Godey's Lady's Book And Magazine 1865-04: Vol 70

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GODEY’S Haws Book and sMlagasine PHILADELPHIA, APRIL, 1865. ~2eee POOR RELATIONS. BY MARION HARLAND. [Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by Louis A. Gopry, in the clerk’s office of the District Co irt of the United States, in and fur the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. ]} Mr. and Mrs. Cuartes WILmor sat, vis-a-vis, at their breakfast-table. There were chairs and plates set for two others, but they were as yet empty, although, with the husband and wife, the active business of the meal was All the appointments of the Silver, glass, china, and nearly over. board were elegant. napery were the best and most fashionable of their kind. The room was lofty and spacious. The carpet was a novel and striking design: autumn leaves, crimson, orange, and russet, upon a ground of woodland mosses, dark- green and silver gray. The chairs were of walnut, each carved after a different pattern, in clusters of foliage and bunches of berries and tendrils, the arms and cushions being upholstered with the same shade of green that appeared in the carpet. The sideboard and beaufet were a study of unique and elabo- rate mouldings, and the walls were frescoed in panels, every panel having, as its centre, an exquisite oval painting, appropriate in subject to the apartment it decorated. Fruits, fish, game, etc., were grouped gracefully, and tinted to the life. There were no other pic- tures, and of these really valuable works of art there was not one too many. It was easy to see that the room and its appurtenances, from the plate-glass windows, with their damask draperies, to the inlaid knobs of the arched doorway, were the crea- tion of a taste, just, liberal, and so symme- trical that a single mind must have devised the grand whole. This was true. Mr. Wilmot VOL. LXx.—25 had been very fortunate in his selection of an architect, nor was the artist less happy in finding an employer so wealthy and judicious. Everything was to be of the best materials and most recherché style; and when com- pleted, the room must be acknowledged, by Mrs. Wilmot, to be the handsomest in t: city. Expense was, as the advertisements say, ‘‘no object.’’ Thus empowered, the man of business went to work with a will; chose his subordinates, took his time for the performance of the important task, and charged his own price for what he justly con- sidered bis chef d’euvre. The entire mansion was a gem, or rather a collection of choice gems, flawless in the eyes of their proud author and their present owners. These truly enviable personages have been neglected by us, in our survey of their surroundings—an oversight which was committed by many of those privileged to enter their habitation, even those who were in the habit of frequent- ing other palatial abodes. Mr. Wilmot sipped his coffee and read his newspaper, and he did both nervously. He was a man of medium height; slender to spareness, gray hair—scanty upon the top of his head—keen features, and the parch- ment complexion common to those who spend their days in counting-rooms and offices, and their evenings in the heat and glare of gas- lights. Mr. Wilmot’s had a bilious tinge, moreover. One might have fancied that the shining heaps he had accumulated by years 313

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514 of toiling and scheming had left a reflection of their yellow glitter upon his face. His wife was younger, plumper, and less care-worn than her lord, and in her irreproachable morning toilet looked, what she was reputed in the gay world to be, a matron of far more than mediocre personal charms. There was not a vestige of the parvenu in her speech or carriage. She bore the honors of her grand es- tate as if she had been born to them; yet the gossips of her set—for there are tattlers and cliques in upper-tendom, as in more plebeian circles—whispered that her original station was many degrees lower than that which she now adorned. Mr. Wilmot, it was more boldly affirmed, and without contradiction, had come to New York a bare-footed urchin, without a cent in his pocket, and earned his first slice of bread and cheese eaten in that wilderness of brick and mortar, by picking up and restoring toits owner the pocket-book which a gentleman dropped on the sidewalk. The loser was a merchant of good standing, and, pleased with the boy’s honesty, gave him a half dollar on the spot, and an invitation to - call at his store, if he wanted work. The lad did call, and was taken into the establishment This footing gained, he had never made a backward step in life. Mrs. Wilmot affected no foolish secrecy with regard to her early history; but neither, on the other hand, was she given to voluble The general im- as errand boy. reminiscences of lang syne. pression, corroborated by her air of native refinement, which was worth more to her, individually, than her husband’s riches, was that she was well born—a member of a highly respectable, but now reduced family. This report had more truth at the foundation than is usually the case with currently received stories of the pedigree of fortune’s favorites. Julia Wilmot’s—née Jones—mother was the pretty daughter of a clergyman of excellent abilities, the pastor of a liberal and appre- ciative congregation, in the rural town of He had brought up his children in comfort, educated them in a manner befitting their position, and had the satisfaction, before his death, of seeing all, Riverside, Massachusetts. with a single exception, well settled in the world. The exception was the second daugh- ter, the beauty of the household. She fell in love with, and married clandestinely, a penni- less profligate whom her father would never, to his latest day, receive within his doors, GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. although he forgave his child and assisted her in many substantial ways, while he lived. When he died, Mrs. Jones was residing in a small house on the outskirts of her native town, and there her eldest child, Julia, was born. Jones drank hard and habitually, and his wife maintained herself and him by taking in sewing, aided secretly by her family. At her father’s decease her husband swore he would separate her from ‘‘the rest of the proud, stuck-up race,’’ and, in despite of her tears and prayers, sold out every stick of fur- niture and emigrated to the far West. Her brothers and sisters wrote to her repeatedly, but received few and unsatisfactory replies for ten years; at the end of which time there arrived a touching letter addressed to her oldest sister, containing the tidings of Jones’s death, and an appeal for help in her extreme destitution. Mr. Mills—the brother-in-law— set out immediately for Missouri, and returned in due season, bringing to his home a hollow- eyed, prematurely old woman, whom the affec- tionate sister wept to recognize as her once blooming, happy playmate, and three meanly attired, wild-looking children, aged respect- ively twelve, seven, and four years. Poor Mrs. Jones had buried two in the prairie. Mr. Mills had six children of his own, but he offered promptly and cordially a home beneath his roof to the widow and her eldest child—his wife’s namesake. A brother took George, the older boy, and the little Johnny found a warm welcome and pleasant quarters in the family of another aunt. Mrs. Jones did not live long to tax the hospitality or sympa- thies of her friends. She brought to the East the seeds of a mortal disease in her system. Sorrow, maltreatment, and hard labor had done their work surely. In six months after she rejoined her relatives, Julia had no mother except the kind aunt whose heart yearned over her in her orphanage. Johnny followed his mother to the grave the following winter, and the uncle with whom George lived re- moved to the South a year later. Mrs. Mills never allowed her adopted child to feel that these bereavements left her desolate. She cared for her as she did for her own offspring, clothed and educated her with her daughters, and when, at the age of twenty-one, Julia re- turned from a visit to a friend in New York, the affianced bride of Charles Wilmot, the more than second mother took as much pride and pleasure in preparing for her a suitable

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POOR RELATIONS. outfit, as if the steady, industrious young clerk were indeed her son-in-law elect. « Mr. Mills had been dead for several years, at the date of Julia’s marriage, and his widow sur- vived the latter event but eighteen months. Her children were nearly all grown, and most of them married and living in Riverside and the neighboring towns, yet the mother’s de- mise seemed to Mrs. Wilmot to have ‘scat- tered the family.’’ This was her excuse for not revisiting her birthplace during some years. She ‘‘could not endure the sight of the changes in the once happy, united house- hold,’’ she wrote, pathetically, to her cousins. Finally, she paid a flying visit to Riverside, accompanied by Florence and Howard, then her only children, making her head-quarters at the house of her cousin Lois, who had mar- ried Dr. Hurlburt, a physician, and inhabited the Mills homestead. The city dame enjoyed her glimpse of the old place and the remem-- bered faces, she would have her cousins believe, and, for a while, letters went back and forth pretty briskly. But Julia was no letter writer, and Wilmot’s increasing wealth was crowding new cares and responsibilities upon her attention, and it is easy to neglect those who ca: do nothing to advance our am- bitious schemes—whom it ‘‘ hardly pays to cultivate’’—so the correspondence slackened, and, at length, ceased altogether. She ‘‘loved them all as much as ever; she could never forget their kindness to her, but she had so much to occupy her!’’ Months ata time— then whole years slipped by, in the which she never looked upon the face or exchanged a letter with one of, her former companions. Mrs. Hurlburt reopened communication upon the occasion of the death of Blanche Wilmot, the third and youngest child, a fairy-like little creature of six summers. The River- siders read the notice of the decease in the public prints, and Mrs. Hurlburt wrote in terms of unfeigned and kindly sympathy to the bereaved mother. Mrs. Wilmot was not a deep-hearted woman, although she thought she was; but she was, in her way, affec- tionate, and the loss of her pet was a sad stroke. She answered the friendly epistle by return mail; pouring out her afflicted soul in descriptions of her darling’s beauty, sweet- ness, and preternatural intelligence, and vro- testations of the inconsolable type of her woe, mingled with thanks to her adopted sister 815 for her recollection of her in her day of need. **You are too good!’’ she wrote. aware that I must have seemed inexcusably negligent of my best friends, for a long time past. I cannot state here, and now, all the reasons of my silence, even to you, who were always my most dearly-loved cousin. Suffice it to say, dear Lois, that indifference and for- getfulness were not among the causes of my remissness. I feel now that I have erred in more important matters than this; that I have lived too much for this world; have suffered its pomps and vanities to draw off my mind from better and more enduring things. Pray for me, my dear Lois, that this affliction may prove to have been the messenger of heavenly mercy to lift my thoughts above.”’ Mrs. Hurlburt’s response was that of a warm-hearted, clear-headed Christian woman, who felt that an opportunity of rescuing a soul from the whirlpool of merely earthly pleasures and follies was too precious to be overlooked. She was greatly encouraged by further hearing from her cousin that she had, under the spiritual guidance of the clergy- man who had officiated at Blanche’s funeral, offered herself for confirmation and been re- ceived into the communion of a neighboring *“*T am church. ‘There was always much that was hopeful about Julia,’? remarked Mrs. Hurlburt to her husband, after reading aloud the letter con- taining this last piece of intelligence; ‘‘and our dear mother loved her very fondly. I have been wrong to lose sight of her entirely. It shall not be my fault if the like occurs again.”’ After this a letter went two or three times per annum to the Wilmots, and Cousin Julia answered about one in four; always apolo- getically, always affectionately; concluding invariably with a promise of better behavior in future. She never closed one of her hur- ried notes without a pressing invitation to her Riverside cousins to come and see her in her own home, coupled with a regret that the younger members of the two branches of the family should see so little of one another. Smooth words and honeyed phrases cost no- thing; had become habitual to her in her present mode of existence, and there was little danger of an inundation of country kin. She knew enough of their domestic habits and honest pride to feel secure from intru-

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316 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. sion. For a long time she got only courteous acknowledgments of her kind overtures, and the assurance that the visit solicited must be indefinitely postponed. Mrs. Hurlburt’s hands and brain were really as full as her city kins- woman conceived that hers were, with the important difference that the tastes of the former leaned strongly and steadily towards home and home duties, while the latter was stillthe bond-slave of fashion and the Moloch, society. ‘*Charles!’’ said this much-to-be-pitied thrall, addressing her husband, on the occa- sion we have chosen as the period of their introduction to the reader, ‘‘ when you have finished your paper, I shall be glad to speak to you for a moment.”’ **Go on!”’ The person accosted did not offer to lower the triple sheet. “TIT can wait; I will not interrupt your reading.’’ ‘*T hear you !”’ ‘*But you must heed, too,’’ responded the wife, frowning slightly, although her voice betrayed no irritation. ‘‘You came in so late, last night, and I was so sleepy, I had no chance to tell you that I had had another letter from Lois Hurlburt.’’ Mr. Wilmot still sipped his coffee—black and strong, without cream—his. gray eyes still ran, with nervous swiftness, from line to line of the printed column—but he grunted, «Ab? ‘*She writes that her youngest child has had the scarlet fever this winter, and is trou- bled with weakness of the chest,’’ continued Mrs. Wilmot. ‘‘The doctor thinks that a change of air, for a week or ten days, will do her great good; so Lois wishes to know if it will be quite convenient for us to see her and the little girl, about the last of next week. What do you say?”’ ‘‘ Julia! how you talk! as if it mattered to me how often your relations come to see you! Only, I never thought that you were over- anxious to keep up the intercourse with them!’’ said the husband, turning the paper inside out, to expose the shipping news to his inspection. ‘‘I fancied you did not care to cultivate them. What has begotten this sud- den fit of natural affection ?’’ Mrs. Wilmot’s handsome face flushed at the home-thrust. ‘I do not pretend to deny that we would have little to gain from a renewal of intimacy with most of them. They are good, kind, re- spectable people, I believe, all of them, but while we have kept up with the age, they have lagged behind it.’’ ‘*In plain English, they are a set of puri- tanical old fogies! But, as to this Mrs. Hurl- burt—that’s her name, isn’t it?—if she wants to come, and you have no objection to seeing her—the question is settled. She wont be in my way, I suppose—lI am so little in-doors.”’ ‘*She was poor, dear Aunt Mills’ eldest daughter,’’ pursued Mrs. Wilmot, not quite satisfied with her husband’s slighting indif- ference to her cousin’s visit; ‘and the one that most resembles her mother. I feel warmly towards her for her mother’s sake. Then, Lois is not an ordinary woman. I do not think that we will have cause to be ashamed of her. She used to be a thorough lady in manners and appearance. I suppose that the care of such an immense family—think of it—eight children!’’—Mrs. Wilmot shiv- ered fashionably at the bare idea—‘‘ the toil of rearing such a troop upon her husband’s moderate income hare worn sadly upon her constitution and looks. Yet, I feel that I shall enjoy her visit, and I can never forget how very kind her mother’was to me. What attention I can pay Lois and her child will be cheerfully shown, as a return for aunt’s good- ness to me, after my own mother died.”’ ‘‘Humph!’’ Mr. Wilmot tossed aside the paper impatiently. ‘‘I don’t like that sort of talk! I haven’ta doubt that your services paid your aunt well for your keeping, and your dowry was not extravagant. Fifty dol- lars besides your trunk of clothes—wasn’t it? I don’t feel any extraordinary gratitude to the man who took me into his store as an errand boy, and kept me sweeping floors, dusting counters, and carrying parcels, for four years, paying me just enough to buy my victuals, and a new jacket, now and then. I am under obligations to no man alive. If I were, I would call on him this very hour, and ask him what amount would make us quits. I never felt grateful in my life. I haven’t an idea how gratitude affects one; and it should be the same with you. We are independent— thank fortune! and thanks to nobody else! If you want to help your poor relations, put your hand into your pocket and do it openly and above-board. Don’t sentimentalize about repaying-obligations by civility. If you mar-

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POOR RELATIONS. 817 ried better than your cousin did, that is her misfortune—not your fault. Her husband is a doctor, isn’t he ?’’ “Yes; and it was thought that she did well in marrying him,’’ replied Mrs. Wilmot, too used to her lord’s abruptness to be dis- concerted by this burst of independence. ‘‘He is a man of talent; I do not understand why he has never risen in the world. I suppose because he settled down in that pro-, vincial town, where people live about half as fast as they do here. Lois extols his good- ness and active usefulness to the skies, and is never weary of praising his excellence as a husband and father.’’ “Of course, then, he is slow! Your pat- I have no patience with a fellow, who has any prains, and contents himself with plodding along in the track worn by his great-grandfather’s feet. I had rather trade some of the surplus goodness for a little shrewdness and energy. I have no doubt, moreover, that enough money was expended upon his education to give him a fair start in mercantile life. Yet tern family man generally is. here he is, in his old age, struggling to keep togetlier his children’s souls and bodies, while many an one who could just write his name, has hopped over his head and reached the top of the ladder. Another practical illustration of the advantages of learning !”’ - Mrs. Wilmot had her reasons for seeming not to notice this latter clause. “Dr. Hurlburt is highly respected in River- side,’’ she said, composedly—‘‘is one of the He was very fine-looking fourteen years ago. Lois is de- voted to him. It was a genuine love-match, and I do not believe he has ever allowed her principal men in that section. to regret having married him.”’ Mr. Wilmot pushed back his chair with a short laugh that was not agreeable to the ear. ‘*Phat is the way with you women! A handsome face and a pert tongue cover all deficiencies. Beatty never made the pot boil, yet; and the only use a man has for ready speech, is to coax the shiners into his pocket. You don’t tell me you are down already! What miracle called you out of bed so early ?’’ This was addressed to a youth of seventeen, who lounged into the breakfast-room as his father was about to leave it. The boy rejoined, by a few muttered words, 25* tothe purport, as nearly as could be gathered, that he had a ‘‘confounded headache, and had half a mind not to get up at all!’’ ‘*Which means, I suppose, that the Uni- versity will not be blessed with a sight of your lordship, to-day’? If you were in my office, where you would have been, but for this educational whim of your mother’s, you would have learned better than to idle away your time in this fashion. But you and she know best, no doubt! Iam only a moneyed ignoramus—very convenient, but very fool- ish! Who knows, Juha, but he may turn out to be such a burning and shining light of science as your cousin Hurlburt? That’sa brilliant future to look forward to for the eldest hope of our household!”’ ‘*What is papa talking about?’’ said a clear, girlish voice behind the speaker, who had paused, door in hand, ‘to launch this Parthian arrow. ‘‘ You can’t be scolding poor Howard so early in the morning, surely! Fie! papa, dear! I must really take you in hand !”’ ‘*Hold your own tongue, you saucy hussy!’’ retorted the father, trying to scowl, but smil- ing, instead, into the bright face upturned to his, as Florence wound her arms about his neck. ‘*You are a proper one to lecture other people for sharp speaking! But I wish your brother had half yoursense. He wouldn’t be the conceited, do-nothing puppy he is now, if he had.”’ ‘‘He has sense in abundance!’’ returned the girl, boldly, ‘‘and he studies hard, too; but he is not strong. You will be ashamed of your false predictions one day, papa, when you are congratulated as the paternal pro- genitor of the honorable and distinguished Howard Wilmot, M.C. I shouldn’t be a bit surprised to see him in the Presidential man- sion yet.”’ ‘*Nor I! ‘as boot-black, or bottle-washer! He will never fill a higher station,’’ said Mr. Wilmot, sarcastically. He kissed Florence, and without honoring either wife or son by so much as a nod, walked off. ‘« What crossed papa, mamma ?”’ questioned Florence, taking her seat at the table. **T cannot inform you, my daughter. He did not like your brother’s headache, I be- lieve,’’? answered Mrs. Wilmot, drily. Her tone and expression changed into soft- ness, as she spoke to her son. ‘‘ Howard, darling! does your coffee suit you ?”’

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$18 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. = ‘* Just about half as strong as it should be!’’ growled the cub—‘‘ and you may put another lump of sugar in.’’ ‘Don’t you think, dear,’’ remonstrated Florence, ‘‘that such very strong coffee injures your nerves? I have wondered, lately, if this might not have something to do with your horrible headaches. And, if you would only try to retire earlier, Howdie, I am sure you would not suffer so much.’’ ** Retire early! Come! I like that! What time did you get to bed, last night, I would like to know ?”’ sneered Howard. ‘* But I was at a party, and could not get away sooner!’’ pleaded his sister. ‘* And J was at a party—and in better busi- ness than dancing and manufacturing small talk for a set of softs!’ ‘It was your gymnasium night—was it not ?’’ asked the mother. a There was a sly twinkle in the interesting specimen’s eye, as he bent over his plate. Notwithstanding his indisposition, he was making a bountiful meal. Florence looked intensely uneasy. ‘*T will make a bargain with you, Howard. It is that I give up parties for the rest of the winter, and you stay at home, evenings, and keep me company. We can study and read, and play chess and practise our music to- gether, and talk—”’ ‘* And make fools of ourselves, generaliy interrupted the other. ‘‘Iam obliged to you, and when I am ready to turn Miss Nancy, I will come to you and beg the favor of being attached to your apron-string, Miss Florence Wilmot !’’ ‘* Florence! what an absurd proposition !’’ exclaimed Mrs. Wilmot. ‘‘ What possesses you to suggest such an idea, child? society the winter of your coming out! I thought you enjoyed company !’’ ‘*T do, mamma! but—’’ ‘* But what? Has anything happened to alter your taste, or feelings ?’’ ‘‘T can tell you the whole story in three words!’’ broke in Howard. ‘‘She wants to play the good sister, like the pious, stupid girls one reads of in sleepy, religious novels, and pro- tect her only brother from the snares of this wicked world—”’ with a nasal drawl. ‘‘She is charitable enough to regard him as upon the broad road to perdition, and would lure him from the sparkling cup of carnal joys, by 9 Resign such very insipid panado as the mild pleasures she enumerated just now.’’ Florence blushed scarlet, and the tears sprung to her eyes. Mrs. Wilmot’s undis- guised partiality for her son blinded her to the rudeness of this speech; but she saw that the object of his sarcasm was deeply hurt, and while she laughed openly at her promising boy’s wit, thought it well to blunt its edge. ‘“Gently, my love! You let your love of satire run away with your prudence!’’ she till laughing. ‘‘ You must not be un- merciful with your sister. She, with your mcther, has unbounded confidence in your gentlemanly principles and sense of propriety, were it possible for us to suspect, for an in- stant, that one of your refined taste could find enjoyment in low pursuits. Yet neither of us would feel such love and pride in you, were you a spiritless ‘good boy’—a pattern saint. Did you have a gay party last night, my daughter ?’’ This skilful diversion preluded an animated description of the brilliant entertainment; the dresses, music, dances, and supper; Mrs. Wil- mot questioning, with an occasional ‘‘ know- ing’? query from Howard, and Florence nar- rating, with the fluency and zest of the successful débutante, who, as yet, looked not beneath the surface of the glittering, change- ful sea of gay life. Yet the girl carried a pain at her heart she could not forget all day. ard thought his head would be relieved by a stroll in the open air. He had spent the day reclining upon a sofain his ‘‘den’’—a room adjoining his chamber, and fitted up in luxu- rious style, by his mother’s erders. She supposed him to be studying, preparatory to the morrow’s recitation, having heard his avowed design of thus employing such inter- vals of ease as might occur between his turns Florence had stolen into the cur- said By evening, How- of pain. tained sanctum once, without knocking. She hoped that her brother was asleep, but she surprised the hopeful student in the act of reading a bad translation of a villanous French novel, profusely illustrated; his feet upon the arm of the sofa; a glass of liquor at his side, and a cigar between his beardless lips. Her dismayed exclamation had called down a volley of angry anathemas upon her head, accompanied by a threat against her, in the event of-her ‘‘peaching to the governor.’’

