible, Mr. Marshall? Who expected to find you here, and to what, or whom are we in- debted for the pleasure ?” ‘*T am indebted for it to your brother, Miss Helen. He informed me that you had engaged

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HOW THE WRONG WAS DONE AND RIGHTED. 69 to ride with him to Central Park this after- noon, and invited me to join you.”’ ‘¢That is just like Daniel. He always likes to share his rides with somebody who can be more agreeable than his sister,’’ said the young lady, with a toss of her pretty head, and a little pout which she knew how to use on just the right occasion; but she did not think it neces- sary to acquaint either of her guests with the fact that Daniel would never have thought of inviting his friend to join in the ride, if his sister had not suggested it in the morning, in case the two young men came across each other. ** We are to have the pleasure of your com- pany, Miss Howard ?’’ said George Marshall, as le restored Cecilia the handkerchief which had fallen from her hand to the floor; and he ac- complished this little act with all the grace which rendered him so great a favorite with a certain class of ladies. ‘“*I—I hav’n’t quite decided,’’ rejoined Ce- cilia, as she received the handkerchief, and forgot to thank the gentleman, her face full of indecision and pain. Helen turned around and faced her cousin with her large, dark eyes. ‘‘ Why, Cecilia, what has got into you? You promised me that you would go.”’ ‘*T know that I did; but it was half against my best judgment, and I think now that I must recall it.’’ The low, steady voice made Helen think that after all her cousin might not be over-persuaded against her best judgment, but at that moment the door opened, and Daniel Eustis entered. He was a good-hearted, well-meaning young man, with a character neither very fine nor high-toned, but kind and gvod-natured as far as he went. He had always been very fond of Cecilia, and she had a kind of half sisterly affection for the young man, because of old, pleasant memories, that knit up many of the golden hours of his and her childhood together ; for Daniel Eustis had carried her in his small arms around the nursery, in the earliest dawn of her remembrance. ** Daniel, you ’ve come just at the right mo- ment,’’ called his sister. ‘‘For some unac- countable reason, Cecilia’s taken it into her head to gohome. Perhaps your entreaties will avail to keep her; mine can’t.’’ Daniel Eustis came up to his cousin and kissed the peach bloom on her cheek with the freedom which had always existed in their in- tercourse ; then he took both her hands in his playfully. ‘‘You’re my prisoner; I sha’n’t let you go, Cecilia,’ he said, ‘‘ without the very best of reasons.’’ Their eyes were all on her face, and Cecilia felt her position as most embarrassing. She feared that Helen might suspect the real motive which had induced her change of opinion, and she lacked moral courage to run the risk of offending her. She reflected, too, that Daniel’s presence would shield her from any attentions which the chivalric Mr. Marshall might other- wise be disposed to render her; and in the awkward position in which she was placed, there was certainly nothing better to do than to quietly acquiesce in the matter. Horace would not be unreasonable enough to blame her, for she was in no wise responsible for Mr. Marshall’s presence. So the matter was ended, with a little nervous laugh on her part, and a ‘‘ Well, as I’m your prisoner, there ’s nothing for me to do but to surrender as gracefully as possible.’’ Alas for thee, Cecilia Howard ! They had a charming ride up to the Park. The beautiful gray ponies seemed to enter into the spirit of the day, as they dashed along the newly fallen snow to the silver chime of the sleigh-bells. As for the skating, that was charming, too; and Cecilia shook off the shadow from her spirits, and for the next three hours she gave herself up to the enjoyment of gliding over the crystal basement built by the frozen waters. She was accomplished in the exercise, and many admiring eyes followed the graceful sweep of her figure along the ice, or watched the fair face whose soft bloom the winds opened into damask roses, and whose bright eyes and bright lips answered each other with smiles that were equally captivating. It was impossible to skate all the time with Daniel. Mr. Marshall often took possession of her, in a mawner which she could not decline without marked rudeness ; and in a little while she submitted to it, and forgot all about the disagreeable necessity. **You are not sorry you came, after ali, are you, little cousin ?’’ asked Daniel, as he assisted her into the carriage, just as the short winter day was being gathered up into the night. ‘OQ no,’’ was the quick response. And then the memory of Horace’s visit flashed across Cecilia Howard, and she was not certain that she had spoken the truth, after all; and she was so quiet during the rjde home that her cousins rallied her several times on her silence, but it was in vain. Horace Nicholls had always feared the influ-

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GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, ence of Helen Eustis over the woman of his choice. He knew that Cecilia was too suscep- tible and approbative, but he hoped that time would strengthen and develop all the beautiful possibilities of her nature, and he had resolved that when she belonged to him, the intimacy betwixt the cousins should be gradually les- sened. As for George Marshall, the pure- minded and true-hearted man could only contemplate with a shudder the possibility of Cecilia’s youth and sweetness being brought under the influ- ence or into the moral atmosphere of her cou- sin’s betrothed for a moment. Horace knew that this man was unsound to the core; a man without principle or honor; without belief in God or faith in man; one who sneered at all truth and self-sacrifice, and whose only aim in life was the achievement of his own happiness and aggrandizement. George Marshall was a man of marked ability; one who possessed taste, discernment, and that social adaptation which, combined with many personal gifts and graces, made him a great favorite, and he was especially successful in dazzling women who had not the fine moral sense that could penetrate his disguises and find his soul and heart hollow and selfish. Cecilia Howard had this; from the first ac- quainutance with George Marshall he had repelled her, and she had always avoided his society as much as she could, without absolutely de- clining it. Helen Eustis was acute enough to perceive all this, and she attributed the whole thing to Horace Nicholls. She was just the style of woman for a man like George Marshall to dazzle ; and her social position and her father’s wealth made him desirous of winning her for his wife ; but Helen Eustis had occasionally glimpses of the real sentiments of her betrothed, which for the moment shocked her, and she was thus rendered doubly sensitive to another’s perceiv- ing them; and the conviction that Horace Ni- cholls had done this made her dislike for the man almost amount to hatred. She vainly sought opportunities of bringing George Mar- shall and her cousin together, and it was the knowledge of this desire on Helen’s part which made Horace Nicholls obtain from Cecilia the promise that he had on their last interview. “Why, Horace!” That was all she had time to speak, for the arms which had seized Cecilia Howard about the waist as she stood slipping a lump of sugar betwixt the wires of her canary’s cage gathered her up closely, and sweet and tender kisses said at that time all that the giver felt and could not. **T did not expect you until to-morrow, Horace.’’ Cecilia disengaged herself at last ; and how sweet she looked in the eyes to whom she was beautiful beyond comparison with all rare and beautiful things! How sweet she looked with the glad welcome in her eyes and the roses widening in her cheeks I cannot write. Horace Nicholls took entire possession of the lady, and carried her off into the parlor, and seated her down on the lounge. ‘It is good to get back; it has been a long week, Cecilia.” ‘*1t has seemed like three, Horace.” ‘*So it has. And, now, what have you been doing of work or play during this time ?”’ ‘*Oh, various things. Dipping into French and German, taking some deep draughts from that fountain whose waters are always fresh, * Aurora Leigh,’ and using myself in all homely ways and offices, for Biddy has been sick, and mamma’s purse, you know, is not deep enough for two domestics.”’ ‘¢ That is one kind of the work which is wor- ship, my little girl. And, now, how about the play?’ ‘*Oh, I haven’t had much of that.’’ She said this in a little hurried wise that he afterward recalled, although he was unconscious of ob- serving it at the time, and he thought it must have prompted his next inquiry, for no fear or suspicion that Cecilia would break her promise had crossed his thoughts during his absence. ‘And you haven’t been to Central Park, as you promised me, notwithstanding the fine skating ?”’ ‘“©O no; of course not,’? answered Cecilia, drawing her breath, and feeling a cold shudder run over her. ‘‘ Why, what can have put that idea into your head ?’’—busy with the velvet cushion, so that Horace Nicholls did not see her face while she spoke. **T don’t know, I’m sure’’—half apologeti- cally. ‘‘I asked the question without reflec- tion, as I knew that you wouldn’t go.”’ The young lover remained less than an hour with Cecilia. Perhaps he would have observed a slight constraint and agitation in her manner if the happiness of being with her once more had been less deep and full. At the end of an hour he tore himself away that evening, and he little imagined that as soon as she had closed the door on him Cecilia Howard returned to the parlor, flang herself into a chair, and, lift- ing her hands, there broke from the girl’s lips

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HOW THE WRONG WAS DONE AND RIGHTED. a wail of exceeding anguish. ‘‘I have tolda lie! I have taken a great sin upon my soul !”’ ‘‘Halloa, Horace! can’t you stop long enough to shake hands ?”’ The voice, loud and good-natured, reached the young man as he was hurrying up Broad- way. He turned hastily, and confronted Daniel Eustis, who had just crossed one of the streets which intersected the great thoroughfare. The young men shook hands cordially, and then Daniel asked— ‘* Where do you keep yourself now-a-days ?”’ **T’ve been out of town for a week, and got back within the last hour.”’ ‘Seen my pretty cousin?’’ asked Daniel, with a significant smile, gracefully shaking’ a few gray flakes from his cigar. ** Certainly I have,’’ answered Horace Ni- cholls. And his smile said very plainly that he was quite ready, and proud to avow the fact before the whole world. Dariel Eustis was fond of ajoke. This time he put cu aslightly mysterious expression, and continued: ‘* Well, it’s fortunate you ’ve got back again, for your own peace of heart, and that of my pretty cousin, too.’ ‘What do you mean ?”’ asked the other, half indifferently, supposing that this was merely some of Daniel’s nonsense; for he knew his habit of light talking, as he had frequently met him at his cousin’s, and liked him, partly for her sake, partly for his good nature. “Oh, nothing; only Helen insists that if Cecilia wasn’t just the little saint that she is, she should certainly be jealous, for George Mar- shall was so deeply impressed the day they were out together. He says she’s perfectly charming, and he’s a man of taste, Horace ; you may be glad to have him endorse your choice.”’ Horace Nicholls did not seem to feel the force of the latter part of this remark. He brought his deep, gray eyes on Daniel’s face with an expression which the young man had never seen there before. ‘*When and where were George Marshall and Cecilia Howard out together?’ What do you mean, Daniel?’’ The voice was that of a man who would not be put off. ‘*Why, man alive, nothing serious; only that Mr. Marshall and Cecilia Howard were out together on Central Park, last Thursday after- noon, with Helen and myself, and we had a capital time of it; and the former young lady’s charms of person and grace of manner made an impression which you, certainly of all others, can best understand.”’ The face of Horace Nicholls was very white, but he controlled himself, and his voice was steady, although it was not the voice of the same man who had spoken two minutes before. ‘* Daniel, do you teil me, on your most sacred word and horor, that these two—your cousin and George Marshall—passed last Thursday afternoon together on Central Park ?”’ ‘Of course I do,’ answered Daniel, with a stare. ‘There was no harm in that, was there ? Helen and I were alongside.”? For it now re- curred to Daniel’s memory that his sister had told him with a covert sneer that she did not think Mr. Nicholls liked George Marshall very well, he was quite too great a saint for that. Good-morning.’’ And ‘* That ’s all, Daniel. touching his hat, Horace walked off. Daniel did also, whistling to himself, and thinking “I’ve got myself intoa fix. Hang it! I wish I’d kept still.’’ And he made this re- mark to his sister, on finding her in the sitting- room. ‘¢ What have you done, now, Dan ?”’ asked Helen Eustis, looking up from an exquisite bouquet of camelias and moss which she was arranging in a vase. The young man threw himself into a chair, and relateé the conversation which had just transpired betwixt himself and Horace Nicholls. Helen listened with evident interest, and there was a look of triumph on her face when he concluded. ‘*T’m very glad you told him, Daniel. How absurd it is that Horace Nicholls should be so jealous! Poor Cecilia !’’ And Daniel concluded his sister must be right after all, and dismissed the subject from his thoughts. Horace Nicholls did not go to the bank as he intended. He went home, with a fierce longing in his soul that he might die, with a wonder that the sun in the heavens above cou!d smile down on him, while it seemed to him that he was almost forsaken of God. The woman of his love and trust had proved herself a liar! The word seemed to blaze and curl in fiery lines before him, as he walked and hurried on. He was a man whose soul de- manded truth, unflinching, absolute in the woman of his election ; and he had loved Ce- cilia Howard with all the strength of his man- hood, with a love so unutterable that it had been his daily prayer that it might not become idolatry, remembering who had said, ‘*Thou shalt heve no other Gods before me!’’ And now his faith and trust in her were gone for-

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bo | Lo GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. ever! Horace Nicholls was a man who would put his right hand inthe fire, and hold it there, before he would sacrifice his judgment or his conscience to his affections. No matter though the sacrifice cost him his life, a thousand times, once satisfied that it was right, he would make it. He went home, and for the next three hours no human eyes beheld Horace Nicholls. He was alone with his God. But at the end of that time his resolution was taken. He would see Cecilia no more; he would write her a brief note, acquainting her with all he had learned that morning, and the terrible consequences it had wrought for both of them. Then he would take the steamer which sailed the next day for Europe. He knew that his uncle had some important business to transact with certain houses in London and Paris, and that he would very gladly avail himself of his services in this mat- ter, after his first surprise at his nephew’s determination was over. He shrank from the thought of seeing any other of his relatives or friends ; he would leave the dearest of them a few messages, and that was all. Cecilia Howard had passed the most miserable day of her life. She had gone about with a weight of remorse upon her soul which she could not put aside for one moment, and look- ing forward to the night, when Horace should come to her, with unutterable fear and dread. The girl was instinctively truthful. Her deep moral sense recoiled with unutterable loathing from the lieshe had uttered, and the good that was in her triumphed at last. She resolved that she would not sleep that night unti! she had told Horace the whole truth. She shrank from the thought of his displeasure ; she fairly writhed under the fear that she must sink for- ever in his esteem, that he must lose faith in her word; but anything, anything was better than that falsehood, whose knowledge bowed her tothe earth. ‘‘God help me!” prayed the heart of Cecilia Howard. Hour after hour that night she listened, trem- bling, and afraid for the footsteps of Horace Nicholls, but greatly to her surprise he did not come. She concluded at last that some business must have detained him, and fearing that her courage might fail her in his presence, resolved that before she slept she would write him a letter, telling him ali that she had done and suffered. She did not sleep that night until the letter was written. It was one that must have won Sorgiveness from and inspired new faith in any man, for its touching repentance, its womanly fear of the loss of Horace’s confidence or his affection, were witnesses of all the disclosure had cost her; aud how deep and strong was the love of truth in the soul of Cecilia Howard, that. she would rather brave anything, make any sacrifice than carry the consciousness that she had deceived the man who loved her. The burden was lifted from the girl’s soul after the letter was written. She slept soundly that night, and the next morning, fearing to delay, sent her confession to Horace Nicholls. It was delivered to him with several others, and he was then in the midst of preparations for his departure at noon. He tossed the whole into a drawer, and an hour later tore the en- velopes hastily and ran them over. © Cecilia’s letter had slipped behind the others, among a pile of unimportant papers, and escaped his notice. He was on board the steamer which at noon left the harbor for Liverpooi, and on the evening of the same day, Cecilia Howard, who had watched and waited for his coming, received the letter which told her all. A year had passed. During this time Horace Nicholls had been a wanderer in many lands, no one of his friends could have told where, for he had not communicated with his uncle except through the latter’s agents, and in each case had carefully concealed his address, for it was his great aim to ignore everything which could awaken the old memories and the old pain in his heart. But one day, during a brief visit in Paris, he came suddenly upon some New York papers, and read there a statement of a severe injury which his uncle had received in the winter from a fall on the ice when alighting from his carriage. Horace Nicholls owed something to the uncle who had sheltered his boyhood with a father’s tenderness. He knew that the old gentleman would need his presence and services now, and he felt that duty summoned him home. He believed that he had conquered his own heart, at least so that he could bear the pain which the old associations would awaken; and in less than two weeks he was on his way to his native land. For Cecilia Howard, her heart had not broken when she read that last letter of Horace Nichoils. 1 think that it might if she had not been sus- tained by the knowledge that, after all, he had mistaken her; that she was better than he believed, and that her letter, which she was certain could never have reached him, proved this, for it had been written without a thought an Ges oe’ ae ee —_ m lo fo. my sai yo

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anly his sure was ard, ake that soul idly zy to ls. ers, ions hole en- lia’s ag a his oon ning had ived race nds, ere, ncle rach or it hich old prief ome nent ived hen nele ler’s man and H e art, hich less tive ken oils. sus- , he n he was ved nght HOW THE WRONG WAS or fear of his discovering the truth through any other source. After that he owed her some- thing, and the feeling that he had been unjust to her saved, as I said, her heart from breaking. But that was all; Ais letter laid her for three months on a sickbed, whence she rose at last a wiser and better woman. Horace Nicholls had been home three days, and he had_ passed most of this time with his uncle, who was still confined to his chamber. The old gentleman had been quite overjoyed at seeing his nephew again, and if he suspected any reason for his long absence, never alluded to it. But that morning, the third after his re- turn, the young man went to the room which he had formerly occupied, and which was in the residence of a widow lady who had been a friend of his mother’s. Nothing had been changed during his absence. He opened the small table drawer, rummaged among its pa- pers, which lay just as he had left them, and in overturning these his eye suddenly feil upon the letter which Cecilia Howard had last written him. His heart gave a quick bound, for he knew the handwriting. He sat down, and after a little while opened the letter. When he had read it, he laid it down on the table, and laid his head down there too, and the proud man sobbed like a little child. He saw then that in the horror and pain of his first discovery of Cecilia’s deception, he had acted unwisely, and that, after all, his first faith in her, his first intuitions of her real character had been the true ones; and he was a man to make full atone- ment when he had erred. Cecilia Howard sat sewing, that morning, before the pleasant grate fire in the sitting- room. She was humming fragments of some sweet, old-fashioned tune to herself. She was not much changed, except in that change which is of the soul, and which touches and sublimates the whole face. Horace Nicholls stood still and looked at her a few moments as she sat there, for he had opened the door softly, as the do- mestic, who knew him well, had, at his request, told him where to find Cecilia, and that she was quite alone, for Mrs. Howard happened to be absent that morning. “‘Cecilia!’’ It was said almost in a whisper. She started and looked up. She had had no tidings of his return. Horace Nicholls came forward very humbly ; many feelings struggled in his face, but he said: ‘‘ One hour since, Cecilia, I read the letter you wrote me a year ago, and which has lain VoL. Lxv.—6 DONE AND RIGHTED. 73 in my drawer all that time. Cecilia, can you forgive me? Will you come back to me?” She leaned her head back; the tears rained over her cheeks, but the light shone on her face, exalting it into a new beauty, not all of this world, as she said, with a mingling of gratitude and solemn triumph in her voice: ‘*T thought you would come, Horace ; I thought God would send you back to me.” ei a eal FAR AWAY FROM THOSE I LOVE. BY GEORGE COOPER. Far away from those I love, In the city’s pomp and noise, Memory bids me look again On my long departed joys, And before my vision brings The old house where I was born, With the fields where purled the brook, And where waved the golden corn: Brings to me the village church, With the elms before the door, And the teams beneath their shade, Waiting for the service o'er ; Brings the chimes which seemed to say “ Hasten, hasten, be not late ;"’ And the knot of shining lads Talking at the snow-white gate: Brings the graveyard near the church Where my blessed mother lies, Where I often walked at eve With sad heart and streaming eyes; Brings the tranquil suaset hour, Bathing all in sweet repose, When along the winding lane Singing home the milkmaid gues: Brings to me the dear old woods b In their robes of green and gray, Deep in whose resounding haunts When a child I used to play; Brings the school-house near the woods, And the merry times I had Coasting down the slanting hill When the fields with snow were clad: O the bliss that thrills my soul As I look upon each scene! O’er the stream of many years That has rolled its way between. Time may take all else from me, But impressed upon my heart Are the joys my childhood knew, Never, never to depart! MANKIND moves onward through the night of time like a procession of torch-bearers, and words are the lights which the generations carry. By means of these they kindle abiding lamps beside the track which they have passed, and some of them, like the stars, shall shine for ever and ever.

