Godey's Lady's Book And Magazine 1865-03: Vol 70

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FASHIONABLE RIDING-HABITS.—(Sce Description, Fashion Department.) GODEY’S | Hays Book and Magusine PHILADELPHIA, MARCH, 1865. MOUNTAINS OR MOLEHILLS? BY MARION HARLAND. [Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by Louis A. Gopgy, in the clerk’s office of the District Court of the United States, in and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.]} Toe Rev. John St. shoulders! Well! whatofthat? He said never a word. Perhaps the slightest possible elevation of his eyebrows pointed the significance of the shrug, and ever his chiselled lips passed a very faint, but, in the circumstances, a very meaning smile. With regard to these two latter points dhe Misses Willoughby were not quite satis- fied in their own minds, or unanimous in the family conclave. But the testimony as to the shrug was conclusive. All four of the sisters had remarked it, and all four were equally positive that it portended evilgo their hitherto prosperous parish; each said, afterwards, that she felt, upon beholding the ominous gesture,a shiver run over her mortal frame, and.a deadly presentiment settle down upon her spirit. For, to do them justice, we must admit that these devoted spinsters had the good of the church at heart, and, up to this moment, they had conceived that the settlement over said church of the Rev. Cyril Hawthorne was a felicitous and providential occurrence; an event, which would conduce not only to the temporal and spiritual well-being of his con- gregation and the village of Tattleville, in the heart of which the pretty Gothic edifice was situate, but be eminently agreeable to them- selves personally—Willoughby Lodge being next door to the parsonage. The Rev. Cyril and his family had taken possession of their new abode, but a month prior to the visit of VoL. Lxx.—18 John shrugged his ! | | his former fellow-student, Rey. John St. John, to his old acquaintances, the Misses Wil- loughby. As was to be expected, he was art- fully interrogated touching the scholarship, talents, disposition, and general character of his brother clergyman, and if his praises of the latter were not enthusiastic, it was be- cause the speaker was naturally self-contained in manner and moderate in speech. His lau- dations were not neutralized by the shadow of fault-finding. He professed to feel a high regard for Mr. Hawthorne; he had always liked him; in fact, they had been intimate in college and seminary. He had no doubt that the young pastor’s ministry in this place would be abundantly blessed. He was young still, but had sound sense and good judgment, and was likely to prove a growing man. All highly satisfactory! and the faces of the sisters brightened after each reply te their joint cross-examination. Then Miss Eliza, the senior of the four, put another question— ‘Are you acquainted with Mrs. Haw- thorne ?”’ : ‘*I knew her very well, indeed, before she was married.’’ ‘* Have you never met her since ?’’ inquired Miss Mary. **Two or three timeg only,’’ responded the gentleman, with an appearance of careless- ness. ‘‘ What a beautiful rose that is! It is a stranger to me!’’ He arose to inspect the plant, which stood 221

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, 222 on a table in front of the window. Miss Kitty, the youngest of the quartette, was the owner of the rare flower, and, pleased with his ad- miration of her pet, came forward to pluck a rose and bud for him. While he was pinning these into his buttonhole—for Rev. John St. John was a bit of a dandy—in a gentlemanly and clerical way, of course ;—while the light from the western sky shone strongly upon his classic features, Miss Debby, the penultimate of the household band, pursued the interest- ing topic he had dismissed so abruptly. “The position of a minister’s wife is a diffi- cult one to fill!’’ she said, seriously. ‘‘I trust Mrs. Hawthorne will be a worthy and useful helpmeet to our pastor in his arduous and responsible labors among us; an example to her flock of discretion and active good- ness.’’ Then—Mr. St. John shrugged his shoulders! Fine shoulders they were—broad and slop- ing, and inclosed in superfine broadcloth—a straight-breasted ecclesiastical coat; but their form and covering were unnoticed by the panic-stricken spectators, so intent were they upon the movement he had just exe- cuted—silent, indeed, but who could say how pregnant with expression! Their visitor gave them no time for further inquiries. Promptly—hastily, as they deemed—he turned from the rosetree, advanced to Miss Eliza, and bade her farewell, expressing his pleasure at the renewal of their ancient friendship; received her kind, but not altogether coherent messages for his mother, whom she—the . eldest sister—had known in her school days ; took briefer leave of the rest, and was out in the hall before Miss Kitty, whose wits were quick, recovered them sufficiently to hasten after him and press him to remain to tea. ‘“‘Thank you!’’ he answered. ‘It would give me pleasure to accept your invitation, but duty and courtesy to my friend, Mr. Haw- thorne, require me to call upon him before leaving town. I shall probably sup at the parsonage. Good afternoon!”’ Miss Kitty returned to the parlor, shutting the door behind her, lest the servants should overhear the discussion of the recent startling event. Miss Debby was shaking her head from side to side, in meurnful wonder; Miss Mary, who was the sagacious one of the txibe, in her own esteem, was nodding hers up and down, and Miss Eliza sat boit upright, staring through the window at the parsonage. GODEY’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. ‘*Well!’’ said Miss Kitty, briskly. “‘ What do you make of it ?”’ ‘*There’s something wreng!’’ said Miss Mary, pursing up her mouth even more tightly than usual. ‘*T fear so, indeed!’’ groaned Miss Debby. **John St. John is a veracious gentleman, and no scandal-monger. We can trust his word !’’ said Miss Eliza, oracularly. ‘*Yes; and did you notice,’’ continued Miss Kitty, ‘‘his anxiety to get away before more questions could be asked? He was really precipitate in his departure.”’ **He evidently wished to spare his friend,’’ inferred Miss Mary. ‘‘I was careful not to speak of it before, lest I should prejudice you against her, but I have seen several things about Mrs. Hawthorne which have awakened my distrust. The evening we had them here to tea, Mr. Hawthorne was talking comfort- ably and pleasantly in a corner with Kitty, there, when his wife turned towards him and gave him one look—like a flash of lightning, although she seemed to be smiling all the time—whereupon he left Kitty instantly, and walked clear across the room to speak to that plain, stupid Hannah Houlet, actually sitting down by her and remaining there for half an hour; as if everybody couldn't understand that he would not have subjected himself tor such boredom of his own accord !”’ ‘*He was allowed to sit there in peace, I suppose ?’’ said Miss Kitty, sarcastically. ‘*Oh, yes! she is not the sort to excite wifely jealousy * I think that, with the ex- ception of Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne, not three people went near her the whole evening. But this little incident was a clue to me!”’ ‘*Now that you have spoken so plainly, Mary—’’ Miss Eliza pursued the growing theme, ‘‘I confess that I, too, have had qualms of doubt and fear as to her worthi- ness to occupy her present place. I called at the parsonage, one day last week, with a pot of strawberry preserves, and Mrs. Hawthorne said she was particularly glad to get them, a number of her sweetmeat and pickle jars hav- ing been broken on the way to this place. ‘I thought that I packed them very securely,’ she said, ‘but I suppose there must have been some defect in their arrangement.’ ‘Very likely!’ thought I, for I knew that I could send my jara around the world with- out having a single one cracked. While I was there, little Cyril came in from the gar-

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at iss re gs ed re Ys nd S» at MOUNTAINS OR MOLEHILLS. 223 den, and a dirtier apronI never saw! His mother hurried him off to change it, laughing heartily as she did so. Her only excuse to me for the child’s appearance was—‘ We encourage him to play out-of-doors, Miss Willoughby. We had rather pay the laun- dress and seamstress than the apothecary.’ I am very much afraid that she is not only a slatternly, inefficient housekeeper, but a care- less, injudicious mother.’’ ‘Still, although all this is unquestionably true, sister Eliza, Mr. St. John could not have alluded to these flaws in her disposition and habits,’’ objected Miss Mary. ‘‘For, you recollect, he said that he had seen her but once or twice since her marriage. It must have been some fault of longer standing— some infirmity of temper that was conspicu- ously evident in her girlhood, when he, as he acknowledged, knew her very well—or—’’ Miss Mary’s voice dropping into an awful whisper, ‘‘something more seriously affect- ing her character !”’ The others caught their breath with an hysterical hiccough, and Miss Kitty, in virtue of her youth and modesty, changed color. ‘*T hope it may not be so!’’ uttered Miss Debby; ‘‘ but circumstances are much against her. We were very wrong not to institute inquiry concerning her antecedents before calling Mr. Hawthorne to his present position. If one sinner destroyeth much good, a pastor’s wife has it in her power to counteract her husband’s influence to an alarming extent. We must be on our guard; watch her nar- rowly, and, so far as we can, prevent her from doing mischief among our heretofore happy and united people.’’ Miss Debby nearly wept in saying this—so nearly, that she had recourse to her pocket- handkerchief, and blew an alarm upon her olfactory organ that might have typified the trumpet of the watchman upon the outer wall —the office to which she had just solemnly set aside herself and sisters. ‘We must be discreet,’’ cautioned Miss Eliza; ‘‘out of consideration for Mr. Haw- thorne, we must be prudent and charitable. A word from us would injure his wife irrepara- bly in the opinion of the better class of the congregation. It is sound policy, as well as religion, to believe the best of her until the worst is proved. There is no call for us to strip away the sheep’s clothing while she wears it decently.”’ ‘*That is all very just and charitable, and so forth!’’ cried Miss Kitty, vivaciously. ‘Of course, we intend that this shocking mystery shall go no further; but I would give my little finger to know exactly what Mr. St. John did mean! His look was so provokingly sig- nificant—and then—that shrug! There was a world of intense, although covert meaning, in that alone !”’ Each one of the sisters imagined herself to be the impersonation of discretion and for- bearance in her manner of treasuring up But Miss Huldah Stokes, of Larch Street, was Miss Eliza’s confidential friend; Miss Debby had a kind- red spirit in Mrs. Rebecca Strong, a widow, residing in Poplar Avenue; Miss Mary’s familiar was Mrs. William Hubbard, the third wife of a thriving merchant, whose fine mansion was the chief ornament of Lo- cust Square; while Miss Kitty’s second self and soul-sister was Miss Dorinda Montague, the sentimental eldest daughter of the chief law- yer of the village. In his cottage ornée, which was, Miss Dorinda declared and believed, the gem of Laburnum Place, the aforesaid damsel did, on the very evening of Mr. St. John’s visit to Willoughby Lodge, hearken, with strained ears and dilated irids, to her friend’s story of the discovery made that afternoon; the original mare’s nest being so draped by sister Mary’s corroborating circumstances ; sister Eliza’s fears, and sister Debby’s prog- nostications, to say nothing of the narrator’s own unconscious embellishments of fancy, that the shape and proportions of the primi- tive structure were completely lost. Miss Eliza’s confidante ‘‘ providentially’’ dropped in, next morning, to return a borrowed book, and found her alone, Miss Debby having gone to ask Mrs. Strong for a new nightcap pattern for the Dorcas Society, and Miss Mary having just ‘‘run round’’ to Locust Square, to in- quire after Sammy Hubbard’s sore throat. Thus, by noon, in less than twenty-four hours from the date of the fatal shrug that had cast the fisst shadow over the fair fame of the new comer, the firebrand of slander had been applied in no less than four quarters of the town, and after that, there was no use in attempting to trace its progress. Samson’s foxes did not effect more speedy and thorough devastation of the standing corn vf the Philis- tines, than did this conflagration of the kindly feelings and favorable prepossessions which the important revelation.

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GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. Mrs. Hawthorne’s sweet face and frank lady- hood had created in the bosoms of her hus- band’s parishioners. This was on Friday, and, by the following Sabbath, as she moved quietly up the aisle in the direction of the pastor’s pew, followed by her four neat, comely children, distrustful glances, of whose import she was happily ignorant, were shot at her from centre, side, and wall-pews. Even the young men in the gallery stretched their necks to get a peep at her, and more than one of the staid deacons, in what were irreverently styled the ‘‘ Amen ; seats, ’ glanced at her from under his eye- brows, as Joshua might have looked at Achan, when he, as yet but darkly suspected the secret of the goodly Babylonish garment ; the shekels of silver and the wedge of gold hidden under the earth in the further corner of the tent. church militant argued, in unwitting plagiar- ism of Miss Debby, a pastor’s wife could render null and void his best efforts for the Reversing sliafve Lillel Ss For, as these pillars of the good of his people and the world. the teaching of Bunyan’s Interpreter, they held and believed, for certain, that it would be in for Mr. Hawthorne to cast the beaten oil of the sanctuary upon the flame of spiritual affections, so long as she remained vain by to dampen the kindling fire. With one or two exceptions, the prevailing feeling towards Rev. Cyril himself was one of affectionate pity. True, Mr. Hubbard, who was disposed to be very strict indeed in his judgment of the brethren; whose standard of Christian fellowship was so exalted that very few mortals, besides St. Paul, Daniel, Moses, and himself, could reasonably hope to attain unto it; Mr. Hubbard, I say, had sternly avowed that it was Mr. Hawthorne’s bounden duty, before undertaking his present valuable charge, to acquaint the officers of the church with the existence and character of the do- mestic His uncandid behavior savored too strongly, in drawback to his usefulness. the elder’s opinion, of the unrighteous prin- eiple of obtaining goods under false pretences. But we are proud to state, for the credit of human nature and the Tattlevillians, that, in of the Mr. Hubbard found himself in a woeful minority. The ladies, especially, were unanimous in regarding their this view case, beloved shepherd as the guileless victim of an In mistake early and a designing woman. proportion to the tenderness of their com- miseration for him was the vehemence of their indignation against her. It was now distinctly remembered that he had given as the cause of his resignation of his former pastorate, the unfavorable effect of the sea air upon his wife’s health, his home having been in a town near the coast. This, it was more than hinted by the wiseacres, was pro- bably an ingenious, and, in the circumstances, a perfectly justifiable evasion of the disgrace- ful truth, that the moral disorders of his partner had made a dissolution of the rela- tion between minister and people not only an expedient, but a necessary step. All this while, the unfortunate object of this loving compassion dreamed of the tumult- uous emotions working beneath the serious faces upturned to his, as little as did+she who, from her pleasant pew, watched the desk with wifely elevated by sacred with, and occupant of the fondness, mingled pious gratitude to Him who had given to both a home so fair and so congenial. The text was singularly apropos to the topic that engaged the minds of most of the audience : ‘*There is a vanity which is done upon the earth; that there be just men unto whom it happeneth according to the work of the wicked ; again, there be wicked men to whom it happeneth according to the work of the righteous. I said that this also is vanity.’’ Having no suspicion, while he spoke of the temporal trials of the righteous, the, to men, causeless afflictions that are laid upon them; when he vindicated the ways of God to man, and referred, with steadfast faith, to the final issue that would prove the consistency, equity and mercy of His dealings with the good as with the wicked—that his hearers were run- ning a secret mental parallel between the tried and sanctified disciple he described, and his own suffering estate, Mr. Hawthorne was deeply gratified by the earnest heed they paid to his every word; by the manifest signs, not only of intellectual interest, but His wife’s quick perception likewise noticed these favorable tokens, and, as grave faces were heartfelt emotion which met his eyes. bowed to her gentle salute, on her way out of church, at the conclusion of the services, and the few spoken greetings were laconic and unsmiling, her heart bounded within

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MOUNTAINS OR MOLEHILLS. 225 her, in the confident hope that the spirits of all were, like hers, solemnized by the search- ing truths so faithfully delivered. ‘*There was much in the aspect and be- havior of your congregation to encourage you, my love,’’ she said when her husband joined her and they walked homeward to- an audience so gether. ‘‘I have rarely seen ‘ profoundly affected. A holy awe seemed to abide upon each one.”’ ‘*T could not fail to remark it,’’ was the reply. ‘‘I pray that it may be the harbinger of a blessed work. It would, indeed, be a crowning mercy, were the Master to grant me, thus early, an earnest of His approbation of the step I have taken in coming hither. I need only this to fill my cup of happiness. So far as my flock can contribute to my com- fort and delight, they have done it.’’ ‘‘They are indeed most kind!’’ rejoined the wife, warmly. at home as though I had lived here for years.”’ Miss Kitty Willoughby and Miss Dorinda Montague also walked down the street in ‘*T already feel as much company, conversing in guarded tones. Miss Dorinda had dropped her veil on coming into the sunshine. ‘“‘T know I am a fright!’’ she said, in ex- planation of this movement, ‘‘and my head aches horribly. But I could not refrain from weeping when that blessed martyr depicted, so touchingly, the disappointments and sacri- fices and sufferings of even the holiest of - mortals.”’ ‘And did you notice,’? answered Kitty, ‘with what a stony stare she heard it all? Our pew commands a full view of hers, and I could no help watching her slyly, to see how took it. Two or three times she did change color. Once, in particular, when he was speaking of false friends, and the anguish which the sensitive heart endures in the dis- she covery of the baseness of the being upon whom it depends for happiness, she bit her lip and grew quite red, for a second; then braced herself in a more upright position and looked as hard and obstinate as ever.’’ ‘*What a fate other. murmured the ** With his capacities for loving and for suffering! Do you know, my dear, that I auite hate her already ?”’ for him!”’ The Dorcas Society met at the parsonage about two months subsequent to the memor- able call of Rev. John St. John at Willoughby Lodge. According to the Constitution of this 18* organization, ‘the members assembled at six o’clock, on Thursday afternoon, at the house of some one of the number, partook, at halt- past six, of a substantial supper, and, at seven, were ready to sit down to their needles. Work was laid aside at ten, and the party, largely swelled by ‘his time, by the arrival of fathers, brothers, husbands, and beaux, were dismissed with a short prayer from the pastor. Mrs. Hawthorne, although improved in health, was still far from robust; but she prepared for this occasion with lively pleasure. The cares of housekeeping and the children had conspired, with a succession of stormy days, to prevent her visiting as much as she had desired and intended to do. To this seeming failure of neighborly duty on her part she attributed a certain stiffness in the manner of several ladies upon whom she had called, and others whom she met casually on society evenings, or in the street. If she had owned the truth to herself, she was somewhat disappointed in her anticipations of the warm- hearted hospitality and the freedom from formal ceremony which the character of her earliest reception had encouraged her to in- dulge. She had visitors in abundance, but she could not, as the phrase is, ‘‘get on’’ with them. She almost fancied, at times, that some of them came to criticise and spy, so sharp was their scrutiny of herself and her In no case was acquaintance likely But she was a bright- home. to ripen into intimacy. spirited little creature, and not apt to yield to morbid imaginations. She must make her way, after a while, and however unpropitious the beginning of her career here might be, the recollection of the past strengthened her in the persuasion that she would end in winning all hearts. Cyril said that she was irresistible when she chose to be charming, and he ought to be a competent judge of her abilities. The Tattleville people needed to be warmed up, and when she had them fairly under her roof, at her own table, they would be completely at her mercy, and she would conquer cold- ness; melt down formality; coax them into feeling the same kind of love for her that they did for Cyril. wish that they should give her as much as they did him. Their devotion to him grew every day stronger, and he deserved it all— She could prove, at any She did not expect, or indeed the darling fellow! rate, how grateful she was for their kindness to him.

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GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, Her arrangements were faultless, as the most captious of the crowd of fault-finders reluctantly confessed. Her bread was. sweet and light; her cake equalled it in excellence; while tea, coffee, ham, and preserves, chal- lenged criticism. She did the honors with cordial grace, and her husband supported her well. The evening went off as most other Dorcas evenings did, except for one bit of by- play which was not immediately made public. Ruth Hawthorne, the youngest child but one, was a saucy prattler of three years, and as she bore a striking resemblance to her father, was the pet of all the young ladies. It was the custom for the company to repair to the dressing-room for a few moments after supper to wash their hands, preparatory to Kitty Willoughby and Dorinda Montague, neither assuming their needles and thimbles. of whom were very industrious, tarried above stairs after the rest had gone down, to frolic with the child. mind and speech, and, like most babies, volu- She was very precocious in bly indiscreet. lovely wax doll with ‘‘real’’ curls and a silk Her theme, just now, was the dress, which Uncle Edwin had sent her of her last birthday. ‘*T will show it to you!”’ she said, slipping from her flatterer’s knee. ‘‘Mamma keeps it locked up in that drawer, except when I have clean hands and a nice dress, for, if she left it out, baby would ruin it; but I know where the key is—in her work-box! I saw her put it there.’’ Away she ran, and was back again in an instant, the object of her quest dangling from her finger. **T can unlock it,’ and she applied the key to the lock with wonderful adroitness, turned it, and pulled open the drawer. Kitty did have the grace to remonstrate. ** But, dear, perhaps mamma may not like it.’’ ‘‘She won’t care!’’ said the minx, confi- dently. The beauty was extravagantly praised, and, elated by her suecess in entertaining the **See, here is dolly !’’ guests, she proceeded to make further expla- nations. **T want you to see something else!’’ bring- ing forth a morocco case, and trying to loosen the clasp. Dorinda came to her help, the fastening proving too much for the small fingers. It was a miniature of a very handsome young gold locket. lian, set ina Upon the reverse of the medallion was a lock of dark brown hair. ‘*That is the very thing I saw mamma cry- ing over, the other day!’’ whispered Ruth, mysteriously. ‘‘And when she heard papa coming, she threw it back into the drawer and locked it up—oh, so quick !”’ The ladies exchanged glances; then Kitty closed the case, replaced it in its hiding-place, and locked the drawer. ‘*We must go down stairs now, darling, so put away the key and come with us. And Ruthy, I am afraid mamma will scold if you tell her what you have done; so we will not say a word to her about it.”’ The child looked frightened, and Kitty re- lied upon her tears to keep herquiet. But she had underrated the influence of the mo- ther’s training. Before the hour of adjourn- ment arrived, the nurse beckoned Mrs. Haw- thorne out of the parlor, and reported that tuth was crying violently, insisting that she could not sleep until she had seen her mother. Once in the nursery, with the hot arms clasped tightly about her neck, and the wet cheek pressed to hers, the mother was not long in procuring a free confession of the weeper’s fault. her with assurances of her continued affec- tion; but, at heart, she was amazed and in- dignant at the conduct of the two confidantes. That they had permitted the little girl to unlock the drawer and display the contents was, in her eyes, a crime nearly as heinous as that of picking a lock. She refrained from confiding the story to her husband, as she hid from him the unpleasant impression which had begun to take hold of her mind, of- her unpopularity with her new neighbors. The evening had passed very happily with him. He was but mortal, and the whole company vied with one another in expres- sions, looked, spoken, and acted, of their it was the object of all tc She forgave her readily, and soothed esteem and love. prove that the unworthiness of his legal partner could not tarnish him in the sight of the community, and only bound his flock more closely to him. He saw his wife, smiling and pretty; moving through the rooms with her ac- customed easy grace; pausing here a minute; there, a quarter of an hour, to drop a pleasant word, or to chat upon whatever subject was before the society. He knew that she was making herself agreeable. How was he to suspect, unless she told him, that her gay ' )

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‘ ) MOUNTAINS sallies were oftenest met by grave and studied non-appreciation; her kindly efforts to iden- tify herself in interest and seeming, with her co-laborers, rebuffed by chilling indifference ? She could not undeceive him, when, after saying ‘‘Good evening’’ to the last guest, he returned to the warm parlors, rubbing his hands and smiling as gleefully as a boy. He had all of a boy’s buoyancy of spirit, and was, in many respects, as artless as his baby-son sleeping in the nursery overhead, ‘*These congregational reunions are de- lightful affairs!’’ he “All social distinctions are forgotten for the hour; we began. remember only that we are members of the same church ; engaged in the same great work. I have never enjoyed myself so much in the gayest, most fashionable assembly, as I have done to-night. Such warmth of manner; such eagerness to advance my interests and happiness; such union of heart and senti- ment, willing, I hope to pass the rest of my life here !’’ Mrs. chairs and picking up shreds of calico and flannel from the floor. Her husband could I have never seen elsewhere. God Hawthorne was busy setting back not see her face, but he detected a weary air in her bending figure, and interposed to pre- vent further fatigue. ‘*Why do you tire yourself with that work?”’ he asked, passing his arm around her waist and lifting her from her stooping posture. ‘*Leave it until morning. All this bustle and labor have been too much for you, I am afraid, lady-bird! When I am aD.D., with an in- come of ten thousand a year, you shall not soil these slender fingers with household oc- cupations. ‘But sit on a cushion and sew up a seam, And live upon strawberries, sugar, and cream,’ ”’ ** That sort of life would not suit me at all!’’ **T like housekeeping, and am never so happy as when I am busy. she replied, in feigned cheerfulness. Iam glad you were pleased with your evening’s entertainment. Was the supper to your liking ?’’ ‘‘It was un grand succes, as everything which my wife undertakes must be,’’ he re- sponded. ** And if I satisfy him, what matter about the rest of mankind, or womankind either ?”’ thought the wife. ‘‘It is possible, too, that I am over-sensitive; that it takes me longer to settle comfortably into a new niche than I OR MOLEHILLS. 227 thought it would. I will begin to-morrow a course of visits, and prosecute it faithfully without heed to housekeeping and weather ; will make a fresh and vigorous trial of my own capabilities and the people’s hearts.”’ The execution of this project was delayed by an attack of sick headache, which kept her in bed until noon on the morrow. And thus it happened that when Miss Huldah Stokes ‘‘stepped in,’’ at nine o’clock A. M., to look for a lost pair of scissors, she found the parlors still in confusion; nothing in the grates but cold ashes; the furniture in dis- order ; scraps and threads littering the carpet. ‘‘Mrs. Hawthorne is not up yet!’’ said the sulky cook, who had unwillingly answered the bell, the nurse being fully occupied, dur- ing the mother’s illness, with the children. ‘‘Mr. Hawthorne is out.”’ ‘“*No wonder !’’ reflected the horrified Hul- dah, surveying the untidy scene. ‘‘The poor martyr! Who would not flee from such a com- fortless home ?’’ She found her missing property, and availed herself of the absence of lookers-on so far as to peep into Mr. Hawthorne’s study, across the hall. A bright fire burned there; all was orderly, clean, and quiet. Having been sum- moned hastily away to see a dying man, Mr. Hawthorne had leit his pen lying upon the table beside an unfinished letter. The tempta- tion was irresistible to tip-toe over the floor and read the three or four lines freshly traced. ‘¢TaTTLEVILLE, January 10¢h, 18— My very DEAR Moruer:—Your son is a miserable man, this morning. Helen’s old enemy, which I fondly believed was exorcised by the change of place, is in full possession of her. You know what this signifies; her state while the demon has dominion over her, and the misery I endure a Twice the spy read this over—a sort of shocked delight thrilling her in the perusal. Then, alarmed by a footstep in the chamber above, she hurried away, ‘‘stepping in’’ to Willoughby Lodge on the way home, to re- count her excessively accidental discovery, and blend her lamentations with the jéré- miades of her listeners at the frightful sacrifice of their beloved and saintly pastor’s earthly happiness. Mrs. Hawthorne, still pale and feeble, crept out, the next day, to call upon a few of her nearest neighbors, and, although deriving little pleasure from the business, persisted in it until every entry upon her visiting list was

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228 cancelled. If she won neither credit nor popularity by this conscientious discharge of duty, she gained what threatened io stick by her longer than either of these would, in all probability, have done. She caught a heavy cold, one raw afternoon, by sitting half an hour in a fireless ‘‘ best parlor,’’ the lady of the house having too much pride to ask her visitor into the sitting-room of the family, and too much parsimony to keep up two fires. A sore throat and severe pain in the chest were the immediate effects of this mur- derous piece of civility, and when these yielded to the remedies advised by her anx- ious husband, they left ‘‘a slight cough ;”’ so she called what her acquaintances seldom noticed; one which she strove sedulously to repress in Cyril’s presence. The spring would cure it, she prophesied, when, now and then, the dry ‘‘hack’’ awoke him at midnight, or reached his study on stormy days, when the bronchial or pulmonary irritation was aggra- vated by the dampness. But spring came, and summer and autumn’s whistling winds foretelling the bleakness and frost of winter, and the ‘‘ trifling’ cough still clung to herlungs. She had become sensible, ly this time, that it was weakening her; that her step lagged as she went the rounds of housewifely and neighborly cares; her breath came at shorter and irregular inter- vals; while the hollow aching of her chest was like the slow wearing away of the vitals. She tried to be prudent; to avoid extremes of heat and cold; to exercise at proper times, and was punctual in taking the cough mix- tures and tonics prescribed by the family doctor, to whom she secretly applied for as- sistance. For, with the cheerful courage inherent to her nature, she told no one else of her ailments and fears. There were cogent reasons why there should not be a feather’s weight added to Cyril’s burdens. The thorns, whose prick she had felt within three months after their removal to Tattleville, were begin- ning to pierce him too. His congregations had diminished in numbers, and this, while he was putting forth his best efforts in the preparation of his pulpit discourses, and was untiring in the fulfilment of pastoral obliga- tions. Nay, more; several families, who had been foremost in their professions of admira- tion and attachment to him, a year since, had taken pews in other churches, and, thence- furward, never darkened the doors of his. GODEY’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. Mr. Hubbard was the ringleader in this seces- sion. He was the first to promulgate the idea that patience with evil had had its perfect work. For his part, he and his could no longer run the risk of being partakers of the plagues which must befall the sanctuary wherein the spouse of a wicked woman—a Delilah, he termed her—officiated. Discipline must, of necessity, be lax where spiritual wickedness flaunted itself in high places, and without the lash of discipline, true piety must decline. So, he betook himself to another fold, where sickly sheep were hunted down, and cast beyond the hallowed precincts upon the mere suspicion of taint. Mr. Hawthorne was of a proud, delicate spirit, and he asked none the cause of these changes. Still less did he appear to notice that fewer and fewer of his parishioners came regularly to the parsonage ; that the friendly offerings that used to pour into kitchen and pantry, signifying a continual stream of good- will, were now intermittent droppings, paltry in value, and in arrival, infrequent. That something was wrong, he knew; felt, in the groaning, agonized depths of his heart. None besides his Master and the true and tender wife, whose love and sympathy were never so precious before, suspected the workings and searchings of his tried soul, as he en- deavored, prayerfully, to discover where lay the hidden root of bitterness which was converting his ministry into a succession of profitless and joyless ordinances. That the mystery implicated her whom his affectionate trust placed a trifle lower than the angels, would never have entered his wildest imagin- ings without the plainest, most unequivocal declarations to that effect. As yet, no one. was bold enough to enlighten him. The most daring gossip shrank from the task. ‘*Where is the use ?’’ reasoned Miss Mary Willoughby. ‘‘ He already knows his wife’s baseness: her infirmities of temper and utter unfitness for her place. He must be aware that she is the blight upon the growth and life of the church. There is no need to dis- tress him by speaking openly of her shame.’’ Meanwhile the scandal, which had been rolled, like a sugar pill, under and upon the tongues of the Willoughby cabal, had in- creased with every turn, until the village of Tattleville could not contain it. Far and near the calumny had spread, and Mrs. Hawthorne, from being suspected, became

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MOUNTAINS OR MOLEHILLS. 229 proscribed; the target for every malicious tongue within an area of fifty miles. She could not have defined by what means she learned that some sorrow was at hand, or why the social atmosphere about her weighed upon her perceptions, like the thunderous calm of a storm-freighted cloud. It broke at last. During the summer, Mrs. Hawthorne had taken into her employ, as child’s nurse and seamstress, a young girl, the daughter of a )oor woman who was a member of Mr. Hawthorne’s church. The mother bore a good character, but the father’s The girl was and habits were notoriously bad. neat, quick, and apparently amiable, Mrs. Hawthorne engaged her rather in the hope of removing her permanently from de- grading associations, than with the thought of herseif profiting by the arrangement. For a while the plan worked well; the new ser- vant improving rapidly in knowledge and skill, and the mother being servilely profuse in her expressions of gratitude. Litile by little, the mistress’ vigilant eye penetrated the real disposition and practices of her child- ren’s hourly comp: ion. She was untruthful, deceitful,.and, Mrs. Hawthorne at length dis- covered, dishonest. A glaring instance of this latter vice settled the question as to the continuatiyn of the dubious experiment of reformation. The employer sent for the mother, aml kindly, yet frankly disclosed the girl’s faults, and her reasons for dismissing her from hjr service. The parent begged and wept in d?-precation of the sentence, until finding thyt Mrs. Hawthorne was sadly reso- lute in her’ design, she changed her tone. Startingsto her feet, her eyes flashing with rage, she exclaimed: ‘I am glad to get her away fron: this house! Many and many’s the one that has told me I ought not to let her stay; I never meant to do it, but I have a soft heart, and I knew that you’d look far before you got another decent girl to live with you. A nice one you are to take away honest people’s characters! when the whole town is crying out shame upon you for ruin- inz your husband and disgracing your inno- ce at children! As if everybody didn’t know that you were no better than you should be!- as if the best people in the church weren’t leaving it because they won’t associate with you! as if you weren’t bringing up your family like pigs in a pen, and breaking your husband’s heart with your bad temper !”’ This was but the prelude, and the least objectionable part of the tirade, which was delivered with such violence, that Mrs. Haw- thorne had to command her to be silent several times before she could make herself heard. Summoning all her strength of mind and body, she ordered the woman to leave the house and take her child with her. Sho even remained standing motionless and appa- rently firm, in the middle of the room, until the door closed upon the two; then, sick and dizzy, with an awful sense of suffocation in her breast, she tottered to the sofa, and knew nothing more until she found herself in bed, Cyril bending over her, pale with sorrow and dread. : ‘‘Hush!’? he said, when she would have spoken. ‘You are sick, and must keep per- fectly quiet !’’ For once, she was disobedient. **Cyril!’? she clasped his hand, with the eagerness of one drowning. ‘‘ You believe all the horrid things Mrs. Henshaw do not said to me—what everybody else says !”’ ‘*Dearest! be calm! you know that you are only pure and lovely to me. No one dare You are dreaming !”’ She said that I was a speak ill of you! “She did say it! curse to you and my children; that my name was the by-word of the town—that—that—”’ A scarlet tide, the blush of outraged deli- cacy, rushed to her face, and from her lips flowed a stream of bright blood. ‘* She has had a return of the hemorrhage !’’ said the physician, meeting Miss Eliza Wil- loughby upon the steps, that same morning. ‘“She would talk, it seems, aud this is the consequence. She may live until to-morrow— but it is very doubtful.’’ fiss Eliza’s rubicund face changed to a chalky hue. ‘“‘This is terribly sudden, doctor! What brought on the attack in the first place—have you heard ?”’ ‘*Some squabble with, or about a servant, I understand.”’ Miss Eliza’s complexion was more natural. ‘““Indeed! Poor thing! she had a dreadful temper, and this is her punishment! I hope that she is prepared for the solemn change ; but as the tree falls it must lie, doctor!’’ Four days later there was a funeral from Cyril Hawthorne’s church, and the Rev. John St. John read the burial service and preached the sermon in the ears of the pale, tearless