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POOR RELATIONS. 319 Nothing was more remote from the loving sister’s intentions than to lisp a syllable that should tend to exasperate her father against the son whom he already browbeat and criti- cized on all convenient occasions. To him, she was always Howard’s stanch defender, believing her asseverations that he did not do his only boy justice, and fearing lest un- merited harshness should drive the latter from home and respectability. She dearly loved the caustic parent, whose favorite she knew herself to be. The severity of language that made Howard sulky and silent, and sometimes brought the hot blood to her mother’s calm face, had no terrors for her. She could disarm him by her caresses and saucy playfulness, when wife nor son dared speak in his presence. He was sadly disap- pointed in Howard, and Florence commiserated him in this feeling, while she sought to alter his estimate of the youth. ‘*He will never be anything but a popinjay and a spendthrift!’’ he said, on this evening, when Howard sauntered out of the room to take the proposed promenade. ‘‘I would have made him the richest man in the city, by the time he is twenty-five—but his proud stomach turns at the mention of trade. This is the result of a liberal education! Very liberal it is, too! His supply of pocket money is, in itself, a small fortune.’ Mrs. Wilmot understood this cut, as well as he meant her to do; but she did not care for it. Charles might succeed, once in a while, in exciting her ire, but the time had long gone by when he could wound her feelings. A husband was an eminently re- spectable and useful institution in society ; therefore, she never wished to get rid of hers. As to loving him—that sort of sentimental weakness might do for boys and girls, and the lower classes. Yet she was not quite superior to the feel- ing of identification with him, in some degree, and this caused her to be constantly annoyed —sometimes humiliated by his lack of polish, his narrowness of mind, and utter want of congeniality with the truly refined aad intel- lectual people, whom the best judges of rank in her werld united to honor. Better bred, herself, she imagined that these faults were attributable to Mr. Wilmot’s early training, and resolved, with all the strength of a never weak will, that her darling should resemble his father as little in character and bearing as he did in person. Howard was wonder- fully like herself in face and carriage. A comely, graceful lad in strangers’ eyes, to hers, the impersonation of aristocratic beauty ; with his large, languishing eyes, the curled lashes drooping to the fair, smooth cheek ; high brow, short upper lip and delicately cleft chin. His hands were long and slender; his foot small as a lady’s, arched in the instep, and always encased in boots or slippers of the daintiest make. There was—as she was fond of saying behind her husband’s back—not a trace of Wilmot blood in feature, form, or gesture. His abilities were moderate, his in- dolence immoderate; but his mother thought him a genius. If he spurned the idea of passing his days in his father’s office, down town, and shunned to soil his taper digits with the tools with which the wealthy mer- chant had built up, dollar by dollar, his colossal fortune, he also secretly laughed to scorn the proposition that he should seek distinction by application to study. He kept up with his class indifferently well, indulging his fond and sanguine mother with the chi- mera of his fondness for literary pursuits, and the probability that, as a popular and eloquent lawyer, he would make his inherited wealth the stepping-stone to the highest eminence of social position and public favor. For his sake, she longed to see a monarchical government established in this country. He would grace a dukedom or a principality. Republics were rather vulgar, and there had been base-born workingmen in the Presidential chair. She idolized her boy—if idolatry were possible in one of her temperament—and could see no blemish in him. Therefore, when Florence remained gazing from the drawing-room window, long after she had seen her brother go up street, and her father start, in a great hurry, downward, upon one of his everlasting engagements with Board and Committee, or some kindred organ- ization, Mrs. Wilmot was not prepared for the lowly and sadly spoken reply to her inquiry :— ‘¢ What are you dreaming about, Floy ?’’ ‘‘T am thinking of Howard, mamma. I am not at all easy about him, lately.”’ ‘*What is the matter with him? These headaches mean nothing. Most growing col- lege boys are troubled with them.”’ ‘*T do not mind them—at least, I am not unhappy on that account. I wish I dared tell you all that I know, mamma!”’

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* closely. ? 320 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, With a freedom she seldom manifested to- wards this oae of her parents, she knelt upon the carpet and pressed the jewelled fingers resting upon Mrs. Wilmot’s purple silk lap. The mother gazed down upon her in languid bewilderment. She was dressed for the opera, and would not allow herself to be unbecom- ingly agitated. Regard for her complexion and coiffure kept her cool. ‘Why not speak plainly, child? What- ever concerns your brother, you may surely impart to me without this dramatic hesita- tion.’’ ‘*T was talking with Mr Edward Lester, last night, mamma,”’’ Florence went on hur- riedly, without changing her posture. ‘‘ We were in the conservatory, looking at a new flower, and he said he would get his micro- scope, that I might examine the plant more - So he asked me to excuse him, while he ran up to his study for it, and I stood still where he left me, waiting for him to come back. I was quite concealed by a row of tall shrubs behind me; but I did not know it until I overheard two young men talking about Howard. speaking of me, for the first words I heard were—‘ You know her brother, Howard Wil- mot?’ The other said ‘Yes,’ and—I don’t like to repeat his language, for it was coarse and insolent—but they agreed in laughing at Howard as ‘a fast youth,’ and ‘a hard case;’ and they said that he swore and gambled and drank, and deceived us with stories of his debating society and gymna- sium, when, in reality, he was out at card parties and in billiard saloons. Please don’t be angry with me, mamma!’’ for Mrs. Wilmot had dislodged the trembling hand from its resting-place, and her brow was cloudy. ‘‘It breaks my heart to tell all this, even to you. I would not breathe it to another living human being—and I will not believe it! But, dear mamma, it is dreadful to think of the possibility of our dear, noble, beautiful How- ard’s becoming such an one as they de- scribed !’’ Mrs. Wilmot put her daughter back by an imperious wave of her hand. The child was actually sobbing, and the mother feared the ef- fect of salt water upon her royally purple robe. ‘* You are a silly, credulous girl, Florence ! the most unsophisticated creature I ever knew, with your sighs and blushes, and use- less tears! Do, out of pity to me, learn to I suppose they had been command your feelings! This want of self- possession, on your part, is a sore mortifica- tion to me. As for this story—I have not a doubt that it was the offspring of the most pitiful envy. The gentlemen who promulgated the slander unquestionably saw you behind your screen, and devised this means of insult- ing you.’’ ‘‘Mamma! why should they? spoke to either of them, in my life. What cause have they to dislike me ?’’ ** Another proof of your ignorance of human nature and the world’s ways! Your father, Florence, is wealthy; our social position is high. I may say, without vanity, that I am known as a leader of fashion. Your brother will be the principal heir of our fortune. Few others enjoy such advantages of rank and riches as he, and envy loves a shining mark. The prosperous always have enemies among I never the unsuccessful.’’ ‘*Then, mamma, I had rather have less prosperity and more love !’’ ‘*Florence Wilmot! I absolutely think, sometimes, that you are an idiot!’’ But Mrs. Wilmot laughed as heartily as was consistent with fashionable usage at the ridiculous sen- timent, uttered so seriously. ‘‘ You may learn the relative value of these things in time, I hope, although I confess to my doubts on this head.’’ She was quitting the room, but turned back to say, ‘‘ You do not care for the opera to-night—I think you said ?”’ ‘*T prefer to stay at home, if you please.”’ ‘¢Then I will cali for Mrs. Schuyler, on my way down, as I partly promised to do this morning. I wish she kept a carriage of her own! There ought to be a law prohibiting persons from entering the highest circle of society, who have not the means of sustain- ing themselves in that station, without an- noying others.’’ *“*T thought she was an intimate friend of yours, mamma?”’ ‘*She is—or she would not have dared to ask such a favor of me. If your papa comes in before I return, remember—not a word of this scandalous tale about Howard !’’ ‘““You may trust me, mamma!’’ said Florence, in a proud, hurt tone. ‘‘And Floy, dear,’’ resumed the mother, coaxingly; ‘‘if you could contrive to per- suade him to let Howard have the horse he was wishing for yesterday, you would make your brother very happy and do me a favor,

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POOR RELATIONS. 821 my dearest !’’ emphasizing the request with a kiss. ‘*T will try, mamma, if you desire it; but I have not much hope of success,’’ returned the girl, patiently. She saw the splendid equipage whirl off from the door; then leaned her head upon the window-seat, and cried silently. Poor child! she was sad and empty-hearted ; starved as to herimmortal nature. Yet the at- mosphere of worldliness in which she lived had not sufficed to render wholly extinct the germs of noble principles, the aspirations after higher things than the husks and tinsel set before her for the spirit’s aliment. Her disposition was naturally sweet and loving; generous and artless she was still to an extent that continually tried her mother’s patience, while it won for her the amused admiration of many who were weary of the extremely self-pos- sessed and artificial beauties fluttering over the parterre of society like tame butterflies —as showy and as heartless. This was not the first, nor the hundredth time, in which Florence’s influence over her father had been employed by the clever mamma for the attainment of her own ends, or to win some coveted boon for her son. The daughter could not refuse to make the appeal in behalf of the petitioner, but she despised herself while she did it. She trembled now at the sound of her father’s returning foot- steps, and, for an instant, meditated a retreat to her chamber, but he made it a rule to look into the drawing-room for a few minutes be- fore retiring to rest, on the evenings when there was no company, and if she did not im- prove this opportunity, she might never have another se favorable. He came in, looking weary and fullof care. Florence’s conscience smote her as she saw his face brighten at sight of her. It seemed base to take advan- tage of his affection to promote another’s selfish interests. She put off the evil moment as long as she could, exerting herself to amuse and interest him, and succeeding so well, that he remained nearly an hour in his splendid parlors—a very uncommon occur- rence. He strolled through them, twice a day, surveying their stately proportions and sumptuous furniture, as a part of his own grandeur; but he was more at home among his ledgers and in his dusty warehouses. Florence finally brought around the matter that lay like a guilty secret on her soul. She introduced her request by praises of her new riding-horse, a present from her father, upon her nineteenth birthday. ‘*T am more and more pleased with him, every time I use him,’’ she said. ‘The only drawback to my enjoyment is the fact that Howard’s horse is so inferior to my beautiful bay. He ought to have amore stylish animal than that slow, clumsy pony, papa! Brisk horseback exercise would benefit his health.’’ ‘*Fiorence, child! ask me for what you want for yourself, and you shall have it!’’ said her father, with unusual earnestness; ‘*but I won’t have you made a catspaw of by your maneuvering mother and that graceless scamp of a boy. Don’t—as you care for my good opinion—learn to intrigue and wheedle! When your brother shows any sign of becom- ing a man, instead of a dissipated monkey, he shail have what men use. The pony does very well for a boy of seventeen, and he will ride to ruin on him quite fast enough for my pocket and his mother’s peace of mind. If it wasn’t for her interference, I would flog him soundly, strip off his fine broadcloth, and send him out before the mast, on a three years’ voyage.”’ ‘*Papa!’’ uttered Florence, tremulously, ‘you don’t imagine that Howard is really dissipated—do you ?”’ ‘“*T know it! I have warned him, again and again, that if he continued in his present courses, I would cut him off without a dollar. But I am only the ‘governor,’ an old, illiterate fool, whose bluster is not worth heeding. I tell you, child, what no one else will ever know from me—that fellow’s con- duct and your mother’s abetment of it are the great grief of my life. I can see as far ahead as most men, and I feel, as I have felt for two years past, that the wealth I have toiled night and day for a lifetime to amass, will, if left to my only son, be squandered before I turn to dust in my grave. It hurts me, girl; it hurts me ‘’’ ‘*Dear papa! he is so young! and other young men of fashion pursue the same road, yet become, in the end, useful and respected citizens! Do not prophesy such dreadful things of the poor boy! He is only a boy, after all!” Mr. Wilmot arose, stretched himself with a weary yawn, and thrust his hands down deep into his pockets. ‘* Just as the twig is bent, the tree’s in-

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$22 clined !’’ he said, pithily. ‘‘Good-night, my dear! I wish you were a boy!’’ Mrs. Wilmot made her entrée shortly after her liege’s exit. She, too, was jaded and dis- pirited, inquired whether her husband and son were in, and expressed her unqualified dissatisfaction with the result of Florence’s negotiation. This was communicated by her daughter, as briefly as possible, she omitting the remarks that followed. ** He said that Howard must be content with the pony, mamma, that he would do very well for a boy of seventeen, and forbade me to mention the subject to him again. But he was not angry at all; was very kind and gentle in talking with me about it.’’ **T must say, Florence, that you have man- aged very badly!’’ returned the mother, dis- ‘* Poor Howard will be terribly dis- I must make it up to him in some pleasedly. appointed. Everything has gone wrong to-day !”’ Was way. ‘*Did you enjoy the opera, mamma? the music good ?’’ *‘Intolerable! and Mrs. Schuyler chose to take a seat in my box, so we were crowded to death by her admirers! That woman’s flippancy is perfectly disgusting !’’ She swept her voluminous skirts up-stairs, and Florence was again alone in the great rooms, whose very magnificence made their silence and solitude more oppressive. ‘Vanity and vexation of spirit!’’ she re- peated, half aloud. ‘‘I think, sometimes, that inscription should be written above our door. Nobody is happy here!’’ Eleven o’clock came, and Howard had not returned. Twelve—the gas was turned off throughout the house, except in the hall. The front drawing-room was dark, save for a glimmer from the street-lamps through one window, where still crouched that solitary fig- ure—the young face, almost childish in feature and outline; strangely old in its expression of strained watchfulness and anxious dread. At length, two men—one tall, the other short, came slowly along the street. Florence’s heart was in her throat. She was sure that the shorter of the two who leaned so heavily upon his companion was Howard. They shook hands at the foot of the steps, and the boy mounted them. She had not meant to show herself, or to confront him. It was suffi- cient to Know that he was safely under the parental roof; but he had forgotten or lost his pass-key, and oblivious, as usual, of ex- GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, pediencies, rang the bell violently. - That would never do!. His father would be awak- ened, and a stormy scene ensue. She sprang from her seat into the hall, and had the door open before he could repeat the summons. To her discomfiture, his companion, who, she supposed, had gone, stood at the eatrance with his juvenile fellow-reveller, having waited to see him fairly within coors. Florence knew him, immediately, to be one of the two who had discussed her brother in Mrs. Lester's conservatory. He raised his hat to her in respect she mistook for mockery. ‘*Good-night, Wilmot! I leave you in good company !’’ he said, with a confused laugh, then ran down the steps and up the streét. ‘“Why’—with an oath—‘‘couldn’t you let one of the servants come to the door ?’’ demanded Howard, angrily. ‘*I was up, and everybody else asleep!’’ Fiorence could hardly articulate. ‘‘I knew it was you who rang.”’ Her brother’s breath was foul with liquor and cigars, his walk unsteady, and his coun- tenance had a vacant fierceness that appalled her. With another muttered curse, he strode by her, tramped unequally up the staircase, and she heard the door of his chamber close loudly after him. He did not appear at breakfast next morn- ing. The servant sent to call him brought back the answer that his young master’s head was very bad indeed, and that he had had a sick night. Mr. Wilmot was cross; Mrs. Wilmot taciturn; Florence heavy-eyed and heavy-hearted, yet eager to hide her inward sorrow by an assumption of cheerfulness. She must conceal Howard’s misdemeanor, at all hazards. She rattled away about every- thing and nothing, to prevent inconvenient inquiries from either parent. By her mother’s plate lay a letter, sealed and directed. ‘*Is this to go to the post-office, mamma ?’’ asked Florence, touching it, when her father had finished his breakfast. ‘Yes! I forgot it. Hand it to your papa. Charles, will you stamp and send it to the office ?’’ Florence read the address aloud, in girlish curiosity. ‘‘‘Mrs. Dr. Russell Hurlburt, River- side, Mass.’ Who is she, mamma ?’’ Mr. Wilmot arswered for his wife, with a sardonic grin :— ‘One of your mother’s poor relations !”’ , (To be continued.)

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- THE RECOGNITION. BY AMY GRAHAM, ‘See Steel Plate.) ‘* We are all so sorry !’’ Emily Dunbar, looking through the mist that tears made over her dark eyes, saw faces round her that fully certified to the truth of the exclamation. She was standing in the broad hall of the ** Young Ladies’ Seminary,’’ of Oak Hall, the centre of a group of sympathizing school- mates, who had assembled to bid her fare- well. Only one hour before a telegram, cruel in its brevity, had summoned her home to her father’s death-bed, and before her melan- choly packing was finished a second brief message told her she was too late for one parting word, and could only see the face she loved still in death. Her reaking heart silenced all words of answer as her compan- ion’s words of sorrow fell upon her ears; she could only grasp the hands extended to her in close clasps of friendship, and sob broken words of thanks. One hand, the last extended, lingered long in hers, and Fanny Watson’s low, sweet voice broke the stillness that fol- lowed the departure of the others from the hall. **Dear Emily, I have no words to tell you how I grieve for you! But you will consider me your best friend always, will you not? You will come to me if you need any service, Emily ?”? ** Indeed, indeed I will!’’ **Good-by, then! Remember I am first And with the fond kiss of friend- ship upon her lips, Emily drove to the station. friend,’’ She had been very happy in her school life, for from her early childhood home had been but a pleasant visiting-place for the holidays. Her mother she had lost before she was old enough to print her face upon her memory, and she had gone from her nurse’s care to that of the principal of Oak Hall, under whose care she had been educated and trained. Her father, the indulgent master of the lovely house where she and Rupert, her only brother, passed their holidays, she had loved ten- derly, and it was with a sore heart and bitter sense of orphanhood that she obeyed the summons to his funeral. } Other troubles were to follow. Lovingly, and with gentle preparation, Rupert broke to her news of utter destitution, of debt con- tracted to maintain an expensive household, of indulgences for these idolized children beyond their father’s reach, and finally of failure, bankruptcy, and death. Lying in her brother's arms, in the luxurious drawing- room, looking into his bright, earnest face, the truth did not seem too terrible to bear; but when the house was sold, a :ittle room for each taken in a boarding-house, and when day after day the animated face that had been so hopeful grew paler and sadder under the burden of enforced idleness, then Emily re- alized where was the sting of poverty. Educated for a physician, without having had time to gain practice, Rupert Dunbar found no employment that he dared under- take. before the salary could support two; of trade Clerking required some experience he knew nothing; his diploma, but a month old when his father died, seemed valueless when compared with that of established prac- titioners, and there seemed no opening for his labor, no prospect of work. ‘* Let me try.”’ Emily fairly trembled at her own audacity when she saw the pain her proposal gave ; but under her slight girlish figure she carried a brave woman’s heart, and she persisted in her resolve. ‘*Let me try. education, can draw, paint, speak German I have received a finished and French, and certainly understand enough of music for a really good teacher. Do let me try to get employment, Rupert.”’ “You, lady-bird, darling. What would our father say if he saw me thus shirking my duty to you?”’ ‘*You are not snhirking. and you will yet succeed in obtaining work, but in the mean time let me be a help and not Fanny Watson was here You have tried, a burden to you. this morning, and she—she—’’ ** Well, Emily ?”’ ‘Told me of a situation.”’ ** She is very kind!”’ 323

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824 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. ** Don’t speak bitterly, Rupert; she is very kind. She has seen for weeks how I longed to aid you, and to-day she told me of a family who are looking for a governess, and would take me upon her recommendation. You will let me go, brother. Think how much more you can do, if you are not hampered by me. Wecan still see each other, and I know you will feel freer to seek employment if I am in a pleasant: home.”’ ** How do you know it will be pleasant ?’’ ‘It will! I will make it so.” It required many a long argument to win the loving brother over to view the case as his warm-hearted sister did, but an interview with Mr. Lee, the father of the children Emily wished to instruct, turned the scale so long quivering. The gentleman, a prosperous merchant,*was deeply interested in the or- phans, idolized Fanny Wilson, his wife’s niece, and was delighted with Emily. Hearing of Rupert’s situation, he offered him a seat in his counting-house to learn business, and placed a salary small, but enough for a sup- port, at hiscommand. Feeling that he could still protect his sister, and see her constantly, Rupert gave a reluctant consent to her enter- ing upon the duties of a governess in the merchant’s family. Two years passed pleasantly for the orphans, with but one cloud to mar their happiness. **Something,’’ Emily whispered to her heart, ‘something ailed Rupert.’’ From a frank, merry boy, full of mischief and animation, he had become 4 grave, reserved man, shrinking often from his sister’s offered caress, growing pale and careworn, and evidently suffering much mental pain. Emily watched and won- dered; striving by many feminine ayts to win his confidence, but finding her efforts vain suffered in silence. It was the second anni- versary of her father’s death, and she was seated in her little room after school hours, when Rupert came to her. Something of the old light was in his face, some of the long- lost spring in his step, as he entered. ‘* Emily, can you spare me for three years ?’’ ‘*Three years, Rupert !’’ ** Don’t look so white; don’t faint !’’ ‘*No, no—but—three years—what?’’ she gasped. ** Assistant Surgeon in the Navy. Think what a chance! The commission is offered me. Oh let me go! Emily, sister, darling, let me go.’’ Down, down, coward heart! Was not his heart in his profession? Did not each hour at the desk steal from his very lifef Was her selfish love to take away this joy from him? All surged upin her heart, to her lips, as she said— ** Yes, Rupert, you must go.’’ ‘ He appreciated the sacrifice, and drew her to his heart in one long, fervent embrace. There was little time for thought in the next few weeks. An outfit had to be prepared from limited resources, and the sister’s fin- gers busily stitched whenever blinding tears did not arrest her needle. Little luxuries Rupert had long given up found their way into the sea-chest, and Emily never valued her salary as she did when it permitted such purchases. It was all ready at last, and the evening for farewell came only too soon. The vessel was to sail from New York for a three years’ cruise, and Rupert had waited for the midnight train to spend the last precious hours with Emily. Something of the sadness which had yielded to his late joy came to cloud this farewell interview. Some untold grief marred the confidence Emily hoped for. Some secret rose in his heart to check words she knew were almost on his lips, and grieving over his reserve she yet strove to let no word of ques- tion pain him. As he pressed his farewell kiss upon her lips he said :— ‘*Emily, Mr. Lee to-day sent me to his head clerk for my quarter’s salary, though it is one month short; you must let me leave you this, to repay some of the expenses you have incurred for my outfit. Good-by, dar- ling! God keep you!’’ And he was gone, leaving a note for one hundred doliars pressed in her hand. She scarcely heeded the gift in her first agony of grief, tossing it carelessly into an open drawer when she sought her own room to wrestle with the bitter pain of separation, and try to banish the overwhelming thought of three years of loneliness. Mrs. Lee was kindly thoughtful the next day, sending the children abroad for a long walk, and trying, by gentle caresses and lov- ing words, to make the orphan feel that she was not friendless. At dinner-time, the mas- ter of the house wore a clouded brow. The children’s chatter, so unfailing at other times, passed unheeded now; even his wife’s low voice seemed to fall upon deaf ears. Sud- ~ w

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THE RECOGNITION, 525 denly pushing his untasted dinner from him, le spoke the cause of his abstraction. **Lucy, I have been robbed !”’ ** Robbed !’’ echoed round the table. ** Not once, nor twice, but many times. I have been convinced for some months that money was abstracted from my private desk. Twice I have had the key altered, but still missed money. At last I placed a marked note for one hundred dollars there, and took the number. It was on the H Bank, No. 2,800, and I put a cross in red ink in one corner. Last night I missed it. To-day there has been a search made, but the note cannot be found. Tc-morrow I shall place the whole affair in the hands of a detective.’’ **Do you suspect any one ?”’ ‘*Yes; but I cannot fix my -suspicions enough to warrant me in naming them. To- morrow I will take active measures to prove them false or true.’’ ‘* Have you lost much ?”’ ‘* More than I can well afford, though not enough to injure my business. You see it must have been going on for some time before my suspicions were aroused. .So much un- counted money goes into that desk, that even when I feared there’was less, I could not be certain.”’ **Do your hands know ?”’ ‘*Not yet. I hope to catch the thief off his guard.”’ More conversation on the same subject fol- lowed, until the family left the table, and Emily went to her own room. Feeling that it was wrong to give way to her despondency, she resolved to occupy herself with the chil- dren, and called Sophie, the eldest, a lovely girl of fourteen, to take a French lesson. **You will find yaur last exercise in my table-drawer, Sophie,’’ she said, as the will- ing child answered her call. ‘‘ Bring it to me for correction.’’ The little girl opened the drawer, and stood as if spell-bound, gazing intoit. Every shade of coler left her face, and she trembled vio- lently. ‘*Come, Sophie! Why, dear child, are you ill?’’ cried Emily, going quickly to her side, and then reeling back, as if from a heavy blow. For there, where she had tossed it the night before, lay the note, Rupert’s parting gift, the note 2,800 on the H Bank, with Mr. Lee’s red cross in one vorner. There VoL. LX¥x.—26 was a long silence, broken at last by the child’s sobbing voice. ‘Oh, Miss Dunbar, how did it get there ?’’ ‘*Hush, Sophie, hush; let methink. I—I thiwk I know. Stay here for an hour, and if Iam not back then, take the note to your father.’’ An hour. By hasty walking she could catch the afternoon train for New York. Per- haps Rupert had not sailed. He would ex- plain! She almost ran tothe nearest corner, caught the car, and was on her way to the depot before Sophie realized that she was alone, with the stolen note lying before her. Only to see Rupert! Rupert would ex- plain. Emily repeated this hope to her sick heart as she was carried rapidly over the New York road. Her purse still held some twenty dollars of her last quarter’s salary, and she could return again after her brother had told her how the note came into his pos- session. But as the hours crept on, other thoughts crowded on her brain, and would not be driven back. Rupert’s long reserve, his pale face and restless manner, the many instances of his want of confidence that had puzzled and pained her, all came rushing over her heart, till she could have cried out with agony. A thief. Her noble brother, whom she had almost -worshipped, a thief. Yet if, in moments of temptation, when pov- erty’s face was too black for his courage, he had—what ?—robbed his employer! Oh, if the train would fly forward. To see him! only to see him! It was night when at last the ferry boat left its load of passengers at the New York wharf, and Emily engaged the first hackman who spoke to her. ‘*Can you tell me whether the ‘ Ariadne’ has sailed ?”’ ‘*Lor’ yes, ma’am; sailed at six this morn- ing !’’ ‘*You are sure?’’ she gasped, as this last hope was wrenched from her. ‘* Certain, ma’am. What hotel ?’’ ‘*What hotel?’? Where could she go? She stood, stunned and bewildered, hardly conscious of the jostling crowd or impatient hackman. ‘‘Miss Emily? Can it be possible this is my little Miss Emily ?”’ A friendly voice and grasp of her hand. Emily’s pale lips quivered a moment, and then she fainted into the arms of the speaker.