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DANCING THE SCHOTTISCHE. BY ETHELSTONE. ‘*Frank Montrort is a noble fellow, Hattie ; I cannot see why you do not love him; I set my heart upon this match when you were a little girl in pantalettes, and now that you are marriageable, you scarcely tolerate him.” **T fully appreciate his merits, my dear bro- ther ; but we are not suited for each other. If I read the books and talked upon thesubjects that he likes, every one else would think me a bore. He is so dignified, too. Why, I should never dare to laugh aloud in his presence; and be- sides, which would of itself be sufficient reason, he would not allow his wife to dance, unless it might be a stately quadrille, while I dote on the schottische and polka’’—and springing to her feet, she pirouetted gracefully across the room. Suddenly pausing, she returned to the sofa, saying: ‘‘I’ll tell you, Charlie, Jessie will suit him exactly ; she is philosophical, and astronomical, and almost every other al; and then you know how shocked she was with the dancing at Saratoga last summer, and you love her, too, almost as well as you do me; so Jessie shall have your friend, and I will choose for myself.’’ In due time Cousin Jessie arrived to spend the remainder of the winter with her fashion- able relatives in New York. A few days after her agrival, she was sitting in the drawing- room when Charlie came in. With scarcely a word of greeting, he threw himself at full length upon a sofa, and gave way to apparently uncontrollable mirth; pausing to take breath, he exclaimed— “Oh, Jessie, the best joke! and about you, too. I have laughed every time I have thought of it since.”’ ‘* About me?" said Jessie, with surprise. ‘© What is it ?” ‘*Why, you see, I have a very dear friend. I wanted him for a brother, but Hattie and he do not agree, so I thought the next best thing would be to have him for a cousin. Do you not remember, when you were here last, I was telling you of a friend of mine, then in Europe, whom I wished very much that you should see ?”” ** Yes,’’ said Jessie. ‘* Well, this is the one. So to-day I went to his office, and told him that I had a young lady cousin here, and wished him to call upon you, 74 | saying at the same titne: ‘ You will like’ her, Frank, for she does not dance ‘‘ those detestable dances,’’ as you call them.’ As I was leaving, a sudden thought struck me; and, turning to him, I said, in a serious tone: ‘There is one thing I should prepare you for, Frank; my cousin is somewhat green—rustic, you know; brought up in the country.’” And again he laughed, loud and long. ‘*Oh, Charlie, how could you!”’ said Jessie. **You cannot enjoy the joke, coz, until you see him.”’ He was interrupted by Hattie running into the room and exclaiming: ‘‘I have been so impatient to get down stairs. Do tell me, Charlie, what amuses you ?”’ He told her, and she seemed to enjoy it as much as he did. * Just imagine him,” said Charlie, ‘‘ coming in; his tall, stately figure and serious face ; and when introduced to Jessie, I think I see his large eyes dilate, and his whole manner express his surprise ; and he will be so embar- rassed, too—I would not lose it for anything !’’ And seeing that Jessie was annoyed at being placed before a stranger in such a light only added to his mirth. The next evening, as they assembled in the drawing-room after dinner, Charlie said: ‘‘ Frank will be here to-night; he will not delay any longer. He said ai first that he would come last evening; but my closing remarks cooled his ardor, I think”—and he laughed joyously. ‘One thing I forgot to tell you, Jessie. When I told him that you had been brought up in the country, ‘Oh,’ said he, ‘that, I suppose, is the reason she does not dance the schottische ; not from any feelings of delicacy on her part, but because she cannot; no more credit to her than if she did dance, in my opinion.’ ” Before Jessie could reply, the ringing of the door-bell gave notice of a visitor. “There he is,’’ said Charlie, drawing his chair partly before Jessie, so as to screen her from view ; and while her cousins greeted their guest, she had time to admire his graceful manner, dignified, as Charlie had said, but as far removed from stiffness on the one hand as from Charlie’s don’t-care style on the other. He was not handsome, yet few knew it after spending a short time in his society. om ee et ely ~

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DANOING THE SCHOTTISCHE. 7d **My cousin, Miss Bruce—Mr. Montfort’’— and Frank expressed all the surprise Charlie expected. He stood gazing at her, totally for- getful of the customary forms of greeting ; and when a smile began to dimple Jessie’s cheek, Charlie’s politeness could stand the test no longer. Tapping his friend on the shoulder, he said, gayly, ‘‘Green, isn’t she, Frank?” Mr. Montfort colored to his temples as he thought how he had betrayed the idea he had formed of her. But Jessie, with woman’s tact, came to his aid. ‘*‘One of my cousin’s merciless jokes,”’ she said; ‘‘we know him well enough not to expect anything better.” **T should have known him better than to have believed what he said,’’ replied Frank; and just then, greatly to the relief of both, other guests were announced. The evening passed pleasantly away. Mr. Montfort, either to atone for his manner at first meeting her, or because he was really pleased, kept his seat beside Jessie; and if we may judge from their manner at that time, or when they met thereafter, as they did frequently, each was well pleased with the other. One morning in the merry springtime, Char- lie lounged lazily into his friend’s office, and found him, as usual at that hour, busily en- gaged with books and papers. ‘‘Do, Frank, put away those musty papers—at least while I am here!’’ he exclaimed. ‘‘ With your pro- perty and expectations, I do not see why you should work at all.” ** Because I like it,’’ said Frank, ‘‘and ex- pectations, you know, are doubtful riches; but we will not discuss the matter now. Have you left the store for the day ?’’ **No; Iam on my way to Pier No. 2, where lies the bark ‘ Three Sisters,’ consigned to the firm of Thorn, Grant, & Co., of which honorable firm, as you are aware, your friend is a member. Charles Senior says that he has retired from business ; but if he did not do Charles Junior’s work, I very much fear that it would not get done. Why, the very name of this vessel gives me the blues: ‘Three Sisters ;’ when my three sisters get together, they completely bewilder me, and there are the Livingstones, too. By the way, Frank, I wonder how one of three sisters ever gets married.’’ ‘*Why, Charlie, you ask the question as seriously as if you had an interest there your- self. They are so totally unlike that two of them could not possibly suit the same person.” ‘IT don’t know,’ said Charlie; ‘‘ there is Grace, first; tall and dignified, and handsome, too, with those melting black eyes, and so re- served in her manners that she attracts from being unlike the majority of our light-hearted, free-spoken American girls ; then Louise, with a little more of ordinary women about her, with her exquisite voice that even speaks in melody ; and when one has about decided that she ‘holds the balance of power’ in her hands, Fannie comes with her petite figure and sunny curls, and those pleading blue eyes that cap- tivate ere you are aware; and I am not the first of the genus homo that has lost his heart to all three.’’ ‘No fear for you in that quarter; or has Miss Morton lost her place in your affections ?” said Frank. ‘*O yes,’’ replied Charlie; ‘‘three weeks ago she fell in love with a moustache on the Spanish face of Carlos Muldaur; bah!’’ After a mo- ment’s pause, he continued, watching Frank to note the effect, ‘‘I have about made up my mind to take Jessie; she is a little gem.”’ ‘* To take her,’’ said Frank, looking for some- thing very earnestly on his desk; ‘‘is that all that is necessary ?”’ ‘‘Certainly, me ‘the irresistible;’ do you think that any girl in her senses would refuse me?” said Charlie, gayly; and then added, with the most approved drawl, ‘‘I have mag- nanimously resolved to marry myself out of the way, and give you dull fellows a chance. After ten o’clock,’’ he exclaimed, abruptly, ‘I must be off’’—straightening up his fine figure— ‘for the next two hours, at least, I am Charles Thorn, Esg., merchant, of the city of New York.” ‘Oh, Charlie,’’ said Frank, ‘‘if you knew how becoming that tone and manner were to you, you would oftener wear them; and not seem as you now so often do, to those who judge only from appearances, a coxcomb, with- out a thought beyond the tie of a cravat.” ‘*But the girls, dear creatures, would not like me half so well,’’ said Charlie, as he left the office. Frank opened a book, and rearranged his papers ; but he was evidently thinking of some- thing else, for his book was upside down ; and leaning his head on his hand he scratched idly on the paper for some minutes with his pen, apparently unaware that there was no ink in it. Suddenly starting up, he exclaimed : ‘Can it be? and yet, why not? handsome, talented, wealthy, he is irresistible ; while I’’— he paused in his hurried walk before a looking- glass, and a grim smile passed over his face— ‘* without mother or sister, must I see another

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76 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. win her whom I have chosen for my wife f”’ He sat down at his desk and dropped his head upon his closed hands. But he was not one long to give way to disappointment; by an effort of his strong will, he returned to his business, and whatever the tumult within a casual observer would have seen no trace of it without. Comfort was nearer than he thought. A slight tap at the door and Mr. Livingstone entered. Surprised and pleased, Frank met him cordially, and waited with some impatience to hear his errand. ‘*T am glad, my young friend,’’ he said, “‘ to find you alone. You are acquainted in Mr. Thorn’s family, are you not?” **T am, sir.” ‘* An intimate friend of the younger Thorn, I have heard.”’ ‘*lam, and have been for several years; we were classmates at college.” **I wish,”’ continued Mr. Livingstone, “to inquire somewhat of his habits ; and if there is anything more of him than the careless dandy that he seems.”’ Frank paused a moment, and then said, gravely: ‘‘I know not by what authority you ask these questions, Mr. Livingstone, yet it is but justice to my friend to say that he has not, as far as I am aware, any fashionable vices ; he does not drink, nor gamble, nor drive fast horses ; nor does he frequent places of public amusement except in company with his sister, or other ladies ; as for his levity and apparent carelessness, it arises from his exuberant spir- its; he is one of the happiest dispositioned men I ever met with. For his business quali- fications, I refer you to Mr. Grant, the present senior partner in the firm; I have heard him speak in high terms of Charlie, and you will admit, I suppose, that his word has weight in such matters.” ‘* Certainly, certainly ; thank you, Mr. Mont- fort. I may as well tell you why I inquire so particularly about Charles. He last night asked the hand of my daughter Grace in marriage, and’’— **Miss Livingstone ?”’ interrupted Frank, ‘an admirable match for both parties; I am de- lighted.’’ . And so he was; not so much, perhaps, at the prospect of happiness for Charlie, as that he did hot intend ‘‘ to take Jessie.’’ As soon as he could leave his office, he hastened to con- gratulate his friend. He found him seated in his private office, his head leaning on his hand, and such a troubled look on his usually laugh- ing countenance, that Frank paused, and with a flash of his friend’s humor, said: ‘ Excuse me, sir, I was looking for Charlie Thorn.”’ ‘¢Come in, my dear fellow, and do not laugh at me,’’ said Charlie, dolefully. ‘* But, Charlie, what isthe matter? Is there a new dance out, and you cannot get the step, or’’— ‘* No, no, Frank, I am going to be married ; I went to tell you this morning, but could not. Mr. Livingstone and my father had a long con- ference to-day, and all our family know it by this time; so you see I dread going home. Mother wil! shed some tears, I know; Hattie too, perhaps, and I hate scenes. I wish the whole affair was over; but girls have so much ‘ getting ready’ to do; Grace says she will not be ready till June.”’ ** Come, Charlie, it is near dinner-time, I will walk up with you,’’ said Frank; ‘‘as you are not going ‘to take Jessie,’ I will do all I can for you.”’ ‘Did I hit you there, Frank? I meant to do so; but you were so calm about it that I thought I had failed.’’ ‘** But, Charlie, how did it happen that you proposed to Grace, if it is such a difficult mat- ter to select one of three sisters ?”’ **Tt all came of her being at home alone last evening. What do you think of my choice ?”’ ‘Just the one for you, Charlie. She would not have suited me, exactly; but you could not have chosen better; her dignity will be a counterpoise to your levity.” Charlie laughed, and so long that Frank was annoyed. “T do not see anything so ridiculous in my remark,’’ he said, at length. ‘“‘The association. my dear fellow. Why, I expect it will take all the sunshine of my tem- perament to keep me from turning into an icicle with her. But you and Grace ; I should freeze stiff; if lever went into your house”—and again he laughed gayly at the suggestion. ‘* But, Frank,”’ he said, ‘‘there is one thing I totally forgot to ask her—a matter of great importance to me, too.”’ ‘* What is it, Charlie? I do hope nothing will happen to separate you how.” ‘*] did not ask her if she ‘ danced the Schot- tische,’ and if she does not, why, you see’’— ‘Charlie, you are incorrigible,’ interrupted Frank. I do not believe anything would make you serious for ten minutes at a time. But here you are at home, so put on your long face again.”’ Charlie entered the house, meditating a flight to his own room till summoned to dinner; but ie ae i ek a a ae a ae a a nm

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DANCING THE SCHOTTISCHE, 77 as he crossed the hall, the parlor door was thrown open, soft arms were twined around his neck, a sister’s kiss upon his lips, and Hattie’s voice said: ‘‘ Oh, I am so glad and so sorry, Charlie; glad, if you must be married, that it is toGrace Livingstone, and sorry to lose you. What shall I do without you, my only brother ?’’—and her bright eyes swam in tears. He drew her close to his side, and said, in as cheerful a tone as he could command, ‘‘I am not going to leave you very soon, sis; and there is more than one wants my place in your heart now, which shall it be ?” A summons to dinner broke up their con- ference. Little was eaten at that first meal, though all were pleased with his choice, and the children delighted with the prospect of a gay wedding; yet they were going to lose Charlie from the household band, and none felt quite glad. DEAR Jessi£: It is all settled; Charlie is to be married in June. I am to be one of the bride’s maidens. A certain ‘‘dear friend’’ of Charlie’s refused to officiate as groomsman, even with me—just think of it !—until Charlie told him that we were to go to Uncle Bruce’s for a few days; then he consented at once; he does not know Uncle Bruce, either. How stupid we all were, Jessie, not to invite you to go with us to Newport! I thought of it yesterday, and papa said he would write for you imn = *'tely. We are to have new riding-habits; I said I wanted one, and dear Charlie told me to order one for myself and one for you, and that should be his bridal present to us; so they shall be handsome green cloth, shall they not, coz? Nelson Foster likes green, and so does Charlie. Is there any one here whose taste you wonld like to consult? If you expect to ride often with one person, it would be well to get a color that he would fancy. I mean to have caps and gloves—all complete. We will take our straw hats to wear when we ride on the beach. There is a gentleman whom you met occasion- ally while you were here, who inquires formally for my ‘‘ cousin’’ every time I see him; I know he is dying to say ‘“‘Jessie,’’ but his dignity will not permit, so I say it as often as possible toteaze him. Do you remember an easy-chair that a certain young lady whose bright eyes will grow brighter as she reads this letter used to occupy when we sat in the drawing-room ? Well, this gentleman had a fashion of looking at that chair as if he could see its fair occupant ; so one day I moved it out of sight. The next 6* time he came he was not quite so calm as usual, and at length said :— ‘*T shall tell Cousin Jessie, when I see her, that her chair has been dismissed as well as herself.”’ **Herchair!’’ said I. ‘‘ Which one was it ?’’ ‘The littie chair she so often sat in,’’ he replied ; ‘‘it usually stood beside that table.’ The banished chair was restored. I am sorry that you are not to be here at the wedding, but I know that no one else could arrange things at home so tastefully as you will. I think I see the flowers for one room— heliatrope, rosebuds, and myrtle ; tell-tale flow- ers! How I rattle on, as though I had nothing to do but chat with you, andI so busy! The first thing in order is to ride with Nelson Foster. Would it not be nice, Jessie, for us two to be married at the same time? Good-by. Love to all from Cousin Harrie. When the gay party arrived, Hattie was provokingly fond of Jessie; she would not leave her for a moment. Frank tried more than once to take Jessie away for a walk ora ride, but Hattie was always ready to go too. One morning, as they assembled at the break- fast-table, Aunt Bruce said—‘‘ Where is Jessie ? She is not often late to breakfast.”? Before any one could reply, the sound of horses’ hoofs on the green sward, and Jessie’s voice as she alighted, answered the question. She came in bright as a sunbeam, and with a few words of apology, took her seat at the table in her rid- ing-dress. Mr. Montfort came in with her, and his ‘¢good-morning, Miss Hattie,’’ and meaning smile, said plainly as words could have said, * Outwitted for once.”’ They went to Newport, Mrs. Livingstone as matron of the party. The new riding-dresses were worn as often as Hattie could have de- sired. Of all our fashionable places of resort, this affords the greatest variety of amusements ; yet the long moonlight rides on the beach were most enjoyed at the time, and longest remem- bered. One evening, Grace, Frank, and Jessie found themselves deserted by the other mem- bers of their party; and as the gay couples whirled by, keeping time to the music, Frank said :— ‘‘The more I see of these dancers the more Iam convinced that it is instinctive delicacy that keeps some ladies trom joining in them, is it not, Mrs. Thorn ?”’ ‘*T can scarcely answer in the affirmative

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78 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. when I see my sisters dancing, lest it should imply a want of delicacy on their part,’’ said Grace, smiling. She paused a moment, then added: ‘*You at least give it a pleasanter name than most gentlemen do; even Charles used to call it prudery. ** And yet,” replied Frank, ‘‘ when he sought a wife he chose one of those prudes ; so I would do. I could not consent to see my wife whirl- ing round the room in the arms of any man who chose to ask her.’’ ** The first time I saw the dance,’’ said Grace, **T received such a shock that I have not since been able to overcome it. I had been ill; as soon as I was able to appear in the rooms, there was a soirée given at our house. I did not go down until the guests had assembled ; as I en- tered, Louise passed me in the arms of Colonel Eaton. I thought she was fainting, but a glance through the rooms undeceived me. AsI watched her in the arms of that bad man I shuddered; and afterwards when I chided her for it, she said: ‘I detest the man as much as you can do, but he does dance beautifully ; and, besides, every one else dances with him, so I do not care.’”’ ‘I must maintain my first position,” said — Frank, ‘‘ that if all ladies had the fine sense of delicacy that some have it would not be a fash- ion; and whatever gentlemen may say about prudery, in their hearts they think none the less of you for it.” **T have been surprised since I have been here,”’ said Grace, ‘‘ that so many young ladies decline to join in these dances ; yet I cannot ad- mit that there is a want of delicacy in those who dance, at least not all of them. I attribute it to the freedom and purity of American manners. It is not necessary for our ladies to be on their guard against insult, they seldom if ever receive it; and, notwithstanding their apparent care- lessness, how quickly and decidedly any undue familiarity from a gentleman is checked.” ‘It is best,’’ replied Frank, ‘‘ to see it in the most charitable light; yet I sincerely regret that the wives and daughters of our Republic should have permitted it to become a fashion there ; it seems to me to he only suited to the depraved state of society in some parts of Eu- repe.”’ But all things come to an end, and so did the season at Newport. Hearts had been lost and won, flirtations begun and ended, and fiirts disappointed ; joy and regret, pleasure and dis- content, had each had their day; and at the approach of the cold weather the fashionable birds of passage flitted to winter quarters. Hattie had her wish; she and Jessie were married at the same time. The brides’ trous- seaux, the bridal festivities, and wedding parties from friends and relatives would be an oft told tale. Hattie is gay as ever; bat Charles has been heard to say that when his daughter grows up she shall not ‘‘ dance the Schottische.”’ _-__ Orn VESPERI. Now the dasky star-eyed evening, Gliding from the spirit land, Changeth all the face of nature By the waving of her wand ; For the mystic shadows falling From her drooping, floating wing, Make the trees seem like tall spectres In the darkness shivering. All day long the sunshine sleepeth On the hill and vale below, And the brook’s glad wavelets glisten, Catching sunbeams as they flow; O’er the hill the darkness broodeth, O’er the waters of the vale, And you only know the flowers By the sweetness they exhale. Nature, like a fair young novice, Wraps a veil about her brow ; While the earth and heaven seemeth Silent as a cloister now ; The nightingale’s exquisite music Floateth through the gloaming dim, As it were the novice singing, Ere she sleeps, her vesper hymn. SHE HAD A GRIEF TO HIDE. BY COROLLA H. CRISWELL. Tue lamps upon the altar shed A pale and trembling light, As through the aisle the bride was led, A maid of beauty bright; Yet white as was her bridal veil, Her gentle cheek was quite as pale— Why trembled then that lovely bride? She had a grief to hide! Her pallid cheek—her wandering eye Betokened that her love Was not with him who then was nigh; Though painfully she strove To quell the tremors of her heart, She felt in him she had no part; Yet wore her brow a look of pride— She had a grief to hide! And they were married. None but He Who knows all secrets knew Her young heart’s tearless agony— ’Twas hid from mortal view ; None ever deemed that summer night As o’er them gleamed the altar light, While gazing on that gentle bride, She had a grief to hide!