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230 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. mourner, about whose knees three motherless children clung, sobbingly. When all was over and the body deposited in the receiving- vault—Mr. Hawthorne would have this so— Mr. St. John returned with the widower to his now desolate home. From twenty households, provisions, fruits, and every conceivable dainty of which Tat- tleville had any knowledge were sent to the parsonage during the afternoon and evening; but Mr. Hawthorne himself went into the kitchen and forbade the cook to set one of these upon the table before himself and his friend. He assigned no reason, but his look was so gloomy, his tone so authoritative that the servant dared not expostulate. His very nature seemed changed by the frightful shock he had received. Host and guest sat up late that night, writing together in the study. The result of their labor was about thirty small notes, which being duly distributed at an early hour, next morning, created an immense stir in the town. They were all copies of a formal citation to appear before the session of the church that evening, to answer to the charge of having made certain libellous attacks upon the cha- racter of Helen Hamilton, deceased. The fair ones cited spent the day in tears and scold- ings, and denials of their own guilt; the male scandal-mongers raved and growled, and all vowed that the proceedings instituted were irregular, and, therefore, they should stay away from the court. Nevertheless, twenty- five out of the thirty changed their minds before night. In union there is strength, and when they found out in what a goodly company they were to appear, they resolved to face the matter out. As each took several friends or relatives along, the lecture-room, where the ecclesi- astical court sat, was crowded to overflowing. Mr. St. John was present, but Mr. Hawthorne occupied his usual place as Moderator of the Session. He was ghastly pale, and the events of the last week had written ineffaceable lines upon his features, but his eye had a strange, menacing gleam, and his voice was steady to severity. Time and senses would fail me were I to attempt to describe, ever so briefly, the pro- ceedings of this singular meeting. To say that the replies of the accused to the strict cross-examination of the inexorable judge were tearful, irrelevant, contradictory, and confused, would give but a faint idea of the shifting, and stammering, and recrimination that moved the hearers to shame, and would have excited their mirth, but for the awful brow of the presiding officer keeping them in remembrance of the fact that she whom these now faltering tongues had defamed had passed beyond the reach of human censure or praise. Cyril Hawthorne sifted the evidence after three hours of this trying and revolting work. The heavy cloud that had crushed poor Helen into her grave had dissolved under the clear rays of truth, into the thinnest vapor. From the hour of his wife’s death he had devoted himself to the task of dis- covering the names of her traducers, and the nature of their accusations, and he showed them no mercy now. But three ambiguous circumstances needed explanation from him when he had finished his business of con- founding each false witness by the mouth of another. Firstly, Kitty Willoughby and Dorinda Montague had seen a mysterious miniature in Mrs. Hawthorne’s private drawer, which they were assured by her child she was in the habit of weeping over, while she concealed it from her husband. ‘*This,’’ said the moderator, briefly, ‘‘was the likeness of my wife’s only brother, who died three years since. If she wept over it, in my absence, it was that I might not be afflicted by the sight of her tears.’’ Secondly, Miss Huldah Stokes had acci- dentally chanced, unintentionally and in spite of herself, to read the opening sentences of a letter from Mr. Hawthorne to his mother, representing that his wife had had a return of her old evil temper, which rendered him miserable. Upon being confronted with Mrs. Haw- thorne, Senior, who had come over to the funerai of her daughter-in-law, Miss Huldah admitted that the word ‘‘ temper’’ might not have been actually used, and, on mentioning the date of the letter, mother and son con- curred in saying that reference was had tothe spells of sick headache to which the deceased lady was subject. Thirdly—and this was the only charge that produced any visible effect upon the mede- rator—the Misses Willoughby cuncurred in affirming that they had derived their earliest unpleasant suspicions of Mrs. Hawthorne’s character from a conversation with Rev. John f )

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( ) MOUNTAINS OR MOLEHILLS. 231 St. John, shortly after the installation of Mr. Hawthorne over the Tattleville church. If Cyril glanced suddenly and surprisingly at his friend, upon hearing this, the latter was yet more discomposed. He would have spoken, but the moderator waved him tosilence. After disposing summarily of the other charges he again turned to his clerical brother. ‘*Mr. St. John will now be heard !’’ The latter arose in some excitement. ‘*T deny, utterly and solemnly, that I ever spoke a word derogatory to Mrs. Hawthorne, either in the interview with the Misses Wil- loughby, or in my whole life. I held her in the highest esteem, as a woman and a Chris- tian. I call upon those who affirm the con- trary to be true, to repeat my exact language.”’ ‘¢You did not say much, but you intimated a great deal,’’ cried Miss Mary, red in the face as a turkey-cock. ‘In what manner were the intimations conveyed ?’’ queried Mr. St. John. **You shrugged your shoulders!’’ ejacu- lated the sisters, in coucert. ‘‘When we asked your opinion of Mrs. Hawthorne, you shrugged your shoulders !’’ ** Impossible !’’ **You did!’’ contradicted Miss Kitty, who could be as bold as brass, when her temper was up. ‘You were standing by my rose- bush in the window, pinning a bud into your buttonhole—and you shrugged your shoul- ders !’’ Mr. St. John’s countenance was expressive of ineffable contempt and impatient disgust. **T dorecollect, since you mention the rose- bud, that I ran a thorn into my finger in fastening it upon my coat, and I may have shrugged my shoulders at the prick. It is a habit of mine. But I declare before Heaven and these witnesses that I never, by word, look, or gesture, cast any aspersion upon the character of the dear and virtuous lady who now fills, as I firmly believe, a higher seat in heaven than any of her calumniators can hope to obtain.’’ He sat down. The figure in the chair was bowed; his face was hidden for one moment in his hands, and a hollow groan broke the stillness of the now shame-stricken assembly. ‘*My poor, murdered wife !’’ Many were weeping when he arose to speak; but his eyes were dry; his visage like an iron mask. “*Gentlemen !’’ to the session, who hung their heads, instead of meeting his gaze, ‘I resign the pastorate of this church. Having vindicated, in your hearing, the character of her whom I knew to be innocent, I leave this case for your judgment !’’ Without another word, or even a bow, to simulate the respect he did not feel, he walked out of the house, followed by Mr. St. John. N. B. The Tattleville church is still pastor- less. The leading members are determined to-call a bachelor the next time they choose a minister, alleging, as a reason, that ‘‘ Clergy- men’s wives are apt to beget trouble in a congregation.”’ THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE, BY W. T. MOORE. Oh death in life, the days that are no more.—TENNYseN, Lixe sacred strains of song, Which on our spirits pour Their deep and thrilling tenderness, Are days that are no more. Like memory’s precious gems, Drawn from love’s golden ore, Whose brilliant light shines on our path, Are days that are no more. Like thoughts of those we love, Whose days on earth are o’er, So gently to our dreams come back The days that are no more. And now, like farewell words, That tremble in the door, Which shuts from sight a loved one gone, Are days that are no more. Or, as some tender cord That bound the friends of yore, Is broken, but still lies in view, So days that are no more. Like echoes coming back From prayers made for the poor, So softly do the whispers come Of days that are no more. And as across life’s stream We view the distant shore, We see a train of memories there From days that are no more. Then when we lift our hearts To Him whom we adore, We'll offer deepest gratitude For days that are no more. —Yov cannot dream yourself into a charac- ter; you must hammer and forge yourself one. —Hasit uniformly and constantly strength- ens all our active exertions.

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HOW WE FILLED THE COLUMNS. BY MUNROE MARTIN. Tea was over; the business of the day for most folks was likewise finished, but when can an editor lay his hand upon his bosom, and say, with a clear conscience, ‘‘ My work is done !”’ I know on that December evening of the past year, my prospect was that of searching over the drawers for copy to fill two gaping columns, unless—Ah, Mollie, you annihilated the alternative. ‘*There is actually nothing fit to publish in the whole lot,’’ and down came the pile of manuscript on the little centre-table, with a bang that made the astral lamp totter, and threatened to upset the whole affair. ** Nothing !”’ I stand aghast at the golden-haired critic, as I feebly ejaculated the word. ** Nothing !”’ ‘*Mollie, are you sure you have read them she repeated, solemnly. all with careful attention ?’’ ‘*No, Munroe; not having the slightest desire to become a candidate for a lunatic asylum, I am sure I have done nothing of the kind. You will have to make a special en- gagement with the ‘best talent of the coun- try’ to fill those formidable columns.’’ ‘But, Mollie, my dear, the ‘ best talent in the country’ won’t write for a country editor, unless he can command an overflowing cash box, and ours’’— ‘Ts ?”? she questioned. ‘Empty !”’ “on i’? Down came the corners of the pretty mouth; the blue eyes fell thoughtfully upon the car- pet, and the dear little woman who had actually married a country editor for love, fell to musing. **T wish I could write,’’ she sighed; ‘‘ but I can’t compose, though you allow me to be a fair critic.”’ ‘* Very fair,’’ I said, smiling at her solemn phiz. ‘** Be quiet, sir; this is a serious business. You can’t write even an ode to a goose.”’ **O Mollie, think of the bushels of poetry I sent you last year.’’ ** Begged, borrowed, and stolen from just such a pile ss this,’’ she said, letting her 232 little hand fall on the papers before her. ‘‘Oh, you needn’t deny it. I know! I’ve not been an editor’s wife six months for nothing, sir!’’ ‘*Kisses included in the wages,’’ I muttered, and had my ears boxed by the softest hand in the world. ‘Two heads are better than one, Munroe,’’ she said, suddenly, ‘‘ even if one is—ahem !’’ ‘* Which one ?”’ I tenderly inquired. **Let’s go over this pile together, and see if there is anything here fit to print. You have been writing till your eyes are red as rabbits, so you may listen and criticize while I read. Perhaps your genius may discover some alterations that will make one of these stories readable.”’ If she drew her low seat close beside my arm-chair, and let her head rest on my lap; if she pulled the pile of papers down on the floor, to be within reach; if my hand caressed the golden curls while she read, pray whose business is that?’’? The shaded solar lamp threw a subdued light over a tiny, cosey par- lor, furnished for comfort not show; and toa man just emancipated from a dreary bache- lorhood of twenty-nine years, looked snug and tempting; so I drew the lamp forward till its rays fell upon Mollie’s sheets, and then leaned lazily back in my chair to listen. Mrs. Martin shook smooth the folds of her soft merino, till it fell gracefully round her little figure, tossed back the sunny curls from her fair, merry face, and then with due gravity commenced the evening’s work. ‘*Now, Munroe, don’t pull my hair! my dear, is poetry, inclosed in a letter. This, ‘*MonxtTon Hatt, R , ILL. ‘(My Dear Sir: Absorbed in unreserved and ecstatic devotion to scientific pursuits, my late lamented husband collected from every zone, from every point, from torrid heat and frigid cold, the beautiful, curious, and engrossing of every sphere and clime.’’ ‘‘Send my compliments, Mollie, and ask for a cabbage from the moon.”’ Mollie read on, unheeding the interruption. ‘Moved by sad memories, tinted by the recollection of his many virtues and his favor- ite pursuits, I sat before the last masterpiece of his giant intellect, an enormous sea aqua-

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HOW WE FILLED THE COLUMNS. rium. Suddenly, by a flash of inspiration as brief as it was brilliant, my thoughts unre-- strained weaved themselves into poetic metre, and poured forth with lava-like impetuosity their fiery streams of eloquence.’’ ‘*Lay awake every night for six weeks, rocking her brains for rhyme, I’ll venture to say,’’ I said; but Mollie read on— “‘T wrote. His memory demands the sacri- fice of any bashful reluctance to put my inner thoughts before the public eye; with a firm hand I write to bid yon—print! Filthy lucre I despise, yet if the inclosed poem increases the circulation of your paper, send me one half the increased profits, or, if you prefer one cash payment, send to my address $50, and I will make no further claim upon you. 8. J. L—.”’ **How kind she is!’’ I cried. ‘*Read the poetry, Mollie.’’ * Piscatorial treasures of the briny deep, Lambs from the scaly flock of Neptune’s sheep, Awe-struck I gaze. Torn from maternal ocean’s stern embrace, Plucked from the slimy rock of Nature’s face, Wondrous thy ways. Within the globular confines of the tank, Tell me, dumb beauties, do you never hank- Er for the sea? Silent, though active, mute, though never still, When can my yearning vision have its fill Gazing on thee? Yearn you not for your native home? Yearn you not for liberty to roam, As you once did? Yearn you not for Neptune’s stormy road ? Yearn you not for your native shore, In ocean mid? Science has rushed for you through storm and gale, Art, too, has dared stern Death in never fail- Ing energy, To place you here, before my wondering eyes, * To fill my soul with questioningsurprise And ecstasy.” ‘*Mollie, if you have within you one gleam of pity, stop, ere you drive your liege lord to frenzy.”’ ‘* My dear, there are forty-four verses."’ ‘* Let me add a forty-fifth. * Little fishes, in glass dishes, How you squirm, and twist, and wriggle; Knock each other’s tails and noses In an everlasting jiggle.” Mollie continued— ” And inspire dull Munroe Martin Till he makes his Mollie giggle.” “Now, Manroe, having eased your mind of all that nonsense, let us proceed in our labors.”’ I waved my editorial hand, and she pro- ceeded. veL. Lxx.—19 ‘* Here is a story, entitled ‘UPS AND DOWNS.’ ”’ ‘* A very good title,’’ I said, approvingly. Mollie read :— - ‘In this life there is many changes. Some has their ups, some theirdowns. Some makes fortunes, some squanders them. Some lives in marble houses, with horses and carriages, and has hired help with cut-glass dishes, and lady’s maids with dessert every day. Some inhabits cottages, and does their own washing and door tending, with no help, but everlast- ing worriting and crosses. ‘* Marianne, one of my heroines, was in her ups at the time I writes of. She never touched no work, but bossed a lot of gals, who lived at her pa’s, and had silk gowns and drove about the village, and was proud and scornful. She had black hair which the maid dressed every day, with silk gowns for breakfast and satin ones for tea, and no end of jewelry. Matilda, my other heroine, was in her downs, and kept school, and no help, and worked hard, and was gentle and good, with blue eyes and yellow hair, which she arranged with her own fair hands in native simplicity. ‘* Hector was the beau of the village, and Marianne loved him, while his affections was set on the fair Matilda, and Marianne inter- cepted their loving correspondence and played hob generally. Ah! the ups was to go down and the downs up.’’ ‘‘Mrs. Martin,’’ I said, severely, ‘‘ how much more do you intend to read ?”’ ‘You admired the title,’’ she said, saucily. ‘* What ’s in a name ?’’ I groaned. ‘*Here’s a letter, Munroe; suppose I read it,” ; ‘My Dear Sir: I am anxious to embark on the wide sea of literature, because it requires no capital for a start; will you stretch forth the helping hand to young genius and give me an order for—say, a series of sketches? Choose your own subject ; Iam not particular. Say, for instance, ‘My Voyage to China!’ that sounds well, and there is a great deal in a title. Not that I ever went to China, for what ’s the use of all that expense, fuss, and bother, when so many former travellers have been obliging enough to see the whole thing for you, when it is all described in the guide books, and geography, and. set forth in the histories? I will undertake to compile from the above-mentioned sources as satisfactory, complete, and truthful an account as the great Baron Munchausen himself. If I have never been confined for six months in an iron cage by an enraged tyrant, I have been ipcar- cerated in my own attic, while my landlady, the key in her pocket, pawned my shirt-studs for the rent. If I have never taken a sea voyage, I have eaten too many devilled crabs for supper, and can describe in the most affecting terms the consequences thereunto

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234 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. appertaining. If I never cultivated tea, I have swallowed gallons of it, and as for ua- tives, I saw Gihon’s corps of jugglers twice. However, if you prefer Japan, or Lapland, or the Arctic Seas, you ’ve only to say the word. Or, perhaps, something in the biographical line will suit you better—say, Lives of Lead- ing Merchants, or Some Account of the Private Career of L—— J Cc , or any cther man. Of course I should depend upon you to hunt up dates, facts, letters, table-talk, daily life, business habits, domestic pursuits, gene- ral characteristics, dying speeches, last words, and other little items; while my part will be to group the whole artistically, correct any errors in grammar or spelling, and put in the moral reflections. Or, if you prefer fiction, send me a title, the main incidents and cli- max, and I will rival Walter Scott or Charles Kingsley. **One word more, and I have done. Will you kindly allow me the privilege of correct- ing the progof-sheets myself? I can only feebly describe to you the agony of mind produced in your humble servant when he finds his pet heroine figuring with crimson flounceé instead of flowers in her hair, carrying a pan instead of a fan, with sneaking instead of speakin eyes, and absorbed in meditations on her quilt instead of her guilt, or, seeing the hero, whose description has cost him hours of reflec- tion, described as a wan-ltke instead of warlike form, with dirty hands where he had written dainty. The subject is too vast for comment. ‘‘Hoping to hear from you before my last quarter is expended, I am Yours very truly, Rosert J——.”’ ‘*Send him an order, my dear, for a com- plete and circumstantial account of the voyage of Sir John Franklin,’’ I said, quietly. And Mollie gravely made a uote to that effect on the envelope. ‘*More poetry, Munroe.”’ “LINES ON A DROWNING NEWFOUNDLAND DOG. Merged in tempestuous torrents of the river, Thy manly limbs in death's last torments quiver, Thy beaming @ye in vain inoks forth for aid, Thy dripping mantle makes my soul afraid, Thy mute despairing howls my being rend in twain, In frantic helplessness I wring my hands in vain. One struggle more! Alas, that desperate yell Rings oa my ear, thy feeble, last farewell. No noble hero rushes forth to save My darling Neptune from his watery grave. Down, down beneath the closing waves I see thee sink, While I stand weeping out thy requiem on the brink." ‘*Who ever heard of a dog that couldn’t swim ?’’ said Mollie, contemptuously. **You can alter it to a cat or a chicken, my dear, if yon like the sentiment.’ ‘* Pshaw |’? was my wife’s quotation from the poets. For a few moments there was silence, broken only by the rustling of the paper, as Mollie impatiently tossed over the pile before her. Suddenly she exclaimed :— ‘*Munroe! here is something I missed before; perhaps it will do. I will read the letter.’’ ‘*My Dear Sir: My great grandfather was a revolutionary hero, and in the traditions of our family there is one that tells the tragic story of his fall. When upon the fatal field where his life blood was wasted in his coun- » try’s cause, he severed from his manly brow a lock of hair to dip it in his gaping wound, and send it so stained, a dying token to my greatgrandmother. Upon this event is founded the inclosed tale, which is yours for the tri- fling sum of $20. My friend and future hus- band has kindly furnished the notes for the edification of the uninitiated. Yours, very truly, L. J. L-— “‘Very good!’’ I said, approvingly. ‘A very affecting incident, if well worked up.”’ ‘*A first rate Revolutionary tale is always acceptable, is it not, Munroe ?’’ asked Mollie. I nodded assent, and my wee wife began her story with quite a hopeful tune. ‘“THE ENSANGUINED WEDDING RING AND BLOODY LOCK OF HAIR.”’ ‘Whew! there’s a title!’’ ‘* Her sex a page’s dress belied, The cloak and doublet loosely tied, Obscured her charms, but could not hide.’’— Moore. ‘Ig that Moore, Munroe? Never mind, here ’s the story.’’ ‘*Night, with heavy hand of darkest dye was gathering in impenetrable folds her sable mantle over the twilight dim face of exhausted Nature. The busy hum of labor, that through the hot and dusty day had waked the echoes now crept in subdued silence into the death- like stillness of repose. Mantua* slept! The moon poured its flood of silver radiance from its horn-tipped extremities, tinting every roof and window, shedding its soft effulgent rays in maiden beauty from its zone. All wooed the waiting soul to Morpheus’sf arms. ‘* Night, however, brought no repose; the moon no comfort to the fair Clarinda. Bathed in the silver beams, her fair locks falling in golden profusion over her snowy robe, she sat at her casement window, rending the night air with her wail of woe, pouring forth to the nightingale’s listening ear her burden of sorrow. Her bosom hove with convulsive sobs, while her Aurorat like beauty was * Native city of Mantuamakers.—Anthon's Classical Dictionary. ¢ Cradle rocker tothe baby gods and goddesses.—Horace. t Queen of the Graces, of which there were nine—Au- rora, Pandora, Leonora, Flora, Dora, Cora, Eleanora, Metamora, and Dionora. —Virgil. - A er ts

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heightened by her Proserpine* like despair. Her lover, brave and true, the Lion of Man- tua, was ordered from the bosom of domestic felicity to serve in the war against the Turks. ‘** Alas! alas!’ sobbed Clarinda, and the winds echoed her sobs. ** A voice called her name. Quick as light- ning she threw from the window her ladder of ropes, and he ascended. ** “Clarinda !’ *** Alphonso !’ ‘They mingled farewell tears—his burning with foreshadowed glory, hers heavy with premeditated solitude and desolation. The sympathizing moon flooded them with silver radiance, and turned their tears to flashing diamonds. Clarinda’s eyes burned on Al- phonso’s face. *** Would I could follow you!’ she sighed. * “With forced mirth he said :— ***Wouldst rival Constance to thy Mar- mion !’ ***Ha!l’ she cried. ‘Methinks a gleam of light strikes on my path !’ “He strained her to his manly breast, kissed her pale lips, and darted through the window. The bitter despair faded from Cla- rinda’s face as she turned from her casement and took from her wardrobe a page’s suit. ***T will rival Constance!’ she heroically ejaculated. ‘*Again the moon poured her rays upon Alphonso, no longer the ardent lover, but the wounded chieftain. Upon the bloody Turkish field the bleeding hero lay, and kneeling by his fainting side in page’s stern array, a lovely youth with raven locks poured forth his mourning lay. *** Wilfred,’ the pale lips cried, ‘convey to Clarinda my last sigh, her name.’ With a weak hand he tore from his head a lock of curls and dipped it in the wound upon his breast, then knotting with them a ring drawn from his feeble finger, he pressed the whole in Wilfred’s hands, sighed ‘Clarinda!’ and fell back motionless. *** Alphonso!’ cried Wilfred, tearing off the raven wig, and letting Clarinda’s fair curls float on the summer’s breeze. At that moment a rough hand seized her, anda harsh voice exclaimed in Turkish :— ‘* * By Jove, a woman!’ **Too late the cry! Fifty Turkish scyme- tars already had found their sheaths in that fair bosom, and with a cry of ‘ Alphonso, I come!’ Clarinda breathed her last sigh.’ ‘Oh my!’ said Mollie, ‘‘in all’ my long and varied life, I never did! Munroe, dear, don’t expect any such devotion, if you go to war! Fifty blades in one bosom would be too much for my philosophy. Here’s some more poetry, by way of variety.’’

* Wife of Pluto, consequently the first she-devil.

**LOVE!”’ ‘* There ’s a new and original subject for a poet.’’ ‘* Love, like the dew from falling Paradise, Sheds o’er the weary soul its gleeful bliss ; Love, like the deepest dungeon of dark Spanish days, Fills the despairing heart with direful woe ; Love, requited, heaven’s joy will rival ; Love, unreturned, is Hades’ torment vile."’ ‘‘Munroe!’’ Fifty exclamation points could not give any idea of Mollie’s cry. ‘¢ What comes next?’’ I inquired. ** A letter.’’ ‘My Dear Sir: In strict confidence, trust- ing to your honor to keep my secret, I impart the fact that an unforeseen reverse of fortune throws me upon my talents for support. [ send you my maiden effort, but am now writing a serial for your classic columns, to follow this short tale. Please send to my address $25, the price of the accompanying article, and oblige Mary Jang C——. ‘““MARRYING IN HASTE TO REPENT AT LEISURE. MARIGOLDIANNA MELODY. 6€¢T will go!’ ‘‘Overflowing with the deadly resolve of desperate resolution, the thrilling impulse of midnight despair, the impetuous necessity of alternateless misery, the maddening energy of goading poverty, the desolate horror of starvation, the wails of frozen humanity, the black, bieak, biting bitterness of misery—she went !’’ ‘< Where ?”’ I rashly inquired. ‘‘Pair as the drifting snow around her, stately as the storm-king she defied, proud as the goddess Juno, with her dark robes wrapped statuesquely round her noble figure, her step stately, her gait graceful, her mien weighty, her poise positive, and her head haughty— she went ! *‘Forth from the airy attic, where poverty had stamped its seal of destitution, and de- spair swept its besom of annihilation; where the rotten roof dripped deadly dew, and the bare boards bore black burdens of foul filth, the wet walls showed slimy stains; where children wailed for bread, and her noble hus- band lay stricken with sore sickness; where poverty presided, misery moaned, pain plead- ed, and grief groaned—she went! ‘‘To pour forth into the cold ear of chill charity her beggar’s plea, to stoop to the lowest level of poverty’s children, to ask the crust spurned from the table of the proud, to whine the pitiful appeal of the mendicant in the reluctant ear of affluence—she went. *** Let her went!’ ‘* As her proud step passed down the stair, the heart for which she had suffered all this spoke, to cheat its own bitterness. Knowing

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236 ‘ @ODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. the station she had once graced and deserted for him, he spoke in bitterness of spirit, and vainly strove to face his trial manfully. Down the narrow stair she passes, as Ais lips mut- tered, ‘ Let her went !’ ‘* Seated on the marble steps of the palatial mansion where she had once reigned queen, she waited in stern unbending silence the coming of that parent she had deserted for him she now called husband, who now lay starving, waiting her voice, her smile, and a loaf of bread. The cold winds tore raving around her, wrenching her mantle from its feeble clasp to bear it aloft on its shrieking bosom. The pangs of starvation rioted like demons in her tender frame. The echo of her children’s voices, crying in frantic agony, ‘Bread! bread!’ maddened her brain. With her large eyes raised in mute supplication she lifted her clasped hands, the moonbeams falling full on the snowy, slender digits. ‘*He passed! A diamond ring, flashing upon the delicate finger, caught his eye. Could he resist the mute'appeal—her ring! The ring she had worn from infancy, the dia- monds grouped to form his name ? ‘“*He paused! That awful pauso! Sud- denly on the night air rung out the cry of that bereaved heart— *** Anastasia! My child!’ **¢ Father !’ ‘** That voice !’ ** * Forgive "’ nd ‘Ah!’ ai ‘Oh!’ '« She fell fainting to the floor !”’ ‘*That will do, Mollie. Starving ladies, begging with diamond rings on their digits, don’t suit our classic columns. Is that all?’’ ‘*All! Munroe, look on this picture and on that!’’ and she pointed from the huge unrdédad pile to the little collection of examined articles. ‘‘ The next is poetry, Munroe, calied ‘The Poet’s Dream !’”’ “T lie upon my back and muse In the soft and balmy air, I see the sky’s dissolving views, I taste the dew-drop fair. I hear the streamlet’s murmuring flow In soft bewildering rhyme, I see the wild flowers cofme and go Beneath the scythe of Time.”’ ‘*Pray, how many weeks did he lie on his back ?’’ ‘* Only until the next verse, for he says :—’’ “[ turn upon my side and gaze, The green trees whisper love, And the soft and sunny grass beneath Echoes the leaves above. The birds fly clustering round me, The robin woos with song, And the gayly-tinted nightingale Its music doth prolong."’ | | | ** How much more is there, Mollie ?’’ ‘*Some dozen or twenty verses.’’ ** Pass on to the next.’’ The next was a letter. ‘*My Dear Sir: Have you a sympathizing bosom? Does the tale of anguish rest on your heart till your benevolent hand turns tears to smiles, grief to joy? Ifso, hear me. I am wronged, deeply wronged’ by a villain, and the accompanying sheets contain the true story of my sufferings. I come to you for redress. Print the sheets as they are, and let my savage soul, thirsting for vengeance, gloat over my victim’s remorse when he sees the story of my wrong in public print. Let my hand place the paper before him, my hand tear aside the thin disguise of false names and positions; let me but say, ‘See, wretch, your crime made known!’ and die at his feet. . Mari L—.”’ ‘*Dotell!’’ Iejaculated. ‘* Read the story, Mollie.’”’ ‘*RAYMOND, THE USURER. ‘*In the little village of B———— dwelt Ray- mond, a villain whose foul face, vile tongue, black heart, and murderous mind were but the types of his wicked disposition, and who could make love to two girls at once, while he allowed his innocent victim to run up a bill at his store, secure in the promise of his trusting love never to bother her about it, but let her bridal costume come too from his counters, and just because she danced once at the Harmony Temple with the accomplished Guy Fields, and let him see her home, while her hateful rival poured poison into the ear of the too fascinating Raymond, send in his horrid bill of over one hundred dollars and break his love vows, with a sheriff’s officer to appraise the furniture, and the lovely object of his persecution fainting at his hardened feet moving him to scorn instead of pity, and’’— ‘©O Munroe, I’m all out of breath. There is no stop longer than a comma in the whole first page.’’ ‘‘Come, rest in this bosom,’’ I heroically cried. ‘*No,’’ she said, firmly, ‘‘if there is one article here, to fill those awful columns, I will find it. Stay me not!’’ she cried, tragic- ally. ‘‘I pause not till my task is done.’’ “LINES TO THE ALPS. “Towerifig Height of wondrous might, Rising from the Mother Earth, Scorning Hills and other Mountains As of smallest weight and Worth. Most exalted of the Mountains, Most extended of the chains, Here when I die, I hope, indeed, They ‘Il lay my cold remains.

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HOW WE FILLED THE COLUMNS. 237

Snow-capped crests and rising bosoms, Rising too that sphere so high, Who but you can stand so lofty With your head against the sky ?”’ ‘* Here’s an offer, Munroe, worth consider- ing.’’ . Pennytown, in the year of Auno Domine, eighteen hundred and sixty-three, June the first, early in the morning. DereSur, I have been a child’s nurse off and on for seven years, and have always got good wages, and giv satisfaction, and been much thought oa because I could tell the children so many stories. For good ones I have such luvely fairy’tales, and for bad ones such scarey hobgoblins that I can always make them mind. Now, as they tell me talents command a good price, I will come to you for so much a week and tell you the stories for you to write down for your paper. I made them all up myself, so I’ve a right to the pattern. I would write them, but I don’t know how to write. The cook here is writing this for me, and if you ’ll please excuse the liberty taken to oblige a fellow servant, that aia’t no hand with her pen, and oblige her Susan x< JonEs.’’ mark. ‘* Here ’s another, in a different style.’’ ‘*My Dear Sir: I know you editors, and youcan’t foolme. I’ve heard of your tricks, and know when you ‘decline with thanks; but cannot undertake to return MS.,’ that you put it away carefully to be printed when the writer has forgotten it, and you can get it for nothing. Now I have eight stories to sell, but I am not quite green enough to send them, so [’ll send the titles, and when you decide which one suits you best, I’ll forward the article. The price is $25 a piece, to be paid when the article is delivered. Yours, truly, Joun P 99 .

** Read the titles,’’ I said, faintly. ‘The Lonely Lover; or, the Last Lay of the Lame Lazzaroni. ‘*Miriam Marston; or, the Merry Maniac of Midnight. **Go it Alone; or, the Fatal Plunge. “Why? ‘*The Snarled Hank; or, How to Unravela Mystery. " ‘* Peter Popkins Pretty Polly’s Picture. ‘¢The Cross of Fire; or, the Raving Raven of the Riotous Raymond. **Do Tell! or, the Mad Mystery.”’ ‘*There, Munroe, you pays your money, and you takes your choice !’’ ** Ain’t you sleepy, Mollie ?”’ **Don’t be absurd; it’s only eight o’clock. Here is some poetry that you must open your eyes to read, for the spelling is beyond my powers of description.’’ 19*

“2 MAYRIAR. “I rite, I rite, oh! madem fare, Thi marvlus buty 2 deklare, But I kan never justis dew 2 thi dere iz of skiest blew. Thi butius loks of wavin gold . Wood fetch a hansum prise if scld, Tha wave on thi dere hed 60 free As if in luvin extaysee. Tha are lik silk in wavin grane, Tha are like ha upon the plane, Thi sno wile fase, thi little fete, Thi graisfool form in dres so nete, Hav awl 4 me thare seprit charms, And mi luy woos thee to mi arms.”’ ** Mollie, I am sleepy; you must waks me up by singing !’’ ‘*But, Muaroe, the paper, to-morrow!’ ‘*T°ll fill it up with local items: ‘ Melan- choly end of an unknown gentleman who, unseen by any human eye, plunged last night into the raging river; his body not yet re- covered. Only true and circumstantial account given below.’ ”’ ‘“*T know something better. Let’s print extracts from all these articles, and show an indulgent public some of the difficulties with which editors have to contend.”’ “ce But’’— ‘* But—I will have my own way !’’ And that she did, you see before you. When a man once allows a blue-eyed woman to fancy him her most obedient, I have no- ticed she generally does ‘‘have her own way.”’ — + ~1.0 e+. —— FRIENDSHIP’S FLOWER. BY LU LIGHT. Tere is a lovely little flower, Whose fragrance has a woadrous power To calm and cheer the heart. Thongh other earthly flowers decay, Their fleeting beauty waste away, Their loveliness depart ; This little flower will still perfume The air around, and richer bloom Upon its cheek will glow. Though dreary clouds the sky may pall, Though sorrow’s blighting frosts may fall, And wintry winds may blow ; This flower of friendship will not die, But live and bloom eternally With gentle loveliness, As when its fragrant buds at firet Upon the air of Eden burst, To brighten and to bless.

—Lovs is like honesty—much talked about, and but little understood.