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‘Bless my soul! Here, Martha! Ellen! Where are you, girls?’’ ‘*Here, papa! Can we ever get out of this crowd? Why, where? what? Papa!’’ ‘* Yes, my dear. It is Emiiy Dunbar.’’t ‘*Emily Dunbar. Alone here on the wharf?’’ Propriety shrank back, but papa called a hack and carried his senseless burden into it, the two girls following with puzzled faces. ‘* There, now, take care of her, while I get the baggage.’’ And papa bustled away. Something in the pallid, inanimate face of their old friend and schoolfellow wakened the womanly hearts of Martha and Ellen Baxter, and before their father returned they had found salts and wine in their neat travelling bags, and were working heartily to call life back to the pale face. ‘*There, never mind; you can tell us all about it at the hotel,’’ said Mr. Baxter, as Emily opened her eyes and tried to speak. ‘*Don’t talk now. You’re all right! I’m taking you to the St. Nicholas, and to-morrow you can go wherever you were going when There, there! don’t cry. Poor child! some new grief. Think, Martha and Ellen, if it was I you were wearing this for,’’ you met me. and he touched the black dress. **Rupert,’’ gasped Emily. ** Not dead ?’’ ‘* No—sailed this morning in the ‘ Ariadne!’ Assistant Surgeon. I was toolate to see him.”’ **He didn’t run away ?”’ **No, no; but I was too late!’’ ‘*There, there, don’t talk about it. bad! You can tell us allabout it to-morrow. And, overcome by fatigue and excitement, Too ? Emily was only too glad to be taken up toa bedroom and told to rest quietly until morning. It was a night of sore perplexity ; but before morning her resolve was taken. She could never return to Mr. Lee. They would sup- pose her a thief when Sophie told her story. Well, better so than to think Rupert one. She would tell the Baxters enough to explain her appearance upon the wharf, and then try to gain employment in New York. They would recommend her, she felt sure. They had known her from a little child, and only her deep mourning and busily employed time had caused the intimacy to languish in the past two years. Yet, if they ever met the Poor Emily was dizzy with painful thought long before the breakfast gong broke Lees |! in upon her refiection. |

GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.

Mr. Baxter listened with kind interest to her story. That she had been a governess, but had left her situation suddenly, to try to see Rupert once more, was all she told of her- self, and their inference that she had come from some far distant point she did not con- tradict. She had lost her baggage, she said, left it behind her in her haste to catch a train. ‘*Dear, dear, what a pity! I have no time to hunt it up for you, for you see the girls and I are going to Europe in to-day’s steamer. Now, my dear, are you going back ?”’ ‘*T cannot! I forfeited my situation by running off so suddenly !”’ ‘What folly!’’ rose to Mr. Baxter’s lips, but he glanced at the pale face and suppressed the exclamation. ‘* Papa!’’ said Martha, and dragged him off to a distant window for a long whispered conference, while Ellen caressed Emily and scolded at the hard-hearted people who would have prevented her seeing Rupert off. The pair at the window became very animated, but at last Ellen’s curiosity was relieved. ‘*Emily,’’ said Martha, crossing the room with a jump and slide, ‘‘you can speak French, can’t you, and German ?”’ “<7.” ‘*Then papa wants you to come with us. Nell and I have a kind of hodge-podge we call French, but are as ignorant as owls of Ger- man, and you can be our interpreter.”’ ‘*Miss Dunbar,’’ said Mr. Baxter, * will you accompany us as governess and compan- ion for these two madcap girls of mine ?’’ ‘“*Ah, do; say yes!’’ said Ellen, kissing her. “You say Rupert will be gone for three years. We will return before then, so you can be here to meet him. Martha says she can help you about the lost baggage.”’ ‘*Oh, yes, we have oceans of clothes. You will only want a black dress or two. Do say yes,’’ pleaded Ellen. ‘*But I have no references, no—’’ ‘*Pshaw! Who is a better reference than your father’s old friend, who has known you from a baby. To be sure, you have buried yourself pretty well since your father died, but Martha and Ellen never tire of telling wonders of your scholarship at Oak Hall. Look in my eyes, Emily.”’ She obeyed. ‘*Steady now. You have never done any-

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THE RECOGNITION. Os bo oe | | thing that makes you an unfit companion for | of which she has heard and read, pass before my motherless girls ?’’ ‘*Never! so help me Heaven in my utmost need!’’ said Emily, solemnly, meeting his eyes with a steady, firm gaze. **T believe you, dear. You will go with us?’ ‘*Thankfully.”’ It is vain to attempt to describe the conster- nation at Mr. Lee’s when Sophie, having patiently waited her hour, came to the sitting- room with the lost note in her hand. Emily or Rupert? Emily or Rupert? Whowas the thief? The one far on the Atlantic before this; the other—where?’ All night the gentle mother watched for the unhappy girl’s return, but watched Mr. Lee could but place this new evidence in the hands of the detective, though none of his former suspi- Indeed, some of the in vain. cions pointed to Rupert. evidence he laid before that grave official con- tradicted entirely any such appearance of guilt. Fanny Watson’s distress was uncon- trollable. She would not hear her friend’s name coupled with guilt, and indignantly protested against any accusation of Rupert. Yet, there was the note! And while Mr. Lee advertises for his run- away governess in terms that only she could comprehend, while Fanny distractedly haunts railroad depots and wharves in the vain hope of seeing the dark eyes and short curls of her friend, while the grave detective steadily sifts evidence, and watches hourly for proof of guilt, Emily in her new position is far away, ** outward bound.’’ Meeting only love and kindness from her new friends, filling her hours with teaching and study, training the girls in French, and initiating them into the mysteries of German, she passes the days usefully, and thankfully realizes the mercies of her lot. Yet the agony of suspense, the bitter suspicions are under- mining health and spirits, and it requires all her self-control not to let her pupils see her grief. Worst of all, she has cut herself off from communication with her brother. She cannot write, and his letters will be directed to Mr. Lee’s care. They will write, will tell him all, and then—will he appreciate her sacrifice, or, himself innocent, blame her for thus casting suspicion upon him? The foreign lands that would have been a dream of delight to her a year ago, the gal- leries and scenes, the wonders of the old world | ’ her numbed heart like a dream, and only duty keeps her calm and attentive to her pupils. Still, as the months passed on, she found youth would seek relief from sorrow, and unconsciously the interest came back, and her sore heart clung to the kind friends who met her in her desolation. Time, which heals the sorest wounds, was laying his fin- gers over her heart, and ever-present duty and constant change were bringing back her smiles, while hope whispered words of com- fort. Three years would soon pass, then she would see Rupert, and he would explain all. Two years passed rapidly, and then the Baxters recrossed the Atlantic. It was in July that they landed in Boston, and resolved before returning home to pass away the hot months at Nahant. Emily, who had shrunk from parting, willingly agreed to accompany them to the watering-place, to remain until fall. Return home before the three years were over, she dared not. She had seen, in her long exile, notices of the ‘‘ Ariadne’s’’ safety, and more she could not hope for until Rupert’s return. There was one spot, not far from the hotel, where she became fond of lingering. It was not in the regular walks taken by frequenters of the watering-place, and she soon made it a daily resort. There with her sketch-book or some needlework she passed the hours when most of the visitors slept away the time, namely, the early afternoon. She had learned, early in her self-imposed martyrdom, to avoid sleeping during the day, finding every hour’s work and wakefulness added to her rest at night, and while Martha and Ellen napped away the hours, she touched up sketches, read or sewed till they were awake and ready for her music or chat. It was not many days after her arrival, when she was seated in her favorite spot, fancying herself safe from any intrusion, that, close behind her, she heard :— ‘*Fanny, look! Jook at that young girl sketching! I am sure it is Emily Dunbar She tried to rise, to flee, but could only 0? lock up in wild helplessness. A cry of ‘‘Emily, dear, dear Emily!’’ followed Mrs. Lee’s recognition, and Fanny Watson was sobbing over her, kissing her lips, cheeks, and eyes, scolding and caressing all at once. ‘Oh, how could you? how could you’? Do

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828 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE not speak! I know why you ran off! You simpleton, not to wait till the truth came out.’’ “The truth !’’ gasped Emily. c ‘* You don’t deserve to hearit! It was the head clerk. Uncle Robert suspected it, and the detective proved it. He took thousands of dollars.’’ ‘* But the note ?”’ ‘He confessed when he saw that all was The note he took the day before Rupert left, and slipped it in amongst his found out. money, knowing he would sail the next day, and hoping he would not pass it at home.’’ ‘*But,’’? said the bewildered girl, ‘*‘ what made Rapert so strange, so—’’ Hot blushes rose on Fanny’s cheeks as she whispered :— ‘*He was in love, and—afraid I would not love a poorclerk. He has written it all since, for his position now is secure, and his anxiety about you broke down all fancied barriers. He will he home in a year, and—and—Ewily, will you have me for a sister ?”’ Mrs. Lee here claimed a share in the joy, and Emily went back to the hotel to introduce the new arrivals to the Baxters, and clear up the mystery they had never questioned. Rupert’s letters were the next joy, and after reading all his loving interest in her disappearance, his pain at his own inability to aid in searching for her, she could echo his cry— ‘*Oh, how could she doubt me, or dare to peril her own good name by fleeing when she was innocent? Poor Emily! God guard her and bring her home soon, to feel that no one may safely undertake to bear another’s guilt.’’ One year later there was a grand wedding at Mr. Watson’s, and in all the group of happy hearts none throbbed with a purer joy than that of the dark-eyed bridemaid, Emily Dunbar. ——_—_—_.4.9-¢-o-2 WE MET. BY SALLIE L. HESLEP. As shadow-haze came rippling np the west, The gorgeous sunset in its crimson sea Unsealed the twilight, in pale violet drest, With dew-dript tresses, and on bended knee, Chanting her vespers, which, like hermits crept Into the clouds that o’er the wind harp swept. Up rose the moon from out her couch of flowers, And clove the star-bright shafts of mist, until She halted high in heaven's eternal bowers, And showered her silver rain on every Lill; The mother-birds crooned softly to their broods, While flower-mad winds went piping through the woods; The dewdrops hung upon the lily white, Like a bright rosary of golden beads, And, as sweet thoughts gieam up in sorrow’s night, The glow-worm haunted all the tangle weeds; I heard the tiny bluebell’s gentle stroke, And ere its voice had died another woke. We met, as meet sweet April and young May, Together mingling with their buds a tear; Or, as the rosy ruins of the day Upon the bosom of the night appear; Around his lips the love words nestled close, Like leaves upon an early spring time rose ; My youthful heart was brimming o’er with love Love that had never felt the Lapland breath Of this cold world—but such as dwells above, That is immortal, and comes after death. Oh I did love him with a passion wild— He was to me as sunlight to the flowers, Without whose sheen the daisies had not smiled, Nor pansy blossoms decked the sweet spring hours, What were the sweetness of the Cassia rose, Unkissed by Araby’s soft zephyr airs? Or what the grandeur of the Alpine snows, Without the gleam of sunset that it wears ? Or what the gentle ring-dove’s "plaining vow, Were it not breathed for its devoted mate? The cascade sings unto the restless bough, Aud wears the color of its own bright fate. Again.we met, and in each other's eyes We saw the forms we loved unlanguaged there ; We felt our heart-beat as a tempest rise, And shake us as an earthquake shakes the air! *T love thee,”’ from his lips like summer fell, And died like music, or as waves depart ; Methought it rose again, his love to tell, But ‘twas thé echo dwelling in my heart. Time, space, and all crush out, but holy love, Leave that for those whose souls are drenched in grief; It is a sacred flower in life’s fair grove, That leaves no trace of sorrow on its leat; It lifts the shadows from the pensive eye, Summers the heart, unclouds the darkened soul, And more than all true love can never die, Though change and blight forever by it roll. Ever to him my fond heart-rays did tend, Like pilgrims journeying to the Holy Land ; And at his shrine my soul will ever bend, As round the watch-fires kuelt the Persian band. We vowed ourselves to God and to our love, Each to the other gave a holy token ; Dark fate decreed him foreign shores to rove, And left me steeped in grief; my sad heart broken. We met, alas, alas, too soon to sever, Like sunny waves that meet—then part forever. A cuttp is eager to have any toy it sees, but throws it away at the sight of another, and is equally eager to have that. We are most of us children through life, and only change one toy for another from the cradle to the grave.

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THE ARTIST AND THE PRINCESS. BY METTA VICTORIA VICTOR. PART I. ‘It is rooted deep with the basement, It rises high with the tower ; It curtains a certain casement, And there is my lady's bower.”’ Morna Ssvitte sat at the window of her chamber on a June The heat, which had bowed the heads of the roses and drooped the green leaves of the vines which swung listlessly in the faint wind about the casement, had unwound the golden rings: of her hair, until it dropped to her waist ribbon in languid tendrils: it bad whitened her damp forehead, flushed her cheeks an@ parted her lips, until she looked most exquisitely She had been reading afternoon. indolent, soft, and fair. ‘‘a medley,’’ most fit for that delicious time and place; but now the little volume of blue- and-gold had slipped from her fingers, and lay half smothered in the white fulds of her dress. ‘The princess’’ and all her lovely train of charming, awe-inspiring reformers, Lilia and Walter, floated far away into the rosy cloud- land of her dreams, while nearer, clearer, in the heaven of her own blue eyes, swam a thought of her own. Morna was a poet’s child, was nineteen, had never had a lover, Look at her closely, you who believe in good things, for you may nor ever been in love. travel east and west, north and south, and never see such another. Mr. Seville was a poet, and, therefore, a man of the soundest sense—not common— alas, no! but real and profound. If it were more common, there might be fewer sharp bargains driven in the world, but there would immediately be more truth and justice, and a large access of pleasures which no money can buy. Fortunately, for the expression of his tastes, he was rich by inheritance; he had married a beautiful and spiritual woman, who had been struggling against the thorns with which poverty environs the tender feet of her sex, and placed her in a congenial atmosphere, which expanded her perfections as sunlight and dew expand a lily; but just in the full superbness of her bloom, death plucked her, laying her fragrant fairness at the feet of God. She left Mr. Seville a child, Morna. It was the audacity of genius which made him con- 26* sider himself the fit person to educate his daughter. Not many men are fitted to bring up girls; but upon his success we are willing to stake the reputation we have given him for sense—that sense which is more even than reason and judgment—which is the clear right of a powerful mind. His pcetic intuitions and immeasurable love made him conscious of the most sensitive affections, the most ethereal requirements of her feminine nature ; while he imparted nobility and vigor to her growing intellect. We do not propose to enter into details; but simply to assert that Morna, as she sat there in that pleasant cham- ber of that June afternoon, was as pure as the purest child, yet thoroughly educated and accomplished, and not ignorant of the world, as it can be learned under wise and loving supervision, in travel and works of art, in observation of places and people, and in intercourse with the really highest society. All this, as a child, as a little girl under the arm of her father, thinking nothing of her- self, or of her relation to others, learning and enjoying as children do. Mr. Seville had not fed her mental hunger onthe bread and meat of science and philoso- phy alone; she always had a dessert served up on silver and golden salvers, in dishes of clearest crystal, luscious or delicate or fruity- cool, as the day might bring—the rose- flavored cream of poetry, the honey of the flowers of Hymettus, the dainty confections of fiction— all that is sweetest, freshest, and fairest in literature. Fancy and imagination were not starved—nor ever surfeited with unhealthy food. If Morna’s mind and heart had received this fine development, her father had not been unequal to the care of securing a correspond- ingly fine physical growth. Fresh air and exercise had kept the skin smooth and the eyes brilliant; hair-pins and pomatum had never tortured that hair—abundant, glossy, perfamed, ethereal, floating free; tight bands had never compressed that slender but rounded waist, nor corsets constricted that chest, now self-moulded into a beauty which it would be presumptuous to attempt to de- scribe. 329

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When Morna dreamed in her summer bower, that day of which we write, though pure as a child, she was no longer one. The instincts of womanhood were asserting them- selves in her; her heart was brim full and over-running, like a fountain in a virgin wood, with only moss and flowers, birds and butterflies to be refreshed with its silver drops —full of poetry and passion, yearning, and want and wonder, deep delight, and soft, un- spoken sadness—the heart of a young girl which waits for, it. knows not what. In short, Morna was all ready for the ro- mance of her life to begin—romance it is called—but is it not the only reality? Read- ing Tennyson’s ‘‘ Princess,’’ on that slumber- ous afternoon, with the oaks and elms on the lawn waving before her eyes, and the odors from the flower-garden at the foot of the tower floating up on the tired wings of the breezes, the book gradually sunk into her lap, and she lost herself in thick-coming Her ideal of a lover had been per- If we could paint him reveries. fected for some time. for you as she saw him at that hour, you would have a picture worth preserving; it was not any waltzing butterfly, celebrated for the cultivation of his antenna, fluttering to opera music through the perfumed airs of conservatories; it was a man, manly in all his attributes, who came through the window on the ladder of her dreams, sat by her side, and took her hand. The rose deepened on her cheek, her eyes melted into liquid fire, her breath was soft and hurried; presently she heaved a weary little sigh, closed the book passionately—‘‘ I shall never see him—never !”’ ‘* How de you know ?”’ The words were hardly spoken, in the soli- tude of her chamber, before this reply was uttered, seemingly close by her side. She looked about her, startled—the voice was not her father’s, certainly ; neither was it of any servant’s—it was a rich voice, well modu- lated. No one was in her room; she glanced out of her window, hardly expecting to find firmly, exclaiming, any one standing upon air, but because the words seemed to have come from that side. Morna’s apartments were in the second story; they consisted of two rooms, lofty and airy, though not excessively large. in which she sat at present was the area of the massive tower which rose at the eastern angle of the mansion; it contained a piano; a The one GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. writing-desk ; some rosewood shelves, holding a few of her favorite books; a thick velvet carpet, of two colors only; a swinging lamp, as if a moon had been let down by silver chains, and a few of those exquisite toys which befit a lady’s boudoir. There was nothing which would afford con- cealment to an intruder, except the deep embrasures of the windows, of which there were two; these, however, were in full view of the young girl; the one at which she sat looking east, over the river, the other, at her * left, looking north, to the mountains. Sur- prised, but courageous, Morna arose, opened the door and looked into the hall; closed it, and went into the larger room, which was her sleeping apartment, searching thoroughly in closets and wardrobes, so certain was she that her ears had not deceived her. ‘‘I must have imagined it,’’ she murmured, looking vaguely out the north window into the garden below, and up into the air. The window was curtained half over with the foliage of a trumpet honeysuckle, which had grown, year after year, from the foot of the tower, until its trunk was like that of a young tree, and its branches clambered from height to height, till the golden clusters of its blossoms waved in the sunshine from the very pinnacle. Morna loved the vine, for it was beautiful and majestic to behold from a dis- tance, and it made her bower brilliant with the near fluttering of all the bees and hum- ming-birds in the neighborhood. Now it con- trived to vex her a little, for, as she put out her head somewhat hastily, the tresses of her hair became entangled in the woody stems of an obtruding branch; it was several moments before she could extricate their golden threads from the audacious grasp of the vine. She saw and heard nothing, concluded that she must have dreamed, resumed her chair and her reading, and was far away, heart and soul with the fair reformers, when the tea-bell rang. ‘Were you up-stairs this afternoon, in my part of the house ?’’ she asked her father, at the table. He assured her that he had not been out of the library since dinner. ‘Then the spirits must have paid me a visit, father.’’ ‘*T wonder if it was spirits who cut off that curl of Morna’s hair.’’ ‘*What do you mean, father?’’ she in- quired, putting up her hand to the side of her i