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NOVELTIES FOR JULY. NOVELTIES FOR JULY. (-- .* 4 \- { aa \ )

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80 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, Fig. 1—Baby’s robe. At the lower part of the skirt there is one broad flounce, and above it three narrow ones, scalloped at the edge. Above this trimming is a tablier composed of frills scalloped at the edge, and boui/lonnées, the latter being divided into two equal portions by a small scalloped ruche. A band, ornamented with a waved row of needlework insertion, and two lingerie buttons in each of the waves, passes up the centre of the tablier. A trim- ming similar to the tablier ornaments the front of the corsage. The sleeves consist of puffs trimmed with frills. A small scalloped ruche heads the trimming on the edge of the dress at the back, and terminates on each side where the tablier begins. A ceinture, with long, flow- ing ends, tied on one side, completes the dress. Fig. 2.—A piqué cloak, made with a small yoke ; the cape is very much pointed at the back, and is finished by three rows of narrow braid. Fig. 3.—Shirt for a little boy, from five to eight years of age. Fig. 4.—Fancy night-cap. Fig. 3. } KS = K : = se | | \ ‘il } i t | | i i j ee H | | i fi 1] { We Iy 4 fe Hf yf) by } yy y fj lj wi 6 YY 7 Wf") Why i ne ‘ ’ PA No | over any | pens in or to a neve Mme of fe near! Th furni with send with | way, by ex The wholl worn, princi hary are ¥ and u large | line w Wil side s| Each edge, ; jacket. back, : jacket:

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WORK DEPARTMENT. 81 PATTERNS FROM MADAME DEMOREST’S ESTABLISHMENT, No. 473 Broadway, New York. MME. DEMOREST’S NEW FRENCH CORSET PATTERN. The French model is thoroughly artistic. Its curved lines and admirable proportions are pre- cisely adapted to the formation, as well as the movements, of the body. While, therefore, it imparts graceful elegance to the figure, its movements are easy and free from restraint. No lady of taste who has ever had a dress fitted over a French corset would be willing to wear any other. They may also be made in less ex- pensive materials than those usually employed, in order to suit economical persons, in preference to a common article of inferior style, which never gives satisfaction. Corsets ordered from Mme. Demorest may be relied upon for beauty of form and excellence of workmanship, at nearly the same price as the common article. Those made of the best French coutille are furnished at $3 50, and when richly feathered with silk, at $4 50. It is only necessary to send the measure of the bust and waist, inclosed with the amount, to Mme. Demorest, 473 Broad- way, to insure a perfect fitting corset, returned by express to any part of the United States. The common ‘railroad’ corset should be wholly excluded, and only the French style worn, because based on natural and scientific principles. The objections to the old and ordi- nary corset shapes by physicians and others are well founded. They are straight, ugly, and unnatural. They compress here, and en- large there, and want wholly that grace of out- line which is essential to elegance of form. Wilhmine Jacket—consists of five parts, front, side shape, back and side shape, and sleeve. Each seam is laid over from the waist to the edge, and braided the same as the rest of the jacket. Sleeve plain, and rounded up at the back, and braided the same as the body. These jackets are made in white pigué, braided with black ; and nankeen, braided with white or blue. Cerise and green are sometimes used, but do not form so good a contrast. Robe de Chambre.—This wrapper is a suitable garment to wear while undergoing the operation of having the hair dressed, or any other dress- ing-room process which does not require the aid of crinoline. It is made of plain cashmere, ==h=% Sg =¥ == sae \ = , , 2 =) SU ‘ SS "Ee j=V=s5 * =f we | . * ‘ ws Ss { 1) . zien . i» \\4 = iG: ==") (s z \° WIA hy 2 “it |e Ve yy ° Vv i ft H le ( K ie] cy *) ; |e v t ; | h ( = = \ 2 —};;| j fy =1( \ qa 4 — — -\\ ‘\ , OE ——=—'| © ey Te i= le = | én Ire ul ae oslo ire a(S). Cosa Nt oe ~ ENA — we trimmed with an elegant bordering, for winter ; and cambric, tucked, and ornamented with in- sertion, for summer. It is belted round the waist, or tied with a cord and tassels. Seven yards of jaconet will make it. Annie Sleeve.—This sleeve is all in one piece, and is cut from four to six inches longer than the length to be worn, and drawn so as to form lengthwise puffs; the seams’are trimmed and finished with flat bows, without ends. The

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82 GODEY’S LAPY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, bottom of the sleeve is bound about two and a half inches from the edge, and a quilling set on, which forms a full finish at the bottom. Front and back views of the same hat. For a description of which, see May Chitchat. The Jrving Hat, also described in May Chit- chat. PLAIN GIGOT SLEEVE. Tue gigot, or ‘‘ leg of mutton,’’ sleeve, which used to be such a favorite with our grandmo- thers, has now come into fashion again, and is a style which is more used for morning wear than any other. It is very simple in its construction, being cut in one piece, with a very decided slope at the top, and, when pleated in to the arm- hole, very much resembling the shape of a leg of mutton. It is made to fit tightly to the wrist, being fastened by means of buttons and loops, or hooks and eyes, over which a pointed white linen cuff should be worn. We have illustrated a plain gigot sleeve as being the easiest to make, but they are also worn trimmed in a variety of ways, and are much more elaborate in their construction. EMBROIDERY.

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WORK DEPARTMENT. COLLAR AND CUFFS IN SATIN STITCH. eee are eeete . ie o44¢9¢ Pica tat Matte a Oo ° ated ake, y of heir MATERIALS required for one set are—a piece of fine nainsook, embroidery cotton No. 30 for sewing over, and No. 2. for tracing. This pretty little set of collar and cuffs is very quickly worked, particularly if done in point de poste. Both the collar and cuffs are ornamented with embroidery to imitate ends, which are fastened by means of solitaires. LOO eee een wei

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GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. CARRIAGE CUSHION, Materials.—A square of maroon cloth, about sixteen inches each way ; a piece of soutache, crimson, and gold, or crimson and green; an- other piece, of entirely green, or greon and gold, and two kuots of coarse gold thread. Sewing silks appropriate to all these colors, aud cord and tassels to correspond. Tue design must be enlarged to the dimensions of the cloth, and will be seen to consist of three distinct braid- ing patterns, two of which are worked in different kinds of soutache, and the third and inner being in gold thread. The design must be marked on the cloth in the usual manner, or may be drawn on tissue paper, tacked over the cloth, and pulled away when the work is done. The infinite variety of soutaches will allow the worker to exer- cise her own skill and taste in the com- bination of different yet harmonizing tints; but those we have suggested look extremely handsome. If the sou- tache is thought too expensive, Albert braids may be substituted with good effect, and in the outer pattern two may ad- vantageously be laid side by side. When braided, the cushion is to be made up in the usual way, the back being either of the same cloth, or of any other material that may be thought desirable: the cord is put on as it is seen in the engraving. It will probably be necessary that the cord and tassels should be made expressly for each cushion, as all the colors should be combined in them. EXPLANATION OF TERMS USED IN KNITTING. Cast on:—Make 1 loop and put it on your pin; take a 2d pin and knit that stitch, but without taking the pin out of the Ist stitch; pass the 2d stitch on to the pin with it; knit another stitch and pass it on to the same pin; continue in this mannertill you have the desired number. Cast off :—Knit 2 plain stitches, pull the first stitch over the 2d, knit a 3d stitch, pull the 2d stitch over the 3d, knit a 4th stitch, pull the 3d stitch over the 4th: continue in this manner until you have knit all the loops. Knit 2 stitches together :—Take 2 of the loops on your left-hand pin and knit them in 1. ~ NCL FAA FAME MMMMEMMMMALMMAMM NM y . ASU LT CLAPP ALLAVIL FELT 4 Knit a stitch, taking the back part of the stitch :— Take that part of the loop that is farthest from you, and knit it. Knit 2 stitches together, taking the back part of the stitches :—Take the part that is farthest from you of 2 loops on your left-hand pin, and knit them in 1 with the pin that is in your right hand. Make a stitch :—When doing plain knitting, you bring the thread forward between the 2 pins: this will make a stitch. And another way of doing it is to pick up a loop between the stitches, and knit it. To make a stitch when seaming, the thread must be passed round the pin so as to bring it to the same side again. Pick up a stitch :—This is done when you wish to increase a stitch: take one of the loops from the preceding row, and knit it. Pass the thread in front :—This is done to in- crease a stitch ;: take the thread you are working with, and pass it between the needles to the side of the knitting that is towards you. Pass the thread round the pin:—Take the thread you are working with, and pass it round the pin to the side of the knitting that is towards you: this increases a stitch. Pass the thread back—Is merely to place the wool at that part of the knitting that is farthest from you.

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WORK DEPARTMENT. Slip a stitch—Is to pass a stitch from the left- TAPE TRIMMING. hand needle to the right, without knitting it. Slip a stitch the reverse way—lIs to pass a stitch in the same manner as before, taking that part of the loop that is towards you. Seam a stitch:—Take that part of the loop that is nearest to you, having the wool in front towards you, and knit. Seaming and purling mean the same thing. Cotton or wool forward :—When this occurs, it increases a stitch in a knit row by bringing the cotton to the front of the needles. BEDGOWN FOR INVALIDS. Tus dress is intended to be worn by those who are so ill that the necessary change of clothes is attended with pain and difficulty. It is in two entirely detached pieces, united on the shoulders by buttons, and at the sides by strings. They can be made very much orna- mented or entirely plain, and of any material. Cut the two pieces exactly alike, only sloping the front neck a little lower than the back. S oy he | ak aon Orns B 5 a) cn = & © -- S3 na g 3. 5 > B Es 2 Hem the straight part of the sleeve with a hem of sufficient width to bear the buttonholes and buttons. Face the sides with tape, and at regular intervals attach strings extending nearly to the bottom. Put the buttonholes on the front of the dress, and also the trimming, if any is used. The size of the nightdress must of course be adapted to the wearer. In severe illness the patient’s dress can be changed with- out any effort on their part, or if absolutely necessary, the front alone can be changed. It is better, therefore, to have several exactly fit- ting each other. VoL. Lxv.—7 oq prnoys ode; ey MOY MOYSs 0} popuezuT ere MOT} UO

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86 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, BABY’S SHOE. Materials.—White French Merino, and narrow white silk braid. WE are unable, for want of space, to give the pattern the full size, but it can be easily en- larged according to size required. These shoes are quickly made, being in one piece. The pattern is to be worked in the narrow braid, on the merino, after which line it with silk, with a little wadding between ; bind all round with narrow ribbon; then sew the heel and the toe ; they may be fastened either with strings or buttons and loops. HONEYCOMB KNITTING, FOR A SOFA CUSHION. (See engraving, page 23.) Cast on 71 stitches. lst row.—Seam 1, slip 1, make 1, repeat. 2d.—Slip 1, make 1, seam 2 together, repeat. At the end of the row seara 1, after seaming 2 together. 3d.—Seam 2, slip 1, repeat. 4th.—Seam 2 together, slip 1, make 1, repeat. At the end of the row seam 1, instead of seaming 2 together. 5th.—Seam 1, *, slip 1, seam 2, repeat from *. Repeat from 2d row, knit in double German wool 8 rows black, 4 maize, filoselle doubled, 8 scarlet, 4 maize, 6 white, 4 maize, 8 lilac, 4 maize, 8 green, 4 maize. Repeat from black. These colors repeated 4 times, and the black 5 times, will make the cushion a nice size. 2 skeins of each of the wools, and 10 skeins of filoselle will be required. PRINCESSES KNITTING. (See engraving, page 23.) Cast on 2 stitches. Make 1, by passing the wool round the right hand pin, seam 2 together; every row is alike. The knitting is done in stripes, and then sewed together; the colors placed in the following order: black, scarlet, white, violet, green ; and the sewing is done with maize ; a fringe is then added of three lengths of wool 10 inches long, looped into each stripe of the knitting, and into each stripe of sewing; one ounce of each color in double wool is sufficient ; for couvre meds 12-thread fleecy is better, as it has more sub- stance.

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WORK DEPARTMENT. A COUNTERPANE, KNITTED IN DIAMONDS. 11 ona ae at mn th as oS - SSS SSS SSS SSS SSE SSIES R 3 oi Pitt htt t sie See eee ca wt oh vat ts mals 11 t nt 1) Vn By i eee eeu Cast on 1 stitch. { knit 10 rows of 2 seamed, and 2 knit stitches . Increase 1 stitch at the beginning of every | alternately, continuing to make 1 at the begin- row. ning of every row, and reversing the stitches ; 1st row.—Make 1, knit 1. after every two rows. 2d.—Make 1, knit 2. Repeat the 11th, 12th, and 13th rows 7 times, 3d.—Make 1, seam 2, knit 1. then knit 10 rows of 2 seamed, and 2 knit 4th.—Make 1, seam 1, knit 2, seam 1. stitches, alternately, continuing to make 1 at 5th.—Make 1, seam 1, knit 2, seam 2. the beginning of every row, and reversing the 6th.—Make i, knit 2, seam 2, knit 2. stitches after every two rows. 7th.—Make 1, knit 2, seam 2, knit 2, seam 1. Repeat the 11th, 12th, and 13th rows 9 times ; 8th.—Make 1, knit 1, seam 2, knit 2, seam 2, knit 6 rows of 2 seamed, and 2 knit stitches t knit 1. alternately, making 1 at the beginning of each, . 9th.—Make 1, knit 1, seam 2, knit 2, seam 2, and reversing the stitches after every two rows ; d knit 2. this will make half the diamond, and the other g 10th.—Make 1, seam 2, knit 2, seam 2, knit half is done in the same way, only decreasing a 2, seam 2. at the beginning of each row, instead of in- n 11th.—Make 1, knit the remainder plain. creasing. g, 12th.—Make 1, seam the remainder. id 13th.—Make 1, knit plain. h 14th.—Make 1, knit plain. LADY’S PURSE (NEW STYLE), CROCHET. ds 15th.—Make 1, seam the remainder. Since the renewed introduction of Reticules, b- 16th.—Make 1, knit plain. ladies’ Purses have undergone many changes Repeat the 3 last rows three times more, then of sizeand shape. The one which this engrav-

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88 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. \ IT TN \\ TT VW | TH) | a N\\\\\\ | oo ing illustrates is a new form, and very conve- nient for opening without much trouble. It is worked in crochet, which is the most durable style of work for purses. The color is a rich crimson. It is completed by being drawn in with agoldcord. It may, if preferred, be made up with those pretty little gold slides and a ring, now much used, which give it a more ornamental appearance. CROCHET BAG. (See engraving, page 24.) Tus bag is a little novelty in shape, being made at the present time by the Parisian ladies. It is formed of three rounds of crochet, each worked separately, and afterwards joined to- gether so as to form the lower part of the bag. This being done, it will be found that there is an opening at the bottom narrowing to three points, and this opening must be filled up with a small piece of crochet, corresponding in shape and size, which may be composed of chain loops. The upper part of the bag is now to be worked in the simple pattern given in our illustration ; the openings between each round being filled up with short lengths of the crochet until the edge is even, when it may be worked round and round until the proper depth is com- pleted. The string may be either a ribbon or cord passed between the loops; and at each of the three points where the rounds of crochet meet, a pretty tassel is to be attached. The cotton most suitable is No. 10; but it can also be made in netting silk, the rounds being crimson, and tae top and bottom of a rich dark blue. To make it still more handsome, a gold thread may be introduced into the centres of the three stars. In working these stars, after the chained loops are worked which surround the centres, a row of short crochet should be added all round; this contributes both to strength and richness, the little loops giving it ii a light appearance. A very elegant purse may ii be made in the same form, only the stars must i} be much smaller, and finer silk used for this purpose. FRENCH UNDERSKIRT IN THE NEW STYLE OF CROCHET AND EMBROIDERY. (See engraving, page 25.) Tue Paris ladies are such undeniable author- ity in all matters relating to the toilet, that almost any fashion which emanates from the French capital is adopted in this country, and soon becomes the prevailing style. This new combination of work consisting of crochet and embroidery is capable of producing very pretty effects, and will be seen at once to be especially appropriate for trimming underskirts and other articles of apparel. There is scarcely a family in which there is not one crochet-worker among its young lady members who excels in the exe- cution of this particular work. If one under- takes the crochet, and another, who may be equally skilful in embroidery, combines her labor in a piece of work of this description, the completion of an elegant and useful article of dress will very quickly be the result. Our illustration shows in what manner the crochet and embroidery are arranged, they being alter- nated to any depth which may be preferred. The pattern of the embroidery is in the cut-out style, the flowers having the line which sur- rounds them worked in buttonhole-stitch ; all the other parts are cut out and sewn over. The crochet should be worked in a rather coarse

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i A | oO i 2h UL Oe ee OO , Ee, Oe. TR NS se SN SOOM SOS Oo Se hm WORK DEPARTMENT. 89 Four rows of the embroidery, and three of the finer, will be found extremely ornamental for Nl cotton, as it will be stronger and more effective. | skirt ; and the same style, but worked a little } crochet will form a handsome trimming for a the fronts of night-dresses and other articles. EMBROIDERY. “ONINGVA BOA AKVN “NUXLLVd ONIGIVUd “AUACIONGNSA

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GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. BLANKET INITIALS. THERE is one class of domestic necessaries which, even in the best- regulated homes, too often escapes the atten- tion of the mistress of the family, and for which the interests of the house- hold are sometimes tax- ed in payment of the oversight. The blank- ets of a house are fre- quently left without any mark, and when these are sent out to the laun- dress of the scouring works, mistakes are eas- ily made in restoring the right article to its right proprietor. To prevent these exchanges of pro- perty, every blanket should be marked in bold and striking cha- racters ; and, witha view - of facilitating what we must consider a neces- sary precaution, we have introduced a couple of designs of blanket ini- tials, as samples of a style which may at once strike the eye and mark the ownership. These letters being interwoven should be worked in Berlin wool, of two dif- fererit colors, red and blue, both being ingrain. The outline having been traced in the Berlin wool, must be well raised and thickly sewn over each letter in its respective color. Worked in this manner in the blue and red, this marking not only prevents the blank- et from being exchanged, but becomes quite a cor- ner ornament. — = hat ot ha Om oo

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RECEIPTS. 91

Receipts, &e. DIRECTIONS FOR PRESERVING FRUITS, ETC. To Preserve Apricors.—Choose fine apricots, pare them thinly and cleanly, and when done, take their weight, cut them in halves and remove the kernel, lay them with the inside upwards, take the same weight of pounded loaf-sugar and strew over them; break the stones of the apricots and blanch the kernels; let the fruit lie in the sugar for twelve hours, then put fruit, sugar, juice, and kernels into a preserving-pan, simmer gently until clear ; as the scum rises, remove it; remove the halves of the apricots ; as they become cold, lay them in jars, and when the whole of the fruit has been potted, pour equally over them the syrup and the kernels. Cover the fruit with brandy paper, and tie tightly down. GooseBEeRRY JaM.—Stalk and crop as many as you re- quire of ripe, red, rough gooseberries ; put them into the preserving-pan, and as they warm, stir and bruise them to bring out the juice. Let them boil for ten minutes, then add sugar in the proportion of three-quarters of a pound to every pound of fruit, and place it on the fire again ; let it boil slowly, and continue boiling, for two hours longer, stirring it all the time to prevent its burn- ing. When it thickens, and is jelly-like ona plate when cold, itis done enough. Put it into pots, and allow it to remain a day before it is covered.