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HIMSELF, HERSELF, MYSELF. BY THE AUTHOR OF “FROM MAY TO NOVEMBER.” CHAPTERI. We three, Hope Browne, Reaumur Brandt, and Proserpine Allen, sat together around the centre-table in Hope’s little parlor. Although yet early autumn, it was pleasant to have a fire cool evenings, like the one I recall, and the grate gave out a tempered glow, which, with the light from the then much esteemed solar, made a cheery atmosphere in the room, well pleasing to the trio. Familiar friends, they were accustomed to give themselves freely to whatever entertainment or employ- ment, whim or circumstance might suggest. This evening, Hope went on with the letter she had but half written when the twain joined her; Reaumur lounged and read, as men will, and must be indulged to read, since they neither sew, nor knit, nor crochet, nor— But it is to no purpose to catalogue at length what man does not, and woman does do; suf- fice it that Hope wrote, Reaumur read, and Proserpine sewed. Proserpine, oftener called, briefly, Pro. * Had my father lived up to the time when my restless wits were rife for the query, I might, possibl;, have learned somewhat of the caprice—caprice it was, upon the au- thority of my mother—which induced him to bestow upon me a name old and heathenish, but which, from friendly lips, has a sweet enough sound to my ear. My father was a bit of a scholar, and, withal, a bit of a humor- ist—so I am told. Hope folded her letter, wrote the super- scription in an off-hand way, and surprised us by an inquiry equally off-hand: ‘Ten years hence, where shall we be, Pro? And you, bookworm! where shall we find our- selves ten years hence ?”? Thus trodden upon, the bookworm very fitly and adroitly turned—the book upon the hand that swept teasingly over the pages, and held it fast between the covers, while, as one just waked to consciousness, he asked: ‘'Is any one bound up in books, did you say ?’’ Making skilful use of the recovered mem- ber, Hope gleefully possessed herself of the offending pamphlet, which she thrust sum- merily under the table. .238 Reaumur breathed a mock sigh, fell slowly back into the luxurious depths of the great stuffed chair, and drawled, at last, with an air of resigned complaisance: ‘‘ Well, ladies, where do I find you ?”’ ’ ‘The very thing,’ said Hope, ‘‘that is, when ten years are come and gone, where will you find us, and yourself?’’ Reaumur looked askance, and unseeing into a dusky corner of the room. ‘‘ Shall I Jind myself? that’s the question.”’ ‘* Not a bit of it,’’ looking a little frightened. ‘You don’t think we are to live less than ten years?’ You are—let’s see—twenty-five ?”’ Twenty-three had been a truer guess, but Reaumur let it pass. ‘‘Pro twenty; I eighteen. At twenty-eight, thirty, thirty- five’’—Hope paused as if a certain respect were due to the venerable numbers, and em- phasized, with a round of pointing, as she went on: ‘‘I’d like to see himself—herself— myself!”’ Here, either quickened by sudden inspira- tion, or moved by some urgent necessity to droop the lids over eyes too attractive, Hope caught up a pencil, and occupied herself with scratching upon a floating envelope an infinite variety of apparently aimless whorls and dashes. Reaumur withdrew the oppressive gaze, with an apparently pleased recognition of the slight embarrassment it had occasioned. There existed between them, as I believed, a tacit acknowledgment of interest which was fast ripening to definite fruition. ‘‘ Herself and myself,’’ he echoed, and fell into a little fit of musing. Doubtless, he re- flected, herself and myself will be one long before the lapse of a decade, and found it best, in place of Hope’s query as to where he should find himself, to discuss his own per- verse rendering, shall I find ntyself—the latter having a sort of negative advantage, in that the data were much less clearly defined ; generalizing even further, for when, at length, he opened the thought, it was with reference to that vague entity, which, through much devious mystifying, has come to be well-nigh as intangible as the mocking shapes that, by

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HIMSELF, HERSELF, MYSELF. 239 a kindred, natural process, are sometimes made to loom sublime in the offing, ‘‘ midway *twixt heaven and earth.’ Reaumur, taking an attitude rigidly erect, and a tone correspondingly didactic, ‘‘ the true and complete man is spherical.’’ A sudden, laughing gleam broke upon the countenance of Hope. Reaumur gave her a sly glance of inquiry, ere he proceeded, with grave, deliberate emphasis: ‘‘And a man may be said to have found himself when he has come to a conscious possession of all the quali- ties and capacities that should pertain to him as a human being; and, moreover, to an in- telligent cognition of the ruling bent that binds and harmonizes these into his special indi- viduality. He fixed his eye upon me as he ended this rigmarole. It was nothing more to either of his hearers, I am sure. ‘*You must say that more than once, Mr. Wiseman,’’ I suggested ; ‘‘ for seeing, Ido not see, and hearing, I do not understand.’’ A queer little smile waved about Reaumur’s lips, and twinkled from his restless, blue-gray eyes. It was as though himself the practical, regarded himself the speculating and ima- ginative, with the sort of amused indulgence one accords to a freakish pet, child, or animal. ‘* Well, then, Pro, you will have found your- self when you have measured and mastered your whole nature—height, breadth, depth ; wrought it into good spherical proportions ; weighed it fairly, and determined, definitely, itscentre. That’s what I said.’’ ‘You said no such thing, if my memory serves.’’ By this time, however, I had caught the drift of the oracular proportions, and an- swered accordingly: ‘‘ Having arrived at that unattainable stand-point, one might find himself, or herself, in heaven, I think.’’ ** Exactly.” ‘¢ What is Aristotle talking ?”? asked Hope, without raising her eyes from the sketch, which, by this time, I saw she was indus- triously working up. ‘*We are to find ourselves in heaven, Hope, some time; provided we are good, I suppose, and work hard enough for it.”’ Hope shrugged her shoulders, and put into her picture some very jagged markings. ‘* Hope don’t appear to relish the prospect,’’ Reaumur said, with an arch survey of the pretty artist. ' “Do you believe everything is so precise ** Man,”’ said‘ and prim there?’’ she interrogated, almost pettishly. **How so?’’ asked Reaumur, with a rather evident show of amusement, considering the gravity of the question. ‘“Why, dressed all alike, in white—on every head a golden crown, with jewels, more or less—to stand in a circle, or semicircle, and strike our harps and sing! You know I never could sing or play wortha fly! The floor to be of gold, or glass, or jasper, or some such cold, hard stuff! I can’t help hoping there ’ll be carpets, or grass, or moss, or some- thing to take off the chill. Then the flowers that never fade—so wearisome !’’ We laughed; Hope laughed with us; and fell to murmuring, with nursery accent and cadence :— “*T thank you my dear, But I’d rather live here ; The skies they are fair, And I love the fresh air ; The trees they are green—’ ”’ ‘* And I sit like a queen;’’ I prompted, archly, but Hope was out of breath. ‘*Hope will be translated, I think,’’ said Reaumur; and nobody, that saw his look of complacent admiration, would have seen cause to question his sincerity. ‘Not a doubt of it,’? I assented. ‘‘It-is only people who, like you and me, are all angels—no quibble for angels in this case— that are to be kneaded into spheres by harrow- ing and laborious experiences.’’ Hope scanned us both as if doubting our claim to proper balance of brain, and, at the same time, seeking upon our persons sigus of the processes I had named. They may have been there, and plainly enough visible, to the initiated, but not to Hope, 1 was glad to think. ‘*You make fun of me, Pro,’’ she said, with a somewhat earthly show of vexation, casting, at the same time, a sidelong glance at the result of her pencillitig, which, with a sly, humorous grimace, she presently pro- ceeded to amend. ‘And you, sir, who are quite as naughty as you are wise; I assure you, I have no wish to be translated.’’ ‘*You can’t help yourself, Hope;’’ and rising, Reaumur caught stealthily, from the mantle, a pretty wreath made from starry amaranth blossoms. Hope herself had woven it, culling the material from a weedy flower- patch known among us by the classic name

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240 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. of Eden. The circlet dropped with dainty grace upon Hope’s shining tresses. ‘* Hope is translated!’’ stole very tenderly from the lips of the mischievous hairdresser. A delicate, changing glow brightened her cheeks ; a joyous light shone from the brown eyes; smiles nestled among pearly lights and shadows, that owned their foil in the sweetest of carmine lips. The figure, that promised to be a trifle too stout in maturer years, now simply full, was etherealized by the amaran- thine crown, by glimmering lamps and fire- light; and, more than all, by the emotions which were sending a happy thrill through every fibre and nerve. Looking at her thus, I, for an instant, gave myself to Reaumur’s fancy; involuntarily peeping from the half-closed lids to enhance the effect. By way of diversion to the con- sciousness arising, not unnaturally, upon her sudden beatification, Hope balanced a paper weight, profusely gilded and inlaid ; the glit- tering toy accommodated my dreamy gaze, and was fast shaping itself to one of the golden harps aforesaid, when a burst of laughter broke the spell. Possibly, there is laughter in heaven; but this outburst, unquestionably mundane, drew me at once from realms celestial, to participate in Reaumur’s mirth over a fantastic delinea- tion of himself, herself, and myself. Hope had native tact for this species of drawing; so that, under her touch, the sim- plest thought would tell; and-here we laughed immoderately over the group of three. Reau- mur, whose every trait was skilfully main- tained in a figure grotesquely spare, called the attention of a companion—a lackadaisical skeleton, that was yet, unmistakably, Pro- serpine, to a comic moon-face—the disk of a body truly spherical, upon a bank of black, rolling cloud, and under a circlet of very ray- diant stars ; withal, a clever caricature of the artist’s own lineaments. While we laughed, Hope regarded us with demure composure, unmoved, even, when Reaumur, folding the paper, prepared to de- posit it in his pocket-book. ** Will you have it framed?’”’ I asked. “A morocco case—yes—worn upon the heart ;’’ he added, as he returned the wallet to his pocket and buttoned his coat carefully over it. “‘Are you going!’ said Hope, watching his movements. ‘If Pro is ready.’’ Pro signified readiness by immediate shawl- ing and hooding. Hope reached her hand toward the letter she had written—withdrew it; but, seeing we had noticed the action, iook it up, finally, remarking, as she did so: ‘‘It will vex you, perhaps ?”’ ‘Not in the least,’’ said Reaumur, extend- ing his hand. ‘I’m a very good-natured post-boy.’’ ‘*I take you at your word, then. Please leave this at the hotel, for—Mr. Ralph Merle.’’ The name gave me a sudden start, which, however, I covered by a movement toward the door. ‘*T will do it with pleasure,’’ Reaumur as- sented, with asly gravity of tone that bespoke mischief—‘‘ provided—”’ ‘* What, provided !”’ ‘* Provided said letter does not bear the address of said gentleman.’’ Hope gayly exposed the superscription, while Reaumur made a feint of scrutiny that really went no further than the merry eyes of the holder. ‘*T see,’? he said, with a gesture of ap- proval. ‘‘It’s all right.’’ ‘*Yes,’’ Hope replied, in a matter-of-fact way. ‘Our friend goes to Y—— to-morrow, as he told me. I met him to-day, grim and dumb. What’s happened, do you know ?’’ Reaumur did not know; and Hope, giving her hhead a shake that made her frail crown hop and rustle, went on :— ‘* We were to count upon him for rambles and sociables, and the like, a month longer, so I had supposed, until to-day. He oon- quered the dumb demen presently, and offered to take a package or message to my friends in Y. , if I chose so to honor him. I honor him, as you see.”’ ‘“‘The honor,’’ Reaumur commented, with a grave smile, “is all very well, if so be you reserve the concomitant—love and obey.’ , ‘‘The honor,’’ said Hope, laughing, ‘‘ was all he asked from me; but this sudden leave- taking, how does it come about? Pro! Pro! There ’s a wicked fairy in it, some way!’ Pro was, by this time, in the hall; and if she knew ‘how it came about,’’ did not stop to explain, but responded with a simpie good- night. a

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HIMSELF, HERSELF, MYSELF. 241 CHAPTER II. Reavumur, Hope, and Pro—as it ran, in play- ful brevity—had climbed together the rugged steeps of the village school and academy. Arrived thus far, Reaumur still toiled on up the higher ascent of the college, in place of which the two damsels sauntered through a series of terms ata fashionable boarding- school. Reaumur returned from college to pursue the study of law, which he did, with some drawbacks, wholesome and instructive, no doubt, but not too agreeable to his ambitious spirit. Sons and daughters gathered around the family board; it was of small circumfer- ence, and less abundantly spread than was quite convenient, and the patriarchal wisdom at length determined to transfer the olive plants to the broad table of the west, leaving behind only Reaumur, who adapted himself, or sought to do so, to the more meagre pro- mise of his New England home; a promise not likely to be too lavish, if its type were found in the frugal.establishment that re- ceived him. He came to us at the breaking up, a wel- come accession to our household. The weekly stipend, which he sturdily collected in every ‘practicable, honest way, happily augmented my mother’s slender resources. But, espe- cially, it was a satisfaction to be associated with the young man’s intelligent, active na- ture; a satisfaction and a pride to us, to trace his vigorous growth; to look forward with him to manly achievement in the future, hopefully, more hopefully than he himself looked to it ; for while one is forced to regard continually the stubble in the path, how may he get, save uncertain glimpses, of the dis- tant landscape ? Had there been wide choice of companion- ship, Hope’s more generous fortune might have separated her from us of narrower cir- cumstances, but, in the sparsely peopled village of Broadmead, the exclusive was, perforce, the solitary. Not that Hope had any special desire or willingness to part from her early associates, who were—I beg the reader’s faith in my modesty while I assert it—her undoubted equals in—many respects. (If, in view of previous passages in these pages, the assertion would seem to imply that I, Proserpine, rejoicing in happy gifts, make bold to appropriate also beauty—the beauty of an angel, forsooth—I here affirm, with self- possessed dignity, that I do not, in conse- quence of such an implication, abate a jot or tittle of the above claim). Not, I resume, after the unavoidable parenthesis, that Hope cared to leave us, but, conditions favorable, wind and tide would have floated her off long before the period here considered. As it was, we continued to exchange courtesies without formality, she, at her father’s villa, the sump- tuous retreat of a retired merchant; I, at the unpretending, but respectable mansion of my paternal grandmother. This kind relative opened her hospitable door to my mother and her three years old darling, at the death of my father, who had not the luck either to inherit or accumulate a fortune. The little we did possess, from him and other sources, considering my unstinted training, must have had something of the properties of the widow’s handful, in the days of Elijah. True, my grandmother withheld nothing; but the home we shared, her dower through a second widow- hood, formed, mainly, the substance that pertained to her. She, good friend, sighed drearily that she must leave us homeless, if haply called before us. It is hardly too much to believe that her life was prolonged by this strong persuasion that it was thus knit up With our welfare. ‘‘O king, live forever!’’ was the fervent heart-cry of daughter and grand- daughter. The latter, meantime, in the buoy- ancy of youth and untried energies, arrayed confidently ways and means of certain and untold emolument. The plans thus evoked might have been called legion, so multitudin- ous they were, and eke contentious, and scantly curbed by apt texts from the lips of the elder and wiser, affluent always of Christ- ian meekness and trust. For the knotty pro- blem my grandmother had one pet solution. Through the murk of her tribulation, little frolic jets sparkled thickly up, and they were wont to dance a fantastic measure, the merry sprites! over the proposition of a union be- tween her prospective heir, a nephew of her late husband, and her favorite granddaughter; an arrangement that, shaping itself in thin, volatile possibility, totally innocent of the more matter-of-fact element of probability, yielded fair matter of badinage to a vivacious Miss and a j@cose grandmamma. But, at length, as will. sometimes occur, the impalpa- ble possibility, taking sudden weight and persistence, woke well-nigh to probability,

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242 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. and, like the gray dawn and the cock-crow- ing, laid the jocund elves in haste. The mythical heir, who, all the years of his life, for me, at least, had dwelt in the cool, white shimmer of moonshine, sprang into a visible, actual fact, in the person of Mr. Ralph Merle. Of moonshiny antecedents, Mr. Ralph Merle was yet aright gentlemanly young gentleman ; of comely presence, and comely behavior, and comely fortune expectant of comely aug- mentation in time to come. Hailing from the indefinite South, Mr. Ralph Merle had anchored at Broadmead for summer recreation, and, in furtherance thereof, as may have been inferred from Hope’s remarks concerning him, had industriously availed himself of the social, as well as other resources, of this secluded locality. The shadow of relationship between him and my grandmother served for intro- duction to our trio, which, shortly, for all pleasure rounds and roundels, yielded to the quartette. To observers and commentators, of whom Broadmead held the usyal village share, the quartette had given promise of settling into an institution, not less harmo- nious than the long-established trio; but no— the fourth of the little band dropped suddenly out of the Broadmead world. Broadmead was exRausted! business called! How came it about—the abrupt leave-taking ? In some moods, one shrinks from the broad sunlight; it is too painfully stimulant. I know this, for though ill at ease, and pricked by restless impatience for out-of-door diver- sion, I had worried through the livelong day; stitching ugly seams with smothered disgust ; shuffling books, whose mere wordiness stunned me to a vacant stare; and meeting my daily domestic offices with most ungracious, topsy- turvy encounter. I ventured abroad in the twilight. But the twilight, friendly and un- obtrusive in the prospective, was hardly so as I came upon it vis-d-vis. The road, over which I loitered drearily, lay low and level, between a line of woods and a succession of marshy meadows. Clouds, sullen and mot- tled, overspread the sky. Turf, and rock, and tree were dank with recent rain; rusty pools lingered in the roadside hollows and drains. The air also was dank, and burdened with vexing noises. The lengthened ‘‘cree- cree-cree’’ of the cricket exasperated me with its continuous, nerveless tremble; the rasping ‘‘raif-rif, raif-rif of the katy-did, grated through the woods, and the grum, blattering frog-croak shook the near morass. Brushing the matted brake, as I walked, the hop of a hiding toad startled me with sugges- tion of snaky coil and spring. The very glow-worms, upon the ledgy borders, lent themselves to tease me with fitful, vanishing coruscations. The shipmaster who, upon the wide ocean, should heave adrift his one serviceable life- boat, might, possibly, in review, experience something of the mood that possessed me. Whatever considerations’ should constrain him, the act must draw after it the inevitable train of dubious and irritable self-arraign- ment. When, some days previous, Ralph Merle, avowing his lasting affection, had offered me a wife’s share in his prosperous lot, the offer had been met, on my part, with a grateful, but decisive refusal. To say that I would now have reversed the deed would be too much; to say that retrospection brought to me haunting trouble, wearying doubt, gloomy foreshadowing of undefined want and loneli- ness of heart, would be simply true. A pain- ful sense of wrong done, in some way, and to some one, persistently imaged to me the wan and stricken mien of Ralph, as he listened to my denial. I did not, indeed, count upon its permanence, but the present undeniable misery that, through me, had befallen a worthy and well-esteemed man, weighed upon me. And whether or not it had been given in merest perversity of heart—this rejection of a settlement so apparently favorable to all par- ties—I was assured it was thus the act had presented itself to my mother and grand- mother. They were cautiously silent, wisely shy of influencing me in the matter; I knew, nevertheless, that they were disappointed, and not without show of reason. The know- ledge gave unbearable pungency to my medi- tations upon the subject. Furthermore, the affair was a revelation to me from, and of, myself. The close self- scrutiny which it involved had, for the first time, made known to me clearly the presence in my nature of a somewhat that claimed, at least, a partial immunity from those intel- lectual and semi-intellectual canons to which, hitherto, I had felt myself called upon to yield single and implivit obedience; had made known to me a selfhood more interior and subtile, yet more pervasive and tyrannons, in the conduct of life, than the conscious will

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HIMSELF, HERSELF, MYSELF. 2438 itself. To this suddenly wakened arbiter the long recognized authorities had bent, sub- servient, though reserving the privilege of impotent, moody rebellion. This once it had been so; how in the future? Would the dual sovereignty come into final harmony, or was perpetual contest the -unpropitious prospect? The dawning self-analysis. filled me with perplexity and unrest. I was slowly retracing my steps—still with my evil elf that scrupled not to malign all the sweet sights and sounds of nature—when Reaumur, coming by a cross-path, from the wood, joined me. It was certainly too dark for him to have received any hint from ex- pression of countenance. If, therefore, it were not chance, something more intimate and inexplicable must have acted upon, and moved him to address himself at once to my mood, playfully. ‘Good evening, nymph Proserpine; how fare you? What from Tartarus ?’’ ‘* High festival to-night,’’ I replied, with a laugh appropriately sardonic. ‘‘ Listen!’’ We stood-a moment, half stunned by the fenny dissonance. ‘*The blare of an impish chorus!’’ I ex- plained. ‘* A-a-ah!’’? Reaumur ejaculated, with dry, quavering accent. ** And the shuffle of an impish dance!’’ I continued, lending an ear to the resonant wood. ‘‘And’’—with reckless hyperbole— ‘*the everlasting creak, creak, of Ixion’s fiery wheel!” ‘* And the sparkles that he grinds for the festal top-knots!’’ Reaumur ventured, with crowning reach of fantasy, pointing to the twinkling fires that starred the neighboring bank. ‘*And lurking, serpent demons!’’ I cried, with a vehement nervous spasm, at a sudden whirr and escape from the sedge of a quail, or, perchance, sparrow, frightened from its eosey lodge. ‘*Pro,’’ said Reaumur, offering me his arm with quiet seriousness, and instant banish- ment of this extravagance, ‘‘Tartarean sha- dows are really upon you. Let’s leave them, forthwith.”’ Tartarean shadows clung to us, never- theless, for while I walked on in silence, annoyed at my silly exhibition of nervous- ness, Reaumur asked, abruptly, reproach- fully, it seemed :— | pressed !”? ** Pro, why have you plucked this Tartarean apple ?’’ ; With great difficulty I repressed a repeti- tion of the spasmodic start; I did repress it, however, and suffered him to go on in indirect explanation :— > , ‘*T saw Merle, the other night. He goes away from Broadmead, miserably depressed.’’ ‘*And I stay at Broadmead, miserably de- I drew my breath with wonder at the bold confession; yet it suited me better than any subterfuge I might have conjured for the occasion; evasion was so obviously futile and superfluous. Moreover, I have a notion that I indulged the admission, thus far, as a just tribute to the worth of my re- jected suitor, and a self-assumed rebuke to my own perverseness. ‘Therein is the mystery,’’ Reaumur re- joined simply. ‘‘ You acknowledge the man upright, noble, lovable, but fail to accord the lawful seal to your acknowledgment. How are we to judge you, cruel, wilful Pro?’’ **Judge me as you will,’’ I said, huskily, and rather indignantly; ‘‘I have only this to say’’— Had Reaumur held his pause of interested inquiry to this day, my tongue would not have loosed itself to say the promised this.* ‘*‘T beg your pardon,’’ he said, at length, stiffly; ‘‘I have no right to judge, or, indeed, to remark at all.’’ ** You have the right,’’ I said, quickly, ‘‘in that you are the tried and trusted friend of both.”’ CHAPTER III. Ir was far on in the ensuing spring, and again we passed the evening with Hope. We —Reaumur, Hope, and Pro—had met thus, often, since the preceding fall; but I recall this time particularly, as an epoch in those ten years that Hope had blindly yearned to over- leap. Hope had returned recently from a visit to her city relatives. They were people of wealth and polite culture, and the brilliant atmosphere of her late social experience still clung to Hope. Was it due to this, that a degree of constraint, hitherto unknown in our association, seemed to have fallen upon us? I had begun to think so, when, towards the close of the evening, Hope gave me a new clue, or, at least, gave, to my dawning sur- mise, a new phase.

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244 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. ‘*T have a piece of news for you,’’ she said, suddenly; ‘‘a great piece of news.” We were, of course, duly curious, as well as greatly surprised at the announcement, when it came. That is, I was ;— Reaumur, manlike, waited and listened, with grave patience. ‘* We are to go to Europe,’’ said Hope. ‘*To Europe? You?’’ I exclaimed. ‘* Yes, I, with others; as father and aunt.’’ ‘* News, indeed; but when do you go?’’ ‘*In the next steamer; we propose to return to York immediately—to-morrow.”’ ‘*So soon?’ I ejaculated, agape with won- der; not so much, perhaps, at the movement itself, as at the tardy disclosure. ‘*Ah,’’ laughed Hope, ‘‘ you are nearly as much amazed as myself! but you must sub- mit; I did. My father and aunt put their heads together, and wound me up in their plot, with hardly a ‘ by your leave.’ ’’ Hope spoke briskly; but I thought her tone not altogether clear—her manner more distrait than before, as‘she sat silent for a time, waiting for a word from Reaumur, plainly, though she looked directly at me and not at all at him. Imitatively, or intuitively, I also avoided observing him, and met Hope’s gaze with a stiffness that she evidently took for reproach, for she said, finally, with plain reference to it :— ‘*Now, Pro, don’t annihilate me. It was partly a whim, and partly I couldn’t help it, not telling you before.’’ I pondered, within myself, the whim, but murmured, aloud, something about sorrow at parting, and ended with congratulation in view of the enjoyment in store for her. ‘*Oh, it is fine! so grand! to make the European tour!’’ and Hope spread her hands in mock demonstration of rapture, pouting prettily all the while. ‘‘So grand, and so-— so—finishing! That it will be—to me.’’ “Ah! no doubt of it,’’ I cried, laughing. **We shall hide our diminished, untravelled heads when you return.’’ I looked around for Reaumur’s sympathy at the belittling prospect. He had walked to the window, and stood gazing steadily at the glass, which, as it was totally dark outside, could have shown him only a distorted picture of him- self. Such it must have been, if a true reflec- tion of the visage presented to us when he turned at my inquiry. ** How long will it be—this tour ?”’ ‘I don’t know,’’ Hope answered, glumly. **It should not be at all, I think.’’ ‘*Why do you let it be?’’ Reaumur urged, breaking his long silence, with a voice moda- lated so carefully, that it betrayed the more the anxiety he would have hidden. ‘*Ah, why?’ I echoed. ‘‘ Your friends would not compel you, surely ?’’ A fancy, very formless and unfledged, struck out from that last clause, while I uttered it, and awaited Hope’s reply. She did not say yes, or no, but looked, through a curious, tearful twinkle, at one and the other. ‘* I don’t want to go,’’ she emphasized pet- tishly. ‘‘I’ve had bad dreams; saw the last new moon over my left shoulder; heard a whippoorwill three nights running; an old crow caws forever on the dead cherry-tree, yonder !’’ ‘What else?’’ I asked, with a miserable little laugh. ‘* What else? What more would you have? Only last night, if you will believe me, in the - dead of night, I woke up to hear the cries of a hideous screech-owl, that had come all the way from his swampy den to haunt me; and the wind moans, and shrieks, and howls !— and 00—oo—oo—ooh !—I can’t sleep o’nights, all along of it !’’ Hope’s features, as she wound up thus, presented a most dismally ludicrous contra- diction of fun and dolor. Through all the absurd garnishing, I felt that her objection to going abroad was genu- ine and tangible; but saw that, for some reason, she did not choose to dilate upon it with greater precision. I, therefore, met her upon her own ground. ; ‘* What a superstitious, unhopeful Hope! Away with melancholy! You will make the grand tour grandly, and will come home safe and sound, lustrous in old-world lore and old-world grace. You will forget us while you are away, of course, but we’ll put you in mind, again, when you come back.’’ In pity for Reaumur’s dumbness, I had made it a point to fill every pause; but now, suddenly left the parlor and betook myself to Hope’s dressing-room, ostensibly to possess myself of a truant scarf. On my way I gath-red up my hat and cloak, which were lying in the hall. It took me an unreasor- ably leng time to adjust these simple bits of apparel. I lingered yet, to note that the mantel had shed some of its ornaments, and

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HIMSELF, HERSELF, MYSELF. 245 the walls, one or two pictures, in deference to the proposed absence of their mistress ; then, having peered repeatedly out into the dark, with no better response than had awaited Reaumur similarly engaged; and having taken a look in the glass to reassure myself of my proper person, after the spectral exhibition of the window-panes, I went slowly down the stairs. Reaumur still stood where I had left him, braced against-the window-frame, with the same abstracted mien. Hope moved the arti- cles upon the table nervously, and, when I gave her a parting caress, said, absently, by force of habit, I suppose— ‘*Come and see me, Pro.”’ ** You will give me your address, then?’’ I said, archly. It recalled her. ‘* Paradise Row,’’ she replied, quickly, with a piquant bend of the head, indicating her recognized title to such a residence. ‘‘ Para- dise Row,’’ she repeated, ‘‘at number so— so.’’ And asif elated at the successfal rhyme, she improvised farther. ‘‘If I change my quarters, my friends shall know.’’ Hope laughed, while she spoke, and veiled her eyes; but the tell-tale lashes glittered, and straying drops upon her cheeks stole pearly gleams in the lamplight. ‘‘Shall we go?’ I said to Reaumur, twice, before he heeded me. When, at length, he did heed me, it was to follow my lead with a dreamy uncer- tainty that appealed painfully to my sym- pathy; and especially admonished me to take to myself, on our way home, the pilotage over a broken road, and under a clouded sky. I saw Hope again in the morning; went, indeed, to the depot, purposely to bid her good-bye. She stood on the platform with her father, a man of gentlemanly, but not altogether genial, presence. From her father Hope may well have derived her choice phy- sique, with the grace and nobility of mien that accompanys such, but scarcely from him what wrought into them their happiest charm, a rare sweetness and sensibility. These may have been due to the mother, who left her in early childhood. We exchanged the usual courtesies, with some less usual, in reference to the prospec- tive travel. Then, while Mr. Browne attended to the disposal of the baggage, I stepped with Hope into the waiting-room. As we did so, Hope cast about a glance of inquiry, taking in successively the groups gathered here and VOL. Lxx.—20 there, and sending a final, lingering gaze down the village thoroughfare. To this, per- haps unconscious impulse, in my companion, I held the key in my own surprise at the ab- sence of Reaumur, who might naturally be expected to seek this opportunity for a long goodby. ‘‘T had thought to find Reaumur here be- fote me,’’ I remarked, when we were seated, quite alone, in the dingy little retreat, on a comfortless lounge greatly out at the elbows. ‘*He will be here yet; something has detained him.”’ Hope seemed to mind only the engine, visi- ble through the open door, fuming, and nurs- ing its spent breath for a renewal of its course. Perhaps, by some subtle arrangement, she contrived to expend, through the murky cylinder, the chafe that else might have sought more immediate vent. With sympa- thetic consciousness that the vent was needed, I drew my arm about her caressingly. ‘¢Pro,’? said she abruptly, while a little tremor broke over her, ‘‘do you pretend to fancy Reaumur Brandt has any special | 4 She could not bring herself to speak it, after all. ‘* Liking for you?’’ I said, coming to the rescue. ‘No, I dont fancy—I krow—of course he has.’’ Hope’s face flushed vividly, and a deep breathing smoothed away the tremor, though not the eagerness, from her voice. ‘‘IfI be- lieved it, Pro! but I don’t believe it. If it were so, he might have—said as much, long ago!”’ ‘* Possibly,’’ I suggested, with a poor at- tempt at pleasantry, ‘‘he might woo our royal lady-of England (then a spinster, good reader), or some other slip of the reigning house; he, poor as a church mouse !”’ ‘Who cares for his poverty!’’ Hope broke forth, with impetuous contempt, that pleased me, though my hearty sympathy was hardly evinced in the grave quietude of my response. ‘*Who cares? Dear, simple chiid! your friends care. Poverty involves too much that is uncomfortable and disagreeable.’’ My foggy conjecture, above named, had taken shape : Hope went abroad, but the more especially with the approval of friends, in that Reaumur Brandt remained at home. ‘‘ Your friends care,’’ I repeated; ‘‘and—you do not now— but you would, in the long run.’’ That last was a cruel thrust, as the recoil that followed

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246 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. proved to me; but I must needs venture thus much in my defence of Reaumur. ‘‘ More than all, Reaumur himself cares. He has a proper pride.’’ ‘*A proper pride!’’ Hope echoed, mock- ingly. ‘‘Ah, yes—a proper pride—must freeze, and cramp, and crush—the life out of us— Pro!’ Alas, Hope! ripe for translation, yet tossed by human passion, and crossed by human wisdom, like the rest of us! ‘* Well!’’ con- tinuing, presently, in a strain of vehement irony, ‘‘I’ve not the least bit of regard for him, you may be sure—no, not the least— that is—I don’t—mean to have.’* The last clause, dying away in a sickly contortion of lip, was shaped to my eye rather than ear, and, perhaps, it was my intentness in spelling thus her meaning that annoyed the speaker, and prompted her to withdraw from me. I did not presume to watch her, but I could not help knowing how, from time to time, her hand brushed, furtively, one eye, then the other, as she stood in the doorway, sha- dowed by the low-roofed portice. I waited until, turning, she seemed to solicit my com- panionship, then joined her. ** Forget this folly, Pro,’’ she said, with an April-like smile; ‘‘I scarce know how I have fallen into it.’’ ‘*Naturally—’’ The laggard Reaumur, cross- ing the platform with a bound, stood before us. My response ran into a parting salute, and I saw the twain, with locked hands, look- ing helplessly after me, as I passed quickly into the street, from the opposite door. CHAPTER IV. ‘*Tuere!’’ cried Reaumur, while, with an air of elation, pleasant to see, he tossed upon my work-table a handful of letters and papers, among them a letter from Hope, a limp thing, such as it is usual tO send over the water. One had come to Reaumur, also, I knew, just as well as though I had been clairvoyant and could set at nought the folds of broadcloth and vesting under which it nestled. ‘‘ What does she write, Reaumur?’’ I asked, with a knowing smile. ‘* How can I tell, indeed ??’—with an open- ness of countenance that belied the feint of ignorance—‘‘ Read and see!’’ pointing au- thoritatively at the letter I was already open- ing, and walking away with a certain pompous gait, that odd result of restrained buoyancy that we sometimes see. I read, accordingly, rapid sketches of life on shipboard; eager hints of novel experi- ence, dashed with sprightly anecdote and racy allusion. Hope handled her pen much as she did her pencil, outlining forcibly, with a quaint disregard of congruity, and a leaning to the grotesque, that became her as it did no one else. I laughed, as I always must needs laugh, over anything from her hand, and a blinding fog in my eyes muddled the graceful text; why, I know not, but suspect such was the mood truly responsive to that in which the letter was written. One item I recall :— ‘Do you remember, dear Pro, Ralph Merle, the sojourner?’’? Thus Hope had playfully named our friend, in his summer tarry at Broadmead. ‘‘ Well! the same floats, now, a forlorn waif, outward-bound like ourselves. Odd, is it not? But that he never speaks of you (Hibernian), I might infer that he has forgotten you. To the best of my belief you deserve to be forgotten by him, and, in this case, I mean to do what I can to help you to your deserts.”’ With what persistence this item haunted me, reaching and wreathing into my picture of Hope’s future—diffusing itself therein to clothe and vivify the bald travel-plots, to bring into them, as it were, the impalpable, but telling, perspective. And, was it mere maudlin fancy aiming idly at second sight? Happy in fortune and education, with agreeable person and address, Ralph Merle had, by accident or otherwise, become the travelling companion of my beau- tiful Hope, whom her friends were seeking, by all available means, to hold above the rough encounters of common life. Ralph Merle and Hope Browne—alike gifted in line- age, position, fortune—what if— But, patience! time is the sure revealer. So I schooled myself. Nevertheless, impa- tience for a second missive so rasped and fevered me that, by way of counter-irritation, I was tempted to accuse myself of some inte- rest in the issue I had been conjuring, even more intimate than was warranted by my affection for Hope. Of course no such thing could be. By my deliberate cheice, Ralph Merle was free to roam, to woo and win whomsoever he would—Hope, for anght I

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HIMSELF, HERSELF, MYSELF. 247 knew. But, perhaps, in view of the latter possibility, my thought centred chiefly upon Reaumur. I had no reason to believe he had swerved from the line I had ascribed to him, in my last conversation with Hope. Even when sorely tempted by her ominous depart- ure, he had, as I believed, scorned to avail himself of the kindness which must have been evident to him not less than to myself, and nobly set aside the promptings to proffer, for her acceptance, his improved self, and his still more improved fortunes. Yet—I knew it, better than words could show me—this love had become to him the very mainspring of life, a tense, central coil, to stir wheel, and lever, and index into harmonious movement and expression. Hope’s second letter came in due time, and my curiosity—to call it by no better name— was fed by the following :— ‘*Ralph Merle, waif, walks up and down the piazza. What a noble mien the man has! He has joined our party for the tour through Switzerland. Say, now, that you envy me, just the least bit, you insensible Pro! Ah me! what a criss-cross world! That is, I mean, the star-shine and spider- webs that hang round about it. Write me, Pro, soon, and tell me all about—you know whom.”’ **You know whom’’—a lucid text to write upon. And did not you know whom speak for himself? I proposed, mischievously, to in- terrogate in my next letter, and did not fail to do so, but found little satisfaction; for, this time, many months passed before a reply reached me, and when, at length, it did come, contrary to the whole tenor of Hope’s mind and habit, it was filled, from beginning to end, with descriptive matter, as if purposely to exclude everything personal. But, written across the page, was a single, detached line that somehow looped itself significantly into my previous cogitation: ‘‘Pro, Pro! fate weaves for me; I am passive!’’ Standing thus, alone, and at angles to the main body of the writing, the sentence broke upon me with a certain painful wildness, like sudden, half suppressed wailing. Reaumur, having gone successfully through the laborious ordeal of preparation, was ready to take his place as member of the bar, and, prompted by the earnest advice of the now prosperous Brandt, senior, he made rapid ar- rangements to take up his quarters and ‘put out his shingle’? in thriving S——, of his father’s adopted State. He had won a long wished-for goal, and everything looked favor- able for a new start. Only this—the man, himself was moody; with waiting, perhaps, for a kindly, reassuring word from Hope. He had waited a long time—none came. None had come to myself; so I too was moody, with disappointment, with gloomy prescience of the aggravated loneliness that would follow the departure of this other boon companion ; with sympathy as well—for I did not like to see the blank sternness weaving itself about the young man—bleak and gaunt, like a shroud, made even more apparent by the activity which the contemplated journey forced upon him, every turn bringing out some new trait of unwonted wanness. I saw it in silence. What good to croak? Though, by this time, I was well assured my prophetic reachings were not the result of simple fancy. The Pythoness sat fitly on a tripod. Experience, intuition, law, or established fitness, make a three-footed throne whereby each and every- one may claim the dominion of the geer! The word came shortly, though not until Reaumur had gone. First a rumor; then a simple announcement by letter, from Hope to myself—a mere bald statement—-Ralph Merle and Hope Browne stood affianced to become man and wife. As such, they would pass the winter in Italy, returning home the ensuing summer, possibly, not until autumn, two years, or more, from the date of their going abroad. I read the brief note with stifled breath, cramping my fingers upon it, in the vain effort to keep them steady; and, when I had done, inclosed it to Reaumur, without a word of comment. What could I say? (Conclusion next month.) NOT ALL A WAIF. BY W. 8. GAFFNEY. O wondrous power! how little understood— Intrusted to the mother’s mind alone, To fashion genius, form the soul for good, Inspire a West, or train a Washington! Mrs. Hale’s Poems. A moruER’s love! Who can fathom its depths? Time has failed to do so, and eter- nity will bear witness of its undying existence ! It is holy, it is sweet, it is boundless and superhuman ! In our life probation we may make many | friends——build upon their love, and feel secure

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248 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, in their friendship—but when adversity, the true test of love, comes, they’ are generally gone. But in a mother’s love there is no in- sincerity. There are no modulations by for- tune; but it lives and is nourished as intensely in the rural habitation of a peasant, as among the noble and the great, and by the inheritors of adiadem. Its residence is in the centre of her heart, from whence it flows through every avenue of feeling, quickening with its blessed influence the slightest thoughts and actions. A mother’s love can never grow cold whilst her heart is warm ! Think you because that once beautiful, matronly brow is silvered over with the frosts of time, that the heart has also grown old? Nay, change can never alienate a mother’s love. Though silvery hairs fall over a brow all wrinkled, and a cheek all furrowed, there is a heart within the bosom still beating with a pure and lasting affection. Young man—love your aged mother. Her face is care-worn, but her heart is ever warm toward her offspring. Years of trial and sickness, perhaps, have stolen the fresh- ness of her life; but like the faded rose, the perfume of her love is stronger than when in the full bloom of youth and loveliness. Washington loved his mother! and this is a notorious proof of all magnanimous hearts. A heart that ever retains a sympathy for a good and kind—it may be saintly—mother, can never become wholly vicious. Love your mother, then, young man; honor and respect the vessel that bore you, the fount that nour- ished you, the form that bent in loving kind- ness over your tender infancy. Young lady—love the tree of your existence ! Sweetness is yours; lavish it upon the with- ering form of your aged and devoted mother. Affection is a lasting debt, one that can never be overpaid. Let your filial devotion rest upon her hoary head. Pour nectar into her weary and aching heart; strew her path with your most grateful smiles; and smooth the downy pillow upon which rests her palsied frame. Her dying lips will breathe your happiness ; the world will admire and cherish your devotedness; and Heaven will bless you! Flowers of joy will spring up and bloom in your pathway ; love and friendship will crown your probationary existence ! Love your mother! Yes, and the angels of heaven will smile upon you, and guard your welfare. Your own conscience will whisper ‘\ to you, ‘‘ Well done,’’ and you will be buoyed up by the assurance of Holy Writ, ‘‘ that your days may be long in the land of the living.’’? Yes, and this hope will bear you to the elysium where all is everlasting felicity! Love your mother, then. The voice of nature commands you—Heaven imposes the task upon you. It is one of the harmonies of the soul, one of the life-pulses of the heart ! It is love for love. A mother’s love—a mother’s wealth of love is so great that the power of death and the victorious grave cannot put out its quenchless flame! And he (or she) that would repay all the faithful tenderness of a mother’s devoted affection with unkindness and ingratitude, “is a wretch Whom ’twere base flattery to call a coward.” MORAL FORTITUDE DEPENDENT ON HABIT. WueEn life is in danger, either in a storm or a battle, it is certain that less fear is felt by the commander or the pilot, and even by the | private soldier actively engaged, or the com- mon sailor laboriously occupied, than by those who are exposed to the peril, but not employed in the means of guarding against it. The reason is, not that the one class be- lieve the danger to be less; they are likely in many instances to perceive it more clearly. But having acquired a habit of instantly turn- ing their thoughts to the means of counter- acting the danger, their minds are thrown into a state which excludes the ascendency of fear. Mental fortitude depends entirely upon this habit. The timid horseman is haunted by the horrors of a fall. The bold and skilful think only about the best means of curbing or supporting his horse. Even when all means are equally unavailable, and his con- dition appears desperate to the bystander, he still owes it to his fortunate habit that he does not suffer the agony of the coward. Many cases have been known where fortitude has reached such strength that the faculties, in- stead of being confounded by danger, are never raised to their highest activity by a less violent stimulant. The distinction between such men and the coward does not depend upon difference of opinion about the reality or extent of the danger, but on a state of mind which renders it more or less accessible to fear.