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THE ARTIST AND THE PRINCESS. 831 head at which he was gazing; by the touch she perceived that a tress had been shorn square off, as if by a pair of scissors. She grew quite pale with amazement. Some cne, then, Aad been in her apartment—yet, no! that was totally impossible. By no concate- nation of circumstances could she account for the stolen ringlet. She had forgotten the trifling mishap of her hair having caught in the honeysuckle; and if she had remembered it, it would have offered no key for the solu- -tion of the mystery. The rough vine might have gathered a few golden hairs to be woven as permanent sunshine in the nests of the birds who abounded thereabouts, but it could not, by the wildest stretch of fancy, have severed that abundant lock. Parent and child looked into each other’s eyes. Mr. Seville saw the blank surprise of his daughter, who looked ready to burst into tears. ‘Why did you ask me who was up-stairs this afternoon? Did you hear anything wrong? and did you not know that your hair was cut? I thought you had had the ill taste to rob yourself of a tress to send to some sentimental girl, or to have made up into a chain.’’ **T thought I heard some one speak in my room, but I saw no one; and I did not know, until this moment, that my hair was cut. Of course I should not have disfigured myself by taking it from the outside, in that fashion. Papa, I’m completely bewildered.’’ ‘* Was it a man’s voice that you heard ?’’ **It was a man’s.”’ ‘‘Let us go and have a search of the pre- mises.’’ They left the table, and went up-stairs, but found no one, and no trace of robbery or dis- turbance; the servants were questioned; there had been no callers admitted that after- noon, and no stragglers observed about the place. “ ‘Tf it was a robber,’’ remarked Mr. Seville, when he had carefully reconnoitred his daugh- ter’s apartment, ‘‘he showed much taste and little prudence. Think no more about it, Morna; I’m convinced that your maid, find- ing you asleep in your chair, committed the bold deed, probably to furnish herself mate- rial for a bracelet or a pair of ear-rings. You ’re not afraid, are you ?”’ : ‘* Not at all—only puzzled.”’ ‘Well, come down presently, and give me some music. The air is growing cooler; I shall go out awhile and enjoy it.’’ ‘*T was not asleep, and it was not a woman’s voice,’’ thought Morna, taking up her book from the broad stone sill of the window upon which she had laid it when she went down to tea; the ribbon was not where she had folded it down upon leaving, but was in a new place, | some lines of the page on which it rested! being freshly marked with a pencil begin- ning at— *O not to pry and peer on your reserve, But led by golden wishes, and a hope The child of regal compact, did I break Your precinct ;""— and going on, a little later, with— “But in you I found My boyish dream involved, and dazzled down, And mastered, while that after-beauty makes Such head from act to act, from hour to hour, Within me, that except you slay me here, I cannot cease to follow you as they say The seal does music; who desire you more Than growing boys their manhood; dying lips, With many thousand matters left to do. The breath of life ; * * * id And howsoever you block and bar Your heart with system out from mine, I hold That 1t becomes no man to nurse despair, But in the teeth of clenched antagonisms, To follow up the worthiest till he die.”’ Looking out of the casement, to woo the freshening breeze, Morna read the marked passages; the color shot up from cheek to brow, her heart fluttered, her breast heaved ; she would have liked to stand in the place of the princess, and have those noble, im- petuous words spoken to her; lip and eye kindled—and who? who had drawn those pencil marks? who had gained access to her apartment in this incomprehensible man- ner? what man of all she knew? Clearly none. It must have been her father, who, to beguile the tedium of a summer’s day, was amusing himself with her discomfiture. ‘*T only wish some man would talk to me in that Tennysonian style,’’ she whispexzed, look- ing longingly forward into the blue horizon, from which the last tint of sunset was fading into the silvery sea of up-flowing moonlight. Her fe looked soft and wistful; she bent her head over the volume, and pressed her lips hastily, shyly, to the words marked therein; then threw up her glance towards héaven, until her throat was white with moonlight. Suddenly a face came between her and that heaven, a face, down-stooping, as if from the ether which swam around her;

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co eo bo GODEY’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. a pair of eyes burned an instant upon her own; a kiss, light and sweet as a rose-leaf, just touched her forehead. She was too startled to scream. The next moment her heart hung, paralyzed, at the toss of a quick bound, by a crushing in the branches of the honeysuckle, and the dash, downward rush of a human form, shooting past the window, and lying heaped up on the earth beneath it. Shie leaned out, but heard not a groan or sigh; the twilight around the foot of the tower, along with the mass of foliage about the roots of the vine, prevented her seeing distinctly the crushed form. Thrilled with horror, she flew down the front stairs, calling upon her father PART II. ‘‘He’s no better than a robber; he’s got served just as he deserves,’’ remarked Thomas, the gardener, as he assisted, along with the butler, in carrying the injured man into the house. “I’ve seen him hanging about for the last week; but he seemed sich a gentle- man, and purtended he was a ‘sketching picters,’ as he said, when I spoke to him, that I didn’t warn him off, or have him took up, as I ought to, Mr. Seville. There’s no tellin’ these tricks the burglars and assassins won't be up to next—a playin’ the gentle- man—artist—ho!’’ indignantly. The dark eyes set in the white face opened, regarding the speaker steadily; then turned their regards upon the master of the house. The lamp lighted in the hall showed them plainly to each other. A quiver of speechless pain ran over the compressed lips; but the sufferer did not make any ado; from that quiet search of the faces about him he sank into insensibility. ‘* My goodness, Mr. Seville, you don’t really mean to take that fellow into one of the best company.rooms to litter it all up with his broken leg ?’’ exclaimed the housekeeper, more disconcerted than she dared to show. ‘‘ Wall, you do beat all, sir!—a burglarious robber, Thomas says! Why, he may get up and mur- der us all in our sleep.’’ ‘* Not until his leg has been set, I presume,’’ answered Mr. Seville; and, conveying the stranger to the bed hastily prepared in‘a large, well-ventilated chamber, he ordered Thomas to ride post-haste to the village after the family physician. While he was chafing the patient’s wrists, the eyes again suddenly flew open, and a faint voice said :— ‘‘Do not think, Mr. Seville, that there is anything bad about me. I have been auda- cious—that is the worst. I wished to climb to the top of the tower, and get a view of the country from there. If I should—die—you will learn—my name and business from the ? port—folio, which is—somewhere—’’ Here the accents became indistinct; he had fainted again. Dr. Warfield, arriving at about ten o’clock, shook his head gravely over the case: a com- pound fracture of the left leg, with contusion of the shoulder, and the weather so very un- favorably warm. ‘*Thomas says it was some one attempting, to climb into the upper window, for the pur- pose of robbery. How’s that?’’ queried the doctor. ‘Nonsense! It’s seme harum-scarum, dare- devil of an artist, who risked his neck to get a view of the country from the tower, by climbing up the honeysuckle vine, instead of coming properly to the door, like a sane per- son, and asking permission to go up by the inside.”’ The two gentlemen regarded the patient ; compassion was written upon both their faces, even the cool, experienced surgeon’s. He was so young, with so fine a countenance, and bore his agony with such high courage. They handled him with all possible tender- ness; but the cruel operation of setting the bone had to be performed. They pitied him as if he were their son. ‘*He shall have the best of care,’’ said Mr. Seville, as the doctor departed. ‘‘ You must attend him as if he were one of my family.”’ The fever which followed, in the course of the next thirty-six hours, was, as the surgeon had predicted, high. It may have been aug- mented by some mental trouble; at all events, delirium supervened, and for a few days the patient’s life hung vpon a thread. Early in the morning after the accident, he had asked for his portfolio, which had been found near the place where he fell; this he had placed under his pillow, and there it remained during the illness which followed, Mr. Seville knew only the name of the person who had thus curiously been cast upon his hands, and that he was not at all certain but might be a fic- titious one. He did not trouble himself about

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THE ARTIST AND THE PRINCESS. it. He was acting upon feeling, and not rea- son, as poets are prone to do. If Stewart Vanesse had been a robber, who had met with injury, in an attempt to secure the siiver plate of the mansion, it would have been in con- sonance with the master’s feelings to nurse him up kindly, and when he was recovered, to deliver him over to freedom and conscience, with the adjuration to sin no more. But there was something in the noble countenance of the young man which pleased the poet, who sounded the key-note of all natures at a touch; he was continually expressing to his daughter his interest in the stranger whose acquaint- ance he was making after such a suspicious introduction. As for her, she kept far from the sigk chamber, except that once or twice, during his delirium, she watched with him a few hours, during the absence of the nurse. Morna kept her secret from her father. He repeated to her the assertion made by the artist that he was climbing to the tower for the purposes of a sketch, which might have been a truth, but it was not all the truth, as sheknew. That audacious kiss!—audacious, yet so light, so soft!—she felt it forever upon her brow. cation of angry thoughts would obliterate it; night and day it burned there, sinking down into her brain, into her heart, like a sunbeam ‘into the sea. Whenever the first thought of it came ‘over her, she was deeply displeased. That unmanly intrusion upon her private apartments—for she guessed, now, who had been watching her, from his airy and frail perch, during that afternoon, plundering the lock of gold, when she leaned from the win- dow; that bold pressure of strange lips to a No bath of rose-water, no purifi- forehead which had never flushed beneath a kiss, kindled a haughty indignation which a second memory of the soul-speaking eyes could allay, and which a third remembrance of the terrible penalty suffered for the wrong, would then change into pity—oh, deepest pity, as she heard the low mutterings of his delirium, the twice that she visited him, and felt the unbearably bright eyes fixed upon her! She resolved not to disturb her father’s interest in his patient by betraying his sin, until he was sufficiently recovered to be ban- ished from the house without harm to his health. ‘*The poor boy,’’? said Mr. Seville, as he came into the library, where Morna was copy- ing some manuscript for him, about ten days after the accident; ‘‘he has been compelled to get me to write a letter to his mother. He was bound to do it himself, but I assured him that such exertion would be imprudent; so he dictated a few words to me. nothing in them ‘but what he is willing we should know, I will read them to you :— As there is ‘Dear Motrner: I suppose you have been anxious at not receiving my semi-weekly bud- gets. The truthis, while climbing a dangerous place, for sketching purposes, I fell and broke one of my legs—the left. Do not be wretched about me, for 1am doing admirably—have the best, the very best, care, kindness, and atten- tion at the hands of a gentleman who picked me up after the accident. The worst of it is that it interferes with my summer work. I am afraid you are wanting money. If so, try to borrow some of H until I get round again. Dear mother, | will keep you informed. With a thousand kisses, your dutiful son, Sruart VANNESSE.’ ‘‘T like the letter,’’ continued Mr. Seville. ‘*T ll tell you why, Morna. It is evident that he loves his mother, that he labors for her support, that he is carefal of her feelings, and that he is not afraid to kiss and caress her as he did when a little child. He is pure- hearted, I am willing to avow.’ Then it re- moves any doubt'I might have had as to his real name, for it is addressed to Mrs. Eliza- beth Vannesse, No. 31 Cottage Place, New York City. I believe, Morna, that I will put a twenty-dollar treasury note into the letter, at a venture. She will think her son sent it.’’ He looked at his daughter to see if she was going to demur to this imprudent prompting of his heart, but as she only gave him one of her brightest smiles, he added on a postscript —‘‘I inclose twenty dollars,’’ folded in the ‘* vreenback,’’? sealed and dispatched the missive. After this, the recovery of the patient was as rapid as the nature of his injuries would allow. The hot days of July melted away, one after the other, into nights of fragrance and coolness; it was always pleasant in the room of the invalid; breezes from the moun- tains swayed the transparent curtains which draped the windows; the river rolled, a band of silver, across the valley; there were always flowers in the vases; books, when he could read them; dainties to tempt his appetite; but an uneasiness possessed him. The door never unclosed but he looked up quickly with a wild, eager glance, which ever seemed disappointed of the object of its expectation.

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334 He would lie for hours, with his hand press- ing a small package over his heart, and the other holding a bit of drawing-paper from his portfolio, upon which appeared to be some favorite sketch, which he always put away when his attendants drew near. One after another melted away twenty, thirty, forty days of mingled pain and lan- guor—of feverish restlessness and intervals of exquisite ease—during which, the sun- browned face grew white and delicate, and the brown hair grew into almost womanish ring- lets about the wan forehead. And in all this long period Morna’s light footsteps and sweet voice, which would so have blessed the sick chamber, did not sound within it. She sewed and sang, and painted and wrote, read, and went about out-of-doors, doing good, as if no Samaritan lay at her own hearth-stone. Was it that she had not Christian charity sufficient to forgive that outrage to her maidenly dig- nity? or was it that she could not overcome the diffidence which withheld her from seeming to forgive it, which might appear like counte- nancing the act ? Gradually she sang less, rode her pony less, ate less, wandering about the porticoes and gardens like a spirit seeking something which could never be found. Her father thought the hot weather was trenching a little upon her health. He proposed to invite a gay company to the house; but she did not second the pro- posal with any zeal. **Do at least, then, come in and see my friend, the sick man. Is it not a little selfish in you to make no effort to help him pass away the intolerable time? I like him, Morna, and am willing you should go to see him.’’ ‘Some day, papa, when I feel like it.’’ In the mean time the patient had got at his painting. As soon as the cradle was off his limb and he was free to be bolstered up in bed, with a little license in moving about, he begged his host for an easel to be placed be- side his couch, with a good-sized canvas upon it. **I never felt so much like painting in my life, Mr. Seville. The inspiration is upon me, and ought I not to improve it? I feel ethe- realized now—I could paint mist, moonlight, seraphim—or the eyes of the woman I love. It will not fatigue me; it will give wings to time. And then, Mr. Seville, I wish to do something, however trifling, for you. It will be the only manner, at present, in which I GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, can express my gratitude for the kind, for the gracious, for the fatherly manner in which you have treated me,’’ and the voice quivered. Mr. Seville pressed the wasted hand, pro- mising that he should have the needed mate- rials for his work. After that, the recovery was speedy; the artist’s easel stood by the bedside but a few days; he was up, in his easy-chair, busy at his picture as many hours of the day as his strength permitted. No one knew his subject. As soon as he finished his daily labor, he dropped a cloth over the can- vas; he told his host that he preferred to withhold it until it was completed. ‘*To-day my picture is finished,’’ said Stuart Vannesse, after a fortnight of loving work; ‘‘and to-morrow I leave you, Mr. Seville. I am able to endure transportation to the nearest hotel, and it is my duty to go. I will not in- sult your boundless generosity by implying that you are wearied of this troublesome in- truder; but itis right that I should go. Will Miss Seville honor me by being present at the christening of my dearest child ?’’ Mr. Seville was somewhat surprised at the artist’s question; he had hardly mentioned his daughter’s name, and was not really certain that the invalid was aware of her existence. ‘*Yes, certainly; I will bring her myself. She ought to have called upon you before, Stuart, but I suppose she was waiting for you to come out of your room. It’s all nonsense to talk of leaving us for a week or a month yet. You will lose time by being in too much haste ;’? and the poet went in search of his child. ‘ During his absence the artist drew the cloth from the canvas, arranging it so as to receive the best light, and remaining seemingly tran- quil, while he waited for the expected visitor. Presently she came, with her father; he heard them enter the room, but it seemed impossible for him to raise his eyes. They stood quite near him, and Mr. Seville had pronounced their names before he lifted his glance to Miss Seville. If he had hoped for any slightest blush or drooping eyes, he was disappointed ; her face was that of a stranger, her look calmly polite; she utterly ignored the fact of the rudeness he had once heen guilty of. If any memory lingered in her soul of that confession which she had made to the book, that kiss she had pressed upon it, or of that madness into which this innocent exhibition had tempted another, he could not read it.

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THE ARTIST AND THE PRINCESS. 335 Those eyes which had once bent from the blue ether and burned their passion into her heart larger and darker now, spiritual with suffering, but lit with the same undying fire, glowed in the pale face with a brightness from which she was glad to turn away—to the picture ! When she saw that, her stately repose was for an instant shaken; waves of color flushed and paled over neck and brow; she stood silent. Mr. Seville uttered an exclamation of delight and wonder. It was Morna herself, who lived and breathed upon the canvas— Morna, in her most beautiful hour, with her fairest dream upon her. Her father himself, who thought he had studied every varying phase of her mind and heart, had never inter- preted this one. No! for never, until that June day, when she sat, softly dreaming, the warmth and rosiness of summer glowing within and without her, the meaning of a noble poem stirring the inmost folds of the unexpanded flower of love, had that mood been upon her. To the coldest critic it would have appeared a remarkable picture. The accessories of the room, the draperies, the bit of river and moun- tain showing through the open casement— every minutest detail, the ribbon about her waist, the little blue-and-gold volume nestled in her white dress—were all perfectly wrought out ; while an atmosphere—the very passion and languor of summer—brooded over all, giving the bewitching effect. But in the por- trait lay the marvel of the painter’s genius— the moist whiteness of the brow; the flush of the cheek, warm, yet delicate; the tender, dreamy, sensitive mouth; the golden links of hair unringing themselves about the daz- zling shoulders—and the eyes, telling the whole story of awakening womanhood—the eyes of a‘maiden pondering the future—a look which she could only have worn when she was unaware that an earthly gaze was reading her face! Morna read herself in this reflection ; the thought of the portrait was pure as heaven; yet she felt as if a sacrilege had been committed. Mr. Seville was overjoyed; there was no- thing could have given him more pleasure than this exquisite picture of his child, taken in the freshness of her youth. He seized the hand of the artist, overwhelming him with thanks, declaring that the weight of obligation now rested upon his side. **But how,’’ he exclaimed, ‘‘in the name of mystery, did you obtain the sittings? Ah, Morna, you have joined with him in procuring me this delightful surprise !’’ PART IF?P. Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea; The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape, With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape; But, O too fond, when have I answered thee? Ask me no more. Ask me no more: what answer should I give? I love not hollow cheek or faded eye: Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die! Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live; Ask me no more. The Princess. ‘* Nay, Mr. Seville,’’ said the artist, ‘‘this is the first time I have seen your daughter since I became an inmate of this house. I owe you both an explanation and a confession. What I have told you of my adventure on the tower is the truth, but not all the truth. I had been sketching in this vicinity for about a week previous to that day. I had once or twice observed Miss Seville, as she passed near’me, riding her pony. I knew this place, and the persons who lived in it, by reputation. Attracted by the beauty of the grounds, I ven- tured into them, obtaining the permission of the gardener. Observing the great strength and size of the honeysuckle vine, I was seized with a mad freak of fancy—to climb the out- side of the tower by it. I knew very well that I should receive kind permission to ascend by the staircase, if I would ask at the door; but I entertained a foolish bitterness against the wealthy, who are so often ignorant and arrogant.. I was always wayward, and not re- markable for prudence. With my portfolio strapped to my back, I began the venture. There was nothing perilous about it, as far as I pursued it, for I had only attained the level of the second-story windows, when a vision met my gaze, which enthralled me instantly— which led me into all the sin of which I was afterwards guilty, and for which I have suf- fered a penalty not too severe. Mr. Seville, I shall tell you all, in the presence of your daughter, whom I offended. I saw, through the open casement, a young girl, reclining in a chair, reading a book. As the chamber ap- peared to be neither sleeping apartment nor drawing-room, it did not, at the moment, seem so dishonorable an act to pause and observe her. I pledge you my word, before God, that I never thought of any wrong. I was like a

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GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. child stopping to regard a wayside flower. The young girl was beautiful. I watched the silent eloquence of her face as she bent above the poet’s book; she did not perceive me; she sat by the east window, and I was shel- ,tered in a covert ofleaves. That love of beauty, ‘which is the soul of the artist, prompted me to run all risks for a sketch of her features. The solid stone ledge of the window-sill, pro- jecting some distance at each side of the case- ment, afforded me a tolerable seat in which, by bracing my feet in against a strong branch, I could maintain myself an indefinite time. I proceeded to sketch a hasty outline; the un- conscious sitter dropped her book in her lap, and looked off, thoughtfully, into the blue ether beyond the window. I could look full into her eyes; my heart thrilled with eager pleasure to fix that fair expression before it flitted. Moments flew by; it may have been hours; I only knew that I was happy, that I was gazing upon a woman lovely as love, and pure as crystal. What sweet, wild thoughts flowed through my brain, I will not try to tell you; I was absorbed, utterly absorbed and lost; I forgot myself and my circumstances, the world, the past, the future, everything but the woman at whom I gazed, and whom I already irrevocably loved. Do not silence me, Mr. Seville; I humble myself to confess all my weakness, as an atonement for my presump- tion. Yet, was it a weakness? No, by the Heaven which made me a man, with a man’s spirit, it was not! Ishould have been weak and blind if I had not seen—and having seen, how could I but adore ?—her purity, her youth, her noble mind, her winning beauty. This was the woman whom I had always believed lived somewhere in this world. I did not ask myself if she were for me—the future had not yet presented itself tome; I was overwhelmed in the present. When, after hours of such joy, she murmured a passionate question to herself, suggested by the poem she had been reading, I forgot prudence, and answered her. Surprised, she came to the window, searching the air for the strange voice. I was com- pletely hidden from her observation by the thick, leafy screen, and the jutting frame- work of the casement; her lovely head was so near to me, I could easily touch the bright hair which floated around her face. ‘*T have told you, Mr. Seville, how reck- less, how impulsive—but never, I trust, wil- fully wicked—is my nature. Those brilliant | threads of gold were blown by the light wind almost against my cheek; in a moment of bliss, without reflection, with a keen knife which I carried, I severed a tress which blew near me. Here it is; Iresign it. Every hour of my sickness it has lain upon my heart; it is dearer to me than life, but not so dear as honor. I have no right to it; I obtained it by pillage, and I return it to you that you may know how sacredly I respect the rights and dignity of her.’’ His eyes sought Mor- na’s. With a hasty pressure of the little pack- age to his lips, he extended it to her, who took it meghanically; he made an effort to rise from his seat, but emotion had overcome his rallying strength. He resumed :— ‘*This was not all. When your daughter went to tea, I took up the book which she had been reading, sought and obtained an appropriate passage, which I marked. Fear- ful of being discovered descending the vine, I concluded to wait the friendly approach of twilight. In the mean time, she returned, and took up the volume. Leaning from the window, she read the lines I had pencilled— she sighed—she pressed her lips to them. Then, in a moment of ecstasy like that which we may feel upon entering into immortal life, I bent forward until my eyes met hers—blind, rash, presumptuous, call it what you will, was I—I stooped and kissed her on the brow. I was punished for the deed. I risked my life to reach her; my frail support gave way, and I was hurled to the earth. It was fit. Yet no, it was not fit— ‘For I hold That it becomes no man to nurse despair, But in the teeth of clenched antagonisins, To follow up the worthiest till he die.’ I have not degraded your daughter by my love, but I have elevated myself. Not, Mr. Seville, because you are wealthier than I, and can patronize me to the top of your bent, but because she is so sweet and noble that no man can approach her until he has raised himself to her level. Now, I havesaid all. In giving up this picture, this sketch from which I painted it, and the tress of hair, I have re- turned all which I gained surreptitiously, except the kiss—that will I keep till death. It is mine, for I paid for it in agony. You know the weeks that I have languished, Morna Seville, and the doubt which still hangs over the perfect recovery of my limb, and in the face of this I tell you that I would buy