Piums.—There are several varieties of plums. The richest purple plum for preserving isthedamson. There are of these large and small ; the large are called sweet damsons; the small ones are very rich flavored. The great difficulty in preserving plums is that the skins crack and the fruit comes to pieces. The rule here laid down for preserving them obviates that difficulty. Purple gages, unless properly preserved, will turn to juice and skins; and the large horse-plum (as it is generally known) comes completely to pieces in ordinary modes of preserving. The one recommended herein will keep them whole, full, and rich. To Preserve PorPre Ptums.—Make a syrup of clean brown sugar; clarify it; when perfectly clear and boil- ing hot, pour it over the plums, having picked out all unsound ones and stems; let them remain in the syrup two days, then drain it off, make it boiling hot, skim it, and pour it over again ; let them remain another day or two, then put them in a preserving-kettle over the fire, and simmer gently until the syrup is reduced, and thick or rich, One pound of sugar for each pound of plums. To Preserve PLoMs WITHOUT THE sKINS.—Pour boiling water over large egg or magnum bonum plums; cover them until it is cold, then pull off the skins. Make a syrup of a pound of sugar and a teacup of water for each pound of fruit; make it boiling hot, and pour it over; let them remain for a day or two, then drain it off, and boil again ; skim it clear, and pour it hot over the plums; let them remain until the next day, then put them over the fire in <he syrup; boil them very gently until clear; take them from the syrup, with a skimmer, into the pots or jars; boil the syrup until rich and thick; take off any scum which may arise, then let it cool and settle, and pour it over the plums. If brown sugar is used, which is quite as good, except for green gages, clarify it as directed. To Dry Piums,—Split ripe plums, take the stones from

them, and lay them on plates or sieves to dry in a warm oven or hot sun; take them in at sunset, and do not put them out again until the sun will be upon them; turn them, that they may be done evenly; when perfectly dry, pack them in jars or boxes lined with paper, or keep them in bags; hang them in an airy place. To Preserve Witp Piums.—Take nearly ripe wild plums, perfectly sound ones, take off the stems, pour them into a kettle of boiling water and let them remain over the fire about a minute, or until they begin to crack open ; then put them ina keg or jar, with enough of the liquor they were boiled in to cover them, and set them away. When you wish to use them, stew them the same as if green; if used for sauce, add a little sugar; or you can make preserves out of them better than when first gathered. They are much better than dried plums, and are always handy. To Preserve Green Gaces.—The following receipt appears to be a good one: Pick and prick all the plums, put them into a preserving-pan, with cold water enough to cover them; let them remain on the fire until the water simmers well; then take off, and allow them to stand until half cold, putting the plums to drain. To every pound of plums allow one pound of sugar, which must be boiled in the water from which the plums have been taken; let it boil very fast until the syrup drops short from the spoon, skimming carefully all the time. When the sugar is sufficiently boiled, put in the plums and allow them to boil until the sugar covers the pan with large bubbles; then pour the whole into a pan, and let them remain until the following day; drain the syrup from the plums as dry as possible, boil it up quickly, and pour it over the plums; then set them by; do this a third and a fourth time. On the fifth day, when the syrup is boiled, put the plums into it, and let them boil for a few minutes; then put them into jars. Should the green gages be over-ripe, it will be better to make jam of them, using three-fourths of a pound of sugar to one pound of fruit. Warm the jars before putting the sweetmeats in, and be careful not to boil the sugar toa candy. Jam oF GREEN GAGes.—Put ripe green gages into a ket- tle, with very little water, and let them stew until soft ; then rub them through a sieve or colander, and to every pint of pulp put a pound of white sugar powdered fine; then put it in a preserving-kettle over the fire, stir it until the whole is of the consistence of a jelly, then take it off; put the marmalade in small jars or tumblers, and cover as directed for jelly. To Kgrp Damsons.—Put them in small stone jars, or wide-mouthed glass bottles, and set them up to their necks in a kettle of cold water; set it over the fire to become boiling hot; then take it off, and let the bottles remain until the water is cold; the next day fill the bottles with cold water, and cork and seal them. These may be used the same as fresh fruit. Green gages may be done in this way. To Preserve Pipprns 1n Siices.—Take the fairest pip- pins, pare them, and cut them in slices a quarter of an inch thick, without taking out the cores; boil two or three lemons, and slice them with the apples; take the same weight of white sugar (or clarified brown sugar), put half a gill of water for each pound of sugar, dissolve it, and set it over the fire; when it is boiling hot, put in the slices ; let them boil very gently until they are clear, then take them with a skimmer, and spread them out on flat dishes to cool; boil the syrup until it is quite thick,

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92 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. and pour it overthem. These may be donea day before they are wanted ; two hours will be sufficient to make a fine dish for dessert or supper. To Preserve CraB-Appies.—Take off the stem and core them with a penknife, without cutting them open; weigh a pound of white sugar for each pound of pre- pared fruit ; puta teacup of water to each pound of sugar ; put it over a moderate fire. When the sugar is all dis- solved and hot, put the apples in; let them boil gently nntil they are clear, then skim them out, and spread them on flat dishes. Boil the syrup until it is thick ; put the fruit in whatever it is to be kept, and, when the eyrup is cooled and settled, pour it carefully over the fruit. Slices of lemon boiled with the fruit may be con- sidered an improvement. One lemon is enough for seve- ral pounds of fruit. Crab-apples may be preserved whole, with only half an inch of the stem on; three-quarters of a pound of sugar for each pound of fruit. To Preserve Pears.—Take small, rich, fair fruit, as soon as the pips are black; set them over the fire ina kettle, with water to cover them ; let them simmer until they will yield to the pressure of the finger, then, with a skimmer, take them into cold water; pare them neatly, leaving on a little of the stem and the blossom end ; pierce them at the blossom end to the core; then make a syrup of a pound of sugar for each pound of fruit; when it is boiling hot, pour it over the pears, and let it stand until the next day, when drain it off, make it boiling hot, and again pour it over; after a day or two, put the fruit in the syrup over the fire, and boil gently until it is clear; then take it into the jars or spread it on dishes; boil the syrup thick, then put it and the fruit in jars. Pear MARMALADE.—To six pounds of small pears take four pounds of sugar ; put the pears into a saucepan with a little cold water ; cover it, and set it over the fire until the fruit is soft; then put them into cold water; pare, quarter, and core them; put to them three teacups of water; set them over the fire; roll the sugar fine, mash the fruit fine and smooth, put the sugar to it, stir it well together, until it is thick, like jelly, then put it in tum- blers or jars, and when cold secure it as jelly. Pine-AppLe Preserve.—T wist off the top and bottom, and pare off the rough outside of pine-apples ; then weigh them, and cut them in slices, chips or quarters, or cut them in four or six, and shape each piece like a whole pine-apple ; to each pound of fruit put a teacup of water ; put it in a preserving-kettle ; cover it and set it over the fire, and let them boil gently until they are tender and elear ; then take them from the water, by sticking a fork in the centre of each slice, or with a skimmer, into a dish. Put to the water white sugar, a pound for each pound of fruit; stir it until it is all dissolved ; then put in the pine-apple; cover the kettle, and let them boil gently until transparent throughout; when it is so, take it out, let it cool, and put it in glass jars; as soon as the syrup is a little cooled, pour it over them ; let them remain in a cool place until the next day, then secure the jars as directed previously. Pine-apple done in this way is a delicious preserve. The usual manner of preserving it, by putting it into the syrup without first boiling it, makes it little better than sweetened leather. Prxs-Appie Jetry.—Take a perfectly ripe and sound pine-apple, cut off the outside, cut in small pieces ; bruise them, and to each pound put a teacup of water; put it in ® preserving-kettle over the fire; cover the kettle, and let them boil for twenty minutes; then strain it, | | | } and squeeze it through a bit of muslin. For each pound of fruit take a pound of sugar; put a teacup of water to each pound; set it over the fire until it is dissolved ; then add the pine-apple juice. For each quart of the syrup clarify an ounce of the best isinglass, and stir it in, let it boil until, by taking some on 2 piate to cool, you find it a stiff jelly. Secure it as directed. Quince MARMALADE.—Gather the fruit when quite ripe; pare, quarter, and core it; boil the skins in the water, measuring a teacupful to a pound of fruit; when they are soft, mash and strain them, and put back the water into the preserving-kettle; add the quinces, and boil them until they are soft enough to mash fine; rub through a sieve, and put three-quarters of a pound of sugar to a pound of fruit; stir them well together, and boil them over a slow fire until it will fall like jelly from aspoon. Put it in pots or tumblers, and secure it, when cold, with paper sealed to the edge of the jar with the white of an egg. To Preserve ORANGES OR LEMONS IN JELLY.—Cut a hole at the stalk the size of a quarter dollar, and, with a small, blunt knife, scrape out the pulp quite clear, without cutting the rind, and lay them in spring water two days, changing it twice a day ; in the last, boil them tender on a slow fire, keeping them covered; to every pound of fruit take two pounds of double-refined sugar and one pint of water; boil these with the juice of the orange to a syrup and clarify it; skim well, and let it stand to be cold; then boil the fruit in the syrup half an hour; if not clear, do this daily till they are done. To Keep ORANGES oR Lemons For Pastry.—When you have squeezed the juice, throw the peels into salt and water ; let them remain a fortnight ; clean out the pulp; boil them till te»der, strain them, and, when they are tolerably dry, boil a small quantity of syrup of common loaf-sugar and water, and put over them; in a week, boil them gently in it till they look clear. CANDIED ORANGE OR Lemon-PeEL.—Take the fruit, ent it lengthwise, remove all the pulpand interior skin, then put the peel into strong sait and water for six days; then boil them in spring water until they are soft, and place them in a sieve to drain; make a thin syrup with a pound of sugar candy to a quart of water; boil them in it for half an hour, or till they look clear; make a thick syrup, with sugar and as much water as will melt it; put in the peel, and boi! them over a slow fire until the syrup candies in the pan; then take them out, powder pounded sugar over them, and dry them before the fire in a cool oven. Froit WAPERs FoR Dessert.—Take currants, cherries, apricots, or any other fruit; put them into an earthen jar in a kettle of water, and when scalded strain them through a sieve; to every pint of juice add the same weight of finely sifted sugar and the white of a small egg ; beat all together until it becomes quite thick ; then put it upon buttered paper in a slow oven; let them re- main until they will quit the paper, then turn them, and leave them in the oven until quite dry ; cut them into shape, and keep them between paper in a box near the fire. SUMMER BEVERAGES. To Mee Capru.tarme.—Mix six eggs, well beat up, with fourteen pounds of loaf-sugar and three pounds of coarse sugar; put them into three quarts of waier, boil it twice, skim it well, and add a quarter of a pint of orange-flower water; strain it through a jelly-bag, and fit hous cant prec The Ne and | rind of po kettl it ha put i boilii with it twi bottle from Exc picke: spoon cream Pre chop i it wit When @ qual of loaf manne Cur! half of 8queez a little in the,

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RECEIPTS. 93 put it into bottles for use. A spoonful or two of this eyrup, put iato a draught of either cold or warm water, makes it drink exceedingly pleasant. Ginger Beer.—The following isa very good way to make it: Take of ginger, bruised or sliced, one and a half ounce ; cream of tartar, one ounce ; loaf sugar, one ponnd ; one lemon sliced ; put them into a pan, and pour six quarts of boiling water upon them. When nearly cold, put in a little yeast, and stir it for about a minute, Let it stand till next day, then strain and bottle it. Itis fit to drink in three days, but will not keep good longer than a fortnight. The corks should be tied down, and the bottles placed upright in a cool place. Five Meav.—Beat to a strong froth the whites of three eggs, and mix them with six gallons of water; sixteen quarts of strained honey ; and the yellow rind of two dozen large lemons, pared very thin. Boii all together, during three-quarters of an hour; skimming it well. Then put it intoa tub; and when lukewarm add three tablespoonfuls of the best fresh yeast. Cover it, and leave it to ferment. When it has done working, transfer it to a barrel, with the lemon-peel in the bottom. Let it stand six months; then bottle it. CARBONATED Syrup WateR.—Put into a tumbler lem- on, raspberry, strawberry, pine-apple, or any other acid syrup, sufficient in quantity to flavor the beverage very highly. Then pour in very cold ice-water till the glass is halffull. Add halfa teaspoonful of bicarbonate of soda (to be obtained at the druggist’s), and stir it well in with ateaspoon. It will foam up to the top immediately, and must be drank during the effervescence. By keeping the syrup and the carbonate of soda in the house, and mixing them as above with ice-water, you can at any time have a glass of this very pleasant drink ; precisely similar to that which you get at the shops. The cost will be infinitely less. Necrark.—Take a pound of the best raisins, seeded and chopped ; four lemons, sliced thin; and the yellow rind pared off from two other lemons; and two pounds of powdered loaf-sugar. Put intoa porcelain preserving- kettle two gallons of water. Set it over the fire, and boil it half an hour; then, while the water is boiling hard, put in the raisins, lemons, and sugar, and continue the boiling for ten minutes. Pour the mixture into a vessel with a close cover, and let it stand four days, stirring it twice a day. Then strain it through a linen bag, and bottle it. It will be fit for use ina fortnight. Drink it from wine-glasses, with a small bit of ice in each. ICES. EXCELLENT STRAWBERRY Ice CreEAM.—Pass a pint of picked strawberries through a sieve with a wooden spoon, add four ounces of powdered sugar, anda pint of cream, and freeze. Prive Appie Ick CrEAM.—Pare a ripe juicy pine apple, chop it up fine, and pound it to extract the juice. Cover it with sugar and let it lie a while in a china bowl. When the sugar has entirely melted, strain the juice into a quart of good cream, and add a little less than a pound ofloaf sugar. Beat up the cream and freeze it ia the same manner as common ice cream Currant Ick CreAm.—Put one large spoonful anda half of currant jelly into a basin with halfa gill of syrup, squeeze in one lemon and a half, add a pint of cream and a little cochineal, then pass it through a sieve and finish in the general way. Water Icrs—Are made with the juice of the orange, lemon, raspberry, or any other sort of fruit, sweetened and mixed with water. To make orange water ice, mix with one pint of water the strained juice of three fine oranges, and that of one lemon. Rub some fine sugar on the peel of the orange, to give it the flavor. Make it very sweet and freeze it. Lemon ice is made in the same manuer. Orance Water Ice.—Take as many oranges as will be necessary, cut them in half, press the juice from them ; take the pulp carefully from the rind, and put it ina bowl, pour a little boiling water on it, stir it well and strain it througha sieve; mix this with the orange- juice, and stir in as much sugar as will make a rich syrup. Ifthe oranges are fine, rub some of the sugar on the peel to extract the essence. Frecze it like ice cream. Warer Ices, GENERALLY.—If made from jams, you must rub them through a sieve, adding thick boiled syrup, and lemon-juice, and some jelly, and coloring if for pink, and the white of an egg whipt up before you add it to the best half of a pint of spring-water; if of jam, you must have a good pint of mixture in all to make a quart mould; if from fruits with syrup you will not require water. CurKANT FresH WATER Ice.—Pass through a sieve a pint of currants, then add to them four ounces of pow- dered sugar and one pint of water, strain it and freeze it rich. Lemon WateR Ice.—Rub on sugar the clean rinds of lemons, squeeze the juice of twelve lemons, strain them, boil the sugar into a strong thick syrup, add to the juice half a pint of water, or good barley water, sweeten it with your syrup, add the white of an egg and jelly. THE MANAGEMENT OF THE HAIR, EYES, TEETH, AND EXTREMITIES. MANAGEMENT OF THE EXTREMITIES. Lite is to be said about the feet and hands, because they do not require much to be done for them beyond that cleanliness which, it is to be hoped, it is unnecessary to inculcate. With regard to the feet of children, it isa great mistake to shoe them in a careless way, if, as is generally the case, a good-looking foot is to be considered of any importance. Tight shoes are bad in every way ; first, by their causing an awkward and shambling car- riage; and, secondly, from their producing corns and bunions, which are worse defects than a large and spreading foot. Mothers should, therefore, watch the growth of the feet, and supply new shoes as soon as they are too small ; a very constant source of annoyance is the reservation of a pair of best shoes until the foot outgrows them, as it generaily will do in six months; it is therefore far better to keep only one or two pairs going at a time, and sacrifice present appearance to the future welfare o/ the child. In cutting the toe-nails of the child, the nurse or mo- ther is very apt to clear out the corners in the same way as she would cut those of the hand. This is a mistake, as the pressure of the shoe has then always a tendency to curl the nail in at the corner, and produce serious inflammation and mischief. The nails of the foot ought to be cut straight across, or, indeed, scooped out a little in the middle; and if this plan is adopted, very few nails indeed will be found to grow in. On the other hand, the nails of the fingers may be nicely rounded, though in children they ought to be kept rather short, to avoid the accidents which are otherwise apt to occur,

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94 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. both to the nail by its fracture and to the skin by contact. Corns are very constant sources of annoyance, and in children may generally be avoided by attending to the shoes, which press unequally, from not fitting. Many mothers, to avoid this, used formerly to change the shoes daily, from right to left; but though in theory very correct, the practice is defective, because no shoe can be made to fit both feet, from the natural curve which each makes outwards in the middle. It is, therefore, more frequently the cause of corns than a cure for them, and in the present day is wholly out of fashion. When they are developed to such an extent as to cause pain, they are to be removed with the scissors or knife, a small piece at a time, and kept moist with glycerine, or with a piece of soap plaster, which prevents that harshness and dryness so often the main cause of the pressure not being borne. MISCELLANEOUS. Tux proprietor of the Dooley House, at Boston, wrote us, after complimenting the Book highly, for a receipt, published in April, 1857, on whitewashing, which he states is invaluable. We republish it for the benefit of eur more recent subscribers. BrRiLiiant WuiTewasH.—Take half a bushel of niee unslaked lime; slake it with boiling water; cover it, during the process, to keep it in the strainer; and add to it a peck of clean salt, previously well dissolved in warm water, three pounds of ground rice boiled to a thin paste, and stirred in boiling hot, half a pound of clean glue which has been previously dissolved by first soaking it well, and then hanging it over a slow fire in a small kettle within a large one filled with water. Add five gallons of hot water to the whole mixture; stir it well, and let it stand a few days covered from the dirt. It should be put on right hot; for this purpose, it can be kept in a kettle on a portable furnace. It is said that about one pint of this mixture will cover a square yard upon the outside of a house, if properly applied. Brushes more or less small may be used according to the neatness of the job required. It answers as well as oil paint for wood, brick, or stone, and is cheaper. It retains its brilliancy for many years. There is nothing of the kind that will compare with it either for inside or outside walls. Coloring matter may be put in, and made of any shade you like. Spanish brown stirred in will make red or pink more or less deep according to the quantity. A delicate tinge of this is very pretty for inside walls. Finely pulverized common clay, well mixed with Spanish brown, before it is stirred into the mixture, makes a lilac color. Lamp- black, in moderate quantities, makes a slate color, very suitable for the outside of buildings. Lamp-black and Spanish brown, mixed together, produce a reddish stone color. Yeilow ochre stirred in makes yellow wash; but ehrome goes further, and makes a color generally es- teemed prettier. In all these cases, the darkness of the shade will of course be determined by the quantity of coloring used. It is difficult to make a rule, because tastes are very different. It would be best to try expe- riments upon a shingle, and let it dry. We have been told that green must not be mixed with lime. The lime destroys the color, and the color has an effect on the whitewash, which makes it crack and peel. When walls have been badly smoked, and when you wish to have them a clean white, it is well to squeeze indigo plentifully through a bag into the water you use before it is stirred in the whole mixture. If a larger quantity than five gallons is wanted, the same proportions should be observed. Frouir Curturse.—A Mr. Alfred Chamberlain, of New- port, R. I., has recently succeeded, after years of patient study and experiment, in perfecting a plan for growing fruits and flowers in small wire baskets, filled with moss, and has obtained a patent for it from the Govern- ment. In one basket, which was lately showy at a hor- ticultural exhibition in Brooklyn, N. Y., were growing, in full flower and vigor, a miscellaneous collection of plants, usually contained on flower stands; another basket was filled with strawberry plants in all stages of growth, those fully ripe being of extra size and of most luscious flavor ; ina third basket was a grapevine, which had yielded a dozen bunches of superior grapes; in a fourth was a peach-tree, which had produced ten large peaches, as fine in color and taste as any that are grown in the ordinary way, and was fully set in fruit buds for next year’s crop. But the crowning wonder was a pine-apple, also grown in the moss-baskets, and far su- perior in every respect to those grown in pots and pits. Mr. Chamberlain stated that as he had obtained a patent, he would tell them the ingredients he used, which were moss, bone dust, charcoal and sand, and that the plants were watered with liquid manure about twice a week. Aw Exce.Lent Receipt For Potisuine Dintne TABLES. —One pint of linseed oil, two ounces of black rosin, two ounces of spirits of nitre, four ounces of distilled vinegar, one ounce of spirits of salts, two ounces of byte ofantimony. The tables are to be washed on alternate days: first day with boiling water, second day with the above polishing liquid, third day with cold vinegar. If the above directions are carefully followed oat, the tables will shortly assume a lustrous appearance ; hot dishes placed upon them without a mat will have no effect upon them, and any liquid that may be unfortunately spilt, will, if wiped dry, leave no mark. To Remove QuicksILvVeER FROM GoLD Rinos.—I have been a chemist for many years and can confidently re- commend the following: Hold the rings over # candle, until they are covered with smoke. Then take half a teacu pful of boiling water, then pour in two teaspoonfuls of vinegar and half a teaspoonful of salt, and three grains ofzine. Stir them together, and put inthe rings. Let them stay there for two or three days, then take them out and rub them with chamois leather. Varyisn TO Maks Woop Loox LIkk Ivory.—Take half an ounce of isinglass, boiled gently in half a pint of water till dissolved, then strain it and add flake white powder till it becomes as white as cream. Give the box or carved wood three or four coats of this, letting each coat dry before the other is put on, then smooth it with a bit of damp rag. It has quite the appearance of ivory. If, when mixed, it looks too white, a few grains of either carmine white will give it a pink look, or else chrome yellow ; either of these colors improve it. To Prevent Mvs.iins, AND LINEN, AND COTTON ARTICLES FROM TAKING Fire suppENLY.— Rinse them in alum water, made pretty strong with the alum. The article then, if applied to a lighted candle or a flame, will only smoulder like woollen substances—not break instantly into a flame, and so destroy the wearer. As much as possible, in winter, articles of dress liable to flame should be avoided, and woollen textures substituted. for hi woma to cru all Ite The of his Auror He is but in a Refe not qu