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» ROXANNA WARE. BY VIRGINIA F. TOWNSEND. Sus must look the fact straight in the face now, although it had come so sudden and _ Unawares, that it seemed, for the moment, like a blow that must crush her before she could rally thought or will to meet it. She was only twenty-two, and she had had, dur- ing the last three or four months, many a sweet, stolen-out look into a future that seemed, to her young eyes, luminous with dazzling heights of happiness, and full of all that sweet tenderness and rest, and home de- lights, which form the dearést dreams and hopes of a woman’s heart. And this girl was essentially womanly. Her weaknesses and her strength were all of the feminine type; and her visious and inspira- tions always took the forms of home loves, and duties, and joys; never went out, and sought for themselves those wider spheres and loftier careers, to which some of her sex have done grace and honor; a bright, finely or- ganized, susceptible nature, with rich capa- cities of inflorescence and development among kindly atmospheres and circumstances. Her name was Roxanna, a name which always has, in my thoughts, some sweet flavor, like scents of wild clover, or breath of mellowing apples, or bed of mountain mint, thrilling the summer air with its cool, vital fragrance—her yame was Roxanna Ware. In some sense—a large and deep one, toa nature like hers—life had turned its hard side toward her. Father, brother, or sister, she had none. All these had died in her childhood; and her mother had had a hard struggle to keep her one daughter by her side, at a time when she most needed a mother’s influence and care. It had been done, though, at the cost of labor and strength, and, at last, when the burden fell from the mother’s shoulders, the daughter took it up. Roxanna Ware had been, for two years, a clerk in a large dry goods establishment, and her salary was, what a great many women’s are, inadequate as they usually seem, the only dependence for the family, which, in this case, consisted of herself and She had a face that, to say the It had so 20* mother. least, was remarkably pretty. much bloom of color, so much bright sweet- ness of expression; and above it lay in light or shadow, as it might be, the thick, fine masses of her dark brown hair. A natural” grace, too, she had of movement, and speech, and manner, which always attracted one who had the grace to observe and appreciate it. Stephen Drake had this. He was the bro- ther of one of the younger partners, and often supplied the latter’s place, when business or illness occasioned his absence. Stephen Drake always admired a pretty woman; that was not all, such usually admired him, for he had many social qualities for which to be praised, many also of heart and mind, for he was in- telligent, generous, manly, with a fervid scorn of whatsoever was mean or dishonor- able. Roxanna Ware attracted his attention and interest as no girl in his brother’s store had ever done. He was fond of talking with her; he showed her a thousand little name- less courtesies and attentions, which he never did any of the rest, and Stephen Drake had a power of giving a certain grace and charm to any small courtesy of his, which was more than the act itself. If it rained, he was cer- tain to take Roxanna within the shelter of his umbrella; he lent her books; he had several times passed an hour at her mother’s humble lodgings, and had shown his interest in the old lady by sending her gifts of rare fruits, in seasons which made them the costliest of luxuries. Many a maiden has builded her shining ‘‘air castles’’ on frailer foundations than these. Surprised, flattered, with attentions of this sort, it was not strange that the fancies of little Roxanna Ware effloresced about this man; neither was it strange that her imagina- tion hovered often, in visions of gold and pur- ple, around the future years, or wandered in sweet, tremulous, beautiful dreaming on that fair border land that threw its light and glamour over all that was hard and dreary in her present life. And Roxanna Ware was not far wrong. There had been a time when, had no other woman crossed the path of Stephen Drake, her chance would have been a good one of He was not really aware of 249 being his wife.

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250 GODEY’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, this himself. To his honor be it told, that, in their acquaintance, no act nor word of his had given her the slightest claim on his re- gard, the faintest right to accuse him of any thought of tampering with her affections, un- less a light pressure of her hand at parting, or a pleased approving glance at some bright little speech of hers, seemed to carry some deeper meaning than appeared on the surface. Yet, once or twice, a thought had crossed the brain or heart of Stephen Drake, that he could never take to wife a fairer or sweeter girl than his brother’s clerk ; once or twice, looking at the face where the small, swift blushes went and came, he had felt a passing thrill of ten- derness, an emotion that was the germ which, under favoring circumstances, might have developed into an abiding love. But, another woman crossed the path of Stephen Drake, one whose life had been surrounded, from its birth, with every shelter of affection, with every luxury of wealth, and every opportunity of mental and social cultivation. Nature had been no more prodigal of gifts with the one than with the other; in some respects, it may be, the superiority was on Roxanna Ware’s side, but circumstances were not. Stephen Drake had courage and manliness enough, when put to the test, to marry the woman of his love, no matter how great might be the social disparity betwixt them; but he was not unmindful of birth and breeding, and his feelings were not sufficiently enlisted in the case of Roxanna Ware, to have her stand in the way of another. So he wooed and won the ex-mayor’s daughter. The betrothal was somewhat sud- den, and Roxanna had had no intimation of it, until the whole was communicated to her one afternoon, by the book-keeper’s wife, whose means of information, and whose vera- city placed the fact beyond a doubt. It was just at nightfall, and well that, in the shadows behind the counter where she stood, the lady could not see her auditor’s face, else she must have probed the secret, guarded with a woman’s pride, of the soul of Roxanna Ware. There was a sudden stricture at her heart, followed by the swift pain, that fairly took away her breath, and struck down into ashen pallor all the bright bloom of her face. At that moment it seemed to Roxanna that she would have been very glad to die. Life held nothing for her worth living for. She looked out, shivering, to the dreary road which went winding along the future years, glad- dened by no shadow of green trees, or spring- ing fountains, or song of birds—nothing but care, poverty, toil. Wifely love and woman’s home were not for her, as they were for other and happier women. It seemed hard enough, looking at Roxanna Ware, then, that the mere fancy of a man should make or unmake all her life. No more pleased, shy outlooks into a future radiant with visions of youth and hope; all her dreams blurred out of its land- scape, swifter than fogs, driven of the winds, blur sweet pictures of hill and valley from our sight. It was not so much pride, as a kind of womanly instinct, that came to the girl’s res- cue just then, and made her say, in a kind of hard, fierce tone, which indicated a great lack of sympathy in the subject: ‘‘I must wait until some other time to hear the rest of the story, or the rain will overtake me before I reach home.’’ And a moment later she went out into the night, with its damp, clinging chill, in which was no light of stars, nor glory of the moon, and she fancied her life was like the night. .But Roxanna Ware was mistaken here. She was young, and there were forces of re- cuperation in her nature; the blow had not struck down to the core. There were still untouched and unharmed in her vast possi- bilities of tenderness and trust, of all that makes the happiness of women like her. Her heart’s fancy, imagination had all been awak- ened, not exhausted. Still, it was not strange that she did not know this, and she was not the less to be pitied as she went home that night. Two days after this, Mary English, the betrothed wife of Stephen Drake, came into the store with her mother. Roxanna had never seen her, and she looked now with a kind of painful wonder and curi- osity at the fair, delicate face, which held less of. bloom, and something more of hauteur than her own. Mr. Drake happened to be in the office at this time, and coming out he encountered the ladies, and the eyes whose pleasant smile had made a sudden light and warmth in the little, fluttering heart of Rox- anna Ware, bent now in pleased tenderness on the face of her rival. She saw it all, standing behind the counter, her heart seem- ing to stand still, her face in a sort of frozen quiet. Andthen Stephen Drake, whose heart would always have some kindly thought for Roxanna Ware, and who never dreamed of

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ROXANNA WARE. 251 the grief which he had wrought, turned sud- deniy, and presented his betrothed to Rox- anna, saying, in his usual pleasant, cordial manner, ‘‘ Miss Ware is an especial friend of mine, Mary.’ Mary English had heard of the pretty store girl before. . Previous to their engagement, some merry, gossipy friend of hers, who had divined whither matters were tending, had twice en- countered Stephen Drake in the street, with Roxanna under his umbrella, in the rain; and had playfully infoymed her friend of this, with some jests, after the fashion of silly girls. Mary English was not naturally jealous. Her faith in Stephen Drake went as deep as her love, yet the jests had not been altogether pleasant. She had been educated, too, with a high regard for social position, and the circle in which she moved prided itself on an exclusiveness that, after all, had no deeper foundation than money. This, then, must be the girl of which Mary English had heard. She looked up at the young, sweet face, with a passing shade of annoyed feeling, which she could not fathom. The words ‘‘especial friend’’ grated on her ear. She drew back, and bent her head with a well-bred, icy coldness, which plainly indi- cated that she felt the immeasurable social distance betwixt them, and passed on, with her light, proud steps, with her gleaming plumes, with her rustling silk, and left Rox- anna behind the counter, pained and wounded, the heavy tears crushed down in her eyes. Stephen Drake saw it all, with amazement and pain. For the first time a feeling of re- sentment toward his. betrothed crossed his heart, and a desire to atone, in some sense, for the wound Roxanna had received, made him linger a few moments with her, in talk that took some commonplace level, before he rejoined the ladies at the other end of the store. There was a little shadow on the brow of Mary English; there was another on her lover’s, when they met. ‘*T did not know,’’ she said, with a smile that touched her bright lips, but which her eyes half negatived, ‘‘that I should meet any of your elect friends behind the counter, this morning. The face took me so much by sur- prise, that you must excuse me if my recog- nition was not so cordial as the circumstances seemed to demand.’’ And, in spite of herself, a little sarcasm lurked in the soft tones. ‘*T should certainly not have presented her, Mary, if I had supposed it possible that your surprise would have indicated itself so strongly. Roxanna Ware is not the less a lady because circumstances, beyond her con- trol, place her behind my brother’s counter, and I should be somewhat less than man, if I allowed her position in anywise to affect my appreciation of her character.’’ At another time, and under other influ- ences, there was no doubt that Miss English would have responded warmly to this senti- ment, but just now, some adverse feeling lurked among her thoughts, and her response ‘‘was in nowise fervent.’’ ‘If you had told me this before our introduction, I should have been better prepared for it. My ignor- ance must excuse whatsoever was unsatis- factory in my manner.”’ ‘‘Come here, my dear, do, and look at these cashmeres ;’’ called out her mother, a plethoric, elderly lady, half smothered in velvet and furs, who had been quite too much absorbed in dry-goods investigations, to ob- serve anything which had passed betwixt the young people. ‘*It seems totally unworthy of Mary; I would not have believed it,’’ mused the young man, as he stood a little apart, watching the ladies in their ocular and tactile examination of the rich fabrics; and yet, when, in a little while, Mary English looked up at him, with her face cleared, and smiled, afier her own sweet fashion, he thought after a lover’s par- tial judgment. ‘After all, it is only the fault of the little girl’s education. Her own good sense and warm heart will make all right in a little while.’’ ‘“*] think it was quite ridiculous,’’ mused the darker and selfish side of Mary English’s nature—who of us has not one? ‘‘To intro- duce me in that sort of fashion to one of the girls. Stephen may praise and admire her as much as he likes, he ought to see—only men never can—that she ’s quite out of my range of visiting. Of course, I can’t make an inti- mate friend of a person in her position, and she may as well! know it first as last.’’ But there was a better side to Mary Eng- lish. It lifted its voice now, and made a plea in behalf of Roxanna Ware. It toid her that, after all, Stephen was right, that it was both false and mean to let mefe chances of wealth and position influence her regard for this girl. It brought before her her own tenderly shel-

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252 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, tered, happy, luxurious life, in sharp contrast with that of Roxanna Ware’s, earning her bread and shelter with such dreary, inces- sant toil, that she shuddered in her warm, pleasant chamber, to think of it. ‘‘Who had made them to differ?’’ she asked herself, with a sudden gust of emotion, half of gratitude, half of humility. ‘‘ And then, how could she tell—it might be’’—and here her wandering thoughts just touched the truth—‘‘that this lonely girl, without fortune or helpful friends,’’ had come to cherish some regard for Stephen. He was handsome and noble enough, the dear fellow! for any girl to fall in love with. How pleased and flattered she must have felt with his little courtesies, which he had abundantly proved went no deeper than kindly regard. Was it not most likely that she had looked with mournful envy on the happier lot of the woman whom Stephen Drake had wooed for his wife? And out of her own joy and blessedness Mary English asked herself whether it did not become her to be tender and mindful of others less blessed than her- self; to be generous in thought and in deed, striving to shed down on other lives some faint gleam of the light and gladness which overflowed the last days of her maidenhcod. And so pleaded the lower and the higher na- ture, as day by day it pleads in all of us. Which should triumph ? Less than a week after Roxanna’s presenta- tion to Miss English, the carriage drove up one pleasant morning to the store, and the young lady alighted. She came in, quite alone, and evidently in some haste, and walked straight up to the counter where Rox- anna stood, at that moment, unoccupied by customers. ‘‘Good morning, Miss Ware,’’ she said, offering her hand, with a sweet, cordial grace, which could not be misappre- hended. ‘‘ We are to have a little company at our house next week, to celebrate an event which is to me, at least, a very important one. The guests will include only our own families and a few of our most intimate friends. As you are among these, however, in Mr. Drake’s regard, and I hope will yet be in mine, I have concluded to make you of the number, and have presented my invita- tion in this informal manner, because we issue no cards. It is a strictly private affair. Will you come ?’’ Had the heavens above her opened, and angels dropped some gift of marvellous wealth | and beauty at her feet, Roxanna Ware could hardly have been more utterly amazed. All the sense of wounded pride—al! the cutting pain and humiliation which, added to that other loss, she had carried in her soul, by night and by day, since she had met Mary English, disappeared now, as winds that blow from the west wipe away the gloom and pallor from the sky. She looked in the lady’s face, her blue eyes filled with doubt and wonder a moment, then the sweet mouth quivered before it could master any reply. At last the words came. ‘“‘I thank you, Miss English, for remembering me in a way that I little dreamed of. There is no joy, nor bless- ing, nor happiness, which I shall not pray for you, as the wife of Mr. Drake.”’ There was a solemn fervor in the words, which Roxanna did not suspect, but which intense feeling gave to her tones, for that prayer must cost her—what none but God ever knew. Tears thrilled the eyes of Mary English as she listened, and some vague suspicion of the truth made her look with new interest and tenderness on the sweet, flushed face lifted to hers. She leaned down suddenly and kissed it seftly: ‘‘Thank you!’ she said. ‘‘I be- lieve the thought of your prayer will make brighter and happier some of my bridal hours. You must not fail, friend of Stephen’s, and now of mine, to let me see your face at my wedding.’’ And she went out, not knowing what light and comfort she left behind her, for it seemed to Roxanna Ware from that hour that the bitterness of the pain had passed from her soul. ‘Tt must have been either a manner of hers or a fancy of mine,’’ mused the girl, reflecting on her introduction to Mary English. ‘* Her heart at least is all right. She is worthy of Stephen. God bless them both!’’ And the next week, at the bridal dinner, there was no face fairer than that of Roxanna Ware’s, in her simple white dress with the rose-colored sash, and knots which made a glow of color at her throat, and the little spray of blossoms in the soft, shining hair. This was the thought of at least one gen- tleman—a friend of the bridegroom—who was present, and who waited upon the young lady to dinner. He was a man a little past the prime of his years, with their frosts thickly sanded in his hair—a man who had buried long ago the wife of his youth, but whose

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9 A BEAUTIFUL EXTRACT.—TO MY DEAR WIFE. 258 heart held fresh still all its fountains of trust and hope; one whom life and experience had mellowed instead of hardened; a man whom none knew, whether of men or women, save to believe in and honor. The bright, sweet face, the pretty grace of Roxanna Ware attracted him singularly. This man, too, had a marvellous power of ‘‘ drawing out’’ those in whom he was interested. Rox- anna Ware had no suspicion that she had never been quite so attractive as at that wed- ding. Her new friend only felt an accession of interest when he learned the real circum- stances of her life. Pity and sympathy were the germs of a deeper feeling ; and this man was of all others the one to take into the shelter of his heart and home a young, fair, unprotected girl like Roxanna Ware, and to develop in its warmth and peace all the fine possibilities of her nature; and he was a man, despite his years, fitted eminently to win that ‘‘most sacred thing this side of heaven, the heart of a true woman.”’ And for Roxanna Ware, the new love su- perseded the old, and the former fell away into the background of her life, and cast no shadow upon her present. And in due time she went out with her frail old mother from their humble lodgings to the pleasant and graceful home prepared for her, and the sorrows and hardships of her youth only made serene, nobler, better, the womanhood of Roxanna Ware. A BEAUTIFUL EXTRACT. Ir was night. Jerusalem slept as quietly amid her hills as a child upon the breast of its mother. The noiseless sentinel stood like a statue at his post, and the philosopher’s lamp burned dimly in the recesses of his chamber. But a moral darkness involved the nations in its enlightened shadows. Rea- son shed a faint glimmering over the minds of men, like the cold and insufficient shining of a distant star. The immortality of man’s spiritual nature was unknown, his relations unto heaven undiscovered, and his future destiny obscured in a cloud of mystery. It was at this period that two forms of ethereal mould hovered about the land of God’s chosen people. They seemed like sister angels, sent to earth on some embassy of love. The one of majestic stature and well-formed limb, which her snowy drapery hardly concealed, in her erect bearing and steady eye, exhibited the highest degree of strength and confidence. Her right arm was extended in an impressive gesture upward where night appeared to have placed her darkest pavilion; while on her left reclined her delicate companion, in form and countenance the contrast of the other, was drooping like a flower moistened by re- freshing dews, and her bright but troubled eyes scanned them with ardent but varying glances. Suddenly a light like the sun flashed out from the heavens, and Faith and Hope hailed with exulting songs the ascending star of Bethlehem. Years rolled away, and the stranger was seen in Jerusalem. He was a meek, unassuming man, whose happiness seemed to consist in acts of benevolence to the human race. There were deep traces of sorrow on his countenance, though no one knew why he grieved, for he lived in the practice of every virtue, and was loved by all the good and wise. By-and-by it was rumored that the stranger worked miracles, that the blind saw, that the dumb spake, the dead arose, the ocean moderated its chafing tide; the very thunders articulated, He is the Son of God! Envy assailed him to death. Slowly and thickly guarded, he ascended the hill of Calvary. A heavy cross bent him to the earth. But Faith leaned on his arm, and Hope, dipping her pinions in his blood, mounted to the skies. 7 TO MY DEAR WIFE. BY F. M. HENLY. As sounds of sweetest music heard at eve, When summer dews weep over languid flowers, While the still air conveys each touch, each tone However faint, and breathes it on the ear With a distinct and thrilling power that leaves Its memory long within the raptured soul— Even such thou art to me! and ever thus I feel the harmony that round thee lives And breathes from every feature. Thus I sit, And when most quiet, cold, or silent, then, Even then, I feel each word, each look, each tone, There ’s not an accent of that tender voice, There’s not a day-dream of these sunbright eyes, Nor passing smile, nor melancholy grace, Nor thought half uttered, feeling half betrayed, Nor glance of kindness, no, nor gentlest touch Of that dear hand in amity extended, That e’er was lost on me; ’tis treasured well, And oft recalled, dwells now upon my soul ° Like sweetest music heard at summer’s eve.

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254 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. THE FAMJLY DRAWING MASTER. IN A SERIES OF FAMILIAR CONVERSATIONS. PERSPECTIVE.—-THE HORIZONTAL LINE. P. To-day, we will go back in our drawing lessons, and make another beginning. Ion. Why, papa? e P. Because, hitherto, you have learned to draw angles, triangles, and other figures when they are placed directly opposite to your eyes—in front of you. We will now learn to draw the same figures in a different position, as they appear when placed by the side of you. We will draw side views, instead of front views. L. Oh, papa! Iam afraid that that is what they call perspective. The drawing-master in our school has been teaching it to the elder girls; and they say it is very dry, and hard to learn. P. Then they have made a mistake. If you will listen to me, and pay great attention (but you must make up your mind to do that), then you will find it to be very easy. Ah, and you will like it very much too. Here is a square. Look at the right hand ae oe Oe ce oe om end side, and then at the left. Now, tell me which is the larger side of the two. W. They are both of the same size, of course. P. You say that, because the square is exactly in frontof you. But now, see, I have drawn it so that it appears to be at the side of you. Look at it, and tell me if both sides still appear to be of the same size. W. No; the farther side seems to be smaller. Jon. And I can tell you why that is. It is because it is further off. Whenever an object is in the distance, it appears smaller than when it is close to you. ZL. And here is an instance. Look at the pane of glass in the front window. You know that the chapel of the Orphan Asylum is larger than a pane of glass. It is larger than our house. Yet you see that the chapel, and part of the elm-trees, and the little cottage all to- gether, appear smaller than this single pane. W. Yes, really, that is true! the pane of glass covers them all. Well, that is a rule: When objects are in the distance, they appear smaller than when they are near. P. You are rather too quick at making rules, Willie. You should net make a rule directly you see one instance of a thing; not even when you see two or three instances. [ could tell you of objects which appear larger from being in the distance. It happens, how- ever, this time, that your rule is generally correct. L. And, papa, in drawing the side view of the square; as the farther side is smaller than the near one, you were obliged to slope the top and bottom line to meet it. And that shows, too, that the square gets gradually smaller. I have noticed, too, papa, that the . dotted line which you have made in the front view of the square, is quite straight, horizon- tal, I mean; and again, in the side view of the square, this dotted line is not at all altered; it is still horizontal. How is that? P. Ah, you must pay great attention, and then I will show you something. Ion, come and stand exactly in front of the square. Look straight before you, atthe middle of the square. Now, I will make a line with my flat ruler from your eye to the dotted line. If you stand here, Willie, you can see that my ruler is quite horizontal; so you can tell by that, that the pupil of his eye is exactly on the level with the dotted line. Do you know what I mean? W. You mean that the dotted line is not the least bit higher, nor the least bit lower, than his eye. But then, the top of the square is

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THE FAMILY DRAWING-MASTER. 255 higher than his eye, and the bottom of the square is lower. P. That is just what I was going to call your attention to. Come, Ion, and look now at the side view of the square. — The dotted line of course marks the level of Ion’s eye. You notice in the near side, how much the top is above the level of the eye, and the bottom below. If you now notice the farther side, you will see that the distance above and below the dotted line is not so great. L. That is because the whole side is smaller. The square seems to get gradually smaller; so, the distance from the level of the eye must seem to get gradually smaller, also; that is why you have to make the top and bottom lines slanting, instead of straight, when you draw the side view. P. And now I should think that you could answer the question you gaveme: ‘*‘ Why the dotted line is still horizontal, and does not slant, when I make a side view ?”’ L. Yes, I can, papa. You do not want to slope the dotted line for it to be less distant from the level of the eye. This is why. It is not at any distance from the level of his eye, but is on the same level; so it must always be a level line, or a horizontal line. W. And if you were to make the line very much longer, it must always be horizontal, because it would sti// be on the level of the eye. P. That is true. Suppose I draw a long row of squares, each more and more distant from Ion’s eye. The centre of the first square is, you see, on a level with the eye; so the centres of all the squares are on a level with his eye. W. And the distance from the top of each square to the level of the eye becomes gradu- ally smaller, as we said. Ion. And it is so with the lines at the bot- tom of each square, until at last the distance between the lines is so small that they appear to be nearly on the same lével. L. Whilst the line through the middle of the squares is always horizontal, because it is exactly opposite to the eye. P. Then here is rule the first for you. PERSPECTIVE.—RULE 1. When drawing any objects in perspective, we must draw a line through the picture, to show which parts are on the same level with the eye—that line is called the horizontal line. THE CASKET OF MEMORY. BY WILLIAM E. PABOR. “So shall our memories be as pearls set in a casket.’” (Pearl the Third.) LOST ALICE. I roven this time a lute whose string Gives graceful numbers, Whose sad and plaintive murmuring Wake from their slumbers The echoes of a storied past, Too bright, too beautiful to last. A human waif upon the tide Forever flowing Across life’s ocean vast and wide, We found her, knowing She needed touch of tender hands To lead her on to pleasant lands. Our hearts had ample love and room, And gave her greeting ; Her presence in our humble home Our yearnings meeting, For baby face and baby grace Made sunshime in a darkened place. And so her welcome was complete ; Her heart, so holy, Was ours to shape her lot to meet, If high or lowly ; And Alice nestled in the nest Where Love’s own firstlings once had rest, * * . ~ - * * * O wind of March! Why did you come To ald new sorrow To an already darkened home? To-day, to-morrow, Or yesterday, were then the same— I stood alone for love or fame. O lingering time of hopes and fears So soon departing ; O echoes from the vanished years Forever starting Afresh the wound her going made Who would have loved me had she stayed. There are no ties like those we bind With memory’s fingers ; No heartsease for the sorrowing mind That daily lingers About the shrine we call our own, Made hallowed by our grief alone.

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REMINISCENCES. BY ETHELSTONE. PART II. THE PIC-NIC. Tue day for our pic-nic dawned brightly beautiful. It was one of those balmy days in early autumn, when summer lingers as if loth to leave us, and breathes in the air, clothing all nature in her mantle of beauty, though the tinted forest leaves tell us that King Frost walks abroad in the night-time, preparing for the reign of grim winter. This time is not to me ‘‘the saddest of the year,’’ if falling leaves and fading vegetation speak of-death; they promise, too, a resurrection spring, when, like the trees, we too shall put on garments of glory and of beauty. Nearly a year had sped its round since **My First Party;’’ winter with its festivities ; spring and summer each with its varied plea- sures had passed away, bringing with them the changes that each successive year are. To me these changes My bashfulness chronicled in our lives. had brought much pleasure. had worn off; and though my disposition, naturally timid, could never, perhaps, acquire that graceful self-possession, so admirable when governed by refinement, I could now enter a room without losing my eyesight; could answer when spoken to; nay, when occasion required, would sometimes speak first; and had almost forgotten that there were such troublesome accessories as hands to be taken care of. My acquaintance with Mr. Morton had resulted in a friendship which assured me of calls from him every time he came to our village, which was not unfre- and occasionally a magazine, or Although it quently ; new book during his absence. was still the generally received opinion that, were not Miss Leland a resident of our village, he would not care to visit us, I, for one, doubted. On her part, she affected an inti- macy with me more, I thought, on his ac- count than on my own, for she could not but know that I was fast becoming a rival to her, who had hitherto claimed and received pre- eminence among our village belles. This pic-nic had been arranged as a farewell entertainment for some city friends, still lin- gering with us, but who were contemplating 256 a speedy returr to more congenial scenes. About the time it was proposed Mr. Morton was in the village, and invited me to go to the woods on horseback, offering himself as my escort for the day; to which arrangement I willingly consented. He mentioned it to none of the other ladies who were going, and skilfully evaded saying whether he would join the party, or not; and to mystify them still more, he left the village in the ‘‘ Eastern stage’’ two days before the one on which the pic-nic was to take place, ‘‘ wind and weather permitting.’’ My childhood’s home was an old stone mansion, large and roomy, though far more substantial than elegant; almost hid among chestnut trees. From these trees it had de- rived its name. It had originally been called ‘*Chestnut Grove;’’ but now, in familiar parlance, was known as ‘‘the Grove.’’ Far away, almost to the verge of the woods in which our rural festivity was to be held, stretched the fair green fields and belts of woodland that constituted my father’s patri- monial inheritance; and he was justly proud of its beautiful situation, great extent, and rich soil. He had been in early life the phy- sician on whose fiat, as far as earthly skill could avail, had depended life and death among the people for miles around; and although he had now retired from the more ac- tive duties of his profession, in all dangerous cases he was still the one whose decision was waited for, with the trembling anxiety of hearts aching lest the loved ones should be taken away. Mr. Leland was a lawyer, a man of educa- tion and skillin his profession. He held high rank, not only among his professional brethren in our immediate neighborhood, but abroad ; and had received flattering invitations to re- move to a more extended sphere of action, but, contented and unambitious, he had re- mained in his country home. Our house was the last on the route for the day; consequently the party assembled there, and a motley group they presented, in various styles of equipage, and dress suitable for a day in-the woods; while, here and there, parties 4 U

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REMINISCENCES. 257 of one or more couples on horseback, added to the picturesque grouping of the figures. Mr. Morton had been the first to arrive, and his horse and mine stood saddled at the gate awaiting their riders. Our family carriage occupied a place in the procession, containing two lady guests from the city; my two young brothers, at home for their holidays; and on the box the coachman and a maid-servant, which my mother’s care had provided. She had invited any of the party who wished to do so to stop at our house on their way home for supper, and was, therefore, to remain at home to prepare for their entertainment, and not estimating very highly my skill in the culinary department, her thoughtful love had relieved me from all anxiety in the matter, by providing an efficient substitute; while numerous baskets, packages, and pails testi- fied that she had not forgotten to provide my share of good things for the woodland feast. Just as we were mounting our horses, the carriages many of them already on the way, Helen Leland arrived, accompanied by two gentlemen who had been for some days rus- ticating in our neighborhood, ostensibly for hunting and fishing; but as they were never missing from our social gatherings at any time, it was fair to infer that their own enjoy- ment filled a prominent place in their inten- tions. Mr. Croft was no stranger to any of us, as he had visited the place before; the other was a gentleman friend whom he had invited to accompany him, and who was As Helen’s eyes rested on Mr. Morton, she turned so pale known to but few of the party. that I feared she would fall from her saddle ; but as he lifted his hat with a cheerful ‘Good morning,’’ pride came to her aid; and the deathly pallor was succeeded by a burn- ing blush, the crimson tide dyeing cheek and brow, while her heart’s secret was told in the expression of her face. He did not seem to see it, and as he was busied adjusting my dress, and then mounted his own horse, it may be that it escaped his notice altogether; but for me it at once destroyed my anticipated tri- umph in having Mr. Morton as my especial attendant for the day. A pleasant ride of three miles brought us to the spot selected, and if any of my readers have never accompanied a pic-nic party to the woods, they can form no idea of the scene presented on such an occasion. As soon as they arrive, all are of course on foot; then the VoL. Lxx.—21 horses are to be taken care of; and whatever amusements have been provided come next in order; not without a great deal of pleasant discussion, all talking at the same time, each with suggestions that scarcely reach the ear of the person addressed. All, at length, is happily arranged, and the parties separate, each one seeking the pastime most congenial to his individual taste. Soon preparations - are to be made for dinner; fires are kindled to prepare coffee and tea; the more substantial portions of the feast are already cooked; the sylvan board is spread, and a merry group gather around it; not hastily eaten, but lin- gered over as one of the pleasures of the day; gay jest and lively repartee, provoking the light-hearted mirth suited to the happy age at which most of the party had arrived—past childhood, and not yet burdened with the cares and anxieties of maturity. Instinctively I had avoided the society of Helen ail day. I kuew, from the pained expression of her face in the morning, that she felt more deeply than I had supposed Mr. Morton’s transfer of his atten- tions to me; and that whatever might be his feelings in the matter, she, with woman’s impulsiveness, had given him her heart’s best affections. After dinner I had accompanied some others of the party in a walk through We returned wearied to the spot where we had stopped in the morning, and the woods. near which the horses were waiting; each one had gathered mosses, evergreens, and the ‘* brilliant leaves of varied dye,’’ that at this season adorn the forest. Mr. Morton had been particularly fortunate in his selections, and as we seated ourselves on a grassy knoll, he threw himself down on the ground at the foot of the slope, and scattering his treasures said, ‘*How beautiful! They are too lovely to perish idly.’’ ‘*Take them to your home as a memento ”’ suggested one of the group. He did not immediately reply, but after a of this day, few moments’ delay he commenced twining their stems together, saying, as he did so, in answer to the lady who had before spoken, ‘*No, d will form them into a wreath which one of you ladies may preserve, if you will, as a remembrance of this day’s pleasure.”’ Just then a not very pleasant addition was made to our party, in the persons of Mr. Croft and Miss Leland. She came forward without any apparent embarrassment, and took a seat nearly opposite my own: so seated, that no

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258 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. movement of her expressive features was lost of admiration burst from ajl; tastefully and to me. Presently she asked, ‘‘ What are you so busy about, Mr. Morton ?’’ ‘*Making a wreath to crown the queen of love and beauty,’’ he answered, gayly. ‘* And who is the happy lady ?’’ she asked again, turning her eyes to the group of girls seated on the knoll. **Oh, we do not know. yet,’’ said Nellie Graham; ‘‘he will give it to the handsomest - one, I suppose, as she is to be the queen of beauty.”’ A conscious blush passed over Helen’s face, but she did not. speak, and my answering thought to that blush was, that if it were given as the meed of beauty, she would be the successful competitor. Although we knew it not then, Mr. Croft had that day asked her to be his wife, and mentally she resolved that the disposal of that wreath should decide her answer to him. Meantime Mr. Morton worked diligently, scarce heeding, and seldom answering the many questions put to him regarding his work and the disposal of it. Suddenly looking at the collection in the hands of the ladies, he said :— ‘*T want a red leaf. You have one, Miss Weldon, that will just suit this place; please give it to me;’’ at the same time extending his hand for it. ‘*T do not know,’’ said Mary, hesitating ; ‘if Iwere the recipient of the whole, I should not object, but if not’?’— ** Well! and if not—what then ?’’ ‘*Why, you see it is the prettiest one I have, and I think I should covet it again if I saw it adorning the brow of another.”’ ‘*Well,”’ said he, ‘‘I will make a bargain with you. Lend it tome, and when my wreath is finished and bestowed, I will promise that if you claim your leaf, it shall be returned to you; may I not, ladies?’’ looking around on the bevy of fair ones near him. The permission was readily given, and Miss Weldon placed the‘ leaf in his still extended hand, saying, as she did so, ‘‘ There, take it ; I know now that the wreath is not for me; my mind is at rest on the subject.’’ ’ A general laugh rewarded her stratagem for deciding the question as far as she was concerned; the rather, that all who knew her knew that no envy or jealousy lurked in her loving, truthful disposition. At length the wreath was finished, and as Mr. Morton held it up to view, exclamations skilfully he had grouped the rich, dark ever- greens and the red autumn berries, with the brilliant forest leaves; and no one there but would have prized it for its exquisite beauty, apart from the compliment that would be im- plied in its bestowal. ‘‘ Now, who shall have it?’’? said he, when it had been duly admired. ‘“‘Shall it be given to the most beautiful? to the most graceful? to the best? Say, fair ladies, on whom shall I bestow it ?’’ How my heart beat as I awaited the result, and yet why should I care, I thought; I have heard, and perhaps it is so, that he has already made his choice; and if not, I do not care for him. My woman’s pride said this rather than my heart, for though I had at times instinct- ively understood that I was beloved, he had never in words told me so; and his attentions, kind and tender though they had been, might be only those of a friend, and so I waited in silence, while various replies were given to his question. Presently Mary Weldon said: ‘*Mr. Morton, give it to the one you love best.’? I looked at Helen; her burning eyes were fixed upon his face as though she would look into his heart; every particle of color deserted her face as she breathlessly awaited her fate. ‘* After that proposition, Miss Weldon,’ said Mr. Morton, ‘‘I shall not dare to give it to any one; for all the ladies, save perhaps that one, will quarrel with me forthwith, and I should be the most wretched being in ex- 9? ’ istence, if the ladies were my enemies. ‘Don’t flatter yourself, sir,’’ said Nellie Graham; ‘‘only one head can wear the wreath, and very probably the one you select will not care to wear it. You would not be the first man in the world who has been re- jected.’’ ‘‘Bravo! Bravo!’’ exclaimed the gentle- men, clapping their hands. ‘‘Morton, you had better destroy your work; don’t give it to any one.’’ He was evidently annoyed, but said, with apparent indifference, ‘‘I shall try, at any rate; if it is rejected, I can but try again, you know.’’ Advancing to me, he placed the wreath on my head, whispering, ‘‘I give it to the one who is dearest and loveliest to me; will she wear it ?”’ For a moment I was oblivious to all that was passing around me; I heard voices, but understood nof a word that they spoke. Grati- RnR ww: a ae CO