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THE ARTIST AND THE PRINCESS. 337 another kiss at the same price. If I go halt- ing through life, every step will remind me of the joyful cause of my misfortune. No, I cannot repent it,’? he murmured, in a low voice, to himself, his eyes fixed upon the young girl’s. ‘*To-morrow I go away from here. Mr. Seville, do not think that I class you with those hollow aristocrats who have sometimes made me angry; you have my eternal love and gratitude; you have met me as man should meet man, soul to soul, not glove to glove. I know that with you the hollow pageants of circumstance receive no more than passing consideration. When I have made myself worthy, I shall return; I shall ask to be allowed to’’—here his glance again sought Morna’s, but she had glided silently from the roém. ‘‘She is gone, without bid- ding me farewell,’’ he cried, rising and pacing the floor with an unsteady step. ‘‘It is just as well !’’ The impassioned confession, the attempt to walk, the despair of having met and parted with Morna, were too much for the convales- cent. Before Mr. Seville could reach him, after observing him turn suddenly white, he sank against his couch in a fainting fit. ‘*How worthless I am!’’? he murmured, when he recovered. ‘‘I thought I was stronger. I must—I ‘must leave here to-morrow, Mr. Seville, after what has passed. Can you not give me some potion to make me strong ?’’ ‘“*T know of no better tonic than hope,’’ said his host, smiling. ‘‘ Why do you talk so much about wealth and patrimony, Stuart ? With that genius which this portrait evinces, you can become the pet of royalty, if you as- pire to it; riches and honor are in your own keeping. Do not be too hasty. Llike you, my boy, and if I ascertain that you are all I give you credit for, I shall have no objections to your taking your,chance with others in com- peting for my daughter’s preference. All in good time. You are quite too impulsive. If you had presented your letter of introduction at the door, you might have saved yourself a broken leg, and in time—who knows ?—have won a kiss without paying so heavy a price for it.’’ **T do not regret it,’’ persisted the artist, obstinately. ‘*Morna was dismayed,’’ continued her father; ‘‘she has never heard a declaration of love befure, and to come in this over- whelming shape, it has frightened her.’’ VOL. LXx.—27 ‘IT know I am a fool, and worse; but I shall trouble her no more with my folly. She may keep the memory of her first admirer to mea- sure her future conquests by. Mr. Seville, will you do me the last of many kindnesses, by ordering Thomas to drive me to the village in the morning ?”’ ‘* As you say, when morning comes. Rest now, my patient; I will send your tea up, soon.”’ Several hours glided by. ‘The artist reclined on his couch in a sort of trance of feeling and passion, brooding over the nearness, yet the immeasurable distance, of her whom he adored, and who condemned him. The soft lustre of the evening lamp was nearly extin- guished in the full radiance of the moon, which streamed in through three large, open windows; a faint odor of roses and pansies was in the room; the ripple of water was heard outside; the muslin curtains stirred softly. There was a timid knock at his door; his gaze was fixed upon it, as it gently un- closed, admitting a white-robed form, which hovered in the entrance, as if doubting whether to fly or approach. Finally the door closed behind it, and it advanced into the broad bar of moonlight which lay across the floor. Said he :— ‘« Wake me by no gesture, sound of breath, or stir of ves- ture! Let the blessed «pparition melt not yet to its divine! No approaching—hush, no breathing! or my heart must swoon to death in The too atter life thou bringest,‘O thou dream of (Morna) mine !’’ White, like a spirit, the golden veil of her hair hiding her blushes, ethereal as the light through which she moved, the young girl passed to his side. He regarded her without moving or speaking, after that first apostrophe. She had a bouquet of violets and rosebuds in her hands, which she laid within his nerveless clasp. ‘‘Stuart,’’ she said, ‘‘my father knows that Icome. I have told him that I should do so. Since you have paid so terrible a price for one poor kiss, I have come to give you— this !’’ Swift as a shooting star, soft as a snowflake upon his hot forehead, sweeter than the petal of a flower which flutters as it falls, he felt kiss—and the vision had fled. But it was no dream! the artist was sure of that, as he lay awake the brief summer night, his heart so restless with joy, that all the poppies of the”

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838 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, Orient could not have ‘‘medicined him to ? sleep. “Till notice of a change in the dark world Was lisp'd about the acacias, and a bird That early woke to feed her little ones, Lent from her dewy breast a call for light.’’ RAPIDITY OF THOUGHT IN DREAMING. A very remarkable circumstance, on an important point of analogy, is to be found in the extreme rapidity with which the mental operations are performed, or rather with which the material changes on which the ideas de- pend are excited, in the hemispherical ganglia. It would appear as if a whole series of acts, that would really occupy a long lapse of time, pass ideally through the mind at one instant. We have in dreams no true perception of the lapse of time—a strange property of mind; for, if such be also its property when entered into the eternal disembodied state, time will appear to us eternity. The relations of space as well as of time are also annihilated; so that, while almost an eternity is compressed into a moment, infinite space is traversed more swiftly than by realthought. There are numerous illustrations of this principle on record. A gentleman dreamed that he had enlisted as a soldier, joined his regiment, deserted, was apprehended, carried back, tried, condemned to be shot, and at last led out for execution. After all the usual pre- parations, a gun was fired; he awoke with the report, and found that a noise in the adjoining room had at the same moment pro- duced the dream and awakened him. Another gentleman dreamt that he crossed the Atlan- tic, and spent a fortnight in Europe. In embarking, on his return, he fell into the sea, and, awakening in the fright, found that he had not been asleep ten minutes. HOW TO SHOW LOVE FOR A WIFE. Suow love for your wife and your admira- tion of her, not in nonsensical compliment ; not in picking up her handkerchief, or her glove, or in carrying her fan; not, though you have the means, in hanging trinkets and baubles upon her; not in making yourself a fool by winking at, and seeming pleased with her foibles or follies or faults; but show them by acts of real goodness toward her; prove, by unequivocal deeds, the high value you set on her health, and life, and peace of mind; let your praise of her go to the full extent of her deserts, but let it be consistent with truth and with sense, and such as to convince her of your sincerity. He who is the flatterer of his wife only prepares her ears for the hyper- bolical stuff of others. The kindest appella- tion that her Christian name affords is the best you can use, especially before faces. An everlasting ‘‘ My dear’’ is but a sorry com- pensation for a want of that sort of love that makes the husband cheerfully toil by day, break his rest by night, endure all sorts of hardships, if the life or health of his wife demand it. Let your deeds, and not your words, carry to her heart a daily and hourly confirmation of the fact, that you value her health, and life, and happiness*beyond all other things in the world; and let this be manifest to her, particularly at those times when life is always more or less in danger.’’ THE CASKET OF MEMORY. BY WILLIAM E. PABOR. **So shall our memories be as pearls set in a casket."’ (Pearl the Fourth.) © April echoes! faint and far, Afloat like clouds from star to star; Lost with the springs we call again From out the storied past in vain; Slipping across the arc of years, A sign of faith or sign of fears ; And giving only for our quest A doubtful meed of toil or rest. I walk again the garden where The apple-blossoms filled the air With odors rare as Araby When wafted over land and sea. And not for me the lesson then Of any bard’s, “It might have been.”’ The robin in the apple-tree Sang for his mate and sang for me; The cricket on the kitchen gearth The lesson taught of homely mirth, And clover bud and buttercup Their meed of fragrance yielded up, And all things gave delight and joy In Aprils when I was a boy. O April echoes! faint and far, Each year more faint and far you are— Until amid these pearls you shine With light alone from Memory’s shrine. Poetry is simply the most beautiful, im- pressive, and widely effective mode of saying things, and hence its importance.

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THE LOST BREASTPIN. BY CAROLINE ORNE. Tr was a bright June morning. A western breeze, fresh and bracing, whispered amid the foliage of the trees, stole fragrance from leaf and flower, and now and then lifted the soft brown curls from the brow of a young girl who sat at a window, reaching from floor to ceiling, and opening on a vista of rose-bushes and other sweet-scented shrubbery. A look ap- proaching a smile hovered on her slightly parted lips and lurked in the depths of her | dark blue eyes. They were sweet, happy thoughts which filled the heart of Bessie Lynn that bright summer morning. She hears a footstep, and the roses in her cheeks grow brighter, and a real smile, shy, yet piquant, and full of glad- ness and light, now parts her red lips, and glances from hereyes. But she does not look around—she does not even stir, except that there is a slight fluttering movement of her hands, delicate as the little cloud of white blossoms, flushed with pink, lying in her lap. ‘* Bessie !’’? and a hand was laid lightly on her shoulder. She was waiting and listening for the deep, mellow voice to pronounce her name; still she started a little involuntarily. How could she help it, when the sound of his —Herbert Clavering’s voice thrilled her heart as no other voice ever did, ever could thrill it? So she then thought. He stepped forward and seated himself at her feet on the green bank which rounded up to a level with the window- sill. ‘‘T am so glad you have called. Isn’t it cool and pleasant here, this morning ?’’ ** Yes, but I can’t stay long to enjoy it with you.’’ ‘* Why not?” ‘*T am on my way to call on an old class- mate, who has just returned from Europe. You have heard me speak of Armand Clyde ?’’ ** Yes.”” ‘* He is nephew and heir of Mr. John Clyde. Armand, if he lives, will be a millionaire some day. He is now what may be called wealthy, and is, moreover—so the ladies say, I believe —handsome and very fascinating. I don’t know but that he will win from me my sweet Bessie—my beautiful rose.’’ ‘‘ Herbert, how can you say so?’’ ‘‘Haven’t I said that he is handsome and fascinating? and good, too, I have no doubt,”’ he added, in a lower voice. ‘*T don’t care if he is. I know.”’ ‘‘And Iam just as certain that you will. To dislike my friend would be the next thing to not liking me.”’ ‘* Well, if you wish me to like him, you I sha’n’t like him, must leave off praising him, for I don’t want to think that there is anybody in the world so good and so handsome as you are.’’ ‘*My little, wilful Bessie,’’ said he, kissing her rosy cheek. - ‘‘ But it may prove uncom- fortable, in some respects, to attain such an eminence. The least dereliction from what you think right will bring me down from the eminence to which you have exalted me, and then’’— ‘*T didn’t say, Herbert, that I thought you perfect. None are perfect, no, not one. Were you more so than you are, you would be too good for me. You are now, for I have many faults.’’ ‘Well, dear Bessie, we will let Armand Clyde go now,’’ and as he spoke he took something from his pocket, and dropped it into the midst of the apple-blooms lying in her lap. It flashed in the sunshine, as it fell, then, half buried amid the blossoms, it lay scintillating like sparks of living fire. ‘* What is it ?’’ said Bessie. ‘¢ Look, and see.’’ **Ts it for me ?”’ ‘* Yes, Bessie, it is for you.’’ ‘¢A diamond breastpin,’’ said she, regard- ing it with looks of admiration. tiful!’’ ** You like it ?’’ ‘*How can I help liking it? I know that it is the very one I should have chosen among a thousand others. Herbert, I shall keep it always.’’ ‘Or till I am supplanted by my friend, Armand Clyde.”’’ ‘* How can you tease me so? make me hate him, I know.”’ ‘*No, Bessie, I’ve no such wish. Now give 339 ‘**How beau- You mean to

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840 me a rose, and I will go; and remember that the next time I come, which may be this even- ing, I shall bring Armand with me.”’ Bessie rose, and putting the diamond pin into a work-box near the door, she stepped out to select the rose. ‘*See,’’ said she, as she handed him a beautiful, half-blown rose, ‘*T give you diamonds in return for yours,”’ and she called his attention to some drops of dew still sparkling at the rose’s heart. At that moment a raven flew across the path and settled down on some shrubbery near the window. ‘*Where did that bird of ill omen come from ?’’ said he. ‘*Oh, that is a tame raven that belongs to our next neighbor,’’ replied Bessie. ‘*T’ve always had a dread of ravens ever since I read the ‘ Bride of Lammermoor.’ ”’ ‘*A tame raven is quite different. This one comes round here almost every day.”’ ‘Come, Bessie, walk with me to the foot of the garden and show me your flowers, and that will bring me close to the cross-road which leads to Mr. Clyde’s.”’ The air was so pure and delicious, the flowers and shrubbery so fresh, fragrant, and beautiful, the music of the birds so pleasant and sweet—that of their own voices being sweeter and pleasanter still—as to make Her- bert Clavering forget that he was in a hurry, and it was full half an hour before they reached the foot of the garden. When they finally parted, and Herbert was fairly on his way to call on his friend Armand, Bessie, while a feel- ing of regret amounting to sadness stole over her, remained watching him till a turn in the road hid him from view. When she returned to the house, her first thought was of the diamond breastpin. She went to her work-box, where she had left it, intending to carry it to her room; but it was not there. It was possible, she thought, that she might be mistaken, and that she put it somewhere else; but the most thorough search proved unavailing. The pin was not to be found. The thought that she had told Her- bert that she should keep it always, with the question ‘‘ What will he think of me?’’ con- tinually haunted and tormented her. At the approach of evening, she remembered that he had told her that he might come again and bring Armand Clyde with him. Her distress of mind had caused her to neglect her toilet, and she now hastened to repair the omission. | | | | | | | | | | » GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, Bessie had no mother, or she could have gone to her with her trouble, and her aunt, her father’s sister-and housekeeper, was so stately, so unsympathizing, and so often ac- cused her of carelessness, that she shrunk from speaking to her about it. When ready to leave her room, she was met in the door- way by a girl who handed her a note. It was from Herbert Clavering, and was as fol- lows :— ‘*My Dear Besstz: I have just received news which obliges me to be at the depot in season to take the night train for Philadelphia, where I expect to be detained ten or twelve days. I had anticipated introducing my friend Clyde to you this evening, but that is out of the question; and as he seemed to be somewhat disappointed, I told him that he must go with- out me, and that I would guarantee him a cordial reception from Miss Bessie Lynn. You must, therefore, while you pardon my pre- sumption for making the promise, at the same time do your best to make it good, lest the veracity of him be impeached who wiil count the hours of absence from his darling Bessie. HERBERT CLAVERING. **P. S. Mind, Bessie, and not let him rival me in your regards. I already half repent inviting him to visit you during my absence. H.C.” Bessie’s first feeling on reading the note was one of relief, for she should certainly, she thought, find the diamond pin before he re- turned. In a few minutes, Armand Clyde arrived. Though she had felt certain that she should dislike him, she was obliged to admit that, though not half as handsome as Herbert, he was a fine-looking man, and very agreeable. As to his being fascinating, she by no means considered him so. What his sentiments were as regarded her, he did not reveal; but that he, at least, thought her attractive might be inferred, as, from some plausible pretext, he seldom let a morning pass without calling. In the mean time Bessie heard daily from Herbert Clavering. His letters were such as any warm-hearted, impulsive lover would naturally write to a girl like Bessie, who he well knew deserved his love. Yes, Herbert Clavering knew this; he knew also that she loved him, and yet doubts, like baleful sha- dows, would sometimes flit across his mind when he thought of Armand Clyde. In him he might find a rival. When assailed by thoughts like these, he bitterly regretted having requested Armand to call on her dur- ing his absence. Then he would refer to her

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THE LOST BREASTPIN, 841 answers to his letters, and failing to find any- thing to confirm his foolish fears, he would succeed in banishing them. In her answer, however, to the letter which he told her would be the last she would receive from him ere he left Philadelphia, an allusion to the diamond pin he gave her caused him much uneasi- ness. It was as follows :— **T am afraid, Herbert, that you will blame me on account of something which has hap- pened since I saw you. It relates to the dia- mond pin you gave me; but I will waive all explanation till I see you, and then, if you blame me very much, I can make you forgive me.”’ After making this confession, Bessie, for a short time, experienced a sense of relief, for she felt condemned for not having mentioned it in her first letter. But as the time ap- proached for Herbert to arrive, whenever she thought of the lost pin, a feeling of dread came over her which she could not shake off. She was less cheerful, often absent-minded. Two days before Herbert Clavering was ex- pected to return, Armand Clyde received a letter from his eldest sister, saying that they were going to have a little social gathering to commemorate her husband’s birthday, and that he must be present—that she should ac- cept of no excuse. ‘* And you will go?’’ said Bessie, to whom he had communicated this intelligence. ‘* Yes, I can’t find it in my heart to deny her.”’ ‘“‘Tf you go, you won’t be here when Her- bert returns. I hoped that you would.”’ Poor Bessie! she had been thinking that she would confess to Herbert the loss of the pin, when Armand Clyde was present. Somehow, she imagined it would seem to be an affair of less moment, if they three should talk it over in a light, chatty way. She could deprecate his anger in that playful manner she well knew how to assume, but which she feared she should be incapable of exercising, if a third person was not present. Armand Clyde, a little flattered, perhaps, by the wish she expressed for him to re- main, told her that his sister lived within an hour’s distance of Philadelphia, and that he should ride over and see his friend Herbert. “This is an unexpected pleasure,’’ said Herbert Clavering, who met Armand Clyde on Or% ai the steps of the hotel where he had taken lodgings. ‘‘Come to my room.”’ “I sha’n’t wait for you to inquire about your absent friends I’ve seen so recently,”’ said Armand, seating himself on a lounge, ** but tell you at once that’’— He had proceeded thus far when Herbert, springing from his seat, and confronting him, exclaimed :— ‘* How came you by that diamond pin you have seen fit to wear in my presence ?”” ‘*How came I by it ?’’ ‘*Yes, how came you by it? the question is direct and explicit.’’ ‘*My answer shall be the same. I believe that I don’t choose to tell.”’ ‘¢You must—you shall tell me, or I shall resort to such means as will compel you to do so.”’ ‘* Herbert Clavering, do you realize the full force of what you say ?”’ +t Gav’ ‘* Well, just tell me the reason of a demand urged in a manner so uncourteous—I might say, savage—and I am willing to make any and every explanation in my power. I will say, however, that I came honestly by it.’’ ‘*A gift, without doubt.’’ ‘* Yes, a fairy gift, I should call it.’’ ‘You confess it, do you? I knew it before you told me—before I saw you even. I have been haunted by the belief ever since she last wrote. The hint she gave me was no enigma tome. Make me forgive her. Well, she will find herself a little mistaken, I think.”’ ‘*T don’t understand what all this means.”’ **T do, perfectly.’’ ** But’ — ‘*We will say no more about it, if you please. Good-evening, sir,’? and he made a low, ceremonious bow. ‘‘Good-evening,’’ and Armand left the room in the full belief that Clavering was not in his right mind. } We return to Bessie. She had put on a dress she had heard Herbert praise, and was in momentary expectation of hearing his well- known footsteps on the gravel-walk, when a letter was handed her. ‘‘Herbert won’t come to-night—the letter is from him,’’ she murmured to herself. A foreboding of evil caused her hands to tremble as she opened it. A glance of the eye took in its contents, and she sunk into a chair, pale and sick at heart. ?

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342 ‘*As I understand all about the diamond pin, it will be time misspent to call on you for an explanation.”’ This was all the letter said. ‘‘O Herbert Clavering, I’m not to blame. It is cruel to treat me thus,’’ was the wailing ery to which her heart gave utterance. After a while pride came to her aid, and she strove to harden her heart against him. She had, hitherto, regarded Hefbert Claver- ing as being raised far above the common level of humanity. It had been a matter of constant wonder to herself that he should be- stow a thought on her—one so little gifted. Now, the brilliance of the vesture in which imagination had clothed him began to grow dim, and she could see blemishes and defects. Yet this discovery brought with it no consola- tion, only sorrow and regret. She believed that the wine of life, with its free, joyous sparkle, was for her drained to its dregs. Two days after the receipt of Herbert’s let- ter, just as the evening shadows were softly weaving themselves with the brilliant sunset clouds, Armand Clyde was announced. Bessie was alone, and she received him with appa- rent composure, though her heart gave a sud- den bound, for she thought that she should now hear from Herbert. ‘* Why can’t he tell me about him at once ?’’ she thought. But he made ro allusion to him, nor even to his sister; so, hoping to bring him to the point, she inquired if he had had a pleasant journey. ‘For the most part, very pleasant,’’ was his answer. ‘*And your sister, and other friends—did you find them well ?”’ ** Quite well, thank you, and what was very grateful to my feelings, not only she, but the whole household appeared to be made happier by my presence.”’ Her little stratagem had failed. He was either obtuse or very unamiable, for he must have known that she wished to hear from Herbert. They both, fora short time, remained silent, and both appeared to be under restraint. Armand then produced a little case, from which he took a diamond breastpin, which, without speaking, he deposited on a table. The table stood by an open window; the same one where Bessie sat the last time Herbert called on her. ““O Mr. Clyde,’’ said Bessie, rising, and GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. clasping her hands, ‘‘ where did you find that pin ?”’ ‘*T will explain to you. Is it yours ?’’ ‘* Yes, and I lost it in the most mysterious way. I put it into my work-box—was absent half an hour, and when I returned, it was no- where to be found.’’ “*IT wish I could have known this before I went to Philadelphia.”’ “Oh, if you only had, how much unhappi- ness it would have saved me! I shall always hate diamonds as long as I live, for’’— She suddenly checked’ herself, and again inquired where he found it. ‘*In a place where no one would have thought of finding such athing. There was, I think, something quite as mysterious about finding it where | did, as there was in your losing it. I had been to call on you, and was on my way back to my uncle’s. It was a little before sunset, and the slant beams of the sun, strik- ing directly upon a maple, which grew by tho wayside, caused something to shine with in- tense brilliancy at a point where the tree forked into several branches. Though I re- called to mind that allis not gold that glitters, my curiosity was so much excited, that I de- termined to gratify it by climbing the tree; when, in the centre of a cushion of moss which time had woven over the spot, I found this diamond pin, encircled by half a dozen or more bright, brass buttons. Early next morn- ing I started on my journey to my sister’s’’— Just then a swiftly moving shadow crossed the table near the window. Bessie rose and looked out, expecting to see some person who had quickly passed, but she saw nothing ex- cept the next-door neighbor’s tame raven. At the moment she turned to resume her seat, the raven glanced by her, took the dia- mond pin in his beak, and though Armand made adash at him with Bessie’s garden hat, which happened to be lying on the table, the mischievous bird escaped unscathed. ‘*No harm done,’’ said he, seeing Bessie’s look of dismay, ‘‘ but good ; for the mystery is now elucidated. The raven will undoubt- edly convey it to its old place of deposit, where it can readily be obtained. Remain where you are, and I will promise to bring it back to you within half an hour.’’ He walked rapidly in the direction of the maple, but as he approached it, he saw the raven sitting with a look of great gravity anil wisdom on a tall stump near by, as if to keep

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THE LOST BREASTPIN. watch and ward over the stolen treasure. Ile, therefore, walked a short distance in a differ- ent direction, then lingered round the spot till he had the satisfaction of seeing the raven fly away. As he expected, he found the diamond pin restored to its former position among the brass buttons, to which were now added several pieces of broken glass. ‘I’ve redeemed my promise,’’ said Armand Clyde, handing the pin to Bessie. ‘IT shall never forget the favor you have done me, neither shall I ever repay it, for that would be imptssible,’’ said Bessie, fer- vently. ** As to pay, if it will save you a moment’s uneasiness, ward off even the shadow of sor- row, I shall be more than recompensed.”’ ‘*How I wish Herbert had been here, and had seen it all!’’ said Bessie, forgetting in her joy that she had not told Armand Clyde how she came by the pin. ‘** You can tell him, and that will do just as well.’”’ ‘* Yes, I can tell him.’ This was said in a voice so sad and falter- ing as to draw upon her a keen look from Armand, and made him think that she doubted Ar- , Herbert’s willingness to be convinced. mand remained silent. *“*IT think Herbert will return either to- night, or by the early train to-morrow ; don’t you think so, Mr. Clyde?’’ said Bessie, and she looked up at him as earnestly as if she imagined he possessed the gift of prophecy. At this question he was greatly embarrassed, for, although he had not seen Herbert Claver- ing, he knew—and he supposed Bessie knew— that he had returned the day previous. ** Don’t you think so?’? There was appre- hension in her voice as she repeated the question. ‘Miss Lynn, I thought that you knew he returned yesterday.’’ ‘*Returned, and yet he has not called on "9 me!’’ She turned so pale as to alarm Armand. ‘* You are unwell,’’ said he. ‘‘ Let me call some one,’’ and he rose to ring the bell. **No, no,’’ said she. ‘I am very foolish ; but it seemed so strange. I see now that it will be better for me to write to him. In this way I can explain all clearly about that fool- ish diamond pin, so that there will be no room for misunderstanding. You see, Mr. Clyde, how much better ’twill be.”’ ‘Yes, I do,’? was the answer, given sin- 843 cerely and with emphasis ; for he recalled how unreasonable and rude Clavering had shown himself during their interview at the hotel, and saw now, what he half suspected then, that the diamond pin had excited his jealgusy, and that it was the root of bitterness which had now sprung up between him and Bessie. He soon took leave, when Bessie hastened to write the explanatory letter to Herbert. It was clear, explicit, and full of a womanly delicacy and gentleness, which could hardly have failed to enlist the better feelings of his nature, had he read it. But he did not. He merely inclosed it in a blank envelope and returned it. A few days afterward he received a little packet containing the diamond pin, and the engagement ring he had given Bessie. Armand Clyde continued to call on her, as heretofore, but the name of Herbert Clavering was never mentioned between them. By showing himself so selfish, so hard-hearted, so utterly regardless of her feelings, he had unwittingly taken the best and most effectual method to excite her indignation. Generous and sweet-tempered as she naturally was, she could neither love nor respect one whose character was composed of elements so hard and ungenial. The shock to her feelings was so great that, at first, she could not realize this fully ; it made itself felt by degrees. She gave way to it with painful reluctance. How could it be otherwise—this breaking up to its foundations a deep, absorbing passion, which had made her life seem bright as a dream of Eden, and gave to it loftier, holier aims and aspirations ? Two years passed away, during which Bes- sie and Herbert Clavering had never met, except as strangers. The mention of his name, the sight of him even, had ceased to excite in her any emotion. Armand Clyde had, in the mean time, made his uncle’s home a permanent residence. He and Bessie often met. Gradually, for she had less faith in the generosity and nobility of man’s nature than formerly, she recognized in him those qualities with which she had invested Herbert Clavering. ‘‘ What do you think my uncle said to me last evening ?’’ he one day asked her, when he had called as usual. ‘‘Something pleasant, I hope,’’ she an- swered. ‘‘It would be very pleasant tod have what he said realized.’’