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Lvitors’ Gable. MRS. BROWNING’S GREAT POEM. Some months ago we promised our readers a Sketch of “ AuroRA Leigu,”’ the greatest of Mrs. Browning's poems, and, in original thoughts and illustrations of deep and holy truths and lofty sentiments, probably the grandest poem of the Century. We say this while fully admitting many of the objections urged in its dis- paragement. The story is unnatural; the principal characters are exaggerated creations of poetic fancy, mixing the sacred fires of genius with just enough of the common clay of humanity to make figures resembling women and men, but which are not the actual people of this world. Grant this manner of portraying personages to the authoress, and we are filled with admiration at the re- sults. What marvellous trains of thought! What won- derful pictures of life in all its varieties of action! The condensation of meanings, the originality of ideas, the versatility, richness, and aptness of language are un- rivalled. How pale and insignificant are the beauties of contemporary poems beside the living, moving, teach- ing descriptions of Aurora Leigh, which embody forth the soul, the mind, and the heart of Mrs. Browning! The story is neither mysterious nor complicated. The life of Aurora Leigh, which she narrates, was early clouded with sorrow. She was the only child of an “austere Englishman’’ who, while travelling in Italy, fell passionately in love with and married a beautiful Florentine maiden. His wife died, and Aurora was left an ‘‘unmothered little child of four years old’”’ to the sole care and love of her father for ‘full nine years,”’ when he, too, died. Then the orphan was sent to Eng- land to be brought up and educated by his maiden sis- ter. Aurora had been the pupil, companion, and idol of her father ; he had taught her ** All the ignorance of men, Aud how God langhs in heaven when any mar Says, ‘Here I’m learned; this I understand ; In that I’m never caught at fault or doubt!’”’ Her father’s virtues and the clinging, venerating love of his lonely child to his image in her heart are felt in many passages of pathetic beauty which no Elegiac poetry has ever rurpassed. Then we have the trials of her English training under the supervision of her maiden aunt, who had lived ** A harmless life, she called a virtuous life ; A quiet life, which was not life at all; A sort of cage-bird life, born in a cage, Accounting that to leap from perch tu perch Was art and joy enough for any bird.” Such was Aurora’s “father’s sister,’ whose real love for him was not so strong as her hatred for the “foreign woman” he had married ; therefore her great aim was to crush out from the heart and speech of their daughter all Italian words and idols. The family inheritance, forfeited by her father because of his marriage with a “‘foreign woman,” was lost to Aurora ; it had passed to a second cousin, Romney Leigh. He is a young man of pattern excellence in private life, but in his political opinions and philosophical theories a Reformer of the most exaggerated opinions, nearly if not quite a follower of Fourier and a believer in Compte. He was also Quixotic in generosity, and felt that his possession of the Leigh estates was a great wrong to bis cousin Aurora; so he fell deeply in love with her and urged his suit with passionate fervor as the true way of happiness for both, and making all things right. Aurora was as proud and quite as positive in her own opinions as Romney in his. She refused his love, and resisted his purpose of restoring her, through her aunt, thirty thousand pounds of the property. Aurora fancied that Romney did not appreciate the dignity nor the ge- nius of woman; so she resolved, after the death of her aunt, who had no property of her own to bequeath except “A few books and a pair of shawls,” to goto London and gain support and renown by her writings. She was a poetess in her own right, or rather by the endowment of God, and she knew her gift. She was and is Mrs. Browning’s earnest soul in Aurora's drapery. Aurora had faith in Christ, and her feminine insight had appropriated His spiritual truth that “man does not live by bread alone,’’ he must have Divine aid ; that the human soul must be enlightened to know and love the true good, or the mere alms that keep alive the body do not nourish and raise humanity. She expresses this earnestly to her cousin Romney, when he is urging her to marry him and work with him in his Socialistic plans of benevolence. She says— **T hold you will not compass your poor ends Of barley-feeding and material ease Without a poet’s individualism To work your universal. It takes a soul To move a body; it takes a high-sonled man To move the masses—even to a cleaner stye: It takes the ideal to blow a hair’s breadth off The dust of the actual. Ah, you Fouriers fail Because not poets enough to understand That life develops from within.” Romney Leigh, howeyer, was not only not convinced by her reasoning, but her rejection of his suit increased his fanaticism, and he determined to marry “‘ a daughter of the people,’’ one from the lowest caste of English life, in order to demonstrate the folly and wrong of artificial distinctions in society. The young girl, Marian Erle, whose pitiful story and dove-like innocence half win us to rejoice that she is to be thus exalted, deserts Rom- ney Leigh at the wedding hour, and absolves him from his engagement. The affair is surrounded with mystery which in its development is shocking. We consider this the blot of the book, and wish the poetess had invented a less ter- rible catastrophe. Doubtless Mrs. Browning thought it a clear way of showing that virtue is lovely and respect- able under all circumstances; that no soil can remain upon her, no ignominy disgrace her. There is, truly, a noble dignity and disinterestedness in poor Marian’s love and life which make her interesting ; but the deep pity her great wrong awakens is akin to horror, and far more distressing than any sorrow over the dead It was on Aurora’s twentieth birth-day that Romney Leigh made his offer of marriage to her, as she thought, because he wanted “a wife to help his ends’’—some of which she enumerated as follows ;—

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96 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. “He might cut My body into coins to give away Among his paupers ; he might change my sons, While I stood dumb as Griseld, for black babes Or piteous foundlings; might unquestioned set My right hand teaching in the Ragged Schools, My left hand washing in the Public Baths, What time my angel of the Ideal stretched Both his to me in vain!” And so she turned to her books, wrote her poems, and strove to do good in her own way. Ten years passed; they met again in Florence. It wasevening. She had gained fame, friends, the means of independent living, and of doing good. He had failed in his philosophic plans (as all Socialistic plans do fail), and lost his sight in his exertions for the benefit of the miserable, who would not be helped in his way. But we will let them explain. Aurora said— “I'm thinking, cousin, of a far-off June, When you and I, upon my birth-day once Discoursed of Life and Art, with both untried. I'm thinking, Romney, how ’twas morning then, And now ‘tis night.” **Yes,”’ he said, “‘ tis night. * + * 7 * * How dark I stood that morning in the sun, My best Aurora, though I saw your eyes— When first you told me—oh, I recollect The words, and how you lifted your white hands, And how your white dress and your burnished curls Went greatening round you in the still, blue air, As if the inspiration from within Had blown them ail out when you spoke the same— * You will not compass your poor ends, not you!’ I'm ready for confession; I was wrong, I've sorely failed, I've slipped the ends of life; I yield; you have conquered.”’ *Stay,’’ I answered him ; **T’'ve something for your hearing, also—I Have failed too.”’ “You!” he said, “you ’re very great ; The sadness of your greatness fits you well, As if the plume upon a hero’s casque Should nod a shadow on his victor face.” I took him up austerely—“‘ You have read My book but not my heart; for the rest, Look here, sir; I was right upon the whole, That birth-day morning. ‘Tis impossible To get at men excepting through their souls; However open their carnivorous jaws, The soul's the way. Not even Christ himself Can save man else than as he holds the soul. We both were wrong that June day—both as wrong As an east wind had been. I, who talked of Art, And you, who grieved for all men’s grief; what then? We surely made too small a part for God In these things, Romney. Though we fail, indeed, You—I—a score of such weak workers—He Fails never. If He cannot work by us, He surely will work over us.” “Could we sit Just so forever, sweetest friend,”’ he said, ** My failure would be better than success. Oh, cousin, let us be content in work To do the thing we can, and not presume To fret because "tis little. Hearken, dear, There 's too much abstract willing, purposing In this poor world. We talk by aggregates, And think by systems ; and, being used to face Our evils in statistics, are inclined To cap them with unreal remedies, Drawn out in haste on the other side the slate.” “That's true,” I answered, fain to throw up thought And make a game of’t. ‘“‘Oh, we generalize Enough to please you. If we pray at all, We pray no longer for our daily bread, But next centenary’s harvest. If we give, Our cup of water is not tendered till We ee down pipes and found a Company With Branches. Ass or angel, ’tis the same; A woman cannot do the thing she ought, Which means whatever perfect thing she caa In life, in art, in science, but she fears To let the perfect action take her part And rest there; she must prove whet she can do Before she does it—prate of woman's rights, Of woman’s mission, woman’s functicn, till The men (who are prating, too, on their side) ery— ‘A woman's function plainly is—to talk.’ Poor souls, they are very reasonably vexed | They cannot hear each other speak.’’ “And you, An artist, judge so?” “T, an artist, yes, Because, precisely, I’m an artist, sir, And woman ; if another sate in sight, I'd whisper—Soft, my sister! not a word! By speaking we prove ouly we can speak : Which he, the man here, never doubted. What He doubts is whether we can do the thing With decent grace we have not done at all: Now doit; bring your statue, you have room ” “Tt is the age’s mood,” He said; “‘ we boast and do not.” We have not room for more extracts here ; but hope these glimpses of the story will induce those who love the memory of the poetess to read this great poem at- tentively. It ends happily, and in the usual way of romance. The originality we claim for Mrs. Browning is certainly not to be found in these incidents, nor in the meagre love-story, which is ill-constructed, and has been told a thousand times in verse and prose of different merit. Everything but the story is original, the ideas, the illustrations, the manner of description, the trains of thought, the wit, the eloquence, the language even. Mrs. Browning thinks and feels as though inspired by the beauty and holiness of Truth, and writes as though she sought only to express, in the fearless and passion- ate language of Genius, her real thoughts and feelings. Other poets have the elegancies of literature and classi- calities of colleges so ornamenting their lines, tbat the original spark is often but a feeble twinkle; the result is sweetness, prettiness, and, according to poetic rules, greater perfectness; but not the strength, power, and soul-compelling poetry of Aurora Leigh. Compare this poem with “The Princess’ or “The Idyls of the King,” both works beautifully rich in that musical “mirage of words’? which no writer except Mr. Tennyson can raise, and see in the images of life and truth, in the anticipations of faith and hope, in the real worth of true principles to guide and noble desires to purify humanity, how inferior are those great poems of the English Laureate to this grand poem of Mrs. Brown- ing. It is not that the woman is original from ignorance of the deep fountains of antiquity, far from it; her scholarship has never been disputed ; but her own in- spirations quite surmount the classic nurture study af- forded her. She does not equal, much less imitate, the subtlety, delicacy, and exquisite grace oflanguage which characterize the poetry of Mr. Tennyson; but in power, pith, and pathos she is the superior. We think, when remembering her delicate organization, refinement of mind and feeling, and the sweet womanliness of her cha- racter, while we read her strong, stirring, vigorous verse, we think of the “‘ angels that excel in strength.” It isa very hard matter to make extracts from a book that has such bright excellencies on every page; the selections given are not the best specimens, because we aimed at illustrating the story, not displaying its gems. When we have room we intend to string a few of the precious pearls for display at our “Table.” But the work of mortals is never perfect ; we are compelled to point out one great fault ; there is a mistake in “‘ Aurora Leigh,”’ a vital mistake, affecting the whole truth of Bible History and the sacredness of the Decalogue. It struck us on our first reading, soon after the poem ap- the

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ope ove | at- y of ing the een rent eas, ains n. d by ugh sion- ngs. assi- ; the sult ules, and ‘The that ccept >and » real es to ms of own- rance ; her n in- ly af- e, the which ower, when ent of rr cha- rorous th.” » book y; the ise we gems. of the ut the led to Aurora uth of ne. It om ap peared ; it was so strange, so utterly unaccountable that we felt sure Mrs. Browning would see it and revise the text; this was not done, nor has a single critic or re- viewer, to our knowledge, ever noticed the mistake. Has it passed unobserved? Then we should infer that the poetess was not alone in her ignorance or miscon- struction of the sacred text. This, too, is very strange. Mrs. Browning has ignored the Sabbath by making the work of Creation coutinue through the seven days. God had no rest in her version, because the human pair Were made on the ‘last day”’ of the week: thus— **Seven days’ work, The last day shutting ’twixt its dawn and eve, The whole world, bettered, of tbe previous six! Since God collated and resumed in man The firmaments, the strata, and the lights, Fish, fowl, and beast, and insect—all these trains Of various life caught back upon His arm, Reorganized and constituted Man, The microcosm, the adding up of works ; Within whose fluttering nostrils, then at last, Consummating Himself, the Maker sighed, As some strong winner at the foot-race sighs Touching the goal.” [Page 203 American edition, Book Sixth, line 152, etc. PHOTOGRAPHY AS AN ART. In commenting on the present rage for photographs in London, an English writer dwells pathetically on the trials of sitting for these pictures; but he gives strong reasons to prove that the fashion will be permanent, and, on the whole, advantageous. We agree with him in believing that the fashion of photograph collecting will continue, because, in the first place, the gain of having cheap portraits of friends is so great that there is a solid advantage in photographs which would coun- terbalance a great many nuisances of a very serious sort. And then the collections, when made, are very useful ; they supply a fund of talk to people who have nothing to say. “Every one can find something to remark about a collection of photographs. Either they do not know the people represented in it, or they do know them, or they wonder whether they know them. Then, if they know them, they can say they are like or unlike; or they can pay adroit compliments and make acceptable remarks on the photographs most cherished by the col- lector; or they can gratify a little quiet malice, and say that they never could have believed so very unfa- vorable a likeness is a true one, and yet every one knows the sun must be right. It is this fund of easy small- talk which will be the real foundation of the permanent success of photography as a fashion. It might easily have happened that photograph books would have shared the fate of albums. Thirty years ago, young ladies used to keep albums, and people used to be de- coyed or frightened into writing in them. Authors of all sizes and degrees of reputation were entreated to add their mite. Charles Lamb's letters, for example, are full of the references to the albums he had been writing in. But the weak point of albums was that, where they were not occupied by magnificent water-color representa- tions of perfectly round roses in the fullest bloom, they were too intellectual. People in an ordinary drawing- room think there is a sort of plot to find them out if any demand is made on their intellect; and to write verses, or even to copy correctly a piece of poetry out of a stan- dard author, is dangerous and embarrassing. It is true that writers in albums were occasionally allowed to get off by writing out in their best hand one of the very poorest and best-known riddles they could recollect, VOL. LXV.—8 EDITORS’ TABLE. ” such as ‘‘ Why is Athens like the wick of a candle? but even this is precarious, for the answer has to be remembered and understood. In photographs all is plain sailing. All that has to be done is to make gos- siping remarks about other people, and this is a duty to which the most timid intellects feel competent.’ Photographs are, then, a fashion; but it is possible they may be what, considering the mutability of human things, deserves to be called a permanent fashion, be- cause they tend to supply a want that will always be felt. INFLUENCE OF A TRUE Wire.—*“ A sensible, affectionate, refined, practical woman makes a man’s nature all the stronger by making it more tender—who puts new heart into all his worthy strivings, gives dignity to his pros- perity, and comfort to his adversity. Every true life wields a still greater power when it feels a living heart drawing it with irresistible force into every position of duty.” Heart Love NEVER Dizs.—We once listened to the pitiful lamentations of a childless old lady. ‘‘Oh,”’ said she, ‘‘ would that I had only one child on the face of this broad earth to care forme! Alas! I have not one near relative to soothe my weary life in its downward course; not one to cherish my memory when I am gone!”’ This kind-hearted old lady had been a wife and mo- ther. Her husband had many years before paid the debt of nature, and her child died in infaney. It was sad and pitiable indeed to hear her mourn with a grief of the freshness of to-day's bereavement for that dear infant long since turned to dust. A Rare Eviocium.—Jeremy Taylor, the giant of The-- ology and Bible knowledge, thus sums up the religious character of the Countess of Carberry. How many wo- men now living would, in the funeral sermon, deserve or receive such praise ? ‘In all her religion she had a strange evenness, and untroubled passage sliding toward her ocean of God and So have I seen a river, deep and smooth, passing with a still foot infinity, with a certain and silent motion and a sober pace, and paying to the Fiscus, the great exchequer of the sea, the prince of all the watery bodies, a tribute large and fall; and hard by it a little brook, skipping, and making a noise upou its unequal and neighbor bottom ; and after all its talking and braggart motion, it payed to its common audit no more than the revenues of a little cloud, or a contemptible vessel ; so have I sometimes compared the issues of her religion to the solemnities and famed outsides of another’s piety. It dwelt upon her spirit, and was incorporated with the periodical work of every day. She did not believe re- ligion was intended to minister fame and reputation, but to pardon sins to the pleasure of God. For religion is like the breath of heaven; if it goes abroad into the open air it scatters and dissolves.” A New Wavy 10 MAKE Goop Wives.—A western paper says: “Young ladies who are accustomed to reading newspapers are always observed to possess winning ways, most amiable dispositions, and invariably make good wives.”’ If this wise observation should prove true, what a nation of “good wives’ our Republic will show from this time forth? Where isthe young lady in our land who does not read the newspapers ?