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REMINISCENCES. bo or ce fied vanity, affection, and triumph swelled my heart, while the consciousness that others were looking at me and talking about me added to my confusion; when I did speak, I said just what I did not mean. ‘¢Thank you, Mr. Morton, I accept it for its delicate beauty ; it isso pretty, I cannot refuse it.”? Asif I wished all to understand that it was accepted merely because it was hand- some, ard that the fact that he was the donor gave it no value in my eyes, which certainly was not my thought at the time. Again I looked at Helen. She was talking with those around her, but her face bore the index of the aching heart within; and I said to myself, he has trified with her for his own amuse- ment, he shall not so trifle with me; and acting upon the suggestion of my mind, I wrought for myself, as people often do who, suspecting others of wrong, act upon such suspicion, hours of bitter regret. Soon the declining sun warned us to return, and a pleasant ride home terminated the rural pleasures of the day. . Several of the party accepted my mother’s invitation, others de- clined, under the plea of fatigue, and we parted at our door. Miss Leland was among those who left us. She had no spirits for far- ther revelry that night ; nor would it probably be very entertaining to her to see another re- ceiving those attentions which she had once claimed as her own. The next morning Mr. Croft departed for his city home, with Helen’s promise to be his wife. As I was passing up the stairs, after our return, with the ladies of the party, for the refreshment of the toilet after the fatigue of our ride, I heard Mr. Morton say to my mother, ‘‘I have taken good care of my charge, Mrs. Stone, she is safe at home.’’ ‘Yes, I see that she is. Thank you for your care, Mr. Morton,’’ was my mother’s reply. He spoke again, but in so low a tone that I did not hear what he said; but my mother’s voice was distinctly audible, as she said, ‘*‘Do not speak of it; she is too young to leave me yet.”’ With my heart fluttering with joy, I min- gled with the other girls, and listened to their gay nonsense, scarce hearing what they said, and answering at random, until they noticed it, when I became a mark for their shafts of raillery, until we returned to the parlor. I s.ill wore the wreath; it was exceedingly be- coming, twined through my hair, which to- day I wore in its natural curls; and I saw that a smile of pleasure lighted Mr. Morton’s face, as he noticed that I honored his.gift suf- ficiently to wear it. All went well for a time; I was happy, and ail around me seemed to be so too. In happier thoughts I had forgotten Helen’s sad face; but soon after supper I missed Mr. Morton from the rooms. A half hour passed and he did not return; where could he be? Others began to notice it, and to wonder where he was, and, as usual in such cases, to tease me on the subject. I tried to appear indifferent, and with some success, for after a while, seeing that I did not seem to be disturbad by it, they ceased. More to divert attention than for any other reason, I proposed music; it was readily ac- ceded to, and we were nearly all assembled around the piano, when Mr. Morton returned to the parlor. I was seated at the instrument, but that magnetism that tells us of the pre- sence of friend or foe, without our seeing them, told me that he was near me ere I heard his voice. Shortly after dancing was proposed, and the space around me was soon cleared, as the feet of the guests kept time to the music. The long contra-dance was ended; I had not once raised my eyes to meet his, although he had declined dancing, and stood at my side while I played. He thought, doubtless, that when the dance was ended I would leave the piano; and believing that he thought so, I, thoroughly vexed at his desertion of me for so long a time, and fully resolved that I would not be trifled with, continued playing, without knowing very well what I played. At length he said, ‘‘ Are you not tired ot that music, Ettie? I am.’’ ‘Very complimentary, indeed, Mr. Mor- ton,’’ said I, rising. ‘‘I shall remember that when you ask me for music some other time.’’ ‘‘Only tired of it just now, Ettie, because I want to talk to you. Not here,’’ he con- tinued, as I seated myself near the window ; ‘*let us go out on the piazza,”’ ‘*And leave my guests ?’’ I said; ‘‘I cannot do that.’’ ‘* Your mother will attend to them for a few minutes; do come,’’ he replied. And though by no means in an amiable mood, I suffered him to lead me from the room. I remained obstinately silent while he folded a shawl around me, and taking my hand in his, drew

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960 it through his arm, still holding my hand. After a moment’s silence, he said, ‘ Ettie, shall I tell you what your parents and I have been talking about this evening ?’’ **Do not trouble yourself to tell me,’’ I re- plied; ‘‘I have no curiosity about it.’’ This ungracious reply silenced him for a moment; he looked at me, evidently at a loss to account for my pettishness. Then he said: ** You do not know, Ettie, how much I was gratified by seeing you wearing your wreath when you came into the parlor this evening. I scarcely hoped that you would value it sufficiently to wear it after your return home.’’ Alas, for the perversity of human nature ; I prized it more, far more, as his gift, than I should have prized a coronet of gems from any other hand; and yet I answered in a pro- vokingly cool tone. ‘As an ornament only I wear it, Mr. Morton. The girls assured me that it was very becoming; and we women have vanity enough to wear anything that adds to our personal attractiveness.”’ A frown gathered on his brow, and his voice lost all its tenderness, as he said, bitterly, at the same time releasing my hand: ‘ This is the second time that you have answered me thus regarding that wreath. Do you mean that you value it only as an ornament, that the fact that I made it, and selected you from all others to wear it, is of no consequence to you ?”’ He was manifesting more temper than I had ever seen him exhibit; I saw how much he was annoyed, and forgetting the words and manner with which the wreath had been be- stowed, forgetting all our past intercourse, and that now I was judging him from mere suspicion that he had acted dishonorably towards Helen, by winning her affections and then neglecting her, and that he might so treat me, I said, coldly, ‘‘Certainly, as an ornament only I wear it. I know not why the facts you mention should give it an added value to me, any more than I can understand why, if you had bestowed it upon some one else, I should have had any reason to be dis- turbed by it.’’ I expected that this answer would vex him, but I was totally unprepared for the storm which followed. He accused me of heartless- ness, of coquetry; said that I had trifled with him,»had caused him to make a fool of him- self; and ended by attempting to take the GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. wreath from my head, saying, ‘‘This evidence of your triumph, at least, I can destroy.”’ It was so securely fastened, however, that he could not remove it, and the act aroused me to resistance; for I had stood as if para- lyzed by the burst of passion which I had so unnecessarily excited, but merely saying, ‘*Mr. Morton, you forget yourself, and who you are talking to.’’ I returned to the parlor. He did not attempt to detain me, nor to follow me. It was long ere he returned; when I heard his voice, he was making his adieux; and, save that he was deathly pale, no trace of passion lingered on his face. He bade me good-night just as he did the other ladies, and so ended this day of pleasure. There is no sky without a cloud. The last guest had departed, and alone, in the solitude and silence of my chamber, I reviewed the pleasures and triumphs of the day, ending so unexpectedly in sadness and regret. I thought of the past; in no instance could I recall any act of his which would justify my conduct. I remembered, now, that Miss Leland’s own words had been the foundation for the report connecting her name with his. True, they had met abroad, and she had been the magnet that first attracted him to our village; but at no time after he became acquainted there, had she been the especial object of his attention. In walks and rides, in general society, every- where that opportunity offered, he had been uniformly polite and attentive to all. And now my heart whispered, that to none there, but to myself, had souvenirs been sent during his absénce; for had it been so, I should have heard of it. I recalled, too, my mother’s words that night; surely, had he been trifling with my affections, he would not have made her a party to the transaction. I began to accuse myself of injustice ; I had prejudged him, and then, by my want of candor and unamiable behavior, had refused him any op- portunity to vindicate himself; and I wept bitter, though unavailing tears. The next morning I arose with an aching head and a heavy heart. My first thought was of Mr. Morton; I knew that he intended to leave that day. Would he come again ere he went away, or had we parted forever? I descended to breakfast, and took my seat at the table; my colorless face and heavy eyes told of a sleepless night. My father said :— ‘*Pic-nics are tiresome affairs, are they not? Ettie.”’

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a REMINISCENCES. 261 ‘* Yes, sir,’’ I forced myself to reply. ‘I was too tired to sleep, and my head aches this morning.”’ I knew that my mother’s eyes were fixed upon me, and in spite pf my efforts to the contrary, I looked up to meet them; the look of anxious love I saw there troubled me. I longed to go to her, as 1 had ever done, for sympathy and comfort, sure that I should re- ceive it; but I thought no, not now, I will wait to see if he comes; if not, I will tell her ali, and she, with undoubting trust in her children, and in their love for her, waited for my confidence. After the light household duties devolving upon me for the day had been performed, and my mother had departed with our guests, to make their farewell calls, preparatory to their departure, my evident indisposition being sufficient excuse for my remaining at home, I seated myself at a window overlooking the road, to await Mr. Morten’s arrival, and to torture myself with fears that he would not come. My heart bounded when I saw him coming, but not at the speed with which he was wont to come. His horse was walking, and slowly, too; while the rider looked as if he were performing a disagreeable duty, which he wished were done.” One glance he cast at the upper win- dows as he approached the house, to see, perhaps, if I was expecting him, then slowly dismounted and entered the house. I waited until the maid summoned me to the parlor, and, though trembling in every nerve, I tried to appear at ease. Very formally he wished me ‘‘Good-morning,’’ and placed a chair for me, but as the light fell upon my face, he forgot his coldness, and exclaimed, in his usual tone, ‘‘ What is the matter, Ettie, are you ill?’’ and took a step forward, as if he would come to my side. Struggling to maintain my composure, I replied, ‘‘ No, not ill, only a headache; I think I must have fatigued myself very much yes- terday.”’ This unfortunate allusion to the preceding day checked him again, and he took a seat on a sofa, at some distance from me; a con- strained silence followed. How different from the way we had been wont to meet! At length he spoke, and every word was in the cold and measured tones of one who has de- termined, and, cost what it may, it shall be done. parlor last evening, I was with your parents Z1* ‘*Ethel, when I was absent from the in the library. I afterwards offered to tell you the subject of that conversation; you declined hearing it then, will you hear it now ?’’ I bowed my head in assent, for I could not speak. He paused a moment, and then said: ‘‘I asked their consent to address you, hoping to win you for my wife; I obtained their un- qualified assent, and with a heart filled with love and hope, I returned to seek you—you know the rest.’’ Again he paused, but now, less than before, could I trust myself to speak. ‘*] met you,’’ he continued, “‘ young, and ap- parently artless, and I gave you thy whole heart. I have mingled much in society, have known many lovely women, but to you alone have I offered this homage; you will probably now never know, Ettie, how dearly I have loved you. I thought you so unskilled in the world’s ways, that what I might have doubted in older and wiser heads, I trusted implicitly- in you; fearful has been the awakening! O Ettie, as you value your own peace of mind, as you would be loved and respected, do not try your power thus again. May you never know the feelings I have known since we parted last evening.’’ Again he paused, as though summoning courage to say the part- ing words; walked once or twice through the room, then, standing at my side, said: ‘‘I ~ deemed this due to you, after what I had said to your parents, else I should not have seen you again; and now, farewell.’’? He extended his hand; my tears had been falling fast while he had thus fully vindicated himself from every fault that my suspicion had charged him with. Instead of rising to meet him, I covered my face with my hands, and sobbed rather than said, ‘‘Do not leave me. Why did you stay away from me so long last evening? I thought’’—I could say no more; but no more was needed then. His strong arms were around me; he carried me to the sofa, and seated me beside him; tenderly he pillowed my head upon his shoulder, and soothed my excited feelings. When I became calm, he said :— ‘‘Did you think I stayed long, darling? I could not avoid it; there were circumstances of my past life that I must tell your parents, ere I could ask them to give me their only daughter. I will tell them to you some day, but do not ask me now, for they are sad, and I have had sad feelings enough for to-day

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262 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. This started my tears again, but ‘*No more tears, already.”’ he quickly checked them. Ettie, and I will try not to refer to this again, even in thought; and now tell me what made you so naughty last night.’’ And I did tell him; but how foolish it o me seemed now, in the rehearsal of it ; if it seemed so to my companion, he did not say so, and only noticed that part which referred to Helen. ‘‘I did admire her, Ettie, but never loved her, nor did I ever give her rea- son to think that I did. I admired her culti- vated mind as well as her personal beauty ; but she possessed one trait of character that would have forbidden me to love her, had she been otherwise perfect; she lives in excitement; fully conscious of her beauty, she seeks admiration from every one; her life would be miserable away from the noise and glare of fashionable life; mine would be miser- able in it; not that I would avoid all society, but I would seek it rationally, and I would wish that my wife, happy in her home, and happy in my society with that of a few choice friends, would seldom desire the crowded as- semblages of the fashionable world. Will you be that wife, Ettie, and can you love your husband and your home better than all the world beside ?”’ Readily the promise was given, it seemed so easy to keepit then. Alas, for human fore- sight, and for human strength always to do right. But no cloud darkened our happiness then, and we parted full of hope for the future. WHY DO WE SHAKE HANDS? THE learned Dr. Humphrey has given us the solution to this frequently conjectured problem. He says :— ‘*It is a very old-fashioned way of indicat- ing friendship. Jehu said to Jehonadab, ‘Is thine heart right as my heart is with thine heart? If it be, give me thine hand.’ It is not merely an old-fashioned custom, it is a strictly natural one; and, as usual, in such cases, we may find a physiological reason, if we only take the pains to search for it. The animals cultivate friendship by the sense of touch as well as by the senses of smell, hear- ing, and sight; and for this purpose they employ the most sensitive part of their bodies. They rub their noses together, or they lick one another with their tongues. Now, the hand is a part of the human body in which the sense of touch is highly developed; and after the manner of animals, we not only like to see and hear our friend (we do not usually smell him, though Isaac, when his eyes were dim, resorted to this sense as a means of re- cognition), we also touch him, and promote the kindly feelings by the contact and recip- rocal pressure of the sensitive hands. Observe, too, how this principle is illustrated by another of our modes of greeting. When we wish to determine whether a substance be perfectly smooth, and are not quite satisfied with the information conveyed by the fingers, we apply it to the lips and rub it gently upon them. We do so because we know by experience that the sense of touch is more actively de- veloped in the lips than inthe hands. Accord- ingly, when we wish to reciprocate the warmer feelings we are not content with the contact of the hands, and we bring the lips into ser- vice. A shake of hands suffices for friendship ; but a kiss is the token of a more tender affection.”’ MY HOME BESIDE THE SEA. BY N. C, WENTWORTH. TELL me no more of prairies green With starry blossoms bright, Of landscapes, shadowless, serene In Luna's silvery light ; Of forest isles, of storied mound, Whate’er their beauties be ; Give me the rough old stamping ground At home beside the sea. Tell me no more of melting skies, Of breezes soft and low, Of summer clad in gorgeous dyes, Unchilled of winter's snow. For southern shores, the northern bird May take his wings and flee— I’ll make my nest far northernward, At home beside the sea. The Southron from his sunny land May kindly welcome send, And friends I love a beck’ning hand O’er western waves extend. Their prairie homes may open wide With joyful shouts for me, While two fond hearts my thoughts divide At home beside the sea. Sweet home, where silvery heads repose In life’s autumnal frost, Though rude winds blow, and driving snows Beat down by tempests tost— Fond hearts no more my absence chide, Keep kindly cheer for me, I’m coming with the autumn tide, Old home beside the sea.

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NOVELTIES FOR MARCH. BONNETS, COIFFURES, WAIST, SLEEVE, GIRDLES, ETC, ETC. Fig. 1 is a bonnet, composed of narrow ful- Paradise with long white feathers on the left lings of violet velvet; at the back, instead of side; no curtain; strings of broad white satin a curtain, are two rows of black lace, set foot ribbon brought from the top of crown; blonde to foot with jet trimming between; at the cap, with bows of velvet and rosebuds. Fig. 3.—Bonnet of black velvet, the front covered plain. The crown is fulled and fin- Fig. 1. Fig. 3, left side an ornament of cock’s feathers and jet pendants: loops and long ends of velvet ribbon at the back; blonde cap with velvet flowers and tufts of feathers; broad violet strings. Fig. 2 is adress bonnet. At the top front flutings of black velvet; the crown and sides Fig. 2. Fig. 4. ished at the back by a bow and streamers of blue velvet ribbon; no curtain; folds of blue velvet cross the bonnet. Fig. 4.—Black velvet bonnet. The folds in bias; a fall of black lace at the back instedd of front of folds of white satin in bias; over of curtain; very large pink feather on the the crown fall two rows of black lace; bird of | left side, edged with jet. 263

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264 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, Fig. 5.—White silk bonnet, with puffed front and falling crown, which is covered with long green crape leaves. A fall of blonde Fig. 6, takes the place of a curtain. An illusion scarf is laid in folds over the bonnet, and ties under the chin. The inside trimming is of white and scarlet flowers. Fig. 6. Fig. 6.—Casquette of black velvet. At the back, bows of black lace and loops of velvet ; in the front a rosette of black lace, aigrette of black cock’s feathers and white plume. Fig. 7 is a hat or toque of black velvet, Fig. 7. trimmed with ermine; a plume of white feath- ers in front. Fig. 8.—Fancy coiffure, formed of blonde lace, with loops of pink velvet down the cen- NN “ep Me YY yy, Ws Wy, Y WU tre. Over the forehead are full bunches of pink flowers. The streamers are of black velvet. Fig. 9.—Ball coiffure. The hair is rolled very high in front, and arranged in a water- fall at the back, and an Alezandra curl on the left side.

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NOVELTIES FOR MARCH. 26 or Cag SSW ee ANY ASAI — nm Sag, Ky Ny Aggy QQ Z A, , Z_> Nyy NY, Na right side, bows of black velvet and glace rib- bon couleur de rose; in the front a large moss- rose, buds, and foliage. Fig. 11. Fig. 10 is an evening coiffure. Round the head a very narrow quilling of velvet; at the Fig. 11.—A waved bow of hair, to be worn over the brow.

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266 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. Fig. 12 Fig. 13. Fig. 12.—Crimped bow of hair, with a bunch Fig. 14.—False front, suitable for a married of curls in the centre. lady. The curls hang behind the ear. Fig. 13.—A tuft of curls, to be placed over Fig. 15:—White muslin waist, formed of the brow. bunches of fine tucks. Itis trimmed with nar- Fig. 14. row black velvet, black lace, and black velvet muslin, trimmed with small puffs and insert- buttons. ing, forming a yoke. - Fig. 16.—Fancy guimpe, made of French Fig. 17.—Pillow and envelope for a young

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NOVELTIES FOR MARCH. ~ NG XLEXG \ MW__@ SO \N\ 7 N Hy

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GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINF, child. It can be made of piqué, lined with flounce, and edged with a worked ruffle. Fig. 20. Fig. 18.—Muslin drawers, for a boy from three to five years old. Fig. 19. | | Fig. 19.—New style of basque girdle, back view. This girdle is made of black moire antique, trimmed with bead gimp and thread lace. Fig. 20.—Faney undersleeve, with a but- terfly embroidered in bright colors. - Fig. 21.—Fancy girdle of black velvet, or- namented with steel beads, trimmed with guipure lace and heavy chenille tassels. The front of the girdle is cut the same as the back, only the point is at the lower part. 4

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WORK DEPARTMENT. 269 Fig. 21. TASSEL PINCUSHION. (See engraving, page 217.) Tuts novel pincushion is very easily made, and has a most elegant appearance. The foun- dation of the tassel pincushion must be strong and firm. It can be made of cardboard; but in this case, extreme care must be used for the joins not to show, as that would much detract from the neatness, which is so requi- site imevery article offancy work. The better way is to take some long strips of smooth cartridge paper, rather wider than the depth of the whole pincushion, and make a shape by winding them round and round a cylinder. A smooth jelly-jar makes a very good mould for this purpose. The strips of paper must be damped with a sponge, and then pasted on the other side, after which they are to be carefully passed round the jar. Of course, a length sufficient to inclose the mould must be left without paste, otherwise it will not sepa- VOL. LXx.—22 | | rate from it when it is dry. In the pro- cess, the paper must be well rubbed down ; and in taking a fresh strip, ‘the edges must not overwrap each other, as the join would then show. When completed, this moulded framework must be left until the next day, when the margins both of the top and the bottom being neatly cut, the work can be continued. This frame is now to be covered with velvet, carefully and strongly stitched over its edges, both at the top and the bottom. An inner case for the cushion having been filled with wool, and covered with velvet sufficiently large for the surface to rise above the shape, also well stitched down all round, must be inserted in the inside of the frame, and in its turn carefully secured. The decoration now remains, of which our illustration will furnish a clear idea. The diamond-work round the top is done by threading first a row of loops at the given distances, and then forming the diamond by successive ioops, continued by taking up the central bead of the first; and so repeating. The rollof beads at the top and bottom of the cushion are then to be added. These may be done in different ways, according to taste; a roll or a plait of beads look equally well. The roll is easily done by taking a few strings of beads and sewing them on, the silk of each encircling stitch being also covered with heads ; but always remembering to take the same number on the needle. The tassels are best made by threading a long string, dividing it into the proper lengths, fastening it in the middle with a needleful of silk, threading both ends intoastrong needle, passing it through the large beads which forms its head, and, with the same silk, fast- ening it on to the shape; these tassels being too heavv to be left suspended from the dia- mond bead-work. The beads for this pincushion should be about equal quantities of chalk-white and transparent white, relieved by a smaller por- tion of steel. In threading for the tassels, a certain length of silk should be allowed for the chalk-white loops; and the same length for the transparent white. Five loops of each of these, with three or four of the steel, make a pretty tassel. Ruby-colored velvet forms an excellent

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270 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. contrast with these white beads; but there are other colors which are very handsome also in their effect, so that the choice is open as a matter of taste. DESIGNS FOR PINCUSHIONS. To be worked with clear glass beads, on canvas sufficiently coarse for one bead to cover DOHGHOCGHOeaoOc0 5 e a Bo | Soo | 5) a it So. ©. B_B_, a) | (oe) a fo | a: , eS Kol} astitch. The ground can be filled up with Solferino, blue, or scarlet wool, worked in cross-stitch. The patterns are reduced about one half. The fringe should be formed o the cushions with the clear white beads. Forty beads should be strung and looped up three stitches from where it commences, and each loop should be caught into the one next toit. This forms a very graceful and rich fringe. These same patterns will answer for netted tidies, the figures to be darned in. EXPLANATION OF CONTRACTIONS USED IN CROCHET, TATTING, KNITTING, ETC. ETC. CROCHET. ch. Chain-stitch. dch. Double chain-stitch, or braid-stitch. sl. Slip-stitch. sc. Single crochet. sde. Short double crochet. de.. Double crochet. stc. Short treble crochet. te. Treble crochet. ltc. Long treble crochet. m. Miss. TATTING. D. Double stitch; one French and one English. P. Picot. J. Join. Loop. Any number of stitches drawn up. KNITTING. K. Knit (plain knit). z Pari. M. Make (increase). K 2t. Knit two as one. K 3t. Knit three as one. D1. Decrease one, by taking off a loop without knitting; then knit one and pass the other over it. D 2. Decrease two; slip one; knit two to- gether, and pass the slip-stitch over. Sl. Slip. R. Raise. T.K. Twisted knitted stitch. T.P. Twisted purl stitch. NETTING. Pn. Plain netting. The ordinary stitch. Dn. Doublestitch. The thread twice round the mesh. Ln. Long stitch. A stitch in which the knot is not to come close up to the mesh. D. Draw out the mesh (before the row is completed). M. Miss. PRINTER’S MARKS IN THE DIRECTIONS FOR EVERY KIND OF WORK. These consist of crosses X sometimes printed as the ordinary letter X; asterisks *—dag- gers, ¢. They are to indicate repetitions in any row or round. Two similar ones are placed at the beginning and end of any part to be repeated, and the number of times is written after the last. Thus x 3 de, 5 ch, miss 4, x 3 times, would, if written in full, be 3 de, 5 ch, miss 4; 3 dc, 5 ch, miss 4: 3 de, 5 ch, miss 4. ¢

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WORK DEPARTMENT. 271 Sometimes one pair of marks is used within another, thus— x 5 de, 3 ch, miss 2; * 1 de, 3 ch, miss 2 * twice; 4 de, 2 ch, miss 1 * xX twice. This, written at length, would be 5 de, 3 ch, miss 2, 1 de, 3 ch, miss 2; 1 de, 3 ch, miss 2; 4 de, 2ch, miss 1; 5 de, 3 ch, miss 2; lde,3ch, miss 2; 4 de, 2 ch, miss 1. This example will show how much valuable space is saved by the adoption of these very simple and comprehensible terms. Round.—A line of work beginning and end- ing at the same place, without turning back. Row.—A line of work which requires you to turn it inorder torecommence. Example: We speak of rows in a garter, and rounds in a stocking. w2.ee EMBROIDERY. EMBROIDERY AND BRAIDING PATTERNS. (From the establishment of W. Cameron, 228 North Eighth St., and 508 South Sixth St., Philada.) “O50 O § ohe 0 YM: e Oo one O ws rs OOD 0 3S)

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272 ROSE WREATH D’OYLEYS FOR THE TOILET-TABLE, (See engraving, page 219.) Materiale.—Waved crochet braid, Nos. 1 and 5; also a piece of pink and white Anna Boleyn braid; cotton, Nos. 14 and 20; crochet hook, No. 26, eagle gauge. Wir No. 14 cotton, make a chain of 9 stitches, and join in a circle; work 12 single stitches under it. 2d round. 7 chain, miss 1 stitch, 1 single, in next, 7 chain, repeat; there will be 6 chains of 7. 3d. 1 single, 9 double, 1 single, under each of the 7 chain. 4th. Commence in the centre stitch of one of the 9 double; 9 chain, 1 single in centre stitch of next 9 double; 9 chain, repeat. 5th. 1 single in each stitch all round, cut off the cotton. 6th. Take a piece of the Anna Boleyn braid and sew each wave to the edge of the single stitches ; join it neatly. 7th. With No. 20 cotton, commence in one of the waves of the braid, work 3 chain; take a piece of No. 1 waved braid, and unite the chain-stitches to the second wave, thus: take the hook from the loop and insert it in the wave, and draw the loop through; 3 chain, * 1 single stitch in next wave of the Anna Boleyn, 3 chain; unite to the next wave of No. 1 braid, 3 chain; repeat from * all round, and join the braid. 8th. With the same cotton, commence in one of the waves, 5 chain, 1 single in next wave, 5 chain; repeat; cut off the cotton. 9th. 1 single under centre of one of the 5 chains, 5 chain, 1 single under next 5 chain ; repeat. 10th. 6 singie under each of the 5 chains ; cut off the cotton. 11th. Sew two pieces of the Anna Boleyn braid together, sufficient to go round the circle, sew wave to wave; then sew it round the edge of the stitches, so that the outer edge will set perfectly even all round. 12th. With the 20 cotton, 1 single in one of the waves of braid, 3 chain, 1 single in next wave, repeat. 13th. 3 chain, take No. 1 braid, unite the chains to the 2d wave; 3 chain, 1 single in the single stitch of last row, 3 chain, unite to the next wave, 3 chain, repeat all round, join the braid. 14th. With No. 14 cotton commence in one GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, of the waves, 3 chain, 1 single in next wave, 3 chain, repeat, cut off the cotton. Now sew a piece of the Anna Boleyn braid round the edge of the stitches; sew 2 pieces of No. 5 braid together, sufficient to go round the circle; then sew it to the Anna Boleyn; be careful to sew it so that it will set quite flat. FOR THE ROSES. With No. 14 cotton make a chain of 10 stitches, unite into a circle, 5 chain, miss 1 stitch, 1 single in next, 5 chain, repeat; there will be 5 chains of 5. 2d round. 5 double under the 5 chain, 1 single in the single ; repeat. 3d. 5 chain, 1 single in the single, 5 chain; repeat. 4th. 7 double under the 5 chain, 1 single in single; repeat. 5th. 7 chain, 1 single in single; 7 chain; repeat. 6th. 11 double under the 7 chain, 1 single in single; repeat, and fasten off neatly at the back; 11 of these roses will be required. Now join them together thus: Commence in one of the single stitches 7 chain, * 1 single in centre stitch of the 11 double, 7 chain, 1 single in next single, 7 chain; repeat from * four times, 3 chain; take another rose and work 1 single in a single stitch, then repeat as before di- rected until all the roses are joined; place the wreath on the circle, and sew the waves of the braid at the back of the roses in a line with the 3 chain stitches which connect the roses together, so that the larger portion of the rose will fall over the circle. A GENTLEMAN’S FLANNEL WAISTCOAT. (See engraving, page 217.) Tus-is an extremely good pattern for a gen- tleman’s flannel waistcoat. The front part is cut out separately, and sewn on in herring- bone stitch in red cotton. A wide piece of flannel binding is sewn on inside round the top; it is stitched twice on the right side, and further secured by a row of herring-bone stitch. The sleeves are moderately wide, and only fastened to the body at the top of the shoulders; the under part, which is left open, is arranged in the same way as the neck. The sleeves are stitched round the bottom, and a row of herring-bone stitch worked in the shape of a cuff.

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WORK DEPARTMENT. 278 MAT FOR A CROCUS GLASS, OR FLOWER VASE > THE CENTRE OF MAT BEING TWO SIZES LARGER THAN THE FOOT OF A WINEGLASS. Maierials.—No. 20 cotton; a piece of stiff cardboard, 10 inches square ; some ruby, or green-colored velvet, rather larger; 1 ounce each of large-sized white chalk and crys- tal beads, about the same size as those shown in the en- craving ; a small piece of fine white glazed lining; a fine darning needle; and a piece of colored paper for the back of the mat; also a little gum water, and a half-penny worth of bran. MAKE a circle on the cardboard nine and a quarter inches across; mark with a pencil an- other inner circle, three and a quarter inches across; then cut a circle of colored paper of the same size as card. Cut two pieces of thin calico into two circles, one inch larger than the cardboard; also a circle of velvet, the same size; mark in the centre of the calico a ring, to correspond with the inner circle on the cardboard; run thickly this circle on both pieces of the calico, so as to unite them to- 22* gether; now run along the two outer edges of both pieces of calico together, but not close the work quite—leave a space to fill in bran ; about a quarter of an inch from this outer edge run the calico round again, still leaving the same space; now fill up the space thus left between the two pieces of calico with bran; then close it, and tack it round the outside edge of cardboard; then very thickly to the inner circle of cardboard; now with cotton the same color as the velvet, run round, so as it can be drawn full, the edge of the velvet; place it the wrong side upwards on the table; place the calico mat on the full | side, downwards; draw the velvet only just over the edge of the cardboard, and sew it thickly round, still keeping the work on the table; now sew thickly round the inner circle (where the foot of the glass will come), the velvet throngh to the cardboard; now turn on the reverse side, and gum on the circle of colored paper.