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344 ‘Ts it anything so very difficult ?”’ ‘It may be, or may not. That depends on you.”’ ‘On me? How can that be ?’’ ‘“Hear what he said, and then decide. ‘Our home,’ said he, ‘has all the comforts, and all the luxuries which wealth can pur- chase, yet there is one thing lacking—one that gold cannot buy. You must realize more keenly than I do, that a bright, young face is wanting to look up to us when at the table, or fireside, and for us to look up at, from our books, when we get weary of a prosy author. But I am hard to please,’ he added, .‘ old bachelors always are, and there is but just one woman’s face in the world that I think I shouldn’t tire of seeing daily, perhaps hourly.’ ”’ ‘Your uncle is thinking about a wife, then ?”’ ck Ng ‘* And who is the lady thus honored ?”’ ‘* Miss Bessie Lynn.”’ ‘*He has, it seems, thought proper to do his wooing by proxy, for which I am much beholden to him. Had he done it in person, I am afraid that I should have shown myself deficient in the reverence and respect proper to bestow on one old enough to be my grand- father.’’ ** But this wife whom he wishes for to cheer his home is not for himself,’’ said Armand, ‘**T have long loved you, as Tell me if I taking her hand. you well know, dear Bessie. have loved in vair.”’ Bessie answered by remaining silent. ** And you won’t refuse to be my wife ?”’ **No, Armand.”’ ‘*One more question—will you consent to be the light of my uncle’s home, as well as mine? for he’s unwilling that I should leave him.”’ ‘*T will try to be; and if at any time I fail, { think I may hope for pardon, if I judge your character aright.”’ ‘* What I may often.need myself I sha’n’t leny you. And now, Bessie, I must go and tell my uncle that I’ve prevailed on you to be the light of our home.”’ Only a few days after Armand Clyde’s mar- riage, an early friend of his, who was present it the wedding, took passage in a steamer for New York. It was a bright, starry evening, and as he stood on deck, enjoying the refresh- GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. ing breeze, he heard a man near him speak to some one he addressed by the name of Clavering. ‘Do you intend to return to California ?’’ he asked. ‘*No,’’ was Clavering’s answer. there mostly for a change of scene, for I al- ready possessed acompetency. But the short time I was there Fortune fairly showered her gifts upon me. I have enough to enable me to live in splendor all the rest of my days, if I cared to live thus, which I do not.”’ ‘¢ And why do you not?”’ ‘¢The true reason I suppose is, because I’m alone in the world. .l‘have no one to share ‘*T went my wealth.”’ ‘¢ A reason which may be gotten over very readily. In my opinion, the best thing a young man situated as you are can do, is to marry some amiable, sensible girl. I speak from my own experience.’’ **T shall never marry.’’ ‘*T can only say that a bad resolution, like a bad promise, is better broken than kept. But speaking of marriage recalls to my mind an old classmate of ours.’’ ‘* What is his name ?’’ *¢ Armand Clyde.’’ Clavering frowned, but did not speak. ‘*You know,’’ said his companion, ‘ that Clyde and I travelled together while in Eu- rope, but he returned before I did, and I lost sight of him. I inquired concerning him, but could not find where he was, when the other day I heard that he was married.”’ ‘*To whom ?’’ ‘*T am unable to recall her name, but the lady who told me of the marriage related a very singular aud curious incident which occurred two or three years ago, which proved to be the turning point in her fortune. It seems that she was engaged to be married to a gentleman who, one morning, presented her with.a diamon@ pin’’— ‘* Which she saw fit to give to one who was no gentleman, but a false friend.’’ ‘No, the pin was stolen.’’ ‘*Ah, I understand all about those low, vile, cunning subterfuges. The lady was quite willing, I dare say, that it should be stolen by him who was guilty of the theit.’’ ‘*If you really knew what became of the pin, you would not speak thus.”’ ‘If I knew. Seeing is believing, I should think. I saw it in Armand Clyde’s possession.’’

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THE LOST BREASTPIN. 345 ‘* Very likely, for he found it, but a raven stole it.’’ ‘*Magpies and raveng are fond of jewelry, I believe.’ ‘* Are you certain that what you tell me is true ?”’ ‘Tam. The lady who told me can be de- pended on.’’ ‘¢ And I have been a fool—the destroyer of my own peace.’’ ‘“‘It was you, then, who gave the young girl the diamond pin. Why didn’t you seek an explanation ?”’ ‘*So far from seeking an explanation, I would not even listen to one. Clyde at- tempted it, but l was too exasperated to suffer him to proceed. Bessie wrote to me, but I returned her letter unopened.’’ “If you wouldn’t listen to them, I should think that you might have listened to some one else. It was a common talk, I under- stand.”’ ‘*More than one attempted it, but I just let them know that, in my presence, it was an interdicted subject. I am certain that, by the way they looked at me, and tlien to one another, they thought me insane, and I was, on that subject. Reason succumbed to vin- dictive passion.”’ ‘Those who sow the wind reap the whirl- wind.”’ ‘* Even so, and it has wrecked my earthly happiness. But I am glad to know that Armand Clyde was not a false friend, and that Bessie Linn was really the pure-minded girl I thought her to be, though sharp and bitter was the lesson by which I learned it.’’ ‘* Providence permits what seems dark to us.”’ **In its dealings I see gleams of light for Bessie which will cast a faint reflection on me. Had I married her, my violent, above all, my jealous temper, would have made her life wretched and mine miserable. Nothing can be truer than that ‘Trifles, light as air, Are, to the jealous, confirmations strong As proofs of holy writ.’ Armand Clyde, as I can now see, is a better man than I am, and will make her happy.’’ —_——_ ~ 2 ee oe ——___—_ Tue Momeytovs Quvestioy.—There is no retrograde march in life; we either mount or descend. | THE FAMILY DRAWING MASTER. IN A SERIES OF FAMILIAR CONVERSATIONS. The Horizowtal Line. P.. Last month, Ion, we made a drawing of a square, in which the middle of the square was on the same level as your eye. Now, I will put a square before you, and will place it below your eye. What do you calk the line which marks the height of the eye ? fon. The horizontal line. The Vanishing Point. P. Well, then, here is the horizontal line drawn with dots ; and the square is below it. Which side of the square is nearest to the horizontal line, the right-hand side, or the left-hand side? Ion. They are both at the same distance, because the square is in front of me. But please, papa, turn it round. P. Iwill, Here it is, at the side of you. €------~~ L. Yes; that is drawn according to the rule we made last month; for now the right-hand side seems to get nearer to the horizontal line, because, as that side is more distant, the space between it and the level of the eye seems to become smaller. Ion. So that, when lines are below the level of the eye, they must run up to it. P. Well, that is another rule. Say it again. Ton. When we make a drawing in perspective, the lines below the level of the eye must run up to the horizontal line. P. Now, I will put the square up higher than your head. horizontal line. See, it is placed above the I am going now to turn it round, with the left-hand side near to you; so imagine in your mind the further side.

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346 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, Ion. I have thought of it, papa. P. Which side will be nearer to the hori- zontal line ? Ion. Why, the further side will seem to be, as it was in the other one. The space be- tween the square and the level of the eye must seem to get smaller, as we said at first. P. Then, in which direction will the lines run—up, or down? Ton. Downward, papa. They must, for the space to become smaller. So Ican make an- other rule; may I? P. Yes. Ion. When we make a drawing in perspective, with lines which are above the level of the eye, they must run down to the horizontal line. L. And I suppose that, if we were to make a number of squares in a long line, as the lines would all slant to the horizontal line, the distance from the squares to the line would get smaller and smaller, just as in the long row of squares we drew last month. P. Yes. Iwill make another drawing for you. “Here is a‘front view of a long wall, which is below the level of the eye :— far from the eye that the object seems to vanish entirely—would you like to know what it is called ? W. Yes, please, papa. P. It is called THE VANISHING POINT. W. And that is exactly the proper name for it. Now, papa, we have learned enough; so we will make up another lesson. Come, Lucy, and bring the slate. LESSON 7.—PERspPEctIve. 1. When we draw objects in perspective, a line should be drawn across the picture to show the level of the eye; so that we may know which objects are above the eye, and whjch are below it. This line we call the Horizontal Line. 2. When we draw objects in perspective below the horizontal line, their lines must run up to that line. 3. When we draw objects in perspective above the horizontal line, the lines of the object must run down to that line. 4. The distant point on the horizontal line, ¥ Bad 3 Ion. Is that the level of the eye, papa, above the wall? Then, when you drew it, you must have been looking out of a drawing- room window from some house opposite. P. Yes; so Iwas. Here, again, is a side view of it. Iwas in a house at the end of the —- a OE where the lines of the object meet, is called the Vanishing Point. P. I have never seen a line run yet, Lucy. If you make a drawing, and set the lines run- ning, they will very soon be all gone, aud you will have,only the blank paper again. wall when I drew this. I could see round the You see, in this picture, how the distance from the lines of the wall to the horizontal line seems to be gradually smaller, until the wall becomes so small that it seems to vanish altogether. L. That is because at last there seems to be no distance between its lines and the hori- zontal line, for they all meet in one point. P. And that point where the distance from the wall tothe horizontal line is so small that you can hardly see it—that point which is so corner. L. I mean, papa, they slant to the horizon- tal line. P. Ah, I thought that perhaps you meant that! The word I generally use is ‘‘incline.’’ Say they incline in such a direction. —Epvcation begins the gentleman, but reading, good company, and reflection must finish him. —Lirr.Le minds are tamed and subdued by misfortune, but great minds rise above it.

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HIMSELF, HERSELF, MYSELF. BY THE AUTHOR OF “FROM MAY TO NOVEMBER.” (Concluded from page 247.) CHAPTER V. “Late, late in a gloamin, when all was still, When the fringe was red on the westlin hill, The wood was sere, the moon i’ the wane, Late, late in the gloamin Kilmeny came hame! * - * * * Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been? Lang hae we sought botli holt and den— By linn, by ford, and greenwood tree ; * * * * * As still was her look, and as still her e’e, As the stillness that lay on the emerant lea, Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea, For Kilfheny had been she knew not where, And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare.” Tus memory, culling with unconscious adroitness from its morsels. chance-stored, trolled fitfully, unwitting that a subtile es- sence of sympathy and divination prompted the idle labor. **Pro, my dear, when you have done chant- ing, throw open the blind and let us see the moon rise.’’ ‘*Chanting!’’ I said, with a faint laugh, having scarcely realized, before, that my voice had made itself audible. I obeyed the direc- tion, and further, wheeled my grandmother’s chair to the window. She had grown feeble, and needed much nursing and care. But, however her frame may have failed, she was still bright and cheery, alert as ever to seize npon whatever might afford entertainment or variety, and we were but too happy to lend our aid. My mother came and leaned over the back of the chair—a tall, finely-formed woman—a thought too spare, perhaps, with a pale, placid face. The moon, now rosy at its rising, in its white, mid-heaven lustre, would not be more sweetly serene. And it delights one to look into such faces, as into the moonlight— to repose upon the sheeny whiteness, and mea- sure the softened shadows and distances opened dimly to view; only, sometimes, in the inevi- table heart-soreness and passion-tossings that come to a more fervid temperament, both alike chafe and disappoint through simple lack of vividness. My mother gazed into the moonlight, and I pleased myself with its reflex in her own fair face, until there stole into it an intentness and air of inquiry that drew me to seek an explanation by looking, in like manner, out- side. I brushed my hands over my eyes to assure myself that it was not a trick of fancy or moonshine, before I permitted the exclama- tion :— **Ralph Merle !”’ » ‘Is it? I thought of him. It looks like him. Ralph Merle!’’ I repeated with energy. “It is—it must be! I know the air and gait. They have come home! Hope is come!”’ And I threw up my hands with childish ex- pression of glee, forgetful, for the moment, of all the months of silence and apparent es- trangement. ‘*Open the door, Pro, while I light the lamp.”’ I hastened to obey the bidding. ‘A little thinner’’—I thought—‘‘a good deal browner, probably, and some enhancement of that grace of mien which Hope had apostrophized,’’ I remembered the words: ‘‘What a noble mien the man has,’’ and the ‘‘insensible Pro!’’ that followed. Insensible! The epithet struck foolishly across my thought, while I ushered the graceful traveller, Hope’s husband, as I had been duly informed, into the drawing-room. Insensible !—a mere playful scratch of Hope’s pen—but had not Reaumur once urged the same with gravity? The silly reverie faded at once; for even amidst the excitement of greeting, the lamp-light revealed upon the countenance of the visitor an appearance of dejection, if not of active grief, that awakened alarm, not lessened when he refused to be seated. ‘‘Hope—my wife—’’ he began, in quick explanation, ‘‘is very {ll—has been so.’’ The speaker paused, to subdue a gathering hoarse- ness, and left the sentence unfinished, while he went on to say: ‘‘She has the strongest desire to see her old friend Pro. Will you go with me ?’’ ‘¢To-night—now ?”’ ‘‘Yes; we have but just arrived, and the journey has been quite too much for her; but it seemed prudent to gratify her.’’ I knew by the dimmed, unseeing gaze that 347

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348 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. accompanied these words, how to interpret them, guarded as they were. I knew—half paralyzed with dismay and wonder—wonder that our young, rosy Hope, with a redundancy of vitality that claimed the admiration of all, should fail so soon in the battle of life. I wonder still when I think of it. Yielding my beloved ones for his hungry garner, I have touched -hands with the great reaper many times; yet, in the years that have been given me under the sun, the lesson that had come to me is not of the brittleness of this ‘‘ mortal coil,’’ but of its marvellous endurance. I paused at the @ntrance of Hope’s apart- ment, while her husband made known my arrival. ‘‘I knew she would come!’’ I heard Hope say, tenderly, but faintly. It was the old voice, and yet not the old voice, in such manner, that a sick helplessness fell upon me while I heard it, and my hands, when it came to the greeting, were almost as nerveless as the thin shadows of hands that they clasped. ‘*Ah Hope! This is not like you.”’ ** Not a bit!’’ she said. ‘* But then—it is— like me, too,’’ she added, with a vague smile, as like Hope’s smile as were the voice I heard and the hand I still held like the hand and voice I had known. ‘Yes, like me, as my Merlin there, will tell you. Is he not there?’’ ‘*He has left the room,’’ I explained, recog- nizing in Merlin a pet name, a diminutive for Merle. ‘‘Shall I call him ?’’ ‘Never mind. Stoop down here, Pro; I want you to know that he has been my best, best friend and husband.”’ **Yes,’’ I said, scarce knowing what to say. Our last interview, at the depot, came up so vividly, with all the old times, and this union with Ralph, that in Hope’s absence had pre- sented itself so naturally to my imagination, seemed now so strange; I cannot say why, unless it was that finding Hope such a mere ghost of her former self made everything connected with her affect me as spectral and unreal. ‘‘I received your letter relating to the marriage,’’ I ventured to add, ‘‘and wrote a reply.”’ The invalid, apparéntly inattentive, closed her eyes, resting a little; but presently re- sumed :— ‘*Pro, my Pro. You knew me so well, once. You knew Ralph too. I want you to know that we have loved each other well—yes, well—”’ I touched my lips lightly to the forehead, damp from exertion, and, could it be? ap- proaching dissolution! It was plainly Hope’s wish to talk with me, yet as plainly the effort taxed her unduly, and I felt self-reproach that I did not take up the word for her; but just now to distract her mind to more indifferent topics would be cruel, while, upon the deli- cate theme that absorbed her, my replies were naturally limited to mere assent. In view of our intimate association and mu- tual knowledge of the past, there was nothing unfitting or incomprehensible in this reite- rated assertion of affection. I was prepared to understand and accept it, with its reserved implication of prior and perhaps deeper at- tachment in the case of each, as an attestation of the crowning grace that attends compliance and self-subjection, and as a vindication from the possible supposition that unhappiness had to do with her present illness. ‘* Yes—well—’’ Hope repeated, *‘ but then’’ —and something of her old playfulness won its Way through the languor of disease, gild- ing the thought that, otherwise, might have been too baldly earnest. ‘‘I know, and you know, that Ralph loved you, first and best.’’ ** No—let it be’’—when I would have quali- fied her saying—‘‘it does not displease me. It was more equal, you know. Only—let me say’’—She stopped with a wistful, uncertain look, drew my hand, still clasping hers, across the counterpane, resting both, finally, upon her bosom. I bent my ear to hear the words whispered brokenly: ‘‘Forgive me if it’s wrong, Pro, but—when I am gone—take my place.’’ ‘“*QO Hope!’’ I leaned my head by hers, and did not mind that my tears wet the cheek that seemed to chill even under my fevered touch. It was but a moment that I thus for- got the unsuitableness of such demonstration. But Hope was superior to its influence; though it was scarcely with relief that I saw it. ‘*Pro,’?’ she murmured again, yet more faintly, ‘‘write to Reaumur Brandt when I am—translated !’’ The screened lamp threw its softened light upon her white, quiet face. I watched it painfully. **We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died,” repeated itself again and again to my anxious thought. Had the breath indeed spent itself in that last utterance? I listened, it was still there, but I dared not be assured it

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HIMSELF, HERSELF, MYSELF, 849 would remain. A delicate thoughtfuiness had prompted Hope’s friends to leave us by ourselves for a time; now, however, fearful that I had robbed the nearer and dearer of most precious and sacred moments, I pulled the bell and bade the maid, who answered its summons, ask the presence of Mr. Merle. Death finds us cowards. While a shape that we have known is passing through the grim portal, lingeringly, something whispers us that God’s creatures seldom walk alone, and, thronging upon that familiar shape, we see—at least we recall what myriads it has closed upon—that rugged door! and now that it is ajar, we stand cowering, conscious, it may be, of a dread presence, ‘ a cloud of wit- nesses,’’ felt, though unseen. By Hope’s grave, this round, substantial earth became to me a mystic, darkened vale, reaching off through measureless space—a fearful drawbridge to eternity—the realms of substance and shadow, of matter and spirit overlapping each other, so that, while the shades stood forth as actual and comprehensi- ble, realities glided into spectral seeming. The people that thronged the churchyard were not their wonted selves; somewhat about them that was of the earth earthy they had cast, and stood, ghostly and breathless, until I seemed to see in each only the soul that never dies. it was unwholesome, I thought, for one who has a reverent appreciation of a sound mind in a sound body, and I looked about me for relief from the impressions that weighed upon me. Apart from the throng, and half screened by an arbor-vitz, pinched and withered, as these trees not unfrequently are, in our cli- mate, I saw—was it the veritable, material man? Surely, that face, ghastly and haggard though it was, wore the very traits of Reau- mur Brandt. Yet how came he there? He who was supposed to be so many miles away, that we had thought a summons would scantly It was wearying and harassing; reach him ? It was an odd thought to seize upon me so immediately upon the recognition—this, that no one of the curious crowd around us must be permitted to see the agony that spoke in every line of that face and figure. If I had but dreamed before, here, really, a human soul made itself visible too painfully. Acting upon this thought, I made my way, quietly and unobserved, to the spot, unclasped the hand that had half wrenched a limb-from the VOL. LXX.—28 —~w- stock, in its nervous grasp, and holding it for a moment, spoke, as calmly as I might, the ordinary words of welcome. My movement was not amiss; something in Reaumur’s face indicated recognition of my thought, and he at once set himself to second my endeavor, so far as depended upon his external bearing. But he could not well help the dreariness that came into the smile with which, waving a hand at once toward the grave and upward, he repeated the words now grown too sadly familiar .— ‘* Hope is translated !’’ ‘*It was her last word,’’I said. ‘‘‘ Write to Reaumur Brandt, when I am translated!’ ”’ ** IT know!’’ was the strange response. ‘*You—know?’’ I said, with slow, question- ing surprise. ‘‘How could you know, when I have not yet written?’’ And, within my- self, I half queried, ‘‘Is the man quite sane?”’ Probably the inward query spoke outwardly, in some way, for, with a hasty movement, Reaumur brushed his hand over his forehead and explained :— ‘‘Tt was a dream, I think !’’ ‘‘A dream?’’ I pondered the matter un- easily. But the concourse arrayed itself for return, and, obeying the call thus given, I had time only to question Reaumur about his stay at Broadmead ; surprised to learn that he must take the evening train to L - Busi- ness called peremptorily. He was but passing through Broadmead on his way thither. ‘*So are we led, sometimes, marvellously!’’ dropped, with a weary breathing, from his lips, as I turned away. And, whether it were indeed dream, or trance, or rather simple intuition, that brought teaumur that last word from Hope, I never, thereafter, asked. CHAPTER VI. SEVEN years, we are told, suffice to eliminate and restore, in kind, every particle that goes to make up the frame physical. The seven years that had elapsed from the date of the events recorded in the last chapter had, so far as regarded the narrator, wrought their reputed work of change faithfully; not only upon the corporeal tenement, but upon its less substantial tenant; nay, taking in charge a portion of being much more subtile, viz., that life in the life of others which is,