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98 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. z Miss S. J. Hats’s Boarpine AND Day ScHOOL FOR Youre Lapres, 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 have accepted these communications: ‘‘ Friends in Council’—‘“‘ Stanzas’’— ** Reminiscences’ —‘‘ Lida Browne’’—“‘ Isora’’— “‘ The Old Cabin’’—‘‘ Art and Love’’—and ‘‘ The Lost Dia- mond.”’ We have quite a number of long stcries on hand, and shall read the manuscripts in time te notice next month, if possible. ‘‘Our Friends” are always welcome, and their favors are valued. The following articles are declined for want of room and other reasons: ‘‘ Never go Backwards’’—“ The Ever- green’’—‘ Kate Ashbrook’s Revenge’’—‘‘ Day Break’’— **Earnest Athol’’—‘‘Memory Chimes’’—‘‘ Whispers’’— ‘To ourabsent Nettie’’—‘‘I mourn for thee’’—‘“‘ Evelyn Bell’’— ‘‘Slander’’—‘*The Past’’—‘‘ Maralene’’— “A Mother's Darling’’—*‘ The Dying Volunteer” (very good, but too long for the space we can spare)—‘“ Oregon” — “The last day of School’—‘*‘ My Cousins’’—*“ Anony- mous Letters’’—‘‘ The Revenge’’—and ‘‘ A Meeting and a Parting.”’ ** Reminiscences,” by Ethelstone. Very good, but ap- pears unfinished. Could not a few pages be added to marry off the young lady? — Bealth Department, (Selected from that excellent work, ‘‘ Hall’s Journal of Health,’ published in New York and London.) SUMMER RESORTS In order to derive the highest advantages as to health, from summer recreations, several considerations ought to be kept in view. Children who are teething should be taken without an hour’s delay to the sea shore The effect is, in multitudes of cases, instantaneous, radical, and almost miraculous. Physicians of observation in large eities will testify that children in their second summer, in an almost dying condition begin to improve on their jour- ney to the coast, and within three hours after leaving the heated and sultry atmosphere of the city in mid- summer. There is something in the salt air of the sea which has a renovating and life-giving power to all whose brains have been over-taxed ; and to many whose nervous sys- tems have been impaired by intense excitements, whether arising from business anxieties or domestic calamities. There is also a moral effect for good in the roar of the ocean, and in the sense of vastness which comes over the mind, as the eye gazes upon it, bottomless, and with- out ashore beyond; thus causing heart troubles to be swept away in their insignificance To persons whose lungs are impaired, or whose throats are in a diseased condition, the air of the sea shore is almost always poisonous, sometimes deadly. To merchants, clerks, lawyers; to all who follow se- dentary occupations, who are kept within four walls for a large portion of every twenty-four hours, no better advice can be given than to go off among the mountains; climb to their tops; descend into their valleys; pene- trate their recesses ; on foot, on horse, in every conceiv- able mode of locomotion; and they should consider every hour of daylight lost which does not find them in interested motion in the open air : The general rule is to effect a change of air. Any change is more or less beneficial. There is no locality in any dozen miles apart whose atmosphere has not ingredients differing in some respects from that of other localities, and the human system greedily drinks in those new or strange ingredients, just as one takes in, with unwonted delight and benefit, the food of a table a few miles from his own home. Both mind and body, the world over, yearn for variety, for change. So that a man living for years in the purest atmosphere on earth will be benefited by a change to one wiich, although relatively less pure, has either different ingredients, or the same in different proportions. To all who can, we say, go somewhere, go anywhere, rather than remain at home all the time. Go with as light a heart as possi- ble; go determined to get good and do good, and you will seldom fail of both. But in going, leave all “‘airs,’’ and mocks, and pretences, and shams behind. Assume nothing ; exact nothing ; claim nothing beyond what is spontaneously offered by those with whom you may come in contact. In all situations, be courteous, and respect yourself, and you will have courtesy and respect shown you. Acting thus, you will return home healthier, happier, wiser, and better than when you went away. THE DIFFERENCE. When a simpleton wants to get well, he buys some- thing ‘‘to take,’’ a philosopher gets something “‘ to do ;”’ and it is owing to the circumstance that the latter has been in a minority almost undistinguishable in all na- tions and ages, that doctors are princes instead of paupers, live like gentlemen instead of cracking rocks for the turnpike. SUMMER SOURS. Physiological research has fully established the fact that acids promote the separation of the bile from the blood, which is then passed from the system, thus pre- venting fevers, the prevailing diseases of summer. All fevers are ‘‘bilious,”’ that is, the bile is in the blood. Whatever is antagonistic of fever, is cooling. It is a common saying that fruits are “‘cooling,’’ and also ber- ries of every description ; it is because the acidity which they contain aids in separating the bile from the blood, that is, aids in purifying the blood. Hence the great yearning for greens and lettuce, and salads in the early spring, these being eaten with vinegar; hence also the taste for something sour, for lemonades, on an attack of fever. But this being the case, it is easy to see that we nullify the good effects of fruits and berries in proportion as we eat them with sugar, or even sweet milk, orcream. If we eat them in their natural state, fresh, ripe, perfect, it is almost impossible to eat too many, to eat enough to hurt us, especially if we eat them alone, not taking any liquid with them-whatever. Hence also is buttermilk or even common sour milk promotive of health in snm- mer-time. Sweet milk tends to biliousness in sedentary ri wi th: lar ho can col Bo matt ours Infor inclo: Wh publi Fro TH By M Thou; Mrs. ° will, : the di well «

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in, ly, at ‘th gh or we sin ssi- ou. me Lis ay nd ect er, ay. fact the pre- All od. is a ber- lich od, reat rly k of lify If fect, h to any nilk inm- tary LITERARY NOTICES. 99 people, sour milk is antagonistic. The Greeksand Turks are passionately fond of sour milk. The shepherds use renuet, and the milk dealers alum to make it sour the sooner. Buttermilk acts like watermelons on the sys- tem. LOOSE BOWELS. The first, most essential and most efficient step towards a cure in all cases is that which instinct prompts; to wit: perfect quietude of body; next take nothing but rice parched like coffee ; then boil, and eat in the usual way. REARING CHILDREN, 1. Children should not go to school until six years old. 2. Should not learn at home during that time more than the alphabet, religious teachings excepted. 3. Should be fed with plain substantial food, at regu- lar intervals of not less than four hours. 4. Should not be allowed to eat anything within two hours of bed-time. 5. Should have nothing for supper but a single cup of warm drink, such as very weak tea of some kind, or cambric tea or warm milk and water, with one slice of cold bread and butter—nothing else. 6. Should sleep in separate beds, on hair-mattresses, without caps, feet first well warmed by the fire or rubbed with the hands until perfectly dry ; extra covering on the lower limbs, but little on the body. 7. Should be compelled to be out of doors for the greater part of daylight, from after breakfast until half an hour before sun-down, unless in damp, raw weather, when they should not be allowed to go outside the door. 8. Never limit a healthy child as to sleeping or eating, except at supper; but compel regularity as to both; it is of great importance. 9. Never compel a child to sit still, nor’interfere with its enjoyment, as long as it is not actually injurious to person or property, or against good morals. 10. Never threaten a child: it is cruel, unjust, and dangerous. What you have to do, do it, and be done with it. 1l. Never speak harshly orangrily, but mildly, kindly, and, when really needed, firmly—no more. 12. By all means arrange it so that the last words be- tween you and your children at bed-time, especially the younger ones, shall be words of unmixed lovingness and affection. Witerary Alotices. Booxs BY Mait.—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. Pererson & Brotruzrs, Philadelphia:— THE CHANNINGS. A Domestic Novel of Real Life. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of ‘‘ East Lynne,” ete. Though perhaps adding little to the reputation which Mrs. Wood earned as the author of “ East Lynne,”’ it will, at least, detract nothing from it. The portraits of the different members of the Channing family are all well drawn and lifelike; and we may say the same of the Yorke family as well. It is really no love story, as all the interest turns upon one or two matters of an en- tirely different nature, the most important of them the theft of a bank note; but the closing chapter gives us one actual wedding, and another in prospect. The story is ingeniously constructed, and the reader must be very good at guessing indeed who suspects the denouement before it comes. Price, paper, 50 cents; cloth, 75 cents THE INDIAN SCOUT: or, Life on the Frontier. By Gustave Aimard, author of ‘‘ The Flower of the Prairie,”’ “The Trail Hunter,”’ etc. ‘‘ The Indian Scout” is a sequel to ‘“‘The Flower of the Prairie,” which was published a short time since, and this fact secures it as extensive a sale, at least, as the latter. There are few who rank above Aimard in the line of fiction to which he especially devotes himself—that of border life and life among the Indians. . He is a facile and imaginative writer, and in addition to his mental gifts, he has had the advantage of many years’ experience in the countries and among the people he describes, having led a wandering life in the western portions of almost the entire American con- tinent. Price, paper, 50 cents; cloth, 75 cents. From Gro. W. Cuitps, Philadelphia :— PRISON LIFE IN THE TOBACCO WAREHOUSE AT RICHMOND. By Lieut. Wm. C. Harris, of Col. Baker’s California Regiment. We are indebted to the author for a copy of this work. Lieutenant Harris was a Ball’s Bluff prisoner, and has only recently been liberated. He gives rather a gloomy account of the life of the prisoners, and speaks of the treatment of their keepers as being harsh in the extreme. The narration is a highly in- teresting one, and, in some cases, quite amusing, owing to the happy faculty of the writer to place everything in its brightest light. The thousands among us wio have friends as prisoners at the South will read this book with avidity. Price, paper, 50 cents; cloth, 75. From Harper & Brotuers, New York, through Perer- son & Broruers, Philadelphia:~— THE CITY OF THE SAINTS, and Across the Rocky Mountains to California. By Richard F. Burton, author of ‘‘The Lake Regions of Central Africa,’ ete. With illustrations. This isa largeand closely printed volume, in which the author gives full accounts of his journey on the overland route to Salt Lake City, his impressions of this city, and of the Mormons, with their morals, habits, and general characteristics. Mr. Burton writes with all the ease end care of a professed traveller, and his descriptions and narrations are marked with the impartiality of one who is neither biased in opinion himself, nor wishes to influence the views of his read- ers. He gives facts alone, and from his reputation as a traveller, as well as from the face of what he has pro- duced, we believe his statements may be relied on. Price $3 00. CONSIDERATIONS ON REPRESENTATIVE GOY- ERNMENT. By John Stuart Mill, author of “‘ A System of Logic, Ratiocinative and Inductive.’’ The author proceeds to consider systematically various propositions and problems in regard to government, handling the matter ably and logically. At the present time, when our own form of government is undergoing its severest trial, many, no donbt, will feel curiosity to know what an Englishman has to say on governments abstractly Our own national troubles have evidently been the cause of the writing of this book, and Mr. Mill proceeds, like a true son of John Bull, to reason out that the

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100 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, 2 English form of government is the best practically and theoretically that can be instituted. Price $1 00. THE LAST OF THE MORTIMERS. A Story in two Voices. By the author of “Margaret Maitland,” ‘The House on the Moor,” ete. We have found no time to read this book, but, from the acquaintance we already have with its author, we have no hesitation in saying that it cannot be otherwise than good. It is the produc- tion, we believe, of Mrs. Oliphant, who is deservedly noted for her excellent Scottish tales. A hasty glance through its pages shows ue that it is novel and ingenious in construction, the story alternating between two of the main characters, and all written in the first person— one of the “ladies at the hall,” and the “ lieutenant’s wife” dividing the narration betweenthem. Price $1 00. THE CHILDREN’S PICTURE-BOOK OF THE SA- GACITY OF ANIMALS. Illustrated. The illustrations of this book are spirited, the reading matter such as cannot fail to interest the child, and the binding elegant in appearance. It is both entertaining and instructive. Price 75 cents. THE STRUGGLES OF BROWN, JONES, & ROBIN- SON. By One of the Firm. By Anthony Trollope, au- thor of ‘‘Framley Parsonage,” “The Bertrams,” etc. It is whimsically written, and the characters of the dif- ferent members of the firm and their families are drawn with quaint humor. The motto of the junior member of the firm, and the recorder of its struggles, is ‘‘ Adver- tise. Price 25 cents. From CHARLES ScrrBNER, New York, through J. B. Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia :— THE BAY PATH. A Tale af New England Colonial Life. By J. G. Holland, author of “Letters to the Young,”’ “‘ Miss Gilbert’s Career,” etc. This is one of the earlier, if not the earliest of the works of Dr. Holland, and perhaps laid the foundation of the reputation which * Bitter-sweet,’’ “‘ Letters to the Young,’’ and all his subsequent works have succeeded in building up in so vast and fair proportions. Holland is one of the best and most readable of our American authors, and more- over he is truly American in style. There is nothing flimsy or unsubstantial in his writings. They are solid, and of unimpeachable morality, and will bear the se- verest tests. ‘‘The Bay Path”’ is perhaps slightly infe- rior to the books which followed it. Sometimes the story drags a little. However, all who can appreciate the better class of literature, if they do not possess the book already, will be anxious to obtain it, for no other purpose than to complete their set of Holland’s works. Price $1 25. From Dick & FirzaeRaLp, New York, through Perer- son & Broruers, Philadelphia:— THE HEIR TO ASHLEY. By Mrs. Henry Wood, au- thor of ‘‘ The Earl’s Heirs,” “‘ The Channings,’’ etc. This book contains three novelettes, evidently from their style, which is somewhat crude, earlier productions of the lady whose name the title-page bears. They are, however, original, interesting, and of high tone. Price, paper, 50 cents; cloth, 75 cents. THE OLD JUDGE: or, Life in a Colony. By Judge Haliburton, author of * Sam Slick the Clockmaker,” ete. A reprint of a humorous book, containing a number of sketches written in Judge Haliburton’s peculiar vein. Just the book for an idle hour, or to oecupy one in rail- road travel. Price 50 cents. THE WARDEN. By Anthony Trollope, author of . “Framley Parsonage,” etc. This book, which, with so noted a name upon the title-page, it is unnecessary to say isan excellent one, is published in 4 shape rare in this country, though common in France and Germany. It is small in size with paper cover, and consequently cheap in price. It is appropriately set down as belong- ing to the ‘“‘ Hand and Pocket Library,”’ and is far more convenient to carry in travel, than the unwieldy, two- columned publications that are really too large for one’s pocket, Price 25 cents. From Ticknor & Fre.ps, Boston, through Pererson & Broruers, Philadelphia :— AGNES OF SORRENTO. By Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe, author of ‘‘ Uncle Tom’s Cabin,”’ ‘‘ The Minister’s Wooing,” ete. This is a story of Italy several centuries back, and has been written mainly, we believe, in illus- tration of the Roman Catholic religion as the author views it. It is beautifully written, full of poetic lan- guage, rich descriptions, and chaste sentiments ; though one who reads only for the sake of the story, will occa- sionally tire at its dilatoriness, as it ‘drags its slow length along’’ sometimes almost beyond one’s patience. We say this, however, in warning only to the cursory reader, for those who can appreciate rare beauties in literature, and have leisure to enjoy them, will be richly rewarded by the perusal of this book. Price $1 25. THE PEARL OF ORR’S ISLAND: A Story of the Coast of Maine. By Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe, author of ‘““The Minister’s Wooing,’’ “ Agnes of Sorrento,” ete. We have found time only to glance through this work, but this hasty glance has been sufficient to assure us that it is a creditable production. The scene of the story is on the coast of Maine, and the people who take part in it are New Englanders, which are represented with that faithfulness adife among them las enabled Mrs. Stowe to acquire. BEAUTIES, selected from the Writings of Thomas de Quincey, author of “‘ Confessions of an English Opium Eater,”’ etc. This book is divided into several portions, the first of which embraces a brief life of de Quincey gath- ered and compiled from his own writings. Then follow various imaginative sketches, narratives, essays, cri- tiques, and reminiscences, each in their appropriate division. A valuable collection of most graceful litera- ture, worthy a place in every library. Price $1 25. From J. E. Tinton & Co., Boston:— THE CHAPEL OF ST. MARY. By the anthor of “*The Rectory of Moreland.’’ This is a lively and well- written story of domestic and rural life in the State of New York. There is enough incident and variety in the book to make it interesting, and the moral tone of it is unexceptionable. Price $1 00. THE RECTORY OF MORELAND; or, My Duty. A story of the life and struggles of a young orphan girl, in her endeavors to fulfil her duty to herself and those among whom her lot was cast. It is well told, and cannot fail to be read with interest. Price $1 00. THE BOBBIN BOY; or, How Nat got his Learning. An Example for Youth. By William M. Thayer, author of “‘The Poor Boy and Merchant Prince,”’ ete. etc. ete. Under the name of Nat the Bobbin Boy, we have an ac- count of the boyhood of N. P. Banks, formerly Governor of Massachusetts, and now a General in our army. Even without knowing this fact, the book would be both a profitable and pleasant one, especially for boys. All the incidents in it are said to be true. Price 75 cents. ra bo Gc Hi

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1 so rto 2in ny. itly ng- ore Wo- ne s her er’s ries lus- hor lan- ugh eca- ace. ory 3 in hly oast r of ork, that y is tin that owe ¢ de ium ons, ath- cri- ‘jate era- r of rell- te of y in of it or yirl, nose and ing. thor etc. 1 ac- rnor ven th a All 2. GODEY’S ARM-CHAIR. 101 From RoBert CARTER & BROTHERS, New York, through Wm. 8. & ALFRED MarTIeN, Philadelphia:— LOUISE JULIANE, ELECTRESS PALATINE, AND HER TIMES. By Fanny Elizabeth Burnett. This is an interesting memoir of a devout Christian lady, memora- ble not only for her virtues, but her birth and fortunes. The daughter of the celebrated Prince of Orange, William of Nassau, the wife of Prince Frederic 1V. Elector Pala- tine, and the mother of Frederic V., whose ambition and misfortunes and those of his wife the beautiful Elizabeth, sister of Charles I. of England, have made his name fa- mous. Louise Juliane had an important part to play in the stirring affairs of her time. How well she did it through her long and useful life is faithfully portrayed in this memoir. THE WAY TO LIFE. Sermons. By Thomas Guth- rie, D. D., author of ‘Gospel in Ezekiel,” etc. etc. A clear and energetic exposition of Christian truth, written in the forcible and earnest style peculiar to the author. Dr. Guthrie’s works are among our most valuable con- tributions to religious literature. TONY STARR'S LEGACY: or, Trust in a Covenant- keeping God. By the author of “Win and Wear.” Among the various books issued for children, this will be found one that is both interesting and improving. The story is told in an animated and agreeable manner, and will certainly please those for whom it is written. BERTIE LEE. A story which we are told is one lite- rally of facts, making it of course the more valuable, while the narrative is none the less interesting. Itisa boy’s book, and its object-is to show the faithfulness of God in caring for those who “commit their ways to Him.” erom Ws. 8. & ALFRED MaRTIEN, Philadelphia :— THE BOY FRIEND: or, All Can Help. By Aunt Friendly, author of “Timid Lucy,” “ Fidgety Skeert,”’ etc. The writer of this pleasant and useful little book has been long known to those who take an interest in the happiness of childhood. Her really pious and yet very entertaining stories seem to flow out from her warm, full, sympathizing heart and mind as sponta- neously as the pure, refreshing water from a living spring. We commend this book to the notice of parents who wish to have theirchildren read what will do them good while giving them pleasure. Goden's Arm-Chai ‘ (I Dodens Arm-Chatr, Gopey’s Lapy’s Book ror Ju.y.—First number of the thirty-third year of publication—Vivat Regina! We continue our labors with unabated energy, and will continue in future, as we have done in the past, to pub- lish the best Lady’s Book in the world. Read the no- tices on the cover of this month, and we have at least five thousand more of the same tenor. ‘Summer’ is the appropriate title of the very pretty plate we now publish. It isa companion to the plate entitled ‘“‘ Win- ter,’’ published in our last December number. Can there be anything more worthy of the attention of our lady subscribers than the beautiful fashion for this month? It is graceful and truthful. The dresses have all been selected for the particular month, and particu- larly appropriate for the seaside or watering-places. “What O’Cloek ?” is an original domestic design, aad one of the many we have published calling back the recollections of our childhood. S* The literary matter in this number is all that can be desired. Our numerous wood-cut illustrations will furnish amusement and work for our fair readers until our August issue. A New Sensation.—The public will be glad to learn, and particularly our own subscribers, that Sheldon & Co. have in press a new novel by Marion Harland, an- thor of ‘‘ Alone,’’ ‘‘Moss Side,’’ “‘Hidden Path,’ and ‘*Nemesis.’’ This lady is too well known by her novels and by her contributions to the Lady’s Book to need any praise from us. Her works breathe an air of refine- ment and purity which are characteristic of the lady who writes them. ‘‘Miriam’’ will be the title of the new novel, and we shall hail its advent with great pleasure, and also offer it for sale to our subscribers at the publishers’ price. CoMMENCE your subscriptions now. A new volume commences with the July number; a very good time to subscribe. In the six numbers from July to December are comprised all the fall and winter fashions—clouks, mantles, furs, bonnets, articles for winter in crochet, etc. etc. A new style of work has been brought out in Paris, which is called Décalcomanie, or the art of decorating wood, plaster, porcelain, alabaster, ivory, etc. etc. The art is very simple; you have only to take a picture representing flowers, birds, or landscapes, which you cover entirely with varnish, taking great care not to go beyond the outlines of the picture. Place the picture thus prepared on the article you wish to ornament ; then cover it with a piece of cloth or muslin dipped in water, and with a paper-cutter press it sufficiently to cause the design to adhere. This done, remove the cloth, and with a paint-brush wet the paper, which will then come off, leaving on the paper no trace of the picture, which will be pressed on the object you wish to ornament Next day you put on a light coat of varnish to brighten the colors. We find this description in a French work. We can- not vouch for its accuracy, as we have not practised the art ourselves. The work from which we took this descziption does not state whether the varnished side otf the picture is to be placed next to the object to be orua- mented, but we think it should be. KNOWLEDGE OF GEOGRAPHY IN LonDoON.—We have re- ceived a paper from London, addressed, ‘‘ Godey’s Lady’s Book, Philadelphia, New York.” Jupae Conrap’s SAcRED Porms.—An elegant volume, containing the Sacred Poems of the late Hon. Robert T Conrad, will soon be published by subscription in this city. A portrait of the author, and an introduction by George H. Boker, Esq., will add to the value and interest of the work. As the size of the edition will be limited by the number of subscriptions received, we advise those who wish to secure copies to send their names to Mr. J Alfred Eisenbrey, 814 Pine Street We have received a beautiful portrait of the late Hon Robert T. Conrad, executed in Sartain’s best style, whieh gives us the man as he lived. It is a splendid work of art, and a correct portrait. PostaGk ON THE Lapy’s Boox,— Postage for thre months, if paid in advance at the office where it is re- ceived, four and a half cents.