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For tae Beap FLrowers.—Cut in glazed lin- ing, or fine calico, 5 patterns of the same shape Diagram for size and shape of flowers on bead mat. as the diagram; tack these at regular inter- vals on to the raised part of the mat, and cover them with beads. First thread about 3 or 4 of the crystal beads, and 2 of the chalk, and cover each short division of the flower first; then thread a greater number of beads, and cover the long, or dotted divisions. Now fill in the interstices between these divisions as the spaces will admit: by working thus the beads will lie regularly. Observe to have two or three chalk beads at the end of the crystal beads, and these will come at the edge of the flower. For tue Stems.—Sew on a straight row of beads then let the leaves branch out from this stem, as in the engraving; but the point of each long stitch of beads representing leaves, need not have the chalk beads. Sometimes these leaves should be all crystal, and some of them pointed with the chalk, to give variety. For vHe Eper.—Thread 4 crystal and 1 chalk, and pass the needle downwards at the edge; pass it up again level with chalk beads, from flower to flower; and repeat; at the end fasten off. row.—Fasten the cotton into a chalk bead; thread 2 crystal, then 4 chalk; pass the needle through the first chalk bead, and draw the four into a knot or diamond, but drawing this diamond close up to the crystal beads; thread 2 more crystal, and pass the needle through the chalk bead, and repeat. *,) wl 9 _ GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. | i 2.eee! COLLAR, IN IMITATION OF POINT LACE, (See engraving, page 216.) Materials.—Cotton No. 24. Pattern No. 1.—Make a chain of 5 stitches, work 1 dc into each, * make 36 chain stitches, work 1 dc into the last d c, work 3 dec into successive loops, make 24 chain, work 1 dc into the last, repeat from * once more. 2d round. 1 dc into every loop. 3d. * 2d c into successive loops, make 4 chain, work 1 d c into the lst of the 4 chain, repeat from * all round, missing the 3 first and last loops of each point; 10 of these patterns will be re- quired. No.- 2.—Make a chain of 39 stitches, and unite it, * work 12 dc into successive loops, work 3 dc into the next loop, repeat from * twice more. loops, make 4 chain, work 1 s ¢ into the Ist of the 4 chain, repeat from * all round; 11 of these will be required. No. 3.—Make a chain of 21 stitches, work 1 dc into the Ist, make a chain of 31, work 1 dc into the lst, make a chain of 21, work 1 dc into the Ist. 2d round. 1 dc into each loop. 3d. 2 dc, make 4 chain, work 1 sc into the Ist, repeat from * all round; 10 of these patterns will be required. No. 4.—Make a chain of 33 stitches, and unite it. 1st round. 1d ¢ into every loop. 2d. * 2 d c¢ into successive loops, make 4 chain, work 1 s c into the Ist, repeat from *; 10 of these will be required. No. 5.—Make a chain of 27, and unite it. Ist round. 1d cinto each. 2d. *2 dc, make 4 chain, work 1 sc into the Ist of the 4 chain, repeat from *; 43 of these will be required. No. 6.—Make a chain of 5 stitches, work 2 d c into successive loops, work 3 d ¢ into the next, and 1 into each of the 2 next, turn, * work 2 dc into successive loops, make 4 chain, work 1 s ¢ into the Ist of 4 chain, repeat from *; 9 of these patterns will be re- quired. When all the pieces are done, sew them together as shown in the engraving, and work 3 rows of single open crochet around the neck. 2d round. * 2a c¢ into successive EMBROIDERY. PPIPBAABEPPRREEREE

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RECEIPTS. Receipts, We. MISCELLANEOUS COOKING. Lee or Lams To Roast.—All lamb should be very well cooked, and not put too near the fire at first; from eighteen totwenty minutes tothe pound before a clear but not fierce heat. It may be served with spinach, peas, or asparagus. Lea or Lams To Bor.—It must be put into boiling water, then the saucepan (or deep fish-kettle with a drainer is best) drawn back, and the water allowed to simmer gently, reckoning eighteen minutes to each pound ; if it boils fast, the meat will be hard and the skin broken, It should be lifted out of the water with the drainer, and no fork be stuck into it; if the scum has settled upon it, wash it off with some of the liquor before sending to table. Parsley and butter are served with this, or delicate caper sauce and young carrots. A German EntREMET.—Boil eight eggs quite hard, and when cold cut them in two lengthwise. Take the yelks out very carefully, pass them through a fine sieve, and mix them well with half a pint of cream (or more, if re- quired), and then add pepper, salt, and herbs. Pour this sauce into a very flat pie-dish that will stand heat, and place the white half eggs carefully in it, arranging them in the form of a star, or any other pattern preferred. Fill up the vacancy left in them by the yelks having been re- moved, with the same mixture, and strew a few bread- crums overthem. Bake this very slightly, just enough to give ita bright yellow color, and serve it up in the dish in which it has been baked. Cuttets A LA Beng.—Take six chops from the best end of a neck of mutton, and after sawing off the ends of them, braise them until they are tender. Put them aside to cool. Make a thick, rich onion sauce, season it well, and run it through a sieve; then take the braised chops, when they are perfectly cold, and cut them into cutlets, and trim them into a proper shape. Dip each cutlet into the onion sauce, then into bread-crums, and afterwards into egg and Fry them in boiling lard, a light brown color; drain them well, and serve with or without tomato sauce. bread-crums. A GerMAN Receipt For Oyster Powper.—Take fresh oysters, beard them, and place them in a vessel over the fire for a few moments in order to extract the juice, then put them to covul, and chop them very fine with pounded biscuit, mace, and finely-minced lemon- peel; pound them until they becomea paste; make them up into thin cakes, place them on a sheet of paper in a slow oven, and let them bake until they become quite hard, pound them di- rectly into powder, and place the powder ina nice, dry tin box. Keep ina dry place, and when oysters are out of season you will find this powder very serviceable in imparting the flavor of the fish to various sauces and dishes, How To TREAT THE StvRGEON.—The meat of this tenant of the deep waters partakes very much of the properties of veal, both in flavor and appearance, and is of an insipid character unless it is treated with condiments so as to render it commendable to the palate of the gastronomist. When purchased at the fishmonger’s, it should be cut into small fillets about once inch in thickness, and these should be covered over on both sides with a liberal supply of crums of bread, chopped parsley, lemon rind, and an egg to canse the above to adhere to the meat. Wrap the fil- lets in clean white writing paper, which has been but- tered on the inside, and place them ona gridiron avera clear fire until they are well done. Serve them with a sauce of melted butter, caviare, and catsup, with salt to your taste, Friep CeLery.—Is prepared as follows: Cut off the green tops of six or eight heads of celery, and remove the outside stalks. Wash them well and pare the roots clean. Have ready half a pint of white wine, the yelks of three eggs finely beaten, and a little salt and nutmeg, and m'x them all well together with some flour into a batter. Dip every head into this batter, and fry them in butter. Wheu sufficiently done, lay them in a dish and pour melted bui- ter over them. To Srew A Fowr wits Ontons.—Wéesh it clean, dry and truss it as for boiling, put a little pepper and salt into it, rub it with a bit of butter, as also the saucepan; put in with the fowl a pint of veal stock or water, a little pepp.r and salt, turn it now and then, and when it becomes quite tender, add twelve or sixteen small onions, and let them stew for half an hour; a young fowl will take one hour, and an old one three hours to stew. CAKES, PUDDINGS, ETC. Pre-Crust.—For Meat Pies: Take one pound of dried flour and rub into it six ounces of lard, six ounces of but- ter, a small quantity of salt, and a half teaspoonful of baking powder. Mix all these ingredients well together, and then use as much water as will make them intoa nice stiff paste. Roll it out, let it stand for about ten minutes and then roll it once more before putting it on the The pie should be baked in a moderately quick oven. For Fruit Pies: Take one pound of dried flour, and one pound of butter, well squeezed in a clean cloth, to get the salt out. Break the butter with your fingers amongst the flour, as fine as possible, and then witha little cold water mix into a tolerably stiff paste. Gently roll it, passing the roller in one direction only—from you. After this lightly fold it over, and set it aside for a quarter of an hour in a cool place; then repeat the rolling in the same manner, and let it stand another quarter of an hour. This is to be repeated once more. Be sure to handle it as little as possible, and to keep itcool. Bake in a quick oven. meat. FLORENTINES.—Roll puff paste to the thickness of the eighth of an inch, and lay it on a thin baking-tin. Spread over it a layer of greengage or any other preserve or jam, and bake it in a moderate oven. Take it out, and when partially cool, having whipped some whites of eggs with sugar, put the whip over the preserve, and strew some minced almonds all over the surface, finishing with sifted sugar. Put it once more into the oven until the whip is quite stiff. The florentines should be of a pale color, and a few minutes after the paste is finally removed from the oven it should be cut into diamonds and served up. Swiss CAKE.—Take butter, flour, and sugar, of each the weight of four eggs. Beat che yelks with the sugar and some grated lemon-peel, or ten drops of essence of lemon, and one large teaspoonful of rose-water, orange-flower water if preferred. Add ihe butter just melted, and slowly shake in the flower, beating it until well mixed. Beat the whites of the eggs to a froth, mix the whole to- gether, and beat on for a few minutes after the whites are added. Butter a tin and bake the cake half an hour Spicep SUGAR FOR Fritters, ETC.—This is simply one dessertspoonful of very finely-powdered and sifted mixed spice mixed with three dessertspoonfuls of powdered sugar.

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to ~s Se Eac Breap.—Beat four eggs very light, and stir into a pint of sweet orsour milk with a little soda in it; mixin a large spoonful of butter. Over a quart of sifted meal pour enough hot water to scald it, stirring it to a stiff, smooth mass. Mix this into the milk, beat it well, and bake it in a pan or muffin rings. Very good bread can be made by the above receipt, without eggs, if soda and sour milk be used. A Goop Puppixa.—To eight tablespoonfuls of water add the juice and rind of one lemon, quarter of a pound of sugar, quarter of a pound of butter, the yelks of four eggs and the whites beaten toa froth. Bake it for one hour in a slow oven. Briauton Puppinc.—Take three eggs, quarter ofa pound of sugar, quarter of a pound of flour, quarter of a pound of batter, and the peel of a lemon finely minced. Beat the sugar and eggs for twenty minutes. Oil the butter and mix it and the flour inatthe last. Steam the pudding for one hour. Serve without sauce, only with preserve. Sweer Sovrrie.—Take a pint of milk and as much flour as will come toathick paste over thestove; keep stirring it all thetime; add six yelks of eggs and a pinch of salt, as much sugar as you like. Beat eight whites of eggs all to a froth; stir themalltogether. To be putintothe oven a quarter of an hour before wanting it ; the oven must be quick. Glaze it with white sugar, and send quickly to table. It may be made with ground rice. The rind cf a lemon, grated, or lemon-juice gives it a nice flavor. Lemon Savce.—Make some melted butter with water instead of milk: then put in two ounces of sugar, the juice and shred rind of half a lemon, and the other half freed from its skin, sliced thin, and each slice cut into quarters ; give it a boil up, and serve. Lemon Crstarp Tart.—Squeeze the juice of two lemons upon half a pound of loaf-sugar; then pare the rind as thin as possible, and put it with the sugar. Boil the rest of the lemons in a good deal of water until quite tender ; beat and rub them through a sieve; add them to the other ingredients; pour in half a pint of white wine; let it simmer by the fire for an hour; then gradually mix it with the beaten yelks of four eggs and the whites of two ; strain it into a tart-dish edged with a rim of puff-paste, and bake for twenty minutes. Tea Caxes.—Half a pound of flour, two ounces of sugar, two ounces of butter, two eggs. Mix all together, and bake TRAPALGAR CAkes.—Mix a pound of well-dried flour with six ounces of finely pounded sugar; beat six ounces of butter to a cream, and stir in half a pound of currants, well cleaned and dried, and three eggs, well beaten ; then add the flour and sugar, and beat for some time. Flour some tins, and drop a tablespoonfal upon them ; then bake as usual, REMOVING STAINS. ‘* Ox-GALL is an excellent article for removing oil stains from delicate-colored fabrics. It often fixes and brightens colors, but will slightly soil pure white materials. Alco- hol or strong whiskey washes out stains of oil, wax, resin, and pitchy or resinous substances; so also does spirits of turpentine, and generally without injury to evlors. The turpentine may afterwards be removed with aleohol or whiskey. Common burning fluid, which isa mixture of alcohol and turpentine (or camphine), is an excellent solvent of oil, wax, tar, resin, &c., and it soon dries off after use. Ink stains, or iron mould, may gene- GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, rally be removed with the juice of lemons or of sorrel leaves. If these fail, oxalic acid is almost infallible. Moisten the stain spots, with water, and rub on a little powdered oxalic acid, which can be cheaply obtained at any druggist’s. Wash off the acid very thoroughly soon after it is put on or it will eat the fabric. If children are present, remember that the oxalic acid is poisonous in the mouth, though not so on the hands, if not kept long upon them. Moistening a cloth and holding it a few minutes over the fumes of burning sulphur will bleach out most colors and stains. Be careful not to burn the fabrics. The fumes may be condacted to any particular spot by a paper roller in funnel shape (or a common tin funnel) held over the fumes of sulphur burning upon a The sulphur fumes are especially applicable to the stains of fruit, and of vegetable juices generally. These may frequently be removed by dipping the fabric in sour milk and drying it in the sun, repeating the ope- ration several times if needed. All oily substances (ex- cept paint oils) can be expelled from carpets by holding a very hot iron as nearas it can be piaced without burning. Porous paper or common brown paper laid upon a grease spot and run over several times with a hot flat-iron will absorb the oil.”’ The above contains some very useful information when properly explained. Ox-gali has been used from time immemorial by jobbing dyers for removing grease stains from delicate colored woolien fabrics. It is mixed with cold water at the rate of about three gallons to the con- tents of one ox-gall. The fabric is immersed in this and squeezed between the hands, or slightly pounded until the stains are removed. The fabric must then be very thoroughly washed in cold water, for if any of the gall is left in it the odor becomes very offensive. Strong, cold soapsuds, or a bath of dilute aqua-ammonia, is preferable shovel, to ox-gall in cleaning such fabrics. Oxalic, acetic, or any other acids must never be used to remove ink and iron stains from any other kind of eloth but that which is white, because these acids will discharge pink, lilac, and other colors. The best way to use oxalic acid to remove ink stains from white muslin is to put some of the crys- tals of the salt upon the stain—making a small bag of the cloth between the fingers—and pour some hot water upon them until they are dissolved, when the stain will have disappeared with the crystals of the acid. A mixture of alcohol and turpentine (burning fluid) is excellent for re- moving grease and other stains from light-colored gloves and silks. Benzole is also equally as good; but when using these substances beware of coming near a fire or light of any kind, as they are very inflammable, and many painful accidents from burning have occurred by their careless use. ABOUT MOTHS, Many a lady, on taking out her furs the past winter, noticed the hair falling out, and, on examining the skins themselves, found them perforated with small holes. These holes are cut by the moth—an insect whose habits every lady should know all about. Naturalists tell us that the moth is the larva of a family of insects called Timea. Its winged life begins in the spring, and lasts only a few months, It is small and of a light-brown color. After fluttering around a short time, it finds a mate, and the happy pair goes to housekeeping and to building up a family. The female creeps into cracks and crevices, into closets and clothes’ presses, under the edges of carpets, wherever woollens or furs are stored away, and there she lays her eggs. The parents soon die.

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RECEIPTS. In a fortnight the eggs hatch out.into light-colored cater- pillars, about a quarter or half an inch long. They begin to guaw upon whatever they can find to make nests of. It is in doing this that so many carpets, so much upholster- ing, and so many furs are punctured. In winter they lie torpid. In spring the chrysalis gives birth to the winged insect, which again begins the circle of pairing and egg-!aying as its parents had done before. Now, as moths lay their eggs mostly in June, that evi- dently is the best time for making an onslaught among them. Take out every article of fur or woollen, give a thorough shaking and whipping, a long exposure to hot sun, if practicable, and another dressing with the switch before storing them. Put salt and Scotch snuff under the edges of the carpets. Fumigate the closets and drawers with tobacco. On returning the articles to their places, put small branches of cedar or distribute little packages of camphor gum among them. MISCELLANEOUS. To CLean Guass WaATER-Botries.—Take a potato just as it comes from the market, cut it into small dice, and put them into the bottle. Shake the bottle up and down and round and round for some time, after which add a very little water and shake again. Turn out the potato and rinse the bettle well with clean water, when it will become perfectly bright. If not much furred, another method may be employed. Some tea leaves from the tea- pot, with a small quantity of water and soda, may be allowed to stand for a timein the bottle, and then well shaken about init; after which it should be rinsed out with cold water, when it will be found to be quite clear. Another Method.—Roll up some scraps of paper into pellets rather larger than a pea, and put them in the de- canter with a similar sized Jump or two of white soap, and sufficient water to cover it, then cork the decanter and shake it round and round until the stains are re- moved ; once or twice rinsing will show a beautiful clear glass, and there will have been less chance of breakage than if cleaned with shot or any harder material. Marrow Anp CastTor-O1, POMATUM.—Procure two fresh marrow-bones, and remove the marrow carefully out of them; put it into cold water until it is quite clean; this will take three or four days, during which the water must be frequently changed. Then put the marrow ina clean bowl, dissolve it, and strain it through muslin; after which add four ounces of castor oil. Beat these together with a fork until they are almost cold; but before the pomade sets add the scent ; one-half ounce, if strong, will be required. This must not be added until cold, or else it evaporates. Dr. Wits0n’s Harr-Wasn.—Two ounces of Eau de Co- logne, two drachms of tincture of cantharides, ten drops of oil of rosemary, ten drops of oil of lavender; all to be well mixed together. Gincer Wixe.—Take four gallons of water and seven pounds of sugar; boil them halfan hour, skimming it all the time; when the liquor is cold, squeeze in the juice of two lemons; then boil the peels, with two ounces of white ginger, in three pints of water, one hour; when cold, put it altogether into the cask with one gill of fin- ings and three pounds of Malaga raisins; then close-it up, let it stand two months, and then bottle it off. N.B—A lump of unslaked lime put into your cask will keep wine from turning sour. To CLEAN MARBLE. — Dissolve potass, and spread it quickly over the marble (in every crevice) ; the longer it 277 remains the better, but if inuch stained it must be a week or a few days at least. Boil white soap, and lay it over ‘the potass (thinly); let that remain a few days. Then take clean warm water and a brush, and cleanse the marble well. Mix the white of an egg (well beaten) with a little sweet oil, and use it with a soft linen rag at the last, to polish the marble. To take out stains apply, with a flannel, spirits of vitriol. CEMENT FOR BROKEN GLAass.—A little isinglass dissolved in master varnish. The least possible quantity should be used, PickLeD Eags.—Obtain a moderate-sized, wide-mouthed earthen jar, sufficient to hold one dozen eggs; let the latter be boiled quite hard; when fully done, place the same, after taking them up, into a pan of cold water. Remove the shells from them, and deposit them carefully in the jar. Have on the fire a quart (or more, if neces- sary) of good white wine vinegar, into which introduce one ounce of raw ginger, two or three blades of swect mace, one ounce of allspice, half ounce of whole black pepper and salt, and half an ounce of mustard-seed, with four cloves of garlic. When it has simmered for half an hour take it up, and pour the contents into the jar, taking care to observe that the eggs are wholly covered. When quite cold, stopper it down for use. It will be ready after a mouth. Whencut into quarters they serve asa garnish, and afford a uice relish to cold meat of any kind. To MAKE YEAST WITH Porators.—For those who live far from shops this receipt may sometimes be found to stand instead, in case of deficiency. Boil mealy potatoes, peel them, mash them very smooth, and put to them as much hot water as will make them the consistence of yeast, no thicker. Add for every pound of potatoes two ounces of very coarse sugar or treacle; and while the mixture is warm, stir in two spoonfuls of yeast. Keep it warm until it rises well. It may be used in twenty-four hours. One pound of potatoes will make nearly a quart of yeast. CONTRIBUTED RECEIPTS. Tress receipts have all been tried, and can therefore be relied upon. A. K. Breap Recerpr.—Take three pints warm water, ene tablespoonful of lard, one teacupful of warm yeast ; thick- en with flour to forma dough. Let it stand to rise, then work into loaves. Let it rise fifteen or twenty minutes, then bake about three-quarters of an hour. VEGETABLE Oyster CaAkEs.—Select good, large-sized oyster plant roots, grate them, and add milk and flour sufficient to make a stiff batter, about a gill of grated oyster plant, two eggs, one pint of milk, and flour to make the batter, and salt. Drop it by tablespoonfuls into hot lard. Bake till brown. YeLitow Dyr.—Put a handful of quercitron bark into a pint of soft water and a tablespoonful of ground alum. Boil about twenty minutes, strain, and it is fit for use. This makes a beautiful yellow. PurPLte Dye.—Take one ounce of ground logwood to one pint of soft water and a tablespoonful of ground alum. Boil fifteen or twenty minutes. Farmers’ Pre.—Gratea good sweet pumpkin; add to it sufficient milk to thin it like custard ; add four eggs, one teacupful of sugar, or sufficient to sweeten it to your taste ; add a little ground cinnamon and a little cinnamon water; mix all well together ; make acrust like for pies, fill your shells, sprinkle them over thickly with pulver- ized cinnamon. Bake with a moderate heat.

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MEN RECEIVE GREAT GIFTS; WOMEN NEED THEM. “ Duetne the past year the colleges and seminaries of this country have received liberal contributions. Yale Colleze has received $450,000 ; Amherst, $110,000 ; Prince- ton (New Jersey), $130,000 ; the Syrian College, $103,000 ; Trinity (Hartford), $100,000; Rutgers (New Jersey), $100,000; Chicago Theological Seminary, $80,000; Bow- doin (Maine), $72,000; New York University, $60,000; Wesleyan University (St. Louis), $50,000; Andover Theo- lozieal Seminary, $50,000; Dartmouth, $47,000; Harvard, $44,000; Williams, $25,000 ; Middlebury, $10,000. These sre some of the figures, and they tell a good story. All this in war times shows that we are a good deal of a peuple.” We are always interested in education, and happy to give honor, in our Lady's Book, te the noble generosity which has made these large appropriations and donations. The whole sum, which this record shows has been given in one year to aid old established Institutions of Education for Young Men. amounts to one million three hundred and Jifty thousand dollars ! This habit of generosity is particularly American ; one of the glorious patents of that nobility of popular institu- tions which seeks to improve the world. But we would suggest that the fountains of useful knowledge should not be sealed to half the human race. We would entreat that these rivers of beneficent bounty should be as freely poured out to fertilize the mind and enrich the soul of woman as ofman. An eminent lawyer says:— “The History of Woman is the History of the Domestic and Mora! Life of Mankind. It is the social development of the Internal Constitution of the Race. It exhibits more justly and transparently the character of the original germ, than any of those external manifestations in Art, Literature, Commerce, and Nationality, which have here- tofore formed the chief subjects of Historical Pictures. As the child is nursed on the bosom of its mother—so, on the eharacter of Woman the internal character of the Race is formed and shaped.’’* We are not among those who desire to see woman “shake alike the senate and the field,’’ as man may do. We wish her to mount no rostrum, to take no office, en- gage in no profession that would wound the delicacy of her mind, or derogate from her womanly dignity of fame. The old comparison of the oak and vine does not express the differences between the sexes. Inspired wisdom has drawn the parallel. Our sons are as “ plants’’ (or trees) ; our daughters, ‘‘the polished corners of the temple.”"’ With this testimony of feminine worth, we ask that the faculties of woman may be exercised in their true speci- ality, and may receive countenance and culture from the assistance ot those beneficent minds that have so largely contributed to the improvement of their brother man. The sons of the Republic are its strength and honor; the daughters are its grace and glory. It must bea very shallow mind that cannot see the influ- ence which the mother will have on her son for good or for grief. What is to be hoped for our Country in the future, if the men who direct and sway its interests receive their first impressions :rom ignorance and frivolity? It requires the steady, moral force of disciplined character to form the principles of the young ; it needs a cultivated understand- ing, as well as elegant accomplishments in the mother who isthe model for her son's mind, in the waxen and obedient age of early childhood. The better—that is, the more thoroughly trained the mother has been in all branches * Legal Rights, Liabilities, and Duties of Woman. By Edward D. Mansfield, Cincinnati, 1845, 278 Evitors’ Gable. | | | of learning which her children will need to study, the better able she will be to form their minds for the recep- tion of culture. Moreover, women have never yet had any suitable meaus of education for their household duties. ‘‘ Domestic Sciencg,’’ far more important tc the health, happiness, and moral improvemeut of mankind thar any other sort of scientific learning, has never yet had a College, nor even a School founded to teach its arts, rules, methods of practice, and deep mysteries of knowledge. Congress has liberally given millions of acres of the public lands to found Agricultura! Colleges for working men; working women have no recognition in this National bounty. Is it not time to try the experiment of fiding woman for her own work? She certainly has many things to do. Among these duties there must be some of paramount im- portance to the public weal. We would not change the stations of the sexes, or give to women the work and offices of men. But fit them for their own work. Besides all household duties and child- ward care, three important professions belong to women requiring that the education of young ladies should be as liberally provided for as the instruction of young gentlemen. lst. Women are the Teachers.—They should be fitted for this great office and employed in it, not to the exclu- siou of men, but in a seven-fold proportion. 2d. Women are the Preservers.—There should be en- dowed Medical Colleges for those who wish to enter this profession. A lady is the true Doctress for her own sex and children. 3d. Women are the Helpers.—They should be so trained that they may become Deaconesses in the Church of Christ, as the great Apostle ordained. All Hospitals for the sick, all Charities for the poor should have the ap- — and rewarded winistry of women as well as men. he idea of Savings Banks was originated by a woman. Why might they not help in these Institutions ? If the $350,000 over the $1,000,000 of money given had been distributed among the Medical Colleges for Women now established in our land, what good to humanity might have been effected ! “ How sHALl. WE Dress,’’ asks the young lady, “when we are thoroughly educated?’’ Have no fears. Dress will never be neglected. Love of the beautiful and orna- mental is innate in woman’s nature. The more perfectly she is trained the better she will understand the fitness and theinfluence of dress. ‘‘Thorough education’’ meaus improvement of*taste as well as mind; thus dress will become more appropriate When regulated by knowledge ofits effects in representing character. The theory of the poet is not all fancy. “Women are more iike flowers tnan we think. In their dress and adornment they express their natures, as the flowers do in their petals and colors. Some women are like the modest daisies and violets—they never look or feel better than when dressed in a morning wrapper. Others are not themselves unless they can flame out in gorgeous dyes, like the iulip or the blash-rose. Who has not seen women just like white lilies? We know several double marigolds and poppies. Thereare women fit only for velvets, like thedahlias; others are graceful and airy, like azaleas. Now and then yousee hollyhocks and sun- flowers. When women are free to dress as they like, un- controlled by others, and not limited by their circum- stances, they do not fail to express their true characters, and dress becomes a form of expression very genuine and useful.”’ While flowers bloom and stars shine a bride will never forget her ornaments, be

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EDITORS’ TABLE. “LINE OPON LINE.” So saith the Word of God. One particular TrvuTH we have been for several years urging on public attention. We think this truth is proven, by Bible authority, to be important to a right understanding of humanity and human relations. Moreover, it is of every-day utility in life, giving increased clearness to thought and knowledge concerning the duties. of the sexes; increasing, also, the beauty and directness of speech, and the force and correct- ness of written language. We allude to that disagreeable misnomer which uses the animal term of female for the human name of woman. This misnomer we have sought to correct. Our articles are doing good service, as the letters we receive, and the improved style of writing the name, testify. The subject has lately been taken up, at the fountain head of our Anglo-Saxon tongue, by one of the most eminent Philologists in Eagland. Thus the Dean* of Canterbury exclaims: “And why should a woman be degraded from her position asa rational being, and be ex- pressed by a word which might belong to any animal tribe, and which, in our version of the Bible, is never used except of animals, or of the abstract, the sex in general ? Why uot call a man a ‘male,’ if a woman is to be a * female ?’”’ Why not, indeed? Because men would never permit such a degradation of their God-given name, such a dese- cration of our noble language. Who, that is not ignorant or vulgar, would write ‘‘male character,”’ “male good- ness,’’ “male influence,’ “male genius ?’’—or, say that “*a male was walking with ladies,’ or ‘‘males were needed in society ?’’ Yet such phrases are used with- out rebuke where “females’’ and ‘female occur.” It is urged, by some, that this is necessary, because there seems a scarcity of words in our tongue which express Jeminality, or the nature of woman. We are asked what word shall we use in the place of ‘‘female?’’ There is some reason in this inquiry, because the grammatical gender of nouns into masculine, feminine, and neuter has been abrogated (or nearly so) in our language. Still natural sex remains, and this, referring to persons, as poetess, daughter, lady, must have its feminine terms or terminations, if we would express ideas clearly and describe characters correctly. Is it right or proper to call a woman “ Doctor ?"’ She may have had a full Diploma from a Man’s Medical College; but that does not make her a man, nor make it right or proper for her to assume the title that always signifies the masculine person and cha- racter. We think it would be more honorable and re- spectable for such a lady to claim her own title—‘* Doe- tress’’—and ennoble it, as she soon will, in the service of humanity, by her own merits. Let us here run over a list of names and terms that signify feminine characteristics in contradistinction to those of the masculine, and see if our language has not now arich mine of words for woman andthe womanly. If new terms or terminations are found necessary to the per- fecting of our nobiest of living tongues, as it moves on progressively with the progress of the Anglo-Saxon Peo- ples, let new terms or terminations, in harmony with the language, be added. But first let us use properly what we have. Do not write female for woman or lady, and masculine for man, as parallel words. It vulgarizes the style and degrades feminine humanity. It is not gram- matical nor Biblical. Alford, D. D. See his ‘‘Queen’s English.” by Strahan & Co. * Hen Publish London: 1864. WORDS THAT DENOTE HUMANITY ; ABSTRACT. Masculine. Feminine. | Masculine. Feminine. Man. oman. Mauless. Womanless Man's. Woman's. Manly. Womanly. Manhood. Womanhood. |Manlike. Womanlike. Mankind. Womankind. |Manned. Womaned. Manling. Womanling. |Mannish. Womanish, Manliness, Womanliness. | Womanize. } rep Maidchild. Mannishly Womanishly. ale. Female. Masculine. Feminine. TERMS OF FAMILY RELATIONSHIP. Bachelor. Maiden, Brother. Sister. Spinster. Brother-in- Sister-in-law. Boy, Lad. Girl, Lass. | law. ‘ Boyhood. Girlhood. Step-brother. Step-sister. Boyishness. Girlishness. (Brotherless. Sisterless. Bridegroom. Bride Brotherlike. Sisterlike. Groomsmag. Bridemaid. Brotherliness. Sisterliness, Heir. Heiress. Brother-love. Sister-love. Husband. Wife, Wife- Brotherly. Sisterly. hood. Parental, Pa- Parental, Ma- Husbandless. Wifeless. ternal. ternal Husbandlike. Wifelike. Son. Daughter. Husbandly. Wifely. Step-son. Step daughter. Father, Papa, Mother, Mam-Son-in-law. Dauglhiter-in- Pa. ma, Ma. law. Fatherless. Motherless. Unele. Aunt. Fatherless- Motherless- Nephew. Niece. ness, ness. Cousin. Coasiness. Fatherliness. Motherliness. | Cousine. Fatherlike. Motherlike. Kinsman. Kinswoman. Father-in-law. Mother-in law Youth. Maid, or Dam- Step-father. Step-mother. | sel, PROFESSIONS, PURSUITS, ADDRESSES, ETC. Actor. Actress. Preceptor. Preceptress. Artist. Artiste. Professor. Professoress. Author. Authoress. Scholar. Scholaress. Doctor, Dr. Doctress, Drss. School-boy. School-girl. Horseman. Horsewoman. Sculptor. Sculptress. Host. Hostess. Songster, Vo- Songstress. Householder. Housekeeper. | calist. Hunter. Huntress. |Shepherd. Shepherdess, Husbandman. Housewife. (Sorcerer. Sorceress. Instructor. Instructress. (Steward. Stewardess. Juggler, or Fortuneteller. Student. Pupil. Astrologer. ‘Shopman. Shopwoman. Landlord. Landlady. Shopkeeper. Shop-girl. Man-Milliner, Milliner. Tailor. Tailoress, Man-Midwife. Midwife. Seamstress. Man-servant. Maid-servant. Teacher. Teacheress. Men-servants. Women-ser- Tutor. Governess. vants. Waiter. Waitress, Master, Mr. Mistress, Mrs. Wizard. Witch Monitor. Monitress. Workman. Workwoman Painter. Paintress. |Workingmen. Workingwo- Postmaster. Postmistress. meu Porter. Portress. | TITLES OF OFFICE, RANK, RESPECT. Abbott. Abbess. King. Queen. Administrator Administra- (Knight. Lady trix.) Lord Lady. Ambassador. Ambassadress | Marquis. Marchioness, American. Americaness. |Mayor. Mayoress. Baron. Baroness. |Monk. Nun Benefactor. Benefuactress. |Mr. Mrs., Miss, Briton Britoness |Peer. Peeress Chairman. Chairwomaa., |Physician. Lady Physi- Countryman, Countrywo- * cian man. President Mrs. Presi- Deacon. Deaconess. (U.S. A.) dent Director. Directress. President Presidentess, Druid. Druidess. (Coll.) or Principal. Doctor, Dr. Mrs. Dr. Priest riestess. Zari. Countess. |Prince. Princess, Emperor. Bmpress. | Prior. Prioress, Executor. Executrix. | Prophet. Prophetess. Gentleman. Lady. |Python. Pythoness, Governor. Mrs. Gover- Seer. Seeress. nor. |Sir, Madam, or Hero. Heroine. | Lady. Inheritor. Inheritress. /Testator. Testatrix. Judge. Mrs. Judge. |Viseount. Viscountess

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280 ; GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. Notes: Married Women.—Wives of Church dignitaries are addressed by the titles of their husbands: Mrs. Arch- bishop; Mrs. Bishop; Mrs. Rev. Wives of Officers in the Army or Navy take their titles in like manner; Mrs. Ad- miral; Mrs. General, ete. So also do wives of officers in the Civil Government, State or National. Every married woman should be addressed Dy her husband’s name as well as surname: the wife of Mr. John Brown is Mrs. John Brown. In England the appellation Honorable isa title borne by womeu as well as by men. Educational Establishments.—These should always have a definite title. All creatures bearing young are Semales, therefore the term can never be definite when applied to woman; it means her sex, not her personality. The term also includes all ages of the sex, from the babe to the centenariau. Is it proper that a School for Girls, or a College for Youny Ladies should bear on its forehead “ name that signifies all the ages of womanhood, and, more still, may include animals? Why not give the true titles, ‘Girl's Sehool;”’ “‘Woman’s Medical College;”’ Seminary or College fur Young Ladies? Terminations.—We have ventured, in the lists given, to add the feminine termination of ess to several titles, thus making the words signify the office or rank of woman as paralle! to that of man. This seems the true genius of the Anglo-Saxon language, as it is used by the old Poets. The titles of the British nobility follow this rule; the esz seems naturally tv follow r in feminine titles, softening and enriching the tongue. Is not the title Professoress better and more grammatically correct than Lady Pro- St ssor ? Americaness.—We hope this new title will be ap- proved. It is definite aud dignified, and seems to give the idea of nationality to our countrywomen which no other form of expression can so well convey. Britoness has been made classical by Spenser and Tennyson. Why may not some American Poet sing, ina similar appellation, of his countrywomen, while describing some magnificent balen Paris— Fair women from all Europe graced the ball ; A fair Americaness eclipsed them all. Or, rising in a higher strain of lyrical inspiration, while describing the herviue, Florence Nightingale :— What heaven-high fame the Britoness hath won! Thus in our land, beneath the Western sun, The good Americaness, on war's red fame, With Christ's white light of mercy stamps her name. MEN’S OPINIONS ABOUT WOMEN. HeatTHey Provers.—‘‘In Cochin China, as in all coun- tries where civilization has made but little progress, the women are doumed to the most laborious occupations. A traveller inthat country says the women may be seen stand- ing from morning to night, in the midst of pools of water up to the knees, occupied in transplanting rice. They under- take the labor of tillage, and the various employments of agriculture—while those who live in seaports, besides the management of their domestic concerns, undertake the superintendence of the various branches of commerce. They even assist in constructing and repairing the cot- tages—they conduct the manufactures—they ply the boats in the rivers, and in the harbors, and carry the articles of produce to market. But nothing can be a stronger proof of the degradation of the womanly character, and the unceasing labor to which they are doomed, than the pro- verbial expression in that country, that ‘a woman has nine lives, and bears a great deal of killing.’ ’’ Curistian Sentiment.—‘‘An over-worked woman is always a sad sight; sadder a great deal than an over- worked man, beeause she is so much more fertile in capa- cities of suffering than a man. She has so many varieties of headache, sometit.es as if Jael were driving the nail that killed Sisera into her temples, sometimes letting her work with half her brain, while the other half throbs as if it would go to pieces, sometimes tightening round the Lrows as if her cap bands were Luke's iron crown ; and then her neuralgias, and her back aches, and her fits of depression, in which she thinks she is nothing, and less than nothing, and those paroxysms which men speak slightingly of as hysterical convulsions, that is all, only not commonly fatal ones, so many trials which belong to her fine and mobile strneture, that she is always entitled to pity when she is placed in conditions which develop her nervous tendencies.""—Dr. 0. W. Holmes. Screntiric Conoresses.—In Blackwood’s Magazine is a clever article on this theme. The writer, who likes bunt- ing, thus describes the influence of the gallant Savans, wherever they congregate, on ‘‘the ladies, who do not shoot, but geologize, botanize, archzologize, entomologize, and fraternize with all the dreariest old prosers of Europe.”’ ** Now, when I come back to a late dinner, with my eight brace of birds, I want to see my wife civil and compli- mentary ; aud what doI meet? A woman overwhelmed with care, her eyes actually red with tears. It is the coal fields, she has been told will not last above twelve thou- sand years; or it is the earth’s crust—she had it from Mr. Buckland himself—it is positively a seventeenth of an inch thinner than it was in the time of Moses, I try to dispel her gloom by talking of my day’s performance, and how many miles I have waiked since breakfast ; she sneeringly tells me—there was a time when a very dif- ferent race inhabited this earth, and then one might have seen a young giant walking about with a mastodon at his heels—just as we see a butcher now with a bull-dog.”’ This injured husband insinuates that the ladies are thus flattered by the Savans, because the latter like good living, and through the favor of women, are welcomed to rich men’s feasts, and he says:— “When John Girder declared ‘whatever was perfectly uneatable might be .given to the peor,’ he enunciated the grand maxim of Scientific Congresses.’’ HINTS ABOUT HEALTH. Caitpren’s Feet. —Life-long discomfort, disease, and sudden death often come to children through the inatten- tion, ignorance, or carelessness of the parents. A child should never be allowed to go to sleep with cold feet ; the thing to be last attended to, in putting a child to bed, should be to see that the feet are dry and warm ; neglect of this has often resulted in a dangerous attack of croup, diphtheria, or fatal sore throat. Always, on coming from school, on entering the house from a visit or errand in rainy, muddy, or thawy weather, the child’s shoes should be removed, and the mother should herself ascertain if the stockings are the least damp: and if so, should require them to be taken off, the feet held befure the fire and rubbed with the hand until perfectly dry, and another pair of stockings be put on and another pair of shoes, while the other stockings and shoes should be placed where they can be well dried, so as to be ready for future use at a moment’s notice. No child should be fitted with shoes without putting on two pair of thick woollen stockings, and the shoe should go on moderately easy even over these. Have broad heels, and less than half an inch in thickness. Tight shoes inevitably arrest the free circulation of the blood and nervous influences through the feet, and directly tend to cause cold feet; and health with habitually cold feet is an impossibility. The grace, exercise, and healthfulness of skating on the ice, can be had, without any of its dangers, by the use of skates with rollers attached, on common floors; better if covered with oil-cloth. Little girls should learn skating in this way; it isa pleasant and safe exercise.—Dr. Hall To ovr ContrinvTors.—We have small need of con- tributions, particularly of poetry ; only the best of the best can be used. Our poetical friends need not feel dis- couraged because we decline their offerings. The effort of composition has been useful to each individual writer. But the world prefers prose, unless—and this is the point we must now maintain—the best of the best is brought out. Tennyson has spent thirty years in studying and practising the art of poetry. Now his poetry is ripe and golden for his harvest of fame. Our contributors some- times offer their first fruit. They should thank us for declining it. The following only are accepted this month: ‘On the Beach”’—‘“‘ No News’’—“ Gaining a Loss’’—‘‘ What must the Dreams of Heaven be?"’ (the writer may send a story). These articles are declined: “‘May Atherton’’ (well written, but wanting incident)—“ The Churchyard’’— “Things of the Future’’—‘“‘ What Next ?’’ (too long)— “The Stranger’’—‘‘ Now she's off after a Nobleman’’—