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350 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. and yet is not, our life. Unhappily, in this last, the loss was sadly manifest, the restora- tion as sadly deficient. Those seven years untold, and Proserpine Allen was, at least, three-threaded, having her life scarcely less in the sprightly grandmother and the pensive, trusting mother, tan in her specialself. A triple cord is strong and smooth ; but the seven years numbered found that cord stranded, and Proserpine, one-threaded, in the obscure rooms rented by her when the good grandmother's demise called Ralph Merle to his inheritance. My grandmother, notwithstanding her ad- vanced age and-constantly growing infirmities, survived my mother for more than a year. From late September, when she also went to rest, to the July succeeding, a term of ten months or so, I, Proserpine, had lived this attenuated, one-threaded life. There were relatives, no very near kin, that I saw occa- sionally. There were neighbors, a few, with whom I exchanged calls and visits more or less formal. But none filled, to me, the places of the little coterie, social and domestic, known to the reader through these pages. Hope, mother, grandmother! They were not! Ralph Merle, and, Reaumur Brandt ? Ralph Merle, I had reason to suppose, rested quietly in his Southern home, for when, as in duty bound, I had informed him of the death of my grandmother, he had replied promptly, generously desiring, or rather asking it as a favor, that I would remain custodian of the property which had fallen to him, as it was not convenient for him to enter at once upon possession. When, with most heartfelt thanks, I declined to do this, or accepted the trust only so far as to place upon the estate a trustworthy tenant, I received from him carte-blanche to follow my own judgment, accompanied by polite regrets that I could not make it suit my convenience to occupy as heretofore. But though, in the face of this gentlemanly gene- rosity, I well-nigh felt compuuction in doing it, I relinquished the pleasant, roomy dwell- ing, and retired to the above-named modest rooms, in an humble house on the outskirts of the village. Then, again, when I had noti- fied him of the completion of my plans, a note of thanks came, and, thereafter, to me, as it appeared, Ralph Merle, also, though not in like manner, was not. Reaumur Brandt! had, through these years, written me, at Yes, Reaumur Brandt long intervals, hurried letters, from which and from other casual sources I gathered that he was becoming prosperous; winning, in his profession, honor, and what is some- times, happily, its more available concomi- tant, wealth. The success of my old friend gave me satisfaction. It fulfilled our early auguries. It averted from him multifarious temptations and evils. But, summing up the changes this busy septuary had brought to me, were it not as well to say of Reaumur Brandt, as of the others, he was not? By the tenor, however, of that last letter lying upon my writing-table, 1 was con- strained to pause, to defer judgment. That last missive from my ‘‘long-time friend Reau- mur Brandt’’ promised a trip to Broadmead this very summer, this month, possibly, in- deed, this day. It may be the prospect of this visit had set me upon this very train of exploration and observation; thinking how it must seem to Reaumur; what comparisons and contrasts between the then and now must present them- selves to him. Had he grown critical and fastidious’ I presumed he had. It was in the nature of things, the aim of progress and culture to make people so. Well, whatever might be his impressions— What had I to do with his impressions? Why should they concern me? Seven years had brought to him wealth, honor, import- ance. Those same years I had striven not less faithfully than he. They should have brought to me, at least, the meagre reward of self- reliance. But, granted thus much, I had lost, and it haunted me vaguely and foolishly, somewhat of social prestige, youthful volatility, name- less graces of girlhood. Graces of girlhood might, indeed, well be crushed under the weight of thirty years! Thirty years! Fearful tocontemplate! Likely I was gray-headed! I walked to the glass to make ‘‘critical inspection.’’ Don’t be shocked, lady, it wasn’t you who consulted the mirror; not you who was in danger of gray hairs; not you who had reached that fatal goal, thirty years! It was simply I— Pro, Proserpine—more generally, now, Miss Allen; to which last I made no objection, only praying fate to avert Miss Proserpine, or worse, Miss Pro, which I thought could never fall agreeably upon my ear from other than the lips of the old Irish gardener; lips that had

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HIMSELF, HERSELF, MYSELF. touched, daintily, the famed blarney-stone of Erin’s green isle. Passing my window, that very July morn- ing, with his cluster of ripe roses, the kind soul had proffered me a crisp cup of crimson full of dewy fragrance, with: ‘The top o’ the mor’rn to ye, Miss Pr-ro; and shure ye’re as fr-resh as that same!’’ I smiled, now, as I recalled it, before my glass—old Patsy’s apt flattery ; and smiling, twisted the roses into tresses dark as night—as a starry night—for the rose, or the smile, or the tricking quick- silver, shed upon it a kind of minor glory, that diffused itself more or less over the whole shape reflected there, so that—I waived far- ther scrutiny and went away, for the time being oblivious of my thirty years, which, I dare say, spoke plainly enough five minutes later. So I have great reason to believe ; for when, then, Reaumur Brandt, in propria per- sona, made claim upon my affability, it must have told visibly—the miserable deficit made apparent by the colloquy, of which I recall a fragment. ‘* And how are all the friends we used to see ?”? ‘*Indeed, I don’t know.’’ A brief response that called forth a look of surprised inquiry, pro- voking the explanation not much more diffuse. ‘‘It is strange! Well, then, they are dead; married; moved away; and some, the greater part, I may say, lost, in my fog of trouble.’’ ‘‘They did not, surely, desert in your time of need ?”’ ‘*No; storms are kindling, vivifying, to the most apathetic. While thunders roll and bil- lows boom, each is ready with pole, or rope, or raft; when all subsides into a pitiful, driz- zling fog, the wreck, perforce, drifts out of sight.”’ ‘*My poor child! you have been lonely; and you wrote me no word of it. I ought to have known, indeed; but is it a wonder that friends stay in a fog, when no light or signal is suffered to reach them ?’’ ‘*Not a wonder—I did not say that. Nora sorrow; for the battered hulk must, after all, sink or float by its own ability; mean time, blessed be the obscurity that serves to hide broken masts, and tattered sails and shrouds, from gazing, powerless friends.’’ ‘*Powerless they should not be,’’ said Reaumur, ‘‘if true friends.’’ ‘*Friends !’’ I caught up, in moody mur- ‘*We use the word, but it is the part mur. 851 of wisdom, as I have come to know, rarely, if ever, to assume that title for our fellow- wanderers and wayfarers ; if, haply, they are kind, it is that their golden natures take kindly to the golden rule; if unkind, it may be the iron is in their souls not without reason.”’ ‘* You have been very lonely, Pro!’’ Reau- mur repeated, with a nod sadly emphatic. ‘*Lonely!’’ I echoed, annoyed at the per- sistent word. ‘‘ Let it be lonely, then. Every- body is lonely. It began in Eden. Loneliness is the soul’s protest at its finiteness ; its gua- ranty of growth. Only the Infinite knows it not.”’ Bleak, unfavoring circumstance flung to rearward, and the slight rind of rustic inex- perience shelled away by a natural maturing, Reaumur Brandt stood, in the best sense of the words, a manly man—inwrapt and pene- trated with that grace, unconscious and con- templative, which springs from a habit of elevated thought, and kindled and vitalized by a force, not less force because reserved and ruled. And my knight carried himself with a manner direct and unassuming, especially satisfactory to me, because devoid, altogether, of what I had dreaded, an indescribable some- what—call it well-bred insolence—that thrusts upon one, relentlessly, a sense of short-coming and inferiority. Nothing could more clearly indicate the ease with which I glided into my old, familiar association with Reaumur, than my outspoken moodiness in the above dialogue. It could have been drawn from me by no other per- son, a course of remark obviously ungrateful and unjust, and mainly explicable by the tolerant, apologetic word: ‘‘ You have been very lonely, Pro !’’ Ten days or a fortnight Reaumur said he would stay at Broadmead. Ten days. had passed, I cannot. say how. Can any one tell how they pass? days that run so—happily, I was about to say; but in this case that is not the word. Somewhat of uncertainty, of anx- iety, mingled in, if it did not alloy, my enjoy- ment of thosedays. But, if not happily, they may have sped delightfully, enchantingly ! Is it anywhere inthese pages made patent that Proserpine loved Reaumur Brandt? I hope not. Eve, first and best— “That would be wooed, and not unsought, be won,”’ maintained not more religiously that feminine

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852 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. prerogative, a dictum of the brain—Father Milton’s, Eve’s, Proserpine’s, to which, years back, full ten years back, the last named had pinned her heart. What if, at times, the crucified thing writhed and bled a little? the ruthless pin held not the less. I hope not, then, and would not, save that the narrative imposes it upon me inexorably, make patent a wish that may be held cognate to that pecu- liar mental state, i. e., the wish that Reaumur Brandt might love Proserpine, just a feather’s weight more than he ever loved Hope, or her memory ; and that, loving, he might avow as much. Of course, it was nowise likely the wild wish could ever be realized, and I forti- fied myself accordingly by a sturdy determi- nation never to be deluded by the impossible thought; having come to it only by means of an unhappy, awkward taste that importuned and pricked me for completion; that had harassed me a night and a day with bewilder- ing conflict, culminating, finally, in this un- womanly wish. It was simply a letter to be answered—simply, therefore, a letter to be written ; yet the preluding cogitation got up for me an immense amount of jar and trou- ble, wearing so into old, sorry channels and byways of the past, and, anon, coming out to lose itself upon the trackless waste of the present. Reaumur entered to claim a promised walk. While, in hasty preparation, I shuffled away pen and papers, inadvertently I dropped the worrying letter directly under his eye. He picked it up presently, and handing it, re- marked, with a little careless surprise :— ‘*Excuse me; but do you correspond with Ralph Merle ?”’ Fidgeting with my gloves, which I rubbed on with some difficulty, I deferred answer. **If you do,’’ Reaumur continued, slowly, ‘**T should say I recognize that hand-writing.”’ ‘*It is his hand-writing,’’ I said, at length, slipping the letter into my pocket, and turning short around to lead the way out of the house, explaining, evasively and confusedly, as we went, how the transfer of the old home had called for correspondence between Ralph Merle and myself. CHAPTER VII. ‘*Srer—here!’? Reaumur said, stopping where the open country rimmed pleasantly a +. little upland grove, thinly set, and penetrated through and through with golden sunlight. I smiled assent to his admiration, inly cry- ing ‘‘Avaunt!’’ to the still dogging trouble that kept my mind distraught. Through the openings of the trees Reau- mur viewed the landscape—undulating mea- dow, with a bit of pond in a hollow deeper than the rest; a winding read marked here and there by a tasteful country-house, or a cottage slaty dark with age ; a fringe of copse on the dip where the sun would set. I can- not say if he marked these several features. He turned at length and bent his look upon me, while he questioned, meditatively, as half doubtful of the reception of his words :— ‘* But, after all, with books, and walks, and skies, and woods—do you like it, Pro, this sort of life you are living? Confess, now, that, with all you can do, it is grievously te- dious and Jonesome. Grievously!’’ he brought up with a grimace half scowl, half smile. **So you have suggested heretofore,’’ I con- JSessed, with a show of impenetrability. My avaunt had scantly availed; a glum shadow hung still in close neighborhood. Reaumur went on:— ‘* What do you do, I wonder, that is, when I am not here, for some one to talk to and tease? some one to sympathize with you!—I should say—’’ he amended, with a senti- mental curving of lip and softening of voice. I might have rallied the man upon his vanity, in thus making account of himself. I might have given the simple truth, that I was accastomed to lose myself, as completely as might be, in an endless flurry of needle- work and household tasks. Any one of a hundred replies would have served as well; but happening upon one of the loose ends of my recent vexing tangle, I returned to the mischievous, but at the same time studiously searching, eyes, a look not less steady, and said: ‘*My good friend—Reaumur, I would say—’’ a lifted eyebrow marked the slip, as I noted with a smile anda repeat. ‘‘My good Reaumur, take from me this read of reads: The man or woman who has not learned to abide content in self-resource and self-respect, has failed in the prime lesson of existence.”’ I enunciated the read axiom-like, with delibe. rate firmness—such I meant it to be—seeking to illude myself as well as my companion into the comfortable faith that I had not, for my own part, conned it vainly; mean time, was

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HIMSELF, HERSELF, MYSELF. 853 not unaware that the peculiar tension of voice put into it just what it was my especial en- deavor to ignore—plaintive weariness and irritability. That Reaumur also perceived this, I saw in the expressive regards still fixed upon me. ‘“*And may you better reck the read Than ever did the adviser,”’ I quoted, with a wry smile, in naive recogni- tion of the mutual consciousness. ‘“That man or woman,’’ I resumed, after a short silence, amplifying somewhat vaguely, ‘‘is still miserably interwrought with chaos, has yet to win the conscious possession and control of self-needful to complete individu- ality; for you were not wrong, when you taught that this human shrine holds, prima- rily, a mere conglomerate of crude, jostling faculties and qualities, or the germs of such, which a feeble ray quickened always by the breath of the innermost—the soul of souls— lights us, slowly and painfully to secure, and adjust, and harmonize.”’ Reaumur listened with an inscrutable look, half thoughtful, half amused. What did. he mean? These bits of stilted utterance—did they seem to cross, in some ludicrous way, previous admissions and aphoristic sallies from the same lips? dare say. Wisest philosophers are not ex- empt from apparent inconsistency—through incompleteness of statement, or misapprehen- sion on the part of the recipient. Why, then, need he smile’? I was not disconcerted, but stopped here, having ended my sermon. The sun was glinting a bright good-bye; shining vine-leaves waved him a playful re- It was only seeming, I sponse, twining and rustling amid the graver foliage of the oak that held them. reached up and twisted off a long, drooping branch, toying with it for a time, suffering it to float upon his arm, when he took up the broken thread, which he did, tempering his still sportive manner with a sort of gentle Reaumur seriousness, not hitherto manifest. ‘*So J gave you a portion of this wisdom, did I? When, I wonder ?’’ ‘‘Once upon a time, as I recall, something very like it, unless I misinterpreted.”’ ‘“Not that about the self-respect, I am sure !’? ‘*Perhaps not,’’? I admitted, wondering at the reservation. ‘No, I think not.’’ Parenthetically, here the speaker transferred the dangling vine 28% ame from his own person to mine, wreathing the pliant stem about my shoulders, and falling back a step to note the effect. he continued, pausing again, and going on, at last, with a slight, hesitating laugh—* ‘*Well, I have this good reason to think I did not; because—at this moment, Pro, 7 find self-respect quite insufficient for me, and am ** Because,’’ longing for the good opinion of another.”’ I made a few steps aside, invited by the clean bole of an oak more substantial than the nearer saplings, and stood pondering this effu- sion on the part of my companion; thinking if it could be true, the glimpse I seemed to have of its aim. ‘Yes, I repeat it,’? Reaumur resumed; ‘*the good opinion of some one is essential to my happiness and well-being, and not only the good opinion, but the good society—that is, 7, at least, am forced:to confess to—louneli- ness.’’ Of the satiric intimation conveyed in the latter- clause I took no notice; but in refer- ence to the expressed yearnings toward the indefinite some one, I submitted the consoling suggestion that, ‘‘ doubtless, he had the good opinion, and good society as well, of many, a ”» The assumption of passivity that accompanied the remark was. not so well sustained as I could have wished; sol judged from the comment, slightly ironic, which it elicited. ‘‘Comforting, very comforting! coming, too, from one so very indifferent. great many. One thing is plain, Proserpine is not among The tantalizing charge drew the many !”’ from me only a stolid look into the glooming colonnades at my left. ‘But, perhaps,’? Reaumur pursued, pre- sently, ‘‘it is no matter of regret. of small account—the many—if, only, I could They are be sure of the love of one, one, Pro!”’ ‘*One and one make two,’’ I pronounced sententiously. ** And two sometimes become one,’’ was the more apt rejoinder. ‘*T have heard so, but cannot attest to it. It.is.less apparent than the converse.’’ Reaumur turned away, and walked into the wood, moodily, I thought. Had I offended him? It seemed not unlikely. I gazed after him gloomily, while our rambling. colloquy came back piece by piece, with taunt and chide at my hard manner. Pride and sorrow, more than sorrow, held stern combat within

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854 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, me. Possibly the former may have yielded and left me to follow the gentler prompting to conciliate and make amends. The humilia- tion was, happily, averted. Reaumur, when he had progressed a few yards, faced about abruptly, stepped toward me with an air and expression of sudden resolution, and with im- passioned earnestness, that sent the blood at a bound. from cheek and lip to my heart, said :— ‘** Believe me, Proserpine, I mean it; there is, really, one who must love me!”’ ‘*One?’’ I continued to ejaculate after he had waited an unreasonably long time. ‘**One—ah, Proserpine, you know well who!”’ ‘*Must ?”’ I said again, taking up the words that had been emphasized, monosyllables which, for the time being, measured my power of speech. ‘Must. Is it not so? Must she not—must she not ?’’ Reiterating thus, the countenance of the speaker beamed. The sunset sky, effulgent of gold and crimson, was less dazzling to me; by the token that I had, for a half hour, been contemplating the latter, but was moved to screen my eyes from the former. Thus, per- haps, it came about, that, before I half knew it, my sturdy oak prop was supplanted in its office, or more truly, I may say, was called to a double duty, and an eager whisperer, at my very ear, was urging :— ‘*Do you—will you, Pro?’’ ‘‘Do I—will I—what?’? IT interrogated, mischievously, though I had much ado to find my voice. ‘Take me for better or worse! Did I not say it?’’ ‘You did not, indeed. And,’’ I added, with stateliness, making, at the same time, a movement of withdrawal, ‘‘it were, perhaps, quite as well unsaid, where love is not mu- tual.’’ My heart rebelled right sturdily at this womanlike evasion; the more, when I saw how, in its too literal reception, the face, so confidently luminous, took on a look of dreary questioning. Its ashen hue and tremor fairly frightened me; and the prudent femi- nine tactics, which had led me to secure a definite declaration prior to my own admission of attachment, ruled, at last, only by the ac- cident of the speedy murmur:— **It is said, and cannct be unsaid. Though I love you, Proserpine, better than—but it’s Pry no matter—if— With an energetic gesture I recalled the hand that parted reluctantly from me at the ominous if. ‘‘It alters the case materially,’’ I said, ‘‘since you really loveme! A point it was surely wise to determine.”’ **T'he dear, teasing, wise Pro!’’ with a gay, recovering laugh. ‘‘I’ve stumbled upon it, it seems—the ‘open sesame. ‘*It is so! ‘He loves, She loves!’’’ was the exultant exclamation that rounded a little 99? period of silence. ‘*Of course it is so!’’ I assented, with simu- lation of affront. ‘‘Brave man! You, by hook and by crook, had pretty well assured yourself it was so, or you would never have asked !”’ I took myself to task for the betrayal; and he, my would-be help-meet! helped me not at all; but, without scruple, laughed at my annoyance. Moreover, did not at all re- sent the covert charge of cowardice ; men do not, I believe, upon this special point, feel called upon to vindicate their bravery. That Reaumur, however, was not quite unmindful of the reproach, came out shortly, when he indulged in a bit of rhapsody :— ‘*We shall travel on together, henceforth— Pro and I—and like the sweet rambler of old time, my Proserpine shall gather ‘the rose, and the violet, and the crocus, and the hya- cinth!’ As for the hundred-flowered concern, the treacherous narcissus, it shall be swooped away like a great thistle bed. Pluto’s self shall be kept at bay by the champion grown valorous! Never fear—we will walk on to- gether, to the perfect end—herself and my- self—’’ It may have been merely accidert—the stirring of a kindred thought by our previous talk—or, it may have been a fragment of reminiscence suggested by a similarity of conditions ; one, or both of these, that made Reaumur couple the words thus, as once be- fore, and drew from him, in meditative repe- tition—‘‘ Herself and myself !”’ Though so long past, the scene sketched early in these pages came back to me vividly. ‘‘Himself, herself, myself!’’ I murmured, quoting Hope; and, half involuntarily, I ad- ded, ‘‘But the herself!’? It was all I said, all I had need to ‘say. Reaumur cowpre- hended me. From one of the multitude of pockets that dwell in and about the male garb (Query: Is the male heart fashioned in like manner, with

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HIMSELF, HERSELF, MYSELF. 855 a host of supernumerary receptacles?) he drew a small wallet, worn and matted, and from it a@ scrap of paper, worn and matted also. I knew it, at once, for Hope’s sketch of ten years ago. Ten years! In the summer twi- light we traced again this frail memento of an idle fancy, which, oddly enough, seemed to have allied itself, in the mind of Hope, with some vague, prophetic instinct, for this tra- vesty now so sadly ludicrous. Ten years— and we found ourselves, thus, in the twilight— himself, myself—alas, the blank! Doubtless, the pencilling was blurred from long-continued attrition; and I do not think the vision of either Reaumur or myself was quite clear; but the bend of faded dots and rays, upon the mass of cloud in the background of the sketch, was scarcely needed to bring before us a bright, star-wreathed head—to bring, through the clearer sight of memory and faith, the missing one of three—the dear herself! Reaumur refolded the paper, and restored it to its tattered case, which rested again in its old hiding place. Deliberately, then, through his earnest, soul-full gaze, he made me feel the ardor and depth of his love for me, ere, with a double look of introspection and distant seeking, he said, quietly and con- clusively :— ‘*Hope was translated, long ago. But, my hope! ah, we shall go up together !’’ In spite of me, I felt my eyes fill and over- flow. There was nothing for it but to strike, again, a vein of the ludicrous; so, with awk- ward self-condolence, I commiserated my streaming eyes, and plead for the use of my hands to relieve my flooded cheeks. cried Reaumur, unceremoniously assuming to himself the dis- ‘The precious drops!’’ posal of them. ‘Alas, my rouge!’’ I exclaimed, with dramatic terror; ‘‘your lips have stolen it, sir !?? ‘*A good share remains ;’’ was the sly re- sponse. ‘*Proserpine,’? Reaumur said, after a time, as if the thought had newly come to him, and drawing off at arm’s length while he said it, “why didn’t you marry Ralph Merle when he asked you?’’ Hope did, was a reserved clause, as the emphasis indicated. Recognizing the slight infusion of bitter- ness, I looked at the speaker to penetrate fully the feeling that impelled this resuscita- tion of an old unanswered question. I remem- bered well when it had been asked before, ten years agone, and knew well now, if I did not then know, why it had remained unan- swered. Its repetition, at this time, was not due to simple pique, nor idle curiosity; thus much I saw clearly, yet I asked :— ** Are men ever curious ?”’ ‘*No,’’ quickly, ‘‘ only, sometimes, to men as towomen questions become—vital. That’s the word, is it not ?’’ ‘“‘That’s it,”? I assented, smiling, with a hand on the letter in my pocket. ‘¢ Well, then, why did you not—”’ ‘‘Marry Ralph Merle?’’ I drew forth the letter—the troubling letter—and, unfolding it, pointed out the signature, explaining as I did so—‘‘I received it yesterday, a renewal of the old proposal.’’ Reaumur held his repellant attitude and, with lips compressed, waited. I waited also. ‘‘Hope willed it when she died,’’? I mused, gravely, with a final, compunctious pang that I would not fulfil her wish. ‘““Why not accept???’ Reaumur asked, at length, stiffly, so stiffly, that my gravity gave place to sudden laughter. ‘*Possibly,’? I replied, ‘‘all things con- sidered, I might be tempted, but that I—’’ ‘*Well?’’ impatiently. ; ‘‘Like some one else better. Nay, why do you get up such an illumination upon it?” ‘¢To find Proserpine,’’ diminishing percep- tibly the awful arm’s length. ‘©You have found her, I should say.’’ ‘*To light Hymen’s torch, then.”’ What a round of cross-purposes, I rumi- nated! Ralph, who loved Pro, marries Hope ; Hope, who loved Reaumur, marries Ralph; Reaumur, who loved Hope, marries Pro; Pro, who loved—herself—‘‘ A round of cross-pur- poses !’’ I repeated, aloud. ‘*Yes’’—coming into my thought, medita- tively—‘‘ Yes, but—let us be persuaded, Pro, ‘We build*more wisely than we know.’”’ And Reaumur proceeded to enlarge, majestic- ally: ‘‘In its aggregate results, a human life is the product of the active human will, just so much as, and no more than, the hex- agonal.’’ I lifted a hand deprecatingly. ‘‘I accept the simple creed,”’ I said, ‘‘ and, as you gave it, in rhyme, for convenience of memory.’’