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102 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. OUR MUSICAL COLUMN. Tue music in this number of the Book introduces the change in the style of publication, according to the announcement we made a few months ago. Since that announcement was pubiished, we have received several letters of approval from our friends, who, we trust, may be as well pleased with the improvement as we are. The music can now be placed before the piano and played from as easily as a piece of sheet music. Sabbath-School Bell.—Horace Waters, New York, pub- lishes two excellent little music-books with the above title. Each is complete, and contains nearly 200 hymns and tunes, neatly bound. No. 1, price 20 cents; No. 2, 25 cents. Uniform with these is also the Day-School Bell, arranged in similar style, 30 cents. Nearly one million of these books, in the aggregate, have already been sold. New Sheet Music for the Piano.—And Eyes will Watch for Thee, a pretty ballad, and very popular, price 25 cents. When the Ship Comes In, by George Mietzke, a beautiful song, quite operatic in style, and arranged as a Cavatina, eight pages, 40 cents. The Volunteer’s Mo- ther, same composer, a touching song, with handsome lithographic title, 30 cents. Our Flag is There, new anti-slavery song—must not be confounded with Tay- lor’s song of same name—25 cents. Union Army March. Fine piece by Mietzke, embellished with vignette of McClellan, Rosecrans, etc., 50 cents. Songs and Ballads—press of 0. Ditson & Co., Boston: There's Music in thy Heart, Lassie, beautiful Scotch song, by R. Bell. Are they Meant but to Deceive me?— polonaise. Two Lovers, fine song by Chopin. Joshua's Courtship, populars ong. Old Massa’s on his Travels Gone. The Vacant Chair, by Newcomb. Patriot's Cho- rus, spirited quartette, by Morris. Each 25 cents. Also, Neversink Mountain Polka; Victoria Quickstep, Hasse; Battle of Winchester, Charles Grobe; each 25 cents. Forest Rose (Waldrochsen), beautiful nocturn, Theo. Oesten, 35. Transcription, Long Weary Day, Fritz Spindler, 35. Sybille, nocturn, by Richards, 35. Undine Waltzer, fine Waltz by Trench, nine pages, 40. Cujus Animam, Rossini; splendid transcription by Brinley Richards of this famous melody, nine pages, 40. West End Polka, by D’Albert, 50; this has a fine fac-simile title-page of the London edition, which cost about $3. Songs, ete., from H. M. Higgins, Chicago: Scott and the Veteran, fine patriotic song, 30. Brother and the Fallen Dragoon, ditto, by Webster, 35. Don’t be Sor- rowful, Darling, with chorus, 30. Softly the Moonlight, quartette serenade, 30. All the following have choruses: The Union, Now and Forever; Our Country’s Flag; Hattie Bell; Faithful to Thee, for a low voice; List to the Bells; Sleigh Ride Song ; Cottage on the Lea; Gentle Annie Ray; Rose of Evansdale, by Mr. Higgins. These are all pretty ballads. Each 25 cents. Also, Seraphine Waltz, 10; Union Brigade Quickstep, 10; Union Polka, 25; Skating Polka, 25, pictorial title ; Grasshopper Galop, pictorial title, 35; Glen Polka, beau- tifully arranged, 25; Tit for Tat Schottische, by Victor, 25; Grand Marche des Wide Awakes, 35, a splendid com- position by Victor. All the above are fine pieces. All musical correspondence and orders for music should be addressed to Philadelphia, to J. Starr Hoiiowary. Sxrieton Flowers.—We thank our numerous friends for their kindness, but have now received enough re- ceipts for the making of these leaves ACADEMY OF THE Fixe Arts.—The annual exhibition of pictures and statuary at the Academy of the Fine ArtS this year, which has just opened, is thronged unusually with gay though critical visitors. This is owing to the fact that the exhibition itselfis far superior to any of its predecessors for many years, both in the number of the pictures and the merit displayed. Landscapes engage a goodly share of the attention of artists and the public, and in this department of art we have a number of really very able painters. Paul Weber's marked style renders his pictures known without any reference to the cata- logue, for, indeed, it would be very difficult for any one acquainted with art to fail to recognize the hand of Weber. A very fine picture by this artist is one taken from Kelly’s Dam, Germantown, with figures by Schus- sele. There is Moran’s view of Fairmount Park, one of the best efforts at picture-making of our environs we have yet seen, and that majestic view of the Lehigh Valley and Bethlehem, done in the style rendered fu- miliar by “‘The Heart of the Andes.’’ The marine pic- tyres are not new, thongh really great. Hamilton’s two splendid efforts, ‘‘What are the Wild Waves Say- ing?’’ and ‘‘New York Harbor,” are worthy of his fame, now so widely extended. The first of these is a conception of rare poetical power and effect. A ship- wreck near Elizabeth Castle struck us as being bold and admirable. Lewis, Williams, Lambdin, Rotherme!, Bou- telle, and other American artists, have some fine efforts, which we shall notice hereafter. A youne and very beautiful lady one evening wished to make an impression at a ball, and went to her aunt to borrow her diamonds. ‘*My dear,” said the aunt, “ you are young and bean- tiful; I am passé. Who needs the diamonds most? However, I will make a bargain with you—lend me your face, and you may have my diamonds.” — Cost or Pickine STRAWBERRIES.—The editor of the Prairie Farmer has been visiting a strawberry planta- tion in Chicago, of some eight acres, carried on by George Davis. The principal berry relied on for a crop was the Wilson’s Albany, though he has a number of other varieties. The following rule, adopted for the picking troop, is excellent. The editor says: “‘ Anxious to learn something about the cost of picking and marketing the fruit, we asked him how much he paid per quart for picking. ‘Ido not pay by the quart ; hire by the day.’ ‘How much do you pay per day, then?’ ‘Well, you see, I ‘ave made this harrangement—I pay those that don’t whistle two shillings per day, and those who do whistle I pay three shillings, for, don’t you see’—picking up an enormous Wilson—‘ don’t you see that if they ‘ave one of these ere in their mouth, they can’t whistle? Don’t you see the philosophy of the thing?’”’ An officer in the French army, dying, left a widow, who had some difficulty to get her claims to a pension acknowledged. Her lawyer, annoyed by her pertinacity in applying for the pension, said one day to her:— “Why do you not apply to the king? He will grant your pension ; it is a mere song.” The widow presented herself before the king, and showed her claims. While he was considering therr, she was humming to herself. ““Why do you make that noise?’’ he inquired. “Sire,” said the widow, “they told me the pension was a mere song; I was trying to learn the air!” The king, pleased with her wit, granted the pension.

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GODEY’S ARM-CHAIR. JUVENILE DEPARTMENT. Articles that Children can muke for Fancy Fairs, or for Holiday Presents. EMBROIDERED CHATELAINE. Materials.—Quarter of a yard of purple velvet, brilliant and plain gold bullion, purpleand gold gimp, broad and narrow, half a yard of each yellow floss, white silk for lining, and passementerie cords and tassels with a hook attached. Turis elegant little appendage to the dress, large enough to contain a handkerchief and purse, is deserving of being as generally adopted in this country as it has re- cently been in Paris. The engraving represents it perfectly, although our page does not permit us to give it on a large scale. The thick scroll alone, in this design, is raised by a ridge of floss silk being first worked, and the gold bul- lion being laid closely and evenly overit. The rest of the pattern is donein a manner that imitates a cord, laid on. Pieces of the dead gold bullion are cut, rather more than a quarter of an inch long. sewed down, rather across the lines, the succeeding ones are placed always within half the length, by the side of the last. In the language of an embroideress, this is termed half-polka stitch. forming the outer line of embroidery, is merely a gold thread laid on. The spots are all in brilliant bullion. Both sides of the Chatelaine are embroidered alike. One of these being The series of small scallops, They are then lined with white silk, and sewed together, except atthe top, where an opening of about three inches The broad gimp edges the back of the Chatelaine ; The cord and trimmings is left. the narrow one the upper side. are made in such a manner that they form a fastening 103 a SS for the bag, without appearing to be intended for that purpose. The hook attaches this Chatelaine to the waist- band. MISCELLANEOUS To Set a Combustible Body on Fire by the Contact of Water. AMUSEMENTS. Fill a saucer with water, and let fall into it a piece of potassium, weighing about two grains. The potassium will instantly burst into flame, and burn vividly on the surface of the water. To make Artificial Lightning. Take a tin tube, larger et one end than the other, and in which there are several holes; fill it with powdered rosin (or lyeopodium), and when shaken over the flame of a candle, it will produce the exact appearance of light- ning. The Silver Tree. Put into a decanter four drachms of nitrate of silver, and fill up the decanter with distilled or rain-water, then drop in about an ounce of mercury, and a piece of zine wire by a silk thread, fastened to the cork, and place the vessel where it may not be disturbed; in a short time the silver will be precipitated in the most beautiful arborescent form, resembling real vegetation. Green Flame. If a spoonful of good alcohol, and a little boracie acid be stirred together in a teacup, and then set on fire, they will produce a beautiful green flame. ‘THe Woop oF THE Cross.’’—The Cross was generally supposed to have been made of four kinds of wood, sig- nifying the four quarters of the globe, or ali mankind ; it is not, however, agreed what those four kids were, or their respective places in the Cross. Some say the pure, incorruptible woods were the palm, the cedar, the olive, and the cypress. Instead of the palm and olive, some claim the honor for the piné and the box; whilst others say it was made entirely of oak. In Cur- zon’s ‘‘ Monasteries of the Levant’’ we are told that the cedar was cut down by Solomon, and buried on the spot afterwards called the Pool of Bethesda: that about the time of the passion of cur Blessed Lord the wood floated, and was used by the Jews for the upright part of the Cross. Another account states the wood to have been the aspen, since which the leaves have never ceased trembling. It was once believed in Scotland that the dwarf birch is stunted in growth because the rods were formed of it with which Christ was scourged. On the Mount of Olives, in Palestine, the olive tree still flou- rishes as it did seven hundred years before the Christian era. MoRNING PRAYER.—The following is meant to be a companion piece to the well-known evening prayer for children beginning, ‘“Now I lay me down to sleep,” etc. — Now I rise from off my bed, I pray the Lord for daily bread. Keep me from sinful thought and deed, Be with my steps in hour of need, And make my soul, if Thou dost take, All clean and pure for Jesus’ sake. CARDINAL RicHe.trr, after writing one of his plays, wished Chapelain to put his name to it. **Give me your good name,”’ he said, “and take my purse,”’

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104 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. SMALL BRACKETED VILLA. Designed expressly for Godey’s Lady’s Book by SamuzL SLOAN, Architect, Philadelphia. o ¢ DEZER SCI PERSPECTIVE VIEW. Tuis little villa, so picturesque in appearance, would make a very appropriate residence for a famiiy of mode- rate size. The round-headed windows and porch arcades archi- tecturally forbid the use of such a pitch as the main roof has; but it will be seen that this piquancy is obviated by the truncation of the latter, thereby agreeably sub- duing the otherwise discord and composition. FIRST FLOOR. The frst floor comprises an ample hall B, 12 feet wide by 29 long, to which entrance is effected through front piazza A. The fine drawing-room, C, which is entered on the right, is 16 by 24 feet; while on the left is the dining-room E, and kitchen F, respectively 15 by 17 and 12 by 16 feet. In the rear of the hall will be found a snug little library, 12 by 12 feet in dimensions. FLOOR, SECOND The second floor contains five very good chambers, marked I, and a number of appendages, such as closets, etc., rarely found in a dwelling of this magnitude. “ Hospayp, I must have some change to-day.” “Well, stay at home and take care of the children ; that will be change enough, any how.”’ o r r ° s]

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r= @& A LIST OF ARTICLES WE CAN SUPPLY. Gopey’s Bijou Needle-Case, containing 100 very superior Diamond Drilled Eyed Needles. Price 25 cents, and one three cent stamp to pay postage, except to California, Ore- gon, or the British Provinces; for either of these places a ten cent stamp must be sent. Godey’s Pattern-Book of Embroideries. Price 25 cents. Fresh Fruits all the year round, at Summer Prices, and how you may getthem. Price 12 cents. Every Lady her own Shoemaker. With diagraras. Price 50 cents. Thirty of the most approved Receipts for Summer Beve- rages. Price 12 cents. Gallery of Splendid Engravings, from Pictures by the first Masters. Price 50 cents each; four numbers now ready. The Book of the Toilet. Price 25 cents. How to Make a Dress. Price 25 cents. The Nursery Basket; or, a Help to those who Wish to Help Themselves. With engravings. Price 50 cents. Mrs. Hale’s new Cook-Book. With numerous engrav- ings. Price $1 00. Mrs. Hale’s 4545 Receipts for the Million. Price $1 25. Godey’s Curl Clasps. Twelve ina box. Nos. 1, 2, and 3. Price 75 cents, which covers the postage, except to California, Oregon, or the British Provinees. The price to cover postage to either of these places is, on No. 1, $1 20; on No. 2, $1 30; on No. 3, $1 50. Godey’s Hair Crimpers. Each box contains twelve, of various sizes. Price 75 cents a box, which covers the postage, except to California, Oregon, or the British Prov- inces. The price to cover postage to either of these places is $1 20. Godey’s Copying Paper, for copying Patterns of Embroi- dery, etc. Each package contains several colors. Price 25 cents. A ten cent stamp will be required to prepay postage on this to California, Oregon, or the British Prov- inces. Patent Needle Threaders. A valuable article. Price 25 cents. Indestructible Pleasure Books for Children, with col- ored plates, printed on muslin, and cannot be torn. Price 25 cents each. Mrs. Stephens’s Crochet Book. Price 75 cents. The Song Bird Fancier. Every lady who keeps birds should have this useful book. Price 25 cents. The Ladies’ Manual of Fancy Work, by Mrs. Pullen. Price $1 25. Porsons.—For any poison, the most speedy, certain, and most frequently efilcacious remedy in the world, if immediately taken, is a heaping teaspoonful of ground mustard, stirred rapidly in a glass of cold water, and drank down at a draught, causing instantaneous vomit- ing. As soon as the vomiting ceases swallow two table- spoonfuls or more of sweet oil or any other mild oil. If no ground mustard is at hand, drink a teacupful or more of sweet oil or any other pure, mild oil, melted hog’s lard, melted butter, train oil, cod-liver oil, any of which protect the coats of the stomach from the disor- ganizing effects of the poison; and, to a certain extent, by filling up the pores of the stomach (the mouths of the absorbents), prevent the poison being taken up into the circulation of the blood. Persons bitten by rattle- snakes have drank oil freely, and recovered. These are things to be done while a physician is being sent for. Dress plainly; the thinnest soap-bubbles wear the gaudiest colors. GODEY’S ARM-CHAIR. 105 GENERAL BurNsipe.—A splendid and reliable portrait of General Burnside has just been published by H. A. Browy, 35 Winter Street, Boston. It is an exquisite line and stipple engraving. It is well known that Mr. Brown gives to the public none but the very best pro- ductions. The beautiful engraved portrait of General McClellan, recently published by Mr. Brown, has been acknowledged by all who have seen it, including Presi- dent Lincoln, to be the most correct one. Burnside is uniform in style. Only a limited number of these por- traits are printed for framing, and they can be purchased only at ‘‘Brown’s Picture Gallery.”’ Price of artist’s proofs, $1; proofs, 50cents. This, or any of Mr. Brown's fine portraits, will be sent on a roller to any address, on receipt by him of the amount. An ExcetLent Pexn.—We can confidently recommend the Corrugated Metal Pens made by C. Barnon, of Lon- don, as one of the best metal pens we have used. They are not so liable to spatter or corrode as the ordinary steel pens. We should judge from our own experience that they would be an excellent pen for our public schools, and to all parties to whom economy is an ob- ject, as, from their anti-corrosive qualities, they would be, in the end, one of the cheapest pens in use. We can furnish them at one dollar « box. 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. H. J. L.—Sent pattern, Aprii 22d. Mrs. A. Y. C.—Sent pattern 23d. E. K.—Sent silk 23d. J. A. H.—Sent pattern 25th. Mrs. C. M. G.—Sent pattern 25th. Miss R. D.—Sent box by Adams’s express 28th. Mrs. E. N. L.—Sent collars 29th. Mrs. L.—Sent braid 29th. Miss K. 8.—Sent pattern 30th. Mrs. 8S. J. 8.—Sent pattern by Adams’s express, May Ist. Mrs. J. G. L.—Sent pattern Ist. Mrs. J. R. E.—Sent pattern 2d. Miss M. 8.—Sent pattern 2d. Mrs. M. H. C.—Sent India-rubber gloves 3d. Mrs. J. H. W.—Sent pattern 6th. M. H. L.—Sent nets 6th. Mrs. A. C.—Sent pattern 6th. Mrs. A. H.—Sent box by Adams's express 6th. Mrs. S. K. B.—Sent box by Howard’s express Sth. Mrs. E. K.—Sent articles by Kinsley’s express 9th. Miss 8. N. N.—Sent articles by Adams’ express 9th. Mrs. G. E. E.—Sent articles by Howard's express 16th. Mrs. E. B.—Sent pattern 16th. M. C. A.—Sent articles by U. S. express 16th. Mrs. J. McC.—Sent articles 16th. E. L. will find her inquiry answered on page 615 June number. M. J. T.—Every inquiry is being made as to the prac- ticability of learning the art from written instruction. A. C.—Look in the September number of last year, and you will find directions. Miss D. E.—We do not know the residence of the lady