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LITERARY “The Babe’’—‘‘ Sketches of California’ (would do well for a gentleman’s periodical)—*‘‘ Heart Longings’’—‘‘ To an Afflicted One’’—‘‘ Baby May”’ and the other poems (we should be glad to oblige the writer, but this year it is not possible)—‘‘The Province of History’’—‘ Cold’’—“In- dwelling Fancies’’—“‘ Great Mistakes’’—‘“‘ A World with- out a Baby”’ (too dark)—“ Translations from Corinne’’— and ‘‘ The Best Bargain.’’ Those who desire to have articles returned must send stamps. | Kiterary Dotices. From Peterson & Brotuers, Philadelphia :— THE LOST LOVE. By the author of ‘‘ John Drayton.”’ This book reminds us of Mrs. Oliphant’s best novels of Scottish life. There is the same careful delineation of character, and several of the characters even are similar ,% her favorite ones, The book is quietly written, though some portions of it are full of strength and pathos. The story is occasionally sad, yet there is a tardy poetic jus- tice at the close, which leaves the reader well satisfied. FOLLOWING THE DRUM. By Mrs. Brigadier-General Egbert L. Viele. Our heroine follows the drum, not into the exciting scenes of present warfare, but far off to a quiet military station in Texas on the Rio Grande. But the book is not the less interesting for describing an appa- rently monotonons life. The author is sprightly, and full of humor, with a keen appreciation of all that is beautiful in nature, or noble in humanity. She has given us an exceedingly readable book. LION-HEARTED. By Mrs. Grey. A well-written story of womanly heroism and self-abuegation. From Lipprycorr & Co., Philadelphia :— CHAMBERS’ ENCYCLOPAEDIA. Nos. 82, 83, and 84. A Dictionary of Universal Knowledge for the People, on the Basis of the latest editions of the German Conversa- With wood engravings and maps. The Price 25 cents a number. tiones Lexicon. best Encyclopedia published. From Harper & Brotuers, New York, through Perer- son & Broruers, and Lipprncort & Co., Philadelphia :— QUEENS OF SONG. By Ellen Creathorne Clayton. This handsomely bound volume gives brief sketches of the lives of the prominent prima donnas which have astonished and delighted the world during the past two centuries. Portraits of Mesdames Pasta, Sontag, Mali- bran, Grisi, Goldschmidt, Piccolomini, and others of equal celebrity, embellish the pages of the book. These sketches give an insight into the private life of those whose public life is so familiar; revealing many noble traits of cha- racter, and recording many beautiful incidents, which will make their heroines seem all the more worthy of the crowns which the all but worshipping public have be- stowed upon them, and entitling them, in some instances, to be called Queens of Goodness as well as ‘‘ Queens of Song.’’ A chronological list is also given of all the operas that have been performed in Europe. ARCTIC RESEARCHES AND LIFE AMONG THE ES- QUIMAUX: Being the Narrative of an Exploration in Search of Sir John Franklin, in the years 1860, 1861, and 1862. By Charles Francis Hall. With Maps, and one hundred Illustrations. Noone tires of travels and adven- tures in the Arctic Regions. They are a terra inconnu; any description of, or information regarding which is seized by the reading public with a zest which books of VOL. LX¥x.—23 281 NOTICES. travel in already well-known and frequently described countries fail to excite. Captain Hall's book is really a treasure. His information is reliable as well as minute ; and in this very minuteness lies his chief charm, His book is full of incidents, trifling ia themselves, yet of in- terest to the reader; as they give, better than the most careful description could do, an idea of Esquimaux life, and the haps and mishaps of a tour among them. THE PERPETUAL CURATE. A Novel. By the author of “Chronicles of Carlingford,’’ etc. This is, in fact, a continuation of the ‘‘Chronicles of Carlingford,’ the scene being laid in that quiet place, and the characters already familiar to the reader of the above mentioned work. The story is of a curate of high church tendencies, with an insignificant income, in love with a pretty and worthy girl, frowned upon and denied advancement by his low church aunts, misrepresented by circumstances, and calumniated by enemies; yet through all remaining faithful and brave, until he is at last successfal and pros- perous, The story is told in Mrs. Oliphant’s own quiet aud attractive style. QUITE ALONE. A Novel. Mr. Sala has struck an original vein in writing this story. The heroine, a pretty little girl, who meets with a variety of misfortunes, is quite interesting in her way. But the most powerfully drawn character is “the Countess ;"’ first the stupid, ungainly peasant girl, next the popular actress, turning all heads, then the wife of the fashionable rou, and, last of all, the debauched circus rider and per- former in the smallest and most contemptible of humbug shows. The career of Francis Blunt, the exquisite, roué, and gambler, also points its own moral, CHARLES DICKENS’S NEW CHRISTMAS STORY Mrs. Lirriper’s Legacy. A collection of five stories of more than ordinary excellence, very nicely prefaced and ‘tapped up"’ by the story of “‘ Mrs. Lirriper’s Legacy.”’ By George Augustus Sala. From D. Aprieton & Co., New York, through AsHMEAD & Evans, Philadelphia :— COUSIN ALICE: A Memoir of Alice B. Haven. Itisa sad pleasure to peruse this volume. A sainted woman has gone to her rest, and her biographer has faithfully re- corded the events, vicissitudes, trials, and triumphs of her life. The editors of the Lapy’s Book were among Mrs. Haven’s earliest friends, and they can attest to the truthfulness of this history. They sympathized with her in the sharp and bitter trial of her youth ; witnessed all her struggles with self and the world; and rejoiced in the perfection of womanhood to which she finally attained. Gifted with beauty and rare conversational powers that fitted ber to shine in the most brilliant society, which everywhere courted her; endowed with literary abilities that might have placed her in the front rank of American novelists, she withdrew from society, resigned fame, and gave up her life and her pen to doing good. If she pos- sessed a fault, it was of too utter self-abnegation, which, we fear, was the means of hastening her end. Almost from the outset of her literary career, until her last illness forbade her the use of her pen, she was a regular contribu- tor to the Lapy’s Book; and the hundreds of thousands of readers who eagerly looked for and read her sketches, will, we are sure, be interested in this unveiling of her private life. They must already feel that none but a pure, a generous, a noble woman, could have written as she wrote; but how pure, how generous, how noble, how brave she was, they eannot know, uatil the pages of this volume tell them. We wish the author had given more of Mrs. Haven’s

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282 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. letters of advice to those in difficulties, and those anxious to enter the folds of Christ’s church. They would have given a better insight of her most beautiful character ; with one excepiion we believe that the letters quoted are all addressed to one person. How many instances might have been quoted of her many acts of kindness to her relatives, some of whom she educated, and this at a time, too, when her own emoluments were very small. The portrait published in the book never had the slightest resemblance to Mrs. Haven during all the time of our acquaintance, and that commenced a few days after her first marriage. TREASURY OF TRAVEL AND ADVENTURE in North and South America, Europe, Asia, and Africa. A book for young and old. With one hundred and twenty illus- trations. This is a most absorbing bovuk of travel, inci- dent and adventure in different parts of the world—among the bears and Indians of California, the icebergs of the Arctic regions, the savages of Africa, the ruins of Nineveh, and in various phases of uncivilized life. We will not vouch for the entire reliability of its statements. We are given asketch of undoubted ancient Egyptian origin as an illastration of engraving on wood by North American In- dians, and some other portions of its contents may be taken as equally apocryphal. YOUNG AMERICA: A Poem. By Fitz-Greene Halleck. A rare bit of satire in poetical form, portraying the cha- racteristics of that recently discovered but already nume- rously represented class ycleped ‘‘ Young America.’’ From Car.eton, New York, through AsHmgap & Evans, Philadelphia :— TOGETHER. A Novel. By the author of “ Nepenthe,’’ etc. This novel unites a great deal of fine writing with a slightly ridiculous plot. An author capable of expressing him or herself so well, and possessing such a redundancy of ideas, ought not to fall back upon anything so “ stale, flat, and unprofitable’’ as the love story of this book. It has been served up by young writers in too many forms to possess even the merit of originality. THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A NEW ENGLAND FARM- HOUSE. A Book, By N. H. Chamberlain. Why it is we are informed, with so much precision, that this is “a book,’’ we cannot well determine ; for that fact, seriously considered, seems quite as much the accomplishment of the publisher as the author. Without the aid of the former, it could never have become a book except in em- bryo. Perhaps this abstract, all-embracing title is be- stowed upon it because of its negative qualifications. It is not a novel, nor a romance, nor a history, nor in fact anything that wecan discover save a rather dull, rambling ‘*book,’’ with some attempt to engage the reader’s inte- rest in the latter half. The subject is a fruitful one. We wish the author had infused a little more life into his ** book.”’ From M. W. Dopp, New York, through Asumeap & Evans, Philadelphia :— DIARY OF MRS. KITTY TREVYLYAN: A Story of the Times of Whitfield and the Wesleys. By the author of “Chronicles of the Schiinberg-Cotta Family,’’ ‘‘The Early Dawn,”’ etc. With a preface by the author for the American edition. The ‘Chronicles of the Schiinberg- Cotta Family’’ have found readers everywhere over our country. Its style was so fresh, its pictures of home life so vivid, that it left the impression of veritable history on the mind of every reader. The “ Diary of Mrs. Kitty Trevylyan” introduces us, in the same charming and quaint manner, to another religious epoch—when Whit- field and the Wesleys were arousing England by their zeal, eloquence, and piety. It is a book destined to have many readers. From Dick & FirzcEra.p, New York, through Lippry- cotr & Co., Philadelphia :— THE AMERICAN HOYLE; or, Hand-Book of Games. By “Tramps.’’ This edition of ‘‘ Hoyle” is an invalu- able companion to the card-table and chess-board. Con- taining all of the original work, it embraces also a vast number of other games very rarely included in such works. Another peculiarity of this edition is, thatit gives the laws in chess, cards, ete., sanctioned by the best play- ers of this country. THE CONSTABLE OF THE TOWER. A Novel. By William Harrison Ainsworth, Esq., author of “The Tower of London,”’ ete. This novel carries the reader back to that period so fruitful in romance—the time of the Tudors, when Elizabeth was still a princess, and Mary, her sister, queen. A love episode in the early life of Elizabeth, , which is partly authenticated by history, is the basis of the plot. From Ticknor & Fre.ps, Boston, through Peterson & Broruers, Philadelphia :— HOUSE AND HOME PAPERS. By Christopher Crow- field. A series of familiarly written stories and essays, treating on various subjects from house-furnishing and cookery to architecture. Not one of these articles but is the very essence of wisdom and common sense ; and they are all imbued with a certain spirit of Americanism, especially to be considered at the present time. The con- versation relating to habits of economy and the variety and excellence of American manufactures, is especially deserving of attention. THE AUTUMN HOLIDAYS OF A COUNTRY PAR- SON. Ever fresh and genial, the ‘‘ Country Parson”’ isa favorite with all. He discourses pleasantly on various subjects, advancing not so many new ideas, as old and familiar ones in a new and graceful dress. And therein perhaps lies the chief charm of his style. The reading of his books does not tire you. Itis restful instead. No labored thought accompanies it, but you meet idea after idea with the feeling, ‘‘I know you well; I have met you before ;’’ give each a hearty welcome, an admiring glance, and pass on; pausing at last refreshed for this reunion of sentiment and thought. A TRIBUTE TO THOMAS STARR KING. By Richard Frothingham. This volume is a worthy tribute to the memory of a good, a great, a brave, a Christian man. It gives a sketch of his career from the early consecration of his youth, up to the four years of almost missionary labor in California, with an affecting description of the closing scenes of his life. THE BOY SLAVES. By Capt. Mayne Reid, author of “The Desert Home,”’’ etc. With illustrations. A wild and exciting narrative of capture and slavery among the Arabs, attempts at escape, recapture, and final delivery from bondage. This book, from its correct descriptions of country and people, will be found profitable as well as entertaining. FOLLOWING THE FLAG. From August, 1861, to November, 1862, with the Army of the Potomac. By “‘Carleton,’’ author of ‘‘My Days and Nights on the Bat- tle-Field.’”’ The author of “My Days and Nights on the Battle Field’’ has acquired such prestige as a historian of the present war, for youth, and, indeed, for mature age. that we feel assured his later work is certain of success

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GODEY’S ARM-CHAIR. 283 It is an account, as full as may be, of the operations of the Army of the Potomac under General McClellan. Though narrating history, his book reads almost like story or romance, so attractive, so opposite from dullness, is the style, while his accounts may be depended upon. SHAKSPEARE’S SONNETS. Neatly printed on tinted paper, edged with red, and bound in greenand gold. This edition of Shakspeare’s Sonnets will prove an ornament to any book-shelf or table. ENOCH ARDEN, etc. By Alfred Tennyson, D.C. L., Poet-Laureate. This little volume, daintily bound in blue and gold, contains “ Enoch Arden,’ ‘“‘ Aylmer’s Field,” a poem ofequal length, “Sea Dreams,” ‘‘ The Grandmother,” **Northern Farmer,’’ and a number of miscellaneous poems, including a specimen from a poem upon which Mr. Tennyson has been engaged for a number of years, entitled ‘The British Queen, Boadicea.’’ “Enoch Arden” is a beautiful and touching story of a man who is lost at sea, and returns home after many years, to find his wife married to another, when, rather than mar her happiness, he dies of a broken heart. From Lorine, Boston, through G. W. Pitcuer, Phila- delphia :— THE QUEEN OF THE COUNTY. “‘Margaret and her Bridemaids,”’ etc. This is an excel- lent story of English life in the last century. The first part of the book moves smoothly and quietly enough in describing the childhood and girlhood of the heroine. She is now married, and, as Mrs, Mallerdean, becomes Queen of the County. Then her troubles commence, occasioned by the jealousy of a sister-in-law. But she bravely meets the ordeal of manifold and severe trials, and lives to see her children and children’s children to the third and fourth generation, rise up and call her blessed. MOODS. By Louisa M. Alcott, author of “ Hospital Sketches.” A somewhat eccentric book, as, perhaps, from its title we might expect. It is written in a superior manner. There is a charming bit of gypsy life described, in the up-river tour of the heroine, her brother, and his friends ; while the account of the golden wedding is rarely excelled for its vividness, its humor, its pathos, and its truth. FRANK’S CAMPAIGN ; or, What Boys can do on the Farm for the Camp. By Horatio Alger, Jr. We have seen no book better suited for boys, or more likely to please them, than this. It is emphatically patriotic in character, and calculated to incite its young reader to patriotism in a practical form. A description of the battle of Fredericksburg, based upon a reliable history, is intro- duced in the narrative; and the author has endeavored to make the descriptions of camp life as accurate as possible, 3y the author of From Roserts Brotners, Boston, through G. W. Pitcuer, Philadelphia :-— STUDIES FOR STORIES. Under this unassuming title, Jean Ingelow presents her readers with five finely finished, attractive stories, all of which have excellent morals. The author displays rare tact in making these morals prominent—indeed, the threads upon which these stories are strung—without in the least turn- ing them into homilies, or deteriorating from their interest. By Jean Ingelow. From J. E. Triton & Co., Boston :— ENOCH ARDEN. By Alfred Tennyson. We noticed this beautiful poem last month (see page 184). Now we have the “‘ Artists’ Edition,’’ illustrated with thirty-three engravings, each one a gem of artistic excellence. The | poem itself has such moral perfectness 1s scarcely to need ornament ; but these charming illustrations do honor to the taste and genius of the artists and pulMishers. There is also a smaller edition, differently illustrated, very beau- tiful of its kind, containing ‘‘ Enoch Arden,’’ and all the other poems in Tennyson's last work. We commend these editions to our readers as the gems of Genius and Art. SHAKSPEARE. Adapted for Reading Classes and for the Family Circle. By Thomas Bulfinch, author of “ The Age of Fable,” and Rev. 8. G. Bulfinch. This elegant volume is a selection, intended to present the best charac- teristics of the genius of Shakspeare in a form better adapted to family study than the whole works would prove. Eight plays are here presented. ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream,” “Romeo and Juliet,’’ ‘The Merchant of Venice,”’ ‘‘ The First Part of King Henry IV,’’ ‘‘ Ham- let,”” ‘King Lear,’’ ‘‘Macbeth,’’ and ‘‘The Tempest.’’ These are among the best of Shakspeare’s works. To each play a sketch of the story is prefixed, so tha. there is no difficulty in understanding the scope of the plot and form. The volume will be a most valuable addition to family readings. It gives the perfectness of the poet’s genius, without the blemishes which the grossness of the age in which he wrote had left on some pages of his immortal writings. The gold of common circulation has alloy; it was the aim of those who prepared this beautiful edition to have this pure gold. The illustrations and the letter- press are worthy of the publishers’ taste and skill. ~ Gader's 3 MARCH, 1865. rm-G pair, WE commence in this number the Spring fashions, and will continue them in the April number, when some rich novelties may be looked for. ‘‘The Shadow on the Wall”’ is one of those beautiful pictures that commend themselves to the hearts of all who see them. The design is admira- ble, the engraving superb. Let any one compare our steel plates with those of any other magazine, and they will see how immeasurable is our superiority. In no other monthly publication of the present day, except the ‘* Art Union,’’ of London, can such engravings be found. We challenge competition. Our plates for all of 1865 will be of the same character. The Lady’s Book will always maintain the ascendency it has had for thirty-five years. Our fashion plate consists of the usual number of figures, and is ahead of all others in the Spring styles. Our wood engraving—Riding Lesson—is an original design. Fashionable Spring Riding Habits, five designs. Here we are also ahead of all others. The Gypsy Pincushion and the Hand Penwiper are two of Godey’s specialties, printed in colors; very excellent articles for fancy fairs. La Folie Paletét and New Style of Open Dress are two of the peculiarities of the season. The Rose Wreath D’Oyley, and the Lady’s Key Keeper are two useful arti- cles, and easily made. But why enumerate? There are sixty different articles for ladies in the Book, all of value to them. Marion Harland and Virginia F. Townsend contribute to this number. Terms Usep in Crocnet, rtc.—As promised, we give elsewhere an explanation of the abbreviations used in the descriptions of the various kinds of work.

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284 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. We take the following from an editerial in the Ledger ef this city: “There never was so refined and well-edu- cated an army inthe world.’’ So much for the text ; now for the comment. We received two letters, one dated December 19th, and the other December 29th, headed “‘ Our Army before Savannah.”’ The first contained a club of $27 50, and the other a club for $32, both for the Lady's Book. A few days after we received another letter, from King’s Bridge, Geo., asking for a specimen, and on the 14th of January we received two letters from Fort McAl- lister, Geo., one containing a club of $14, and the other the money for two subscribers. In one of the letters from our army before Savannah, the writer sent us three old Georgia Continental notes as a curiosity and a present. Well may the Ledger call ours “a refined and well-edu- cated army.”’ Losstne’s PicrortaL History or THe Great Cryin WAR. —This is the simple announcement of a great work by this eminent historian, to be published by Gee. W. Childs, Esq., of this city. The general plan will be like his “ Pic- torial Field-Book of the Revolution,’’ that well-known and highly appreciated work. The author and the pub- lisher intend to make it a full and perfect pen and pencil picture of the great rebellion. It will contain at least Two It will be in four or more volumes, containing about 600 pages each, printed on delicately tinted paper. Knowing both the author and publisher, we can assure the public that they will have a perfect work, beautiful in design and elegant The first volume may be expected in May. Thousand engravings on wood and steel. in execution. Our Recerpts.— Many other magazines copy receipts from English publications, with English weights and measures, and other matters that cannot be had here. We do think that that complaint cannot be made against the Lady's Book receipts. We endeavor to publish nothing, the ingredients of which cannot be had in this country. A CORRESPONDENT of one of the dailies writes: ‘‘Some enterprising blockade-runner, fully appreciating female weaknesses for patterns, has recently brought to Rieh- mond a copy of Godey’s Lady's Book. This he exhibits to the ladies of Richmond for twenty-five cents per head. The ladies throng his exhibition-room, and console them- selves with the thought that if they can't afford to buy a new dress, at least they can remodel their old ones after the ‘ latest aud most approved style.’ ”’ ArtiFriciAaL Harr.—We give several designs in this number, and will continue themin April. Any applica- tions for these articles must be addressed to the Fashion Editor, and not to Mrs. Hale, who is the Literary Editor. One of our advertisers informs us that he receives more orders from his advertisement in the Lady’s Book than from any other publication in which he advertises. We do not publish any advertisement of which we do not approve. The Lady’s Book is taken as authority in all matters that it publishes. Take the fashions, for instance. What person of good taste ever thinks of consulting any other magazine? It may seem boastful for us to say so, but we are assured of the fact—Godey gives the fashions, and not fanciful pictures. Sever instances have occurred lately of losses by not minding our injunction of keeping the matter to yourself when you remit money. The fact has been communicated to others, and the money lost. OUR MUSICAL COLUMN. Tue city this winter, musically speaking, is flat, not- withstanding we have Concert and Soiree, aud Private Opera and Public Rehearsal. But since the brilliant Ger- man season at the Academy, three months since, there has been no Grand Opera, and, wanting that, we want every- thing. At this writing, Gottschalk is bestowing upon us his farewell Concerts prior to his departure for Havana and Mexico ; and we are not without hope that Maretzek’s Troupe will graut us some, if ever so little, Opera ere the winter shall be over. The Musical Monthly, for March, is now published. Every one of our musical readers should see a copy of this number, or the January or February number of this very successful periodical, which has now entered upon its third year with the most flattering prospects. Every mail brings us the most abundant assurances of the esteem in which the work is held by musical people, in the renewal of old subscriptions and the formation of new clubs in every corner of the land. A subscriber in Oregon says: ‘* Perhaps we appreciate it more highly than your nearer patrons, but in our far Pacific homes we would not be without it for ten times its cost.’? The Lady’s Book says: **Tt should be found in every house where there is a piano and a lady to sing or play.’’ The Jackson Herald says: “It is a miracle of cheapness and beauty.’’ And that rare and ripe old periodical, Littell’s Living Age, this month says of it: “We beg leave to recommend this work to musical families, and are very glad to get it for the young folk at home.’?’ We might multiply these recommenda- tions, both of a private and public nature. One lady says: ‘‘In no way can the expenditure of four dollars be 80 judiciously made by any musician or lover of music, as in a year’s subscription.”’ Terms.—-For four dollars received in advance, we will send the Monthly for one yearto any address. Two copies one year, seven dollars. Five copies one year, sixteen dol- lars. Single numbers forty cents, excepting the January number, which is fifty cents. We will send the January, February, and March numbers free of postage, to these who would like to examine the work, on receipt of one dollar and twenty-five cents. All orders must be sent addressed to J. Starr Holloway, Publisher Musical Monthly, Box Post-Office, Philadelphia. New Sheet Music.—Orders will also be received for the following new songs and ballads, each 30 cents, or four for $1 00. I’m Lonely Since My Mother Died, by the author of Lily Dale. At The Gate, fifth edition. Norah Mavourneen, new Irish ballad. I cannot Mind My Wheel, Mother, very pretty ballad by Linley. No Irish Need Apply, humorous and popular. O, I wish the War Were We Met and Talked of Other Days, pretty song by Stewart. Trust not All Who Whisper Thee, same author. Christmas Bells, same. O Say That You Ne’er Will For- get Me, same. O Ye Tears, by Abt. Forget Thee, by Balfe. The Splendor Falls, beautiful song to Tennyson's words. Also the following new pieces. The Bells of Aberdovey, Brinley Richards’ last and most beautiful transcription, 40 cents. Warblings At Eve, At Morn, At Dawn, At Noon, by the same, each 35 cents.. Musings at Twilight, by Fritz Spindler, 30. Cavalry Quickstep, by Glover, 35. Marche Militaire, same, 35. Evangeline, beautiful transcription by Baumbach, 40. Une Nuit sur ]’Ocean, nocturne, 30. An Alpine Farewell, nocturne, 30. Moss Basket Waltz, 30. Chancery Hill Schottische,; 30. Young Folks’ Waltz, easy, 30. Allegro Marziale, from Jone, spirited and not difficult, 30. Mireille, Gonnod’s new Opera, transcription, 40. Address orders as above. J. Starr HoLioway. Over.

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GODEY’S ARM-CHAIR. 285 PARIS ITEMS. A Nove. Capiitary Invention.—Le Sport, the great literary expositor of the movements of hivh life, has, ina recent number, a singular history of a novel capillary in- vention which extends to the canine species. In the Bois de Boulogne a fair exquisite can never be seen without her remarkable lap-dog, and the same sumptuary law demands that the said animal should appear every day with a new and various-colored coat. An individual who, in fifteen years, made a rapid fortune, has discov- ered the means of giving color to the hairy skins of animals, so that one day a dog has an outward green ap- pearance, the next day blue, another violet, and so on. The health of the animal thus operated upon is by no means injured, but, according to the Sport, his temper is changed and corresponds with his particular hue. Thus, it is asserted, a red dye makes him capricious, a green enlivens him, chocolate tints render him gloomy and sor- rowful, whilst blue has the power of exciting him to mischief. It amay be remembered that Virgil points out the effects of changing the colors of animals by feeding them on particular vegetables. The metamorphosis of the present day is, however, effected by the process of dying and of infusion. The love of finery, it appears, is strongly developed. A little dog, when fresh gilt, be- comes haughty, proud, and insolent to his companions, and does not allow strangers to approach him. As his gilding fades away his disdain and pride gradually lessen, and he at length returns to his former moral as well as physical state. A Kine “Incoentro.’’—The Gazette du Midi relates the following incident, which is said to have occurred on the occasion of King Leopold’s recent passage through Mar- seilles. His majesty, who travelled strictly incognito, entered the Café Bodoul, and sat down at a table close by two persons who were playing at dominoes. He appeared to watch the game with great interest, and even gave way toa slight movement of impatience when a wrong domino was played. The player observed this movement, and said, “ Perhaps you would not have played so?”’ ‘No,”’ said the king, “‘I should not.’’ Some minutes later the king again made a similar movement, and the player then remarked, with some ill-humor, ‘*‘ You think I have again played wrong?” ** Yes,’’ re oe his majesty, “I should have played the double-five.”” The player felt annoyed, and, shrugging his shoulders, eaid, “You area donkey !”’ A moment after the king rose, paid his reckoning, and withdrew. During this scene the player had noticed that one of the‘waiters kept making signs to him which he could not understand, and after the king’s departure he asked for an explanation. ‘I merely wanted to let you know,”’ said the waiter, “that you were talking to the King of the Belgians.’’ ‘‘ Indeed !’’ exclaimed the player, “‘then I am afraid I have not béen over-polite.’’ The waiter seemed fully to concur in this sentiment. A Srrance Srory.—A truly melodramatic anecdote is in circulation in Paris, which must be accepted without notarial vouching, but still as indorsed by being given to the world by those who are not ordinarily bravarde. A Russian nobleman. extremely wealthy and very re- served and melancholy, has appeared of late in the best circles, to which he has had most distiuguished intro- ducers. The Russian became remarkable for wearing a ring of colossal proportions, covering nearly the entire finger, and of singular appearance, the centre being com- posed of a substance resembling jet, which was set in gold. No one ventured to ask the character of the ring or the cause of its being worn, and placing the wearer, a studiously quiet man, in the light of being an eccentric individual. A lady, however, who was piqued to know something about the matter, at last mustered the requisite courage, and said, ‘‘ Monsieur, every one is very much struck with the singular character of ~ ring you Wear, and I for one should be delighted to know its origin.’ The Russian made a nervous twitch with his hand, as though he would like to hide it, while he replied, ‘*Madam, the riug is not a jewel, as you suppose, but a tomb.”’ The curio ous gathered round while he continued— “This jet substance is the body of my wife; she hada horror of a tomb in Russia; she was Italian. I promised her that I would guard her day and night during my life, and she reposed in my word, which had never been broken. I took the body of my wife to Germany, where the most able chemist of the day promised to reduce it, by powerful dissolvents and by great compression, to a size which would enable me to wear it as a souvenir. For eight days he labored almost constantly in my presence, and I saw the dear remains gradually dissolve and in- teusify till the residue was the compact mass which you 23* see in the ring, which is my dear wife, whom, as I pro- mised, I will never quit day or night during my life.’’ A LaBor oF Love.—The following epitaph may be seen in the cemetery of a parish in the environs of Paris: **Here lies Madame N , wife of M. N , master blacksmith. The railing | around this tomb was maau- factured by her husband.’ Senpine A Letrer TO Heaven.—A lady residing in the Rue de Rivoli returned some time since from a visit she had made in the department of Finistére, briaging with her a young orphan girl, poor, but very pretty, named Yvonne S——, whom she engaged as her waiting-maid. Last month, a short time after her return to Paris, the lady died. When the body had been prepared for the coffin, and was for a short time left alone, Yvonne was seen to go stealthily into the room, lift up the shroud, and hastily leave. The first idea was that she had taken a ring which, at the express desire of the deceased, had been left on her finger. On examination, however, the ring was discovered to be untouched, but a paper was seen attached with a pin tothe shroud. On inspection it was found to be a letter addressed by the young orphan to her mother, who died two years ago, and was as fol- lows: “My good Mother—I have to tell you that M. B—— has made me an offer of marriage. As you are no longer here, I beg you to make known to me in @ dream whether I ought to marry him, and to give me your con- sent. I avail myself, in order to write to you, of the op- portunity of my mistress, who is going to heaven.”’ The letter was addressed ‘‘To my Mother, in Heaven.’’ The person alluded to in the letter is one of the tradesmen of the deceased lady, who, having been struck with the good conduct of the young girl, had made her an offer of mar- riage. Tue GERMANTOWN TELEGRAPH.—Our friend Freas has advanced his price, and only 50 cents, It ought to be $3 ayear. It is worth a great deal more. The Telegraph publishes better stories than any paper with which we exchange. We say this positively, for we read the stories. We have been acquainted with the Major, man and boy, these thirty-five years, and all that time we have had his paper, and we pronounce both man and paper the best of their kind. “ REGISTERED LetTers.’’—Most of our losses this season have been letters that have been registered. We haveonly this to say: If you send your money in a registered let- ter, do not write to us on the subject, but look to the postal department for information. We take no notice of any communication of losses where the registry system has been adopted. If money is sent to us by mail from an office where the postal money order is in use, or from a town where a draft can be procured, the sender must consider the loss herown. A few cents will procurea draft or a post-office order. Our CircuLaTion.—By dint of great industry we have fully kept up with our letters. No one has been obliged to wait, and we are happy to say that, notwithstanding our increase in price, our list will be larger than it was last year. No one objects to price for the Lady’s Book. Most of our subscribers would consider it cheap at $5a year. Cuvs of $21. Notwithstanding the fearfully high price of living, we still think it no economy to do without your very excel- lent Lady’s Book. We have found the thousand and one practical hints in its various departments to aid us more in our efforts at economy, than the mere pittance you ask for the Book. Hence, ! have been enabled to secure most of our old club, with a few additional names, as you will see. Miss G., Wis. Tue Postal Money Order system continues to work well. We hope that its usefulness will be extended to every county town in each of the States.

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286 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. A REMINISCENCE. HOW THE NEWS OF PEACE WAS RECEIVED IN 1515. (From the Boston Saturday Gazette.) Years ago the office of the old Gazette was in Hanover Square, near the corner of Pearl Street. It was a place of resort for news and conversation, especially in the eve- ning. The evening of February 15, 1815, was cold, and ata late hour only Alderman Sebra and another gentle- man were left with Father Lang, the genius of the place. The office was about being closed, when a pilot rushed in, and stood for a moment so entirely exhausted as to be unable to speak. **He has great news!’’ exclaimed Mr. Lang. Presently the pilot, gasping for breath, whispered in- telligibly, ‘‘ Peace! Peace!’’ The gentlemen lost their breath as fast as the pilot gained his. Directly the pilot was able to say :— **An English sloop is below, with news of a treaty of peace!’ They say that Mr. Lang exclaimed in greater words than ever he used before—and all hands rushed into Han- over Square, exclaiming, ‘“* Peace! peace!”’ The windows flew up—for families lived there then. No sooner were the inmates sure of the sweet sound of peace, than the windows began to glow with brilliant llumination. The cry of “Peace! peace!’’ spread through the city at the top of all voices. No one stopped to inquire about “free trade and sailors’ rights.’’ No one inquired whether even the national honor had been pre- served. The matters by which the politicians had irri- tated the nation into the war had lost all their importance. It was enough that the ruinous war was over. An old man on Broadway, attracted by the noise to his door, was seen to pull down a placard, ‘*To Let,’’ which had been long posted up. Never was there such joy in the city. A few evenings after there was a general illumination, and, although the snow was a foot deep and soaked with rain, yet the streets were crowded with men and women, eager to see and partake of everything which had in it the sight or taste of peace, Now let us record our reminiscence of the same matter. Yes, the veritable “ Arm Chair"’ itself has to confess that he recollects the reception of the news of peace being re- ceived in this country. Weare afraid that this confession will lose us caste among our young lady subscribers ; but the truth must be told. It was a stormy night, snow falling fast, that ‘‘Arm Chair’’ was in the book auction room of Robert McMennomy, in Water street, New York, d ‘*Tontine.’? McMennomy was a character, fall of fun, and a true patriot. It was a great resort for yoys of the neighborhood, who always gathered there on near the o! a Saturday night, not to buy books, but to enjoy the auc- tioneers jokes, and hard work Mac sometimes had to keep The fan and the sales were going on fast und was heard in the distance which stopped us in order when a + the aucti neer. “* What wasthat? No! Itcan't be.’ It approached nearer, ** Peaee!”’ was plainly distinguished, ‘Peace! Peace!’ ‘* Hold on, gentlemen, let us ascertain the fact ;"’ and a messenger was sent to the office of Butler's Mercantile Advertiser, then the rival of Lang's Gazette. The truth was ascertained, and three cheers were proposed by Mac, The sale proceeded for a few minutes, and three cheers were again given. A few more books were sold, and then three more cheers, till at last it was nothing but cheering, and the au- and three hearty cheers were given, dience was dismissed. On our way homethrough thesnow, we saw several! houses with candles displayed in the win- dows. We were the first to carry the welcome news to our parents. The illumination took place the next week, and we remember the house of John Jacob Astor, which occupied the place where the Astor House now stands; it had a transparency in every window. But whata night! The slush was over shoe-tops, and thousands caught cold. women, children, all out, and all happy. We well remember McMennomy drilling his squad in The throng in the streets was immense; men, the Park during the war, and an excellent drill officer he was, At this time the Park was a different-looking place from what it is now, and a lively-looking place, with the separate squads going through their ‘‘ Mark time”’ and ‘Soldier hoo!’ New York was a small town then, con- taining only about 100,000 inhabitants, and Canal Street, or rather Stone Bridge, was the Ultima T'hule—the end of civilization. About thirteen years after this we quit. Every LADY SHOULD HAVE IT.—TuHE LApI&Es’ TOILET VADE Mecum: Containing full and complete directions for manufacturing all the requisites of the toilet, including Extracts and Perfumes for the Handkerchief; Pomades, Oils, Dyes, and Washes for the Hair; Lotions, Powders, and Pastes for the Teeth, Creams, Balms, Rouges, and Bexutifiers for the Skin; Scented Waters and Spirits, Per- fumed Soaps, Lip Salves, Odorous Vinegars, Sachets, etc. By Lavra K. D’Ungger. Mailed free to any address, on receipt of 60 cents. Address Barry Percy, Box, P. 0. Philadelphia, Pa. CrrcuLATION OF THE Lapy’s Boox 1n 1864.—Some idea may be formed of how extensive our circulation is, and what a vast amount of paper we use, the printing we, have done, and other matters, when we state that we dis- tributed last year 1,512,000. One million five hundred and twelve thousand copies of the Lady’s Book! ServANt-GaAt-IsmM.—The following case came under our We have a friend residing in Germantown. She engaged two girls in the city, and gave them money They arrived at the depot, and were met by the man, with a wagon to take their trunks “ Where is the carriage ?’’ they exclaimed. replied the man, ‘‘about three squares off.’’ “We won't go unless a carriage is sent for us. We have had a much less distance to go, and always had a carriage sent for us.’’ And they did not go, but waited an hour for the train to take them b&ck to Phila- delphia. own notice, to pay their passage out. over. ” “There is the house, A Lapy from classic Greece called at our office a few days since and informed us that she had heard of the Lady’s Book in that far-off land. She purchased it for the last two years, for the purpose of introducing it to her countrywomen. Ina short space of time we shall have a Grecian mail to make up every month, A Ratner Acep Lapy, who recently married a young and fast man, on quitting him at a railway station, when he was going en voyage for some important private affairs, after an embrace of the most loving character, put her head into the carriage, and said: “Cher Charles, remem- ber that you are married.’’ To which he replied: ‘‘Chére Caroline, I will make a memorandum of it,’’ and at once tied a knot in his handkerchief. Exocn ArpEN.—This beautiful poem of Tennyson has been just published in two forms, by Messrs. J. E. Trrton & Co., Boston. One splendid edition, with illustrations on nearly every page, on thick orange paper; and one smaller, near the size of their “‘ Poetry of the Age of Fable,”’ which is also on tinted paper, but with fewer engravings. Both books are in perfect taste, as are the usual publications of this house. A.tnoven my club is made up, yet I still tell my friends that I am at their service to forward subscriptions, and let me assure you, that I will send you every name that I can possibly procure. I have read your excellent Book since a wee little girl, and now that I have grown, find it indispensable; and can truly say to every lady, put Godey’s Lady’s Book into the hands of your daughters, for they will profit by it. Miss 8., Va

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F) GODEY’S ARM-CHAIR, 287 THE FLOWER GARDEN. PerHAPs in no department of horticulture are the re- turns more satisfactory, for the small amount required in the investment, than in the cultivation of flowering-plants from seeds. Apart from the interest excited inthe sowing of the seeds, watching the tender germs, and nursing and rearing of the plants, until the opening of the first blos- som, they also possess intrinsic merits rarely found in other plants, and this is their continuous bloom during the summer and autumn months. Such varieties as the following are really indispensable in the flower garden : The German Asters, of such rich hues and variety of form ; Balsams, Calliopsis, Dianthus, Delphinium, Gail- lardia, Heartsease, Lobelia, Mimulus, the fragrant Mig- nonette, Tropaecolum, Petunia, Phlox Drummondii, Portulaca, German Stocks, with their spicy odors, Thunbergia, Verbena, and last, though not least, the New Double Zinnia. There are many others which we might enumerate, but the above, with their varieties, are suffi- cient to make any garden attractive. For the accommodation of those who are unacquainted with the varieties, we have put up the following assort- ments of the most desirable free bleoming and showy kinds, which will be promptly mailed ( prepaid) upon the receipt of a remittance. 4@> Correspondents will please write their names legi- bly, and in full, with post-office, county, and State. No. 1.—Twenty choice annuals, free bloomers, for $1 00 “* 2.—Twenty choice annuals, biennial and peren- nial varieties, 00 ‘* 3.—Twelve new and rare varieties, 00 ‘* 4.—Twenty varieties for green-house culture, 3 00 “ 5.—One hundred varieties, including many new and rare sorts, 8 00 —_ As an inducement to postmasters and others forming clubs, we will forward, post-paid, six one dollar pack- ages for a remittance of five dollars. For selgct lists of seeds and plants, see Dreer’s Garden Calendar for 1865, which also contains directions for their cultivation, and will be mailed to all who inclose a postage stamp to my address, HENRY A. DREER, Scedsman and Florist, 714 Chestnut Street, Philada. Ratstne A CLUB UNDER DIFFICOLTIES :— Now, really, my dear friend, you must pronounce me a bona-fide Godeyite, for lam sending youaclub under strange and peculiar difficulties. The tornado of the Sth instant swept away from me a home, with all of life’s comforts, and all the old volumes of your Book, dating from 1832. Some of my former subscribers came to me in the midst of my perished and ail but lifeless condition, to know if I would not ‘‘get upa club.”’ It seemed to me impossible, amid my troubles, to think of it; but, unless I did try to do so the long winter evenings must go by and find me more than ever Jonely without the light and sunshine of a Book that, from my early childhood, has been my constant friend. As the new year opens, may it bring you happiness and success! Miss M., Jil. Our Carp Puotocrapns.—We have added some two hundred new and choice subjects to our catalogue of elegant cartes de visite for albums, which we are send- ing by mail, post-paid, at the low pricé of eight for $1, or twenty for $2. Catalogues free. Our orders for these attractive pictures continue to be very large. We are mailing them by thousands, and they give the highest satisfaction. Our list includes distinguished military and naval officers, public men, authors, artists, and a charming variety of pictures and works of art. If you want to fill your albums at a cheap rate, send for our catalogue. OUR COLORED PATTERNS. (See Plate printed in Colors, in front.) Ayy of our readers who are at a loss to know what to make in the way of needlework, as a centribution to fancy fairs, will find here two very pretty and taking little arti- cles, which may be manufactured at a merely nominal expense. Half a dozen of each of the things illustrated on our Book,.and made in a variety of colors, would prove an attractive, and at the same time a useful, addi- tion toa stall. We will commence by describing how to make Tse Gipsy Pincusnion.—First cut a piece of cardboard three inches in diameter, and cover this with lining. Then join a piece of blue French merino or mousseline- de-laine, four inches long, and of exactly the same size round as the round of cardboard. Sew the bottom of the merino which composes the gipsy’s skirt to the cardboard neatly, and then fill the skirt with bran. Dress the body of a small doll, with china head and hands, in a scarlet bodice and sleeves; stand the doll in the midst of the bran, and draw the blue skirt tightly round its waist, afterwards securely fastening it. Make a little scarlet cloak with hood, and line both hood and cloak with new white glazed lining. Ornament the cloak with white glass beads, threaded and put on in twos, and draw the hood round the gipsy’s face. Thread a few gold beads for a necklace, and twist them round her neck, and make a basket out of a piece of cardboard, with a wire handle, first threading a few beads on the wire to hide it. Fill this basket with a few needlefuls é6f thread, cotton, etc., tied to imitate skeins, and fasten it to the gipsy’s arm. Cut two small pieces of cardboard, and with a pen and ink mark them to imitate playing cards, and sew one to the dress, the other tie to the right hand, The front of the skirt is ornamented with three rows of beads. We need scarcely say that this forms the pincushion, Tree HAanp PenwiPer.—To make this, a china hand, a small piece of red cloth, the same of black, and a few chalk and crystal beads are all the materials required. Cut the searlet cloth round (it measures four inches in diameter), and thread on the chalk and crystal beads in any design that may be preferred, adding a row of crystal beads to form the edge. Cut the black round of cloth smaller than the red one, and notch it at the edge. Cuta hole in the centre of both rounds, and fix in the haud strongly with thread; then catch together the four quar- ters of the circle close to the edge of the scarlet round, aud the result will be the shaped penwiper seen in our illus- tration. Tue Dovsie Fasnion-PLate.—Let it be remembered that Godey originated the double fashion-plate, as he has originated everything that is valuable in magazine em- bellishment. PosTaGE on the Lady’s Book, according to the late law passed last winter:— Section 36.—Postage on Godey’s Lady’s Book, 24 cents a year, payable yearly, semi-yearly, or quarterly in ad- vance, at the Post-office where the Book is received. News-dealers may receive their packages at the same rates, that is, 2 cents for each copy of the magazine, and may pay separately for each package as received. EpiTaPH.—The following epitaph is in the churchyard of Upton-on-Severn, and as it is a curious specimen of * the mixed style,’’ we give it:— “‘Under this stone, in hopes of Zion, Doth lie the landlord of the Lion ; His son keeps on the business still, Resigned to the Heavenly will.” Directions FoR Writina Letrers.—If you write on business, and about anything for the book, write on sepa- rate sheets, so that they may be separated, and each portion handed to the persons to whose departments the subjects may belong. Frequently poetry is sent us in letters ordering the Lady’s Book, commenced on the back of the business page. We have not time to copy it, and there- fore it is filed away with business letters, and no notice taken of it. So photographs and Lady’s Books are often mixed up. Write on each subject on separate sheets. Two sheets of paper will only cost three cents postage.

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288 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.

JUVENILE DEPARTMENT. SUN-DIAL. Tuts simple little toy, if properly made, will enable you

to find the correct time of the day. It is easily made ac- cording to the following directions :— Fig. 1. <TC] Ee

Al TT bY”

Take a piece of stiff cardboard about five or six inches square, and draw with a pair of compasses as large a cirele as youcan upon it, then again another circle a little inside of the first, and a third within that again, fig. 1; divide the whole into twelve equal parts, and draw in neatly the figures, first in pencil, and then with a pen or small brush; take a sharp- Pig. 2. pointed penknife and a ruler, and cut out a small slip in the face, from the centre to the fig- ure xii, as near as possible the thickness of the card. Then eut out another piece of card the shape of fig. 2, and with = penknife split it at the ottom up to the dotted line, and bend the two small ends over some sharpedge. Fix fig. 2 to flig. 1 by inserting it through the hole, and gum the two ends on to the back of the face. Set it on a stand in the sun; at twelve o’clock there will only be the shadow of the thin edge of the card over the figure, but as the sun goes round so will the shadow, and tell the correct time of the day. MISCELLANEOUS AMUSEMENTS. The Wafer Trick. On each side of a table-knife or ivory folder stick, in the a ge of your company, three wafers. Take the knife »y the handle, and turn it over two or three times, to show that the wafers are allon. Desire some person to take off one wafer from one side of the blade; turn the knife twice, and there will appear only two wafers on each side; remove another wafer, turn the knife twice, and there will appear only owe wafer on each side; take the third wafer away, turn the knife twice, and there will appear to be no wafer on either side. After a momentary pause, turn the knife again twice, and three wafers will appear on each side. The secret of this capital trick consists in using wafers of the same size and color, and turning the knife, so that the same side is constantly presented to the view, and the wafers are taken off that side, one by one. The three wafers will thus remain untouched on the other side, so that when you have first made it appear that there are no wafers on either side, you may, apparently, show three on each, by the same means. The way to turn the knife is as follows: When yon lift it up turn it in your hand, with your finger and thumb, completely round, until the side that was uppermost when you lifted it comes upper- most again. This is done in an instant, and is not per- ceptible, ifadroitly managed,

HAIRDRESSEKS AND DressMAKERS.—Why are there not more of these useful persons in our large cities? There are several dressers of ladies’ hair in Philadelphia, but they are so busy that they cannot attend to all! their or- ders ; and as for dressmakers, you must stand in a row, as boys do watching to get pennies from the mint, and take yourturn. Why does not sume one set np an estab- lishment to teach hair-dressing? It would pay. And why are there not more young girls studying dress- making ? Cives of $21 Iam delighted to know that my name is again added to your list of subscribers, and to find myself enabled to send you aclub of $21. We have been taking your highly appreciated Book ever since I can remember, and I think I shall continue to do so the remainder of my days, or as long as I am in that part of the world in which it may be procured ; for, without the Lady’s Book, our home circle would be miserable. Miss T., Ky. Tea BRANDS AND THEIR MEANING.—The following will interest housekeepers: ‘‘Hyson’’ means ‘before the rains,’’ or “flourishing spring’’—that is, early in the spring; hence it is often called ‘‘ Young Hyson.”’ ‘‘Hy- son skins’’ is composed of the refuse of other kinds, the native term of which is “tea skins.’’ Refuse of still coarser descriptions, containing many stems, is called **tea bones.’’ ‘*Bohea’’ is the name of the hills in the region where it is collected. ‘‘Pekoe,’’ or “ Poco,’’ means ‘white hair,’’ the down of tender leaves 1‘ Powchong,”’ ‘folded plant.’’ ‘‘Souchong,’’ “small plant.’’ ‘“‘Twan- kay’’ is the name of a small river in the region where it is bought. ‘‘Congo’’ from a term signifying “‘labor,’’ from the care required in its preparation.

AGeEncies.—We have no agents, and no persons solicit- ing subscribers for us. Let this be remembered. One warm day last summer my cousin, Alice W. (the belle of the town of S——), came home from a shopping expedition quite tired out. She donned a wrapper, and concluded to remain en deshabille through the evening. Telling the waiting-maid, if any gentleman called, to say she was indisposed, she went to her own room. Hearing the bell ring, her curiosity led her to the head of the stairs, to hear who the caller was. It was a gentleman, who inquired for her, and receiving the girl’s answer that she was ‘“‘indisposed’’ said: ‘‘Give my kind regards to Miss Alice, and tell her I am sorry to hear she is not well.’’ “Oh, Miss Alice isn’t sick, sir,’’ the girl replied, “‘only she ain't dressed !”’ FREIGHT ON LETTERS OR PREMIUMS ON DRAFTs.—We want our subscribers distinctly to understand that, when they send their letters by express companies, they must pay the freight. We advise our subscribers to procure drafts— they and the postal money order are the only safe modes of remitting. The premium on the draft must be paid by the subscribers. Extract oF A Letter TO Mrs. HALE:—* * Julia came racing in yesterday, with ‘Oh, Mrs. H., hasn't the Lady’s Book come ?—What! net yet?’’ “ Not yet, my dear; but you seem quite distracted about it. There's the Atlantic on the table, if your literary ap- petite is so keen.”’ “The Atlantic, indeed! Why, neither the Atlantic, nor the Harper, nor the—none of them are to be spoken of by the side of the Lady’s Book. 0, dear! and it hasn’t come!”’ “Why, you’ve no new dress to make; what are you so anxious about, just now ?”’ “O, Mrs. H., it isn’t the dress—it’s the stories. Oh, they’ re such loves of stories; and the pictures I like to look at, too,’ she added tn a lower and laughing tone. “Do, pray, write and say we cannot do without the Lady’s Book another week !’’ A CORRESPONDENT sends us the following :— “T heat my conservatory with a small boiler. heated with gas. It is clean, very little trouble, and not expen sive. My greenhouse is small.”

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GODEY’S ARM-CHAIR, 289 FRENCH AMERICAN VILLA. Designed expressly for Godey’s Lady's, Book, by Isaac H. Hosss, Architect, Philadelphia, FIRST STORY. Tue light and graceful form of the French is united with the conveniences and useful wants of the American people. By small modifications the design can be made to suit many situations where pines and poplars abound, and scenery of a rolling character. Principal Flosr.—1 porch, 8 by 11; 2 hall, 8 by 12; 3 drawing-room, 15 by 25; 4 sitting-room, 15 by 19; 5 din- ing-room, 16 by 26; 6 library, 12 by 15; 7 porch, 6; 8 kitchen, 22 by 13; 9 china-closet, 6 by 6; 10 scullery, 6 by 6. SECOND STORY. Second Floor.—15, 16, bedrooms; 17 chamber, 12 by 15; 18 chamber, 16 by 20; 19 hall; 20 chamber, 15 by 21; 21 chamber, 8 by 8; 22 chamber, 15 by 19; 23 balcony; 24 servants’ stairs. Cuvs of $14. Please send your excellent Lady’s Book to the names I send, and oblige an old subscriber, who deems the Lady’s Book not ony a luxury, but a treasure. I have been tak- ing it so long, and got so used to reading it, that_I cannot do without it. Miss T., Pa.

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290 GODEY'S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. Cornetivs & Baker, 710 Chestnut St., have the pleaxure to announce that they are now prepared to furnish a new style of gas fixture, suitable for dwellings, stores, offices, etc., which can be lighted by electricity. Ovr Superior Neepies.—We have made arrangements by which we can continue to furnish the ladies’ favorite needles for 40 cents per 100 and a 3 cent stamp to pay re- turn postage. This is much cheaper than they can be purchased elsewhere, and the needles are of a much finer quality. The demand is so great for them that it is the business of one person in our office to attend to the orders. We resume again at little profit to ourselves, but we are anxious that our subscribers should be supplied with a superior article. Harr Uproorep tn Five Mriycres, BY THE Use or Up- HAM’s DeprLATORY Powper.—This powder has been found highly beneficial and of great use to ladies who have beem afflicted with superfluous hair, principally when its growth has been confined to the upper lip and side of the face, giving a masculine turn to the whole features, It will be found to be a great addition to the toilet, as the use of any sharp instrument is entirely avoided, and the hair is removed in five minutes after its application, without in- Jury to the skin. Mailed to any address for $1 25. 8. C. Upmam, No. 25 South Eighth Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 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. J. C. D.—Sent tassel December 22d. Mrs. W. F. L.—Sent box 22d. N. C. B.—Sent pattern 29th. J. A. D.—Sent pattert 29th. R. J. R.—Sent pattern 29th. Mrs. L. W.—Sent working cotton 30th J. H B.—Sent box by express 31st. Miss L. B. W.—Sent dress shields January 4th, N. M.—Sent pattern 4th. L. D. 8.—Sent pattern 4th. M. G.—Sent India-rubber gloves 5th. E. L. H.—Sent pattern 5th. A. J, R.—Sent pattern 5th. Mrs. C. Y. G.—Sent pattern 5th. Miss H. M. F.—Sent hair ring 6th. 8. 8. T.—Sent pattern 6th. J.D. T.—Sent pattern 6th. E. H—Sent pattern 6th. A. R. B.—Sent pattern 10th. M. J. H.—Sent ring 11th. L. A. P.—Sent ring 11th. A. P. T.—Sent hair pin 11th. 8. Van H.—Sent sleeve buttons 21th. N. J. P.—Sent dress shields 11th. Mrs. H.—Sent pattern 11th. Mrs. H, C. T.—Sent pattern 11th. Mrs. E. R. B.—Sent pattern 11th. W. H. M.—Sent pattern 11th. Miss E. T.—Sent box 11th. F. E. B.—Sent pattern 13th. Mrs. P. C.—Sent box 18th. E. C. L.—Sent box 18th. J. E. W.—Sent box 18th. M. H. H.—Sent box 18th. Mrs. E. P. H.—Sent box 19th. B. E. G.—Lead combs cost $1 70, which includes the postage. Too late by one month to be answered in Feb- ruary number. F. P.—We cannot tell anything about your ability to become a writer, as we have nothing upon which we cai form our judgment. 8. L.—The two are in separate courts—one in the Su- preme, and the other in a eity court. Miss E. A. P.—A lady is not expected to give her bride maids: their dresses. If the lady is wealthy, and the bridemaids are not, to present them with a dress is a graceful and kind act, bet should not be made known. Num-Skull.—Will not the author of this Charade com- municate with us? M. H.—Whether you drink the bride's health is op- tional. V. R. G.—By all means hand the servant your card. There can then be no mistakeabout your name. Servants make sad havoc with names before they reach you. Uncomfortable Shirt Sufferer.—If you will communicate with J. O. Winchester, 706 Chestuut Street, Philadelphia, your sufferings will soon cease. Miss E. C.—You requested in the December number a receipt for freckles. Mrs. J. H. Busa, of Warren, IIL, writes us that you can procure a receipt by writing to Miss M. Briner, Warren, Illinois. Ella.—The chief bridemaid should stand, at the altar, to the left of the bride ; oe other maids stand to the left of the principal bridemaid. Their duties are not heavy, and mainly consist in holding the bride’s gloves, handker- chief, and bouquet. Mrs. E. A. H.—It means merely after the Arabian man- ner. A peculiar kind of fantastic decoration. No better definition can be given. M. N. K. D.—Please send a story We do not send the Lady’s Book for poetry. Fashions, NOTICE TO LADY SUBSCRIBERS. Havine had frequent applications for the purchase of jewelry, millinery, etc., by ladies living at a distance, the Editress of the Fashion Department will hereafter execute commissions for any who may desire it, with the charge of a small percentage for the time and research required. Spring and autumn bonnets, materials for dresses, jewelry, envelops, hair-work, worsteds, children’s wardrobes, man- tillas, and mantelets, will be chosen with a view to écono- 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. Godey, Esq. No order will be attended to unless the money is first received. Neither the Editor nor Publisher will be account- able for losses that may oceur 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 oris 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. Drexs goods from Evans & Co.'s; mourning goods from Besson & Son; dry goods of any kind from Messrs. A. T. Stewart & Co., New York; 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. ~f

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FASHIONS. 291 When goods are ordered, the fashions that prevail here overn the purchase; therefore, no articles will be taken ack. When the goods are sent, the transaction must be considered final. DESCRIPTION OF STEEL FASHION-PLATE FOR MARCH. Fig. 1.—Spring checked silk, trimmed with blue silk, arranged in a fancy design on the skirt and corsage. The corsage is trimmed in the jacket style in front, and has a long coat tail at the back. Coat sleeve slit up on the out- side, and trimmed with blue silk. White silk bonnet, trimmed with a long blue ostrich feather. A fall of black lace takes the place ofa curtain. The hair is rolled from the face and arranged in a waterfall at the back. Fig. 2.—Black silk circle, trimmed with large jet beads and narrow black velvet. Bonnet of green silk, trimmed with black and white lace. Fig. 3.—Chiid’s dress of white figured alpaca, scalloped and bound with scarlet velvet. The embroidery is in scarlet chenille. Full loops of scarlet velvet are ou the sleeves and at the back of the dress. A scarlet velvet rib- bon passes round the head and ties at the right side. Fig. 4.—Morning-robe of light cuir-colored poplin, turned back with green silk, and trimmed all round the skirt and on the corsage with a plait formed of chenille eord. Fine muslin skirt, trimmed with a worked ruffle and rows of inserting. Chemisette of Valenciennes in- serting and puffs of muslin. Fancy muslin cap, trimmed with scarlet flowers and loops of green ribbon. Fig. 5.—Pearl-colored spring poplin, trimmed oa the skirt with two rows of Solferino velvet, from which hang long loops of the velvet. Wide velvet belt, fastened by a fancy gilt buckle. Coat sleeve bound with Solferino velvet, and trimmed with an epaulette formed of loops. White drawn bonnet, trimmed with Solferino flowers and blonde lace. Fig. 6.—Walking-dress of purple silk, with paletét to match. Both are’trimmed with wide black velvet ribbon, finished with long chenille pendents, White drawn silk bonnet, trimmed with green velvet and blonde lace. FASHIONABLE RIDING-HABITS. (See engravings, page 220.) Fig. 1.—Black cloth habit, with a long plain basque made with reversin front, Standing collar; cherry silk neck-tie. Black felt hat; blue grenadine vest; white gloves. Fig. 2.—Blue cloth habit, made with a square jockey at the back and points in front. Standing collar; white muslii neck-tie. Black straw hat, trimmed with blue feathers. Fig. 3.—Light gray cloth habit, made with a short point at the back. Standing collar; blue silk neck-tie. Black felt hat, and gray tissue veil. Fig. 4.—Dark green cloth habit, made with a swallow- tail jockey at the back and points in front. The sleeves and body are trimmed with crochet gimp. Brandebourgs of crochet trimming are arranged on the front of the waist. Black velvet turban hat, trimmed with black and white feathers. CHITCHAT UPON NEW YORK AND PHILADELPHIA FASHIONS FOR MARCH. So great is the variety in materials, trimmings, and in the styles of making up dresses, bonnets, and wraps, that it is almost impossible to say what is really the fashion. Everything is worn; no two garments are made alike. A few general rules prevail as to shape, but the trimmings are varied according to the taste and genius of the artiste or wearer. Something new and stylish in the way of morning dresses are the following: A gored underskirt of white alpaca, trimmed on the edge with a fluted ruffle bound with black velvet. A vest of white alpaca is buttoned to the throat with square mother-of-pearl and jet buttons. Over this is a robe of violet cashmere of the redingote style, that is, gored, and cut into the figure, but not fitting it tightly. This dress is quite short, only reaching the top of the ruffle on the petticoat. It is finished with a fluted ruffle of the cashmere, headed by a brilliant band of Per- sian bordering, which is also carried up the front. The corsage is fastened at the waist and at the throat, showing the vest in between. Another morning robe is of blue cashmere made to simulate an open dress. A gore of white silk is inserted at the back, at the sides, and in front, and so arranged that it has all the appearance of an open dress over a white silk petticoat. Buttons and buttonholes are carried all the way up the back and front. Both of these robes are extremely stylish, without being very expensive or difficult to make, and would be very appropriate for a wedding outfit. Dresses of black tulle, puffed, are very fashionable for persons in light mourning, or even those wearing gay colors. They are also very convenient and pretty for a watering place. Among the many fanciful ways of trim- ming are the following: Studding them all over with steel or white satin beads, or else applying tiny silver leavee at intervals over the puffs. Others, again, are composed of several skirts ornamented with white floss silk, darned in to represent blonde patterns. A great many pretty light tissues have appeared for evening dress. Among them we noticed a white silk tulle, over which were sprinkled tiny leaves of white blonde, two in a bunch, from which fell a cherry-colored acorn-like pendent, caught by a small cherry silk dia- mond. These ornaments, though made on the mate- rial, seemed merely to be caught on by a thread, as they did not cling to it at all. Another pattern was a white tulle with rich erépe leaves applied over it ; another, still, was covered with diamonds of green silk. Any one of these robes made over a slip of white silk would havea very dressy and charming effect, and would be just the dress for a young lady. Most of the light dresses are made with several skirts, looped with ribbons fastened in at the waist and caught ° under the edge of the skirt. Flowers are frequently ar- ranged at the end of the ribbons, and the effect is much more dressy. Quite a number of these ribbons or narrow sashes are sor.etimes used on a skirt. Flutings of tarla- tane or crépe are frequently substituted for the ribbons, and present quite a youthful, pretty effect. Puffings of colored crépe lisse, or er(pe, are much used for trimmings of white tarlatanes; mother-of-pearl and crystal buttons are also employed for dotting over the puffs. Puffed skirts of illusion or tarlatane are always in de- mand, as there is nothing so graceful and pretty for a young person asa thin dress. In order to give them more firmness, they should be puffed on a skirt of stiff net or thin, stiff muslin. This skirt should be gored to fit the figure tightly over the hips, in order not to have any plaits ai the waist, as they would interfere greatly with the puffs, which, however, should be almost plain at the

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GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, waist. Over these puffed skirts is frequently worn a skirt of talle without hem; this is termed a veil, and adds lightness to the dress, When the puffings run lengthwise, they should be graduated, and, if expense is not feared, they can be separated by garlands of flowers, or studded over with butterflies of bright-colored crépe or blonde. Blonde flowers are also much used for ornamenting and looping up thin evening dresses. Lace scarfs, arranged over the chest in the order style, are very much in vogue, so also are bows of ribbon, illu- sion, or black lace with long streamers fastened on the left shoulder. This style of bow is also worn on paletits, and we think will be very popular for the spring silk wraps. We lately saw a very elegant cuir-colored cloth paletét richly ornamented with braid and cord, having on the left shoulder a bow of cuir-colored silk with streamers a yard long. The newest style of belt is of black gimp and beads, with a large buckle to match. The advantage of this style of belt is, that it can be worn with any dress. Awu- moniéres, or small bags to wear at the side for the purse or handkerchief, are to be had of gimp and jet to match the belts. Many of the sashes are tied at the left side. caught with a large buckle in front, and tie at the back with large bows and ends. Cashmere sashes are worn over morning robes, and are fastened at the back witha Others are large bow. Light silks are frequently trimmed with silk of the same color but of much darker shade, arranged in ruffles, me- dallions, or in some fanciful style. Moirés and heavy silks are frequently slit up to the waist on each side, and a gore of white silk, handsomely trimmed, is letin. Thick silk cord is one of the richest trimmings for a heavy silk. A pretty method of arranging it is to have six or seven rows, slightly waved, running round the skirt. These are festooned half way up on the left side of the skirt, with loops of cord and Thibet tassels. The newest style of quilted petticoat is of black silk, cut in narrow gores about a quarter of a yard wide. Each gore is piped with a bright-colored silk or braid, and the skirt is bound with a braid matching the pipings in color. The latest hoop skirts are made with hoops commenc- ing below the hips. These are connected with the belt by wide tapes. This style of skirt will be found very becom- ing to persons with large hips. Children’s dresses are trimmed with bright cashmere borderings. Cashmere sashes are also worn tied at the back in a large bow. Sleeves still continue in the coat form and very small, and generally trimmed with epaulettes. Skirts are gored and very long at the back. street the skirts are looped up. We think that the devotees of Fashion cannot help being pleased with the charming collection of Parisian novelties at the Maison Tilman of 148 East Ninth Street, New York. Among the numerous elegant coiffures, we were attracted by one formed of a branch of tempting-looking straw- berries, with rich green foliage mounted on gilt stems. At the back was a shower of golden grasses, intended to veil the chignon or waterfall. For young ladies thereare many graceful little coiffures, such, for instance, as the Euginie. This is formed of a tuft of roses and forget-me- nots for the centre of the head, another for the back, from which falls a garland of rosebuds seemingly dripping with dew. Most of the coiffures are composed of separate tufts or branches, or else of flexible garlands, which can be twined in with puffs and curls to great advantage. In the : Other styles for young ladies are of blonde flowers, mounted on ordinary stems, a very graceful style, and particularly adapted to pe light evening dresses now so very popular. Others, again, are of white flowers with- out foliage, and many of flowers and ribbons intermingled The mixture of tulle with flowers proves so very becom- ing, that it is adopted by both young and elderly ladies. Large bows of tulle are also worn at the throat. The bonnets at this establishment also claimed our at- tention. They are very small, but present an infinite variety of trimming. Some are mere caps or half hand- kerchiefs of heavy materials, trimmed tastefully with flowers or plumes. On some a light feather fringe is ar- ranged to fall over the haiz, a charming substitute for a curtain, The latest Parisian novelty, in the way of a bonnet, is called the mantilla bonnet. It is geverally formed of somé light material, such as white puffed tulle, dotted over with ‘bugles, and trimmed with flowers glistening with dew-drops. The crown is soft and covered with blonde, which is prolonged into a pelerine covering the shoulders. This is an extremely graceful, coquettish coif- fure, but only fit for evening wear. Bonnet caps are disappearing as well as the crown and cape. The strings are generally of velvet or fringed rib- bon. Illusion scarfs, thrown over the bonnet and tied under the chin, are very popular. Besides the many original and distingué bonnets and coiffures, the show-rooms of the Maison Tilman are con- stantly filled with the choicest floral productions as fresh and bright as nature herself. We hope ere long to have spring novelties from this establishment. In the present number we give several of the most popn- lar styles for arranging the hair. These styles can all be arranged in false hair, so as to be pinned on in a few minutes, and save the trouble and expense of a hair- dresser. The waved bow and waterfall are the newest and prettiest for ordinary coiffure. A bunch of six curls is worn at the side of the waterfall, or over the centre of the bow. The coronet plait, so very fashionable a few years since, is again coming into favor. Crimped or waved hair is universally worn, and the more frizzy it is, the better it is liked. In order to obtain this crimp, the hair is wet and plaited in small plaits over night; this will give a very good crimp. The most approved method, however, is this. Take a small strand of hair, wet it and pass it through the centre of a long hair-pin, then round one prong, through the centre, and then over the other prong of the pin. Continue to pass back and forth round the prongs until the pin is covered. If it is desirable to crimp the hair at short notice, arrange it as we have de- scribed, then cover the hair with a paper and pinch it with a pair of hot tongs. We much prefer the crimping boxes, as they produce a very even, smooth crimp, but they do not generally please, as they do not crimp as near the parting as the other methods. In all cases it is only necessary to take the upper hair for crimping. Fancy pins and arrows of all descriptions are worn in the hair, and some very pretty ones, formed of crochet work and jet, have appeared for mourning. The latest styles of collars and sleeves are all ornament- ed with butterflies, either in white or high colors. These styles are also adopted for the paper sets, and we have seen some butterflies stamped in white which could hardly be detected from real embroidery. Several new styles of handkerchiefs have appeared. We will, however, be obliged to reserve the description of them until next month. FasHion.

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yee “UN a y we s. € & iA eA Qe Wis ADA Ss ee ws ERS ‘a> es ae wi <v \u a ily ep — STAY Doky \ VEN Ze ae iz. CY Vir: y A Yin iy MA y FS V4 2 Se? . ~ oy WL. =, —y ' ‘ ¥ Pad op) we A “uN “sf

FLOWER VASE MAT IN TUFTED NETTING

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r my / FIRST OF APRIL. VOL, Lxx.—24

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Ghe Days Gone By. SONG, WRITTEN BY OHAS. SWAIN, ESQ., F. B. 8. L. COMPOSED FOR THE PIANO-FORTE FOR GODBY’S LADY’S BOOK. BY J. H. M’NAUGHTON. -Moderato. 1. The days gone by,— 2. The days gone by,— 3. The days gone by,-— sweet, To list thestrain of part - ed spell, To burst the cerements of the not A charm, feel-ing in those To think of And from the A mu-sic

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THE DAYS GONE BY. RAR Aen een PRA PRAIA AIBN LN CL(_(C(RN OI calando,. ,a tempo ad we lov'd to meet When chil-dren mid a thou-sand flow’rs. The scenes we dark oblivious cell The forms we loved and lost to save! Time may not to be for - got, Struck from the mem’ry’s sweetest chords! With many a Oo colla voce. “~~ piu mosso. ft a tempo. roved— romantic, love— Ere yet onr hearts had learned to sigh— The dreams of fade those looks of light,— Still uteousto the men - tal eye As the first tone to wake a tear, And many a thought we fain would fly ;— Oh! still is vitard. [ist and 2d verses. t verse. | ad lib. ad lib. glo - ry once our own In days gone by— In days gone by! hour they blest our sight, In days gone by— In days gone by! dear toev’ry heart The days gone by> The days gone by ! io eS colla voce. > 7

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SPRING ROBE. (From the celebrated establishment of Messrs. A. T. Stewart & Co., of New York.) vi? ‘yr d * Pearl-colored cambric robe, stamped to represent a rich braiding with black braid. The same style of robe can be had of different colors. 304 . ‘ le

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SPRING DRESS. MQAA y \ ———— y Y j Z > The waist is pointed in Dress of cuir-colored alpaca, with a fiuted ruffle of the same around the bottom of skirt, and extending up the skirt A row of brown ribbon heads the ruffle, and is made into bows. The waist and sleeves are trimmed to correspond 305 24* e as represented in the plate. front, jockey back. The fronts are turned back to show a silk vest. with the skirt.

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BONNET. Evening bonnet of white tulle, spoiied with black. A bow of white ribbon and a bunch of pink flowers are arranged at the back in place of a cape. Pink flowers and tulle form the inside trimming of the bonnet. COIFFURE. Ame A ~A AA AnS. A. VU _~ R a) > ? \\ a Rn fn sn LP AA AR AAPL APA, Pm The back hair is arranged The hair is arranged in double rolls on each side, with a ringlet falling behind the left ear. k c A spray of flowers form a coronet, and on the right side are white plumes, which in loops or puffs, very low on the neck. are carried to the back of the head. 306

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INITIAL LETTERS, FOR MARKING PILLOW-CASES. hed 02D BR Bs % Eis ° &, 4 oto .@] e) o ooo Sf Beawy ees o 8 3) % 3 re) B 9 of30 Doge? SPRING DRESS FOR A LITTLE GIRL. White alpaca dress, with a deep bordering of blue silk, finished with two rows of braiding in black. The enffs, yoke. belt, and sash are of blue silk, bound with black velvet, and braided with black braid 20" oVi

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THE HEDELMONE WAIST. (Front view.) o8) if YY! This pretty little waist can be made of the same material as the dress, or of black silk, cloth, or velvet. If made of high colors, and the sleeves taken off, it will be found very dressy for evening wear. 308

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of) THE HEDELMONE WAIST. (Back view.)

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