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106 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. L. V. D.—We take a hearty interest in the matter, and will write as soon as we can ascertain positively. 8. O. A.—See any Shaksperean Glossary, the word ** Appetite.”’ Mrs. H. A.—We can furnish the patterns for infant’s wardrobe. The price will be $5 for the set. A New York Subscriber.—There is no other way. First paint, and then varnish. Chemistry for the Poung, LESSON XXI.—(continued.) 493. We learn from the preceding experiments that the compounds of lime, baryta, and strontia respectively, with sulphuric acid—namely, the sulphates of these alkaline earths—are all more or less insoluble in water ; whereas sulphate of magnesia is soluble under these circumstances. See how the developments of our ana- lysis agree with common facts. Sulphate of baryta isa heavy natural stone; sulphate of strontia the same; sulphate of lime is gypsum, which, when burnt in order to draw off water, with which it is combined, becomes plaster of Paris. All these substances are impressed upon our minds as being more or less insoluble in water. Sulphate of magnesia, on the contrary, is the well-known Epsom salt, which everybody knows to be soluble in water. 494. Therefore, supposing magnesia to exist combined or mixed with lime, baryta, or strontia, is it not evident we might extract the magnesia, by cautious treatment, with sulphuric acid, water, and alcohol? 495. Form some more chloride of barium, sodium, and calcium respectively, and evaporate to dryness: first of all, in evaporating dishes; finally transfer the evapo- rated contents each to an iron spoon respectively, and apply stronger heat until fusion occurs. The results will be dry chloride of barium, strontium, and calcium. 496. Try now, by three test-tubos, the varying solu- bility of each of these chlorides inaicohol. Thechloride of barium, it will be seen, is completely insoluble; the chloride of strontium almost completely ; the chloride of calcium perfectly soluble. 497. Now let us discard strontium and its chloride, as furnishing some difficulties of separation that we had rather not encounter in our simple course; but let us assume lime and baryta, or at least calcium and barium, to exist in such a state that hydrochloric acid would dissolve both, yielding a mixed chloride. How easy then would it be to separate the two metals by means of alcohol, which dissolves out chloride of calcium, and leaves chloride of barium untouched? Were we to enter very extensively into considerations of the means by which various combinations of earths might be separated from each other, we should soon plunge into the laby- rinths of analysis further than very young chemists would like to follow. Without further remark, there- fore, we shall leave the alkaline earths. 498. They are all thrown down from their neutral solutions in acids, by means of oxalic acid and oxalate ofammonia. Thus -ve have oxalate of baryta, of stron- tia, and of lime; but of these three the oxalate of lime is most insoluble. Hence this is the precipitating agent par excellence for lime, provided strontia and baryta be absent. 499. Consider now what was stated respecting the proper antidote for oxalic acid, 230. We have seen that with lime it constitutes a very insoluble substance—the oxalate of lime. Can lime, therefore, be given? No, because itself is a poison. Carbonate of lime (chalk), however, is no poison; and chalk mixed with water should be administered. It was the substance adverted to in 230. 500. Alumina is an earth very extensively distributed throughout nature: thus, for instance, it may be re- garded as the chief constituent of clays. Nevertheless, for our present purpose, we will prepare it from one of its crystallized compounds—alum, which is a combina- tion of sulphuric acid with the earth in question, and potash. 501. Take some alum, dissolve it in pure water, then add to it a solution of carbonated alkali, say carbonate of soda (washing suda). A gelatinous-looking substance, alumina incor bination with water (hydrate ofalumina), will fall. Let this be washed with abundant hot water, until the liquor of washing, on being passed through a filter, no longer leaves a stain when evaporated on a plate of glass. 502. Remove a little of this hydrate of alumina, and see how readily it dissolves in almost any acid, also in solution of potash (liquor potassx), or of soda, but not in a solution of ammonia, or carbouate of potash or soda. 603. This property of dissolving in alkalies is peculiar —amongst ihe earths, at least amongst all that we shall discuss—to alumina, thus enabling it to be separated from them. Fashions, NOTICE TO LADY SUBSCRIBERS. Havine had frequent applications for the parchase 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 a small percentags 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 expen- diture, to be addressed to the care of L. A. Gedey, 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. The Publisher of the Lady’s Book has no interest in this department, and knows nothing of the transactions ; and whether the person sending the order is or is nota subscriber to the Lady’s Book, the Fashion editor does not know. 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. anc size pie bar trix att rat] tan Si Len incl sho bod four

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FASHIONS. 107 DESCRIPTION OF STEEL FASHION-PLATE FOR JULY. Fig. 1.—Suitable for the sea-side. White pigué dress, bound and trimmed with black braid and buttons. The skirt is plain, and the body resembles a riding jacket, having revers and pockets, and the sleeves being finished with gauntlet cuffs. Headdress of black velvet ribbon. Fig. 2.—Child’s dress. The skirt is of mauve poplin- ette, with three flounces. The waist is white muslin tucked, made square, and trimmed with Valenciennes lace. The sleeves are one puff. Over this is worn a little green silk corsage, which consists of side bodies only, the front and back being merely straps of the silk. Fig. 3.—White ground grenadine, embroidered with violet flowers. The skirt has five narrow flounces headed by a quilled ribbon. The body is square, and trimmed also with quilled ribbon. Muslin chemisette, finished by a muslin ruff. Undersleeves very full, edged with a ruff, and made sufficiently large to pass the hand through. Belt ribbon, with pearl clasp. Fig. 4.—Dress of grenadine barége, trimmed with flounces and puffings bound with Solferino silk. Body half high, and worn with a muslin chemisette. The sleeves only extend to the elbow, and are finished with one ruffie. Leghorn hat, trimmed with blue ribbon and a fancy plume. Fig. 5.—White piqué dress, braided with black mohair braid. Zouave jacket, with vest, and finished at the neck by a standing braided collar. The skirt has braided pieces on each side resembling pouches. Rice straw hat, trimmed with green ribbon and a narrow fall of black lace. Fig. 6.—Grenadine robe dress, with two box-plaited ruffles. The body is low, with short sleeves. Fancy lace fichu, with sleeves, trimmed with lace and blue ribbons. Bélgian straw hat, trimmed with blue ribbon and a fall of white lace. LITTLE GIRL’S HIGH GARIBALDI COSTUME. (See engraving, page 20.) SvrraB.eE for a child from four to six years of age. Length of skirt, thirteen inches, without turnings or hem ; length of shoulder, six inches; length of sleeve-band, ten inches; length of wristband, six inches; length of neck, thirteen inches. This costume may be made in almost any kind of summer material. The body hasa pleat down the front, should hang over in a loose man- ner, and may be fastened up the front with hooks and eyes, or buttons and button-holes. It is gathered to- gether on the shoulders to the length mentioned above, and gathered into the band at the waist, according to the size of the child. The sleeve consists of nearly a straight piece, gathered together at the join to the size of the band, and the band placed overit. This band may be trimmed with buttons or velvet, or both. The sleeve is gathered at the top and bottom, and is put into a band atthe wrist. In sewing in the sleeve, let the band come rather forward. A sash is usually worn with this cos- tume, placed on the right side. LITTLE GIRL’S LOW GARIBALDI COSTUME. (See engraving, page 21.) SurraB.e for a child from four to six years of age. Length of skirt, twelve inches; length of body, fourteen inches dewn the front, one and a half inches $n the shoulder, and eleven inches under the arms; length of bedy behind, twelve inches; length of puff for sleeve, fourteen inches; depth of puff for sleeve, five inches ; length of sleeve-band, nine inches. The dress is made to fasten behind—the lining by means of hooks and eyes, and the loose body by buttons and button-holes. The sleeve consists of a full puff put into a band, and trimmed with work. A small pointed epaulette orna- ments the top of the sleeve. A sash is also worn with this little costume, which gives it a dressy and pretty finish. We shall not enumerate the materials that this dress may be made of; suffice it to say, it would look well made in anything that children are in the habit of wearing. CHITCHAT UPON NEW YORK AND PHILADEL- PHIA FASHIONS FOR JULY. At present our dress-makers are chiefly engaged on watering-place toilets, and among the exquisite speci- mens we wild mention several :— One was a white muslin dress, with six very narrow ruffles, embroidered in a fretwork pattern, and on theedge of each was a ruching of rose-colored ribbon. The flounces were headed by a puffing, having a rose-colored ribbon run through it. The body and sleeves consisted of puffs and rows of inserting, with rose-colored ribbon run through the puffs. A muslin ruff, edged with narrow black velvet, finished the neck and sleeves of the dress. The waistband was of embroidered muslin, lined with pink silk, and bordered with a ruching of pink ribbon. A muslin mantle with one deep flounce, and ornamented with pink ruchings, was intended to be worn with this dress, Another dress was of clear white muslin, having three rows of mauve ribbon laid on round the bottom of the skirt, with insertions of embroidery between the rows, and having a ribbon laid under the embroidery to bring out the pattern to advantage. The body was formed of very fine plaits, the sleeves long and very wide, and fastened with a band at the wrist. The sash was of mauve ribbon one-quarter of a yard in width, and tied behind. Among the less elaborate dresses, and more suited for ordinary wear, we noticed a very light ground grenadine, with Magenta ferns thrown over it. The skirt was trimmed, just above the hem, with crescents of Magenta silk, fluted, and placed close enough together for the ends of the crescents to cross. The sleeves were quite close, and trimmed with narrow crescents, which were also placed round the neck of the dress. The waistband and ends were of Magenta gimp. To wear with this dress was a shawl of gray grenadine, with a border of Magenta fern leaves. Another very stylish dress was of black grenadine, with three fluted flounces of gray grenadine, waved up on the right side. These flounces were headed by a thick piping of Vesuve silk. The body had three nar- row fluted ruffles, resembling a bertha at the back, and in front the right side crossed over the left to the waist. The sleeves were quite small, and had three small ruf- fles put on as cheverons. The waistband was of black silk embroidered with Vesuve. A grenadine shawl was made to match the dress. Grisailles, Chambéry gauze, grenadines, and such tis- sues are much in favor, and most of the dresses have shawls to match. Ribbons play an important part in the making up of fashionable toilets, and never have there been so many tasteful and fancy novelties in this line as at the present season. We see black or white grounds sprinkled over with tiny buds of different colors; white ribbons with bright edges, and the Grecian border in black. Most of

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108 the designs come in two width ribbons, one very wide, in some instances one-quarter of a yard wide, for sashes, and the narrow for dress trimmings. The checked rib- bons are particularly brigi:t and rich in quality. Many of the sashes are tied behind, but besides them we see gimp waistbands, others of velvet or silk embroidered, and waistbands with clasps. The favorite styles for organdies and such materials seem to be puffed, plaited, and drawn bodies. They are made both high and low-necked, and are drawn crosswise, lengthwise, or drawn only to form a yoke, Others are made with a yoke, and the bodies plaited, or tucked on to the yoke. “White waists of every imaginable style are worn, but among the prettiest we have seen are some from the es- tablishment of Madame Demorest. The front of one was composed of box plaits, embroidered, and jhe back was very fine tucks. The sleeves were very wide, and con- fined at the wrist with a ruching of apple-green ribbon ; the neck was finished with a fluted ruff. These waists could be worn as Garibaldies, or plain waists at pleasure, but the former is one of the favorite styles of the season, and suitable for all materials. Gored skirts are much worn, especially for piqué and such materials, and the skirts are very full and training, as that most decidedly gives grace to the figure. For the seaside, quilting dresses are very suitable; they are either plain white, striped, or sprinkled over with field flowers. Buff, mauve, white, and various shades of tea-colored piqués are also much liked. Zouave jackets, very highly ornamented with red, white, or black braid, are generally made for these dresses. We have seen a great deal of the black braiding, and pro- nounce it decidedly the most distingué. Mohair braid is the most suitable for the purpose. The skirts are also braided in various styles, some en tablier, others just above the hem, and others as seen in Fig. 5 of our fash- ion-plate, which is a very beautiful specimen of this style of piqué dress. Embroidered peignoirs are always fashionable; some have deep capes, and the trimmings are lace, velvet, and ribbons. For plainer dresses we have seen nothing prettier than the fine French lawns and organdies in white and neutral grounds, powdered over with little dots and figures, or sprigs of flowers of the loveliest colors. Plain cambries are also much sought after, and are very stylish, either braided or trimmed in Grecian pattern, with a very wide white braid, just above the hem. Most of these materials are made up in Garibaldi shirts or waists, and the skirts are open and scalloped up at each breadth te show the handsome worked skirt underneath. The bottom of the skirt should be bound with a white braid. For neglig?, many ladies are wearing loose jackets of nansook or muslin, trimmed with ruffles, embroidery, or puflings. For our juvenile friends there are a great many pretty costumes. The latest styles for coats for children of both sexes are short, tight sacks with revers, or braided in imitation of revers, long sacks with little square capes, or a coat with large cape, or loose sacks slashed at the side, with pockets and large, pointed collars. The coats are all bound with Marseilles braid, and very richly braided or chain-stitched with white, red, or black. Infants’ cloaks are a)so of pigudé, a long sack with Talma cape bound and braided with white. Children from two to five are wearing piqué dresses, low neck and short sleeves, made like a loose sack, and confined at the waist with a cord and tassel. They are ad GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, made bias, and have little pockets. They are either bound or hemmed, and very beautifully braided or chain-stitched. _We noticed one particularly pretty, braided in scarlet, the design being negligé bows, and the cord and tassel scarlet and white. With this style of dress, Zouave jackets are worn on the street, and the effect is very pretty. For girls from four to ten there are Garibaldi coats of black silk, or white muslin, braided or trimmed with fancy braid. Garibaldi dresses, both low and high- necked, are worn by girls and boys; it is a very nice style for wash goods, and can be made up vory plainly or very expensively. Rich ribbon sashes add much to the bearty of the costume, For boys the buff and tea-colored pigués and black and white checks are the most suitable materials. The latter are trimmed with velvet of two widths, put on in diamonds intersecting each other, pr in Grecian pattern with three buttons in each square. The pigucs are trimmed with white Marseilles braid and buttons. They are made with Zouaves and pointed belts, and the skirt laid in very large box plaits. Little girls are wearing white waists with fancy silk or velvet bodies, as in Fig. 2 of our fashion-plate, with either silk or thin skirts. One of the newest dresses we have seen is of lobelia blue silk, the bottom of the skirt cut in sharp points, and trimmed with one row of black velvet and one of quilled white ribbon. The body is plain, half high, and bordered by a ruche of white rib- bon. A pointed bertha, cut in one piece and trimmed to match the skirt, is on the body, and the sleeves are one puff. Pockets are set on each side of the dress, trimmed with velvet and ribbon, and round the waist is a broad ribbon sash, tied behind. We have lately seen, at Mrs. Ellis’s dress-making establishment, No. 808 Broadway, New York, some very pretty costumes, Most of the children’s dresses were scalloped, or waved at the bottom, and trimmed with ruches or velvet with colored edges. The ruches were formed of two and three shades of the same color, or two contrasting colors. In some cases they were put on bias, or sloping, each piece being about one-quarter of a yard long. The bodies were made with little yokes, scalloped and trimmed to match the skirts. The wash dresses were all braided, and had sashes to match. Ampng the prettiest was « dress for a girl of sixteen, which we thought very stylish. The skirt was of buff cambric, braided en tablier, with black braid. The Zouave was of the same material as the skirt, rounded and slashed at the hips, and elaborately braided with black. Under the Zouave was a white piqué veste, which was as long in front as the Zouave, had little pockets on each side, and was also braided with black. The black braid should be well boiled before used; it will then wash as well as the material it is on. We have said so much about hats that we shall only mention a couple which struck us as very peculiar. One was a gray straw, resembling a boy’s cap, with a sepa- rate vizor set on behind. This hat was trimmed with black velvet and field flowers. The other was a white straw, not having a distinct crown and brim, but the brim ran gradually up to a peak, from which came a long maroon tassel. Wide ribbon streamers are worn at the sides of the hats. Shawls of every variety are worn; grenadines with fancy borders, barége with silk stripes of various sizes, and numerous other styles in thin tissues, very pretty for street wear, and very convenient for a watering-place FasHion. wrap.

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ia KK \ Rate

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AY AH RAN THE PROPOSAL. vou. Lxv.—9

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DEW DROP WALTZ. COMPOSED FOR THE PIANO-FORTE, FOR GODEY'S ea BOOK. BY W. H. WILKINSON. — 7

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DEW-DROP WALTZ. AAA AA RAR AA

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THE ALICE MAUD DRESS. Ly ee SP is add Crane “™~ Grisaille dress, which is a mixed gray material, made with a box-"'1ited trimming, extending round and up the front of the skirt,.and forming lapels on the front | ‘he body anda bertha at the back. Mantle of the same material, trimmed with black velvet and box plaiting. Gray straw hat, trimmed with black velvet and roses. 118 ble to hai

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THE ALBERTINA DRESS. ing Watering-place dress, made of Satin de Mai. White ground, with linked rings of porcelain at blue, Four flounces are on the skirt, and the front is made en tablier, with the flounces extending aw to the waist ; the edges of the flounces are concealed by a puffing. Fancy lace fichu. Rice straw hat, trimmed with black velvet and blue ribbon. g* 119

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rr , “ EL ESPAGNIOLA. {From the establishment of G. Bropre, SI Canal Btrest, New York. Drawn by L. T Vorat, from actual articles of costume. } a mm 3 ae e. 4 “ This truly beautiful articie is made entirely of white barége, but of course any of the season- able tissues may be employed. It is a shawl, with the volante headed by a ruff, drawn through the middle. At the neck it is gathered into two or three plaits, which adjust its shape to the shoulders; these are confined in place by a neat passementerie of the same. 12u

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Made of light summer cloth, and braided with black braid.

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NAME FOR MARKING.

. s” é ~ EET eto “ <e, 4 7 ‘~~ ~ ays 7 a7

GM Hi! Make a chain of 90 stitches. Then knit one row across, then seam a row, knit a row, seam a row, knit a row; then join the white, knit a row, seam a row, knit a rew, seam a row, knit a row; join the Magenta and knit a row, knit a row, seam a row, Knit a row, seam a row, knit a row; join on the white, knit a row, and repeat as above until you have nine rows of Magenta and eight of the white. On the last row of Magenta, slip.and bind off, holding the stitches tight. 122

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“4 , ) pe Val = | 7 A ae, Pn pineal, bie aa ay ! ‘ith 2A “i , altel ts ll Commence with one stitch at the corner, and increase by darning two in one at the end ot each row, until you have done the required width for the tidy, and then keep on to that width until the required length is obtained. 123

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BORDER IN WAVY BRAID AND CUT-OUT EMBROIDERY. Those ladies who have not a great deal of leisure at theircommand, will find theemployment of the wavy braid a'very good substitute for the more elaborate labors of the needle, and that patterns arranged for the — in which a moderate degree of the cut-out work is introduced produce a very good effect. The one we are now giving is suitable for various purposes, but especially for un uanderskirt to be worked over a broad hem. The thin tinder lines of the braid are each laid on separately in the simple curve of the festoon, the upper line only being formed into the otehenethad rosette, at the point of each division. The rosette which ars within the recess of each festoon is commenced in the middle, the last end being slipped under the crossings of the braid, and so concealed. Another way is to pass the ends of the braid through a stiletto hole made in the material, and fasten them down at the back. The holes are all in the cut-out embroidery, having a well-raised sewn over line all round them. 144

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SILK EMBROIDERY. TABLE D’OYLEY. (See description, page 594 June number.) ii neeanbnnnnsses-cccnaguenang WH nagueenegeen ted tt ++ —+—+ —+ , ae Oh MA OA Be +e, $+ + 4-4 Se eee 4+—4 te te tee SY et er tet et + tte HY ha et St fk St i NH ora aieaianitraapnapipcbaasahiaaarh PT LL 125

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MD Yb eb b&b NZ KF AK Q aw HALF OF THE TOP OF AN EMBROIDERED PINCUSHION. D | ‘> b&b VQQWd LX RAI IRESEEEBREER EIS