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CHANGE. BY J. H. G. Sixce ‘‘the morning stars sang together and all the sons of God shouted for joy’’ at the world’s creation, change has been written, as with a pen of iron, upon all things earthly. Time’s fingers are constantly busy in their round, and no object remains stationary ; but is continually changing and fading away. Behold that forest tree, which but a short time seemed in the prime of its existence! but now it has fallen a victim to waste and decay. Who was the author of all this? what is the cause? Ask the stern, unfailing hand of change. See you that rock, which has for long years withstood the chilling blasts of winter, and remained unaffected when rain and hail beat upon it, then view the contrast. Now it is crum- bling to ruins, and will, in the course of time, mingle with the sands of the earth. Still farther, notice the earth with its two- fold motion, producing by one the change of seasons, and by the other the grateful vicissi- tudes of day and night. Look to those ancient cities which centuries since were the pride and glory of kingdoms! Where may we find Babylon and Nineveh, and the Jewish Temple, where magnificence and beauty were unequalled? What has been their fate? Long since have they slumbered in their ruins! How great the change! Turning from nature and art, iook at man; view him in Paradise. Placed in the happy Eden, in the enjoyment of the highest happi- ness attainable in life, this sinless pair viewed and reviewed the hallowed ground, taking sweet counsel together, little thinking how soon they were to forfeit their home, and thereby bring sin and death upon future generations down to the end of time; but above all, that great and awful change from holiness to sin, and from the favor and com- munion of the Most High to His frown and displeasure. Man’s character, since that sad fall, has ever been changing. look to that virtuous youth, who since child- hood has been guided by the gentle influences of a fond parent, and was the delight and joy of all his friends; but in an evil hour the tempter came, and he yielded. Now he is rapidly hastening to destruction. On the other hand, picture to yourself the vicious, corrupt youth, who delights in the unhappi- a For example, GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. ness and misery of his fellow-beings; his companion is vice; he is looked upon with contempt, yet pity; but, through some re- deeming influence, he arises from his degra- dation and throws off the chains of sinful bondage, and becomes an honor to his friends and an ornament to society. Change finds a place no less in the fortunes than in the character of man. Was ita slight change to Belshazzar when he, with his lords, were feasting and rioting in his palace, hav- ing set at defiance the Almighty, when the besieging army turned the course of the Eu- phrates, marched on its bed into the city, and on that same night the impious prince was slain. Was that a small change to Napoleon, while going on from conquering to conquer, and his ambitious spirit aspiring for universal domin- ion? Was it a small change when, at the height of his pomp and power, he was ban- ished, his glory taken from him, and left to breathe out a wretched life on St. Helena? Still another change, far more important in its consequences than all the others, and a change no one of us can escape, which is death. How cheering, then, to look away from the changes of earth, to Him ‘‘ who is the same yesterday, to-day, and forever,”’ ‘*in whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning.’’ THE TWO NEIGHBORS. BY GEORGE COOPER. At Ispahan two neighbors dwelt, Who in the mosque together knelt, When day was done with all its cares, And sounded loud the call to prayers. One prayed that Allah’s smiles would shine on him alone; The other prayed for kinsmen, friends, and every one. Time fied. Grim Death, the common foe, Knocked at their doors and bade them go. One left the world with few to weep ; While, mourned by all, one sank to sleep. At Heaven’s gate the angels sweetly welcomed one, And left the other standing by the gate alone. InpEcision.— With regard to indecision, Frederica Bremer writes thus: ‘‘ How many occasions of doing good, in greater or less measures, are passed by from irresolution ! While we are saying to ourselves, ‘Shall I, or shall I not?’ the moment fiies away, and the blossom of joy which we might have given to it is withered and often cannot be revived by any tears of repentance.”’

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NOVELTIES FOR APRIL. DINNER-DRESS, COIFFURES, CAPS, SLEEVES, CHRISTENING-ROBE, ETC. ETC. re WY WY Fig. 1.—Dinner-dress for a young lady, of camelion silk, trimmed with black velvet and black guipure lace. This style of corsage is Fig. 2. MAs WR AAN Y} , N very pretty made of black silk or velvet, and worn with a colored skirt. | Wp trimmed with Valenciennes lace. Fig. 3. Fig. 3.—Muslin undersleeve, with fancy 5 3 Fig. 2.—Fancy collar, with long tabs 7

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358 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. Fig. 6. Fig. 5. \ \ N ARR ‘ Y \ . \ S \ Ww ~, Wr ‘ \ RA. WY AAW Ng . N NN SQ\\ W\ WOH 0 AAV 0 Q0F ATH Haz

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NOVELTIES FOR 859 APRIL. puffed cuff, trimmed with deep Valenciennes lace. | ry ey ere Bt 2 we or bs rere Wana Fig. 5.—White muslin cap, trimmed with | Valenciennes lace and buff ribbons. | JINNAAA, Fig 6.—Ball coiffure. The front hair is arranged in the Russian style, with a small Fig. 4.—Breakfast-cap of white muslin, trimmed with lace and blue ribbon. i “pan: roe fete LN peanesto so eee Se ra bunch of curls directly on the forehead. The back hair is crimped and arranged in a water- Fig. 9. fall. The ornaments are scarlet flowers, silver grass, and a humming-bird.

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860 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. Fig. 10. Fig. 7.—Infant’s christening robe, with pil- low. The dress is of French mull, trimmed, en tablier, with Valenciennes inserting and puffs. The tablier is edged with a wide Va- lenciennes edge, and trimmed with bows of Pillow of French mull, trimmed For a white ribbon. with Valenciennes lace and inserting. boy the lining of the pillow should be blue, for a girl it should be pink. Fig. 8.—A new style of linen cuff, embroi- dered with small butterflies in bright colors. Fig. 9.—Fancy linen cuff, embroidered with butterflies. Fig. 10.—Linen collar, embroidered with butterflies. Fig. 11. Fig. 11.—A design for an embroidered but- terfly, suitable for cuffs or collars. Fig. 12.—Coat of white piqgué, trimmed with narrow ruffling and insertion. Fig. 12, Fig. 13.—White muslin dress, trimmed, en tablier, with fluted worked rufiles, the space Fig. 13.

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NOVELTIES FOR APRIL. 361 being filled in with puffs and insertion. The corsage is trimmed with ruffles and insertion " tomatch the skirt. Sash of green ribbon tied at the left side. and trimmed with green velvet. Vou. LXX.—29 White drawn hat, bound | Figs. 14 and 15.—Spring coat for a little boy. (Front and back view.) It is made of a fine pearl-colored cloth, bound and trimmed with a black and white silk braid Fig. 16.—Spring cloak for a little girl. It is made of a black and white soft wool mate- rial, trimmed with a fringe formed of black and white balls. FLOWER-VASE MAT IN TUFTED NETTING. (See Plate printed in Blue, in front.) Materials.—¥ our shades of Magenta-colored wool ; four very dark toa full light and bright pink; four different- sized meshes—one a round mesh, three times the size which would be used for purses, and three flat ones, the widest an inch wide, one three-quarters, one scarcely half an inch. Cardboard foundation the size of a pie plate, some pink or green cambric; a small centre of silk or velvet the size of the top of a breakfast cup, or any inter- lacing pattern will serve. It may be desirable to practise the tuft-stitch with the widest mesh before commencing the mat. Take a piece of foundation netting, say six loops: net a stich, net another into the next loop; then pass the wool round the mesh and up through the loop in which the stitch was netted; dothis 12 times without netting; then put the wool round the fingers as for ordinary netting, but instead of putting it into the loop, where now there are 13 loops, put the needle up the left side of the loop, and net the stitch; thus this last stitch will confine the whole of the others. Now net astitch into next loop, and one into next, and in this loop which is netted into make 12 more sewing stitches (for these stiches resem- ble sewing) ; then net a stitch with the point of the needle coming up on the left side of the loop in which all these stitches are, and so continue. Into a foundativn of 63 stitches, with the darkest wool and round mesh, net 3 rows, then 1 row with the smallest flat mesh; then a tuft-stitch in the next loop, having only 8 loops over the mesh besides the first and last stitch; then net 2stitches, and in the loop in which the last stitch was made make a tuft-stitch; finish one row of this shade of wool, and then net a plain row with next mesh and same wool, With next shade and same mesh work a row of tuft-netting containing ten loops in each tuft besides the first and last stiteh, and making each tuft come under each of the

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862 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. Fig. 16 With next mesh and shade net a plain row, | then a tufted row. With next shade and same mesh net a plain row, then a tufted row, then a plain row. With the lightest shade and widest mesh net a tufted row; then a plain row with a mesh a size smaller; then a tufted row with wide mesh; then a plain row with mesh the same as last plain row. Cut a circle of colored ‘cambrie about two inches larger than the cardboard ; place it on the centre of the latter, and on the top of this the circle for the centres; sew the circle through to the cardboard; then place a thick stuffing of wadding round the edge underneath the cam- bric. Gather the cambric round at the edge, and draw it over the cardboard edge. Then cut another circle of cam- bric, gum it on to the wrong side of the cardboard, and make it adhere to the gathered edge of cambric; put it under a press todry; put on the net- ting, sewing the narrow netting on to the cardboard at the extent of the silken centre. \ A VOR A former row of tufts; then a plain row with same mesh; then another tufted row. NAME FOR MARKING. EMBROIDERY. LMA ADA ANWAADRASASPAALDSADASLDAPAALRSA/ Y4YY{JYY PYJYWJ YD Avy

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WORK DEPARTMENT. 863 ARTIFICIAL HAIR. Fig. 1.—False plaits of hair, the knot to be placed just over the brow. Fig. 4. Fig. 2.—A waved waterfall, with ball comb and fancy clasp of jet and gold. Fig. 3.—A new style of hair bow, very pretty for a ball coiffure. Fig. 4.—Waterfall bow caught with a fancy clasp comb. Any application for these articles must be addressed to the Fashion editor, and not to Mrs. Hale, who is the Literary editor.

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864 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. PATCHWORK BASKET. Tus useful article is made of chintz, silk, delaine, or any other material which the care- ful housekeeper can spare from her patch basket. byttonhole stitched, excepting one, which must have a tip for a button. When all are sewed together at the edges, button the covers down, and the work in the basket will be per- fectly protected from dust. Another pattern places the scissor sheath, Cut thick card into the shapes given in the pattern, making two pieces for the bottom, two for the handle, twelve for the sides, and twelve for the covers. Cover up half the number of pieces of each shape with the ma- terial for the outside, and half with that for the lining, then stitch these pieces together. Upon the six side pieces on the inside make a needle book, pincushion, scissor sheath, thimble bag, spool bags, button bag, and tape and cord bag, as in the engraving. Upon the points of the cover pieces put loops of silk, etc., on the outside of the covers, and lines the sides with neat little bags for work. Pieces of tin, if accurately cut, will be found more serviceable than pasteboard for stiffen- ing, but it requires to be covered oftener, as the tin is apt to cut the edges of the cloth. These baskets can be made very handsome, suitable for gifts, by embroidering the outside and making a silk lining and bags; but for everyday use, those made of dark chintz lined with some bright color, will be most serviceable, and very pretty.

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WORK DEPARTMENT. 865 BRACES FOR GENTLEMEN OR BOYS. | each scallop on the black velvet work a star | in red silk, and a similar in black in the cen- Tusk braces are made of red cashmere ; tre of each pattern formed by the braid on the two strips of the material are required, anda | red cashmere. In Fig. 2 the pattern is formed third small one to unite them in front. The by rows of black braid crossing one another so as to produce a diamond pattern. A small cross is worked with black silk at each point strips are two inches wide; they are lined | with thin leather or stif linen. Figs. 1 and2 | show two different patterns for ornamenting the braces. For the first takea strip of velvet ribbon three-quarters of an inch wide, and of the diamond, and a dot in raised satin stitch inside each diamond. The braces are Fig. 1. bound with black velvet, and should be neatly mounted. INSERTION. FOR PETTICOATS OR CHILDREN’S DRESSES. Tue holes to be cut out or sewn over, and the bars to be worked in buttonhole stitch. As the introduction of black into embroidery cut it into two scalloped strips the long way. Sew these strips on each side of the brace, and hide the stitches with # row of black silk of all kinds is now so fashionable, the bars braid. Above this row add another, forming may be worked in that color instead of white, small loops, as seen in illustration. Inside if preferred. 29%

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866 GODEY’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, the cushions with the clear white beads. DESIGNS FOR PINCUSHIORS. Forty beads should be strung and looped up To be worked with clear glass beads, on three stitches from where it commences, and canvas sufficiently coarse for one bead tocover | each loop should be caught into the one next y eke sicis che 1 | | a stitch. The ground can be filled up with to it. This forms a very graceful and rich Solferino, blue, or scarlet wool, worked in fringe. These same patterns will answer for cross-stitch. The patterns are reducedabout | netted tidies, the figures to be darned in. one half. The fringe should be formed on >| I SILK EMBROIDERY FOR FLANNEL. (From the establishment of W. Cameron, 228 North Eighth St., and 508 Soutk Sizth St., Philada.) = & Qa) XAME FOR MARKING. HE OOO UTED

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e RECEIP’S. 867 Receipts, &e. MISCELLANEOUS COOKING. Breast or LAMB STEWED WITH Peas, on STEWED Cucum- BE«s.—First roast the joint very quickly and of a nice brown color, then take a tablespoonful of flour, mix it smoothly with a little cold water, burn a little sugar in an iron spoon, pour boiling water over it into the flour (this will set it), mix it smoothly, strain it, and add as much boiiing water as will barely cover the meat, put- ting it into the saucepan with the bones wpwards ; adda good blade ot mace and a very little salt, let it stew for two hours till the meat is very tender and the bones will slip; during this time peel some small cucumbers, put them into boiling water with a little salt and w bit of but- ter the size of a hazel-nut, let them boil for twenty minutes or half an hour, according to the size, then drain them ; when the meat is ready thicken the gravy, if needed ; add a little butter and one tablespoonful of catchup, place the meat on the dish, the bones downwards, strain the gravy over, cut the cucumbers each in three pieces, not length- wise, and place round the meat. This joint may be served with vegetable marrows, or peas, or French beans, A Neck or Lamp may be cooked in the same way, or plainly boiled by putting it into scalding water, allowing twenty minutes to each pound after it simmers. Serve with parsley and butter, and cauliflowers, sea-kale, young turnips or carrots. To Make “ BuBBLE AND SqueAk.’’—Take from a round of beef, which has been well boiled and cold, two or three slices, amounting to about one pound to one and a half pound in weight, two carrots which have been boiled with the joint, in a cold state, as also the hearts of two boiled greens thatare cold. Cut the meat into small dive- formed pieces, and chop up the vegetables together; pep- per and salt the latter, and fry them with the meat ina pan with a quarter pound of sweet butter; when fully done, add to the pan in which the ingredients are fried, halfa gill of fresh catchup, and serve your dish up to the dinner-table with mashed potatoes. The above is an economical and favorite dinner. Poratog Scongs.—Mash boiled potatoes till they are quite smooth, adding a little salt; then knead out with flour, to the thickness required ; toast, pricking them with a fork to prevent them blistering. Waoen eaten with fresh butter, they are very nutritious. RoLieD Patties FROM REMAINS OF MEAT.—The remains of roast veal, or any roast meat, is chopped very fine with fat or ham, adding to it a little nutfneg, salt, and butter, some eggs, parsley, and chopped shalots. Stir this over the fire till thick enough for stuffing; fill some rolls with this, and bake as the patties for field-fare. Friep Cop-Fisu.—Take the middle or tail part of a fresh cod-fish, and cut it into slices not quite an inch thick, first removing the skin. Season them with a little salt and Cayenne pepper. Have ready in one dish some beaten yelk of egg, and in another some grated bread-crums. Dip each slice of fish twice into the egg, and then twice into the crums. Fry them ina fresh butter, and serve them up with the gravy about them. Halibut may be fried as above. CAULIFLOWER OMELET.—Take the white part of a boiled cauliflower after it is cold; chop it very small, and mix with ita sufficient quantity of well-beaten egg, to make a very thick batter. Then fry it in fresh butter in a small pan, and send it hot to table. To Dress A SHoutder or VEAL.—Cut the veal into nice square pieces or mouthfuls, and parboil them. Put the bone and trimmings into another pot, and stew them slowly a long time, in a very little waier, to make the gravy. Then put the meat into the dish in which it is to go to table, and season it with a very little salt and Cay+ enne pepper, the yellow rind of a large lemon grated, and some powdered mace and nutmeg. Add some bits of fresh butter rolled in flour, or some cold dripping of roast veal. Strain the gravy and pour it in. Set it in a hot dutch-oven, and bake it brown. When nearly done, add two glasses of whitg wine, and serve it up hot. Any piece of veal may be cooked in this way. AspARAGUS OMELET.— Boil some tender fresh-cut aspara- gus in very little water with a small portion of salt, or, what is better still, steam the asparagus without water until it is tender, chop it very fine, mix it with the yelks of five and whites of three well-beaten eggs, add two tablespoonfuls of sweet cream, fry, and serve quite hot. Srewep Sprxacu.—Pick the spinach very clean, and wash it through two or three waters. Then drain it, and put it into a saucepan, with only the Water that re- mains about it after the washing. Add a very little salt and pepper, and let it stew for twenty minutes,*or till it is quite tender; turning it often, and pressing it down with a broad wooden spoon or flat ladle. When done, drain it through a sieve, pressing out all the moisture, till you get itas dry as youcan. Then put it on a flat dish, and chop or mince it well. Set it again over the fire; add to it some bits of butter dredged with flour, and some beaten yelk of egg. Let it simmer five minutes or more, and when it comes to a boil, take it off. Have ready some thin slices of buttered toast, cut into triangular or three- cornered pieces, without avy crust. Lay them in regular order round a flat dish, and heap the spinach evenly upon them, smoothing the surface with the back of a spoon, and scoring it across in diamonds. Sa.ap Dressinc.—Have ready two well-boiled potatoes, peeled and rubbed through a sigve; they will give pecu- liar smoothness to the mixture. Also, a very small por- tion of raw onion, not more thana quarter of a teaspoonful (as the presence of the onion is scarcely to be hinted), and the pounded yelks of two hard-boiled eggs. Mix these ingredients on a deep plate with two small teaspoonfuls of salt; one of made mustard; three tablespoonfuls of olive oil; and one tablespoonful of vinegar. Add, lastly, a teaspoonful of essence of anchovy ; mash, and mix the whole together, and see that all the articies ure thoroughly amalgamated. Having cut up a sufficiency of lettuce, (that has been well washed in cold water, and drained), add to it the dressing immediately before dinner, mixing the lettuce through it with « boxwood fork. Wuits Soup.—Boil a knuckle of veal and four calves’ feet in five quarts of water, with three onions sliced, a bunch of sweet herbs, four heads of white celery cut small, a tablespoonful of whole pepper, and a small tea- spounful of salt, adding five or six large blades of mace. Let it boil very slowly, till the meat is in rags and has dropped from the bone, and till the gristle has quite di: - solved. Skim it well while boiling. When done, strain it through a sieve intoa tureen, or a deep white-ware pan. Next day, take off all the fat, and put the jelly (for euch it ought to be) into a clean soup-pot with two ounces of vermicelli, and set it over the fire. When the vermi- celli is dissolved, stir in, gradually, a pint of thiek crea,

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368 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, while the soup is quite hot; but do not let it come toa boil after the cream is in, lest it should curdle. Cut up one or two rolls in the bottom of atureen, pour in the soup, and send it to table. CAKES, PUDDINGS, ETC. Crraon Peppine.—Take one-half pint of cream, one tablespoonfual of flour, two ounces of white sugar, and a little grated nutmeg. Mix all these ingredients together with the well-beaten yelks of three eggs. Cut two ounces of citron into thin slices, place pieces of it in small but- tered moulds or cups, fill them with the mixture, and bake until the pudding assumes a light-brown color. This quantity will make five puddings, which are suffi- cient for a side dish. Lemon Honeycoms.—This is a very simple dish, and one that makes a pleasant variety on the supper-table. The juice of a lemon should by sweetened to the taste, and put into the dish in which it will be served up. The white of an egy is beaten into a pint of rich cream, with a little sugar, and whisked. As the froth rises, it should be placed on the lemon juice, and has a very light and pretty appearance. It is desirable to prepare this dish the day before it is required, and a few pieces of sponge cake may be strewed over it just before it is sent up. GeRMAN FLOTTKRENGEL.—Take one pound of dry flour, three-quarters of a pound of well-washed butter, teu tablespoonfuls of cream, For the top of these cakes melted butter or egg, powdered sugar and cinnamon. Break the butter into small pieces, and mix with the flour, then add- ing the cream; mix quickly intoa light paste. From this break pieces, and roll them out with the hand about a quarter of a yard long, and join the two ends in the mid- dle, to give them the form of a B. Whenall are done, grease them on top with egg or melted butter, strewing sugar and cinnamon over it. Those who like almonds will find them with the above very delicious, These eakes require to be baked quickly. Sweet Macaroon.—One pound and a half of crushed sugar, one ditto of grated almonds, the whites of four eggs, and the skin of a lemon. The almonds, sugar, and pecl are beaten for some time with the thick froth of the eggs ; in the mean time have ready a hot tin plate greased, and put on the tin a quantity as largeasa walnut. Bake them tn a slow oven to a light-straw color; they can be baked on wafer-paper. Another way.—Seven ounces of sweet almonds, seven ounces of crushed sugar, two whites of eggs, and a little lemen juice. Haif the quantity of almonds are grated,, and the ether half cutinto long pieces. The sugar, lemon juice, and eggs are whisked till in bubbles; then mix the almonds in, and bake as above. This quantity makes forty cakes. Brrrer Macarvon.—These are made in the same way, but two-thirds are sweet and one-third are bitter almonds, and to one pound of these, one pound and three-quarters of sugar. Orayer Nuts.—Pake seven ounces of flour, seven of sugar, and three eggs, éne ounce and a half of orange peel, and the same of Jemon peel. Beat the eggs with the sugar fora quarter of an hour, add the flour and peels, beating it till no flour is visible. Form them into little balls, and bake them like the others, Hort-Cross Burs. —Rub a quarter pound of butterintotwo pounds of flour, then add a quarter pound of moist sugar. Mix well together with the above one pint of new milk made warm, three well-beaten egys, one tablespoonful of yeast, and a teaspoonful of carbonate of soda, one pound of currants (well-washed), one ounce of candied citron, the same of candied lemon-peel, cut into small pieces, the grated rind of a lemon, and a pinch of salt. Mix all up into a light paste, and set it before the fire to rise for an hour. Rub an oven-tin over with butter, drop the buns upon it with a spoon, wash them with the yelk of an egg, and bake them in a moderate oven. A Froatina IsLanD or AppLes.—Bake or scald eight or nine large apples; when cold, pare them and pulp them through a sieve. Beat up this pulp with sugar, and add to it the whites of four or five eggs previously beaten up with a small quantity of rose-water. Mix this into the pulp a little at a time, and beat it until quite light. Heap it up on a dish, with a rich custard or jelly round it. AppLe CHEESE-CAKE.—Pare, core, and boil twelve ap- ples, with enough water to mash them; beat them up very’smooth, then add the yelks of six eggs, the juice of two lemons and some grated pee!, half pound of fresh butter, beaten into a cream, and sweetened with pounded loaf-sugar ; beat ajJl well in with the apples, bake it ina puff paste, and send it up like an open tart. RamMAKINS.—Beat up well two eggs, and add two table- spoonfuls of flour, two ounces of warm butter, and two ounces of grated cheese. Mix all these well together, and bake them for a quarter of an hour in small boxes made of writing paper. They should be served hot inthe paper boxes, and eaten after the game course. They require care in the preparation. Variety Puppinas.—Take a quarter pound of fresh but- ter and beat it toa thick cream, add four tablespoonfals of fine flour, two.ounces of loaf-sugar, one ounce of candied peel cut into thick slices, six sweet and six bitter almonds blanched and cut lengthways. Mix these ingredients to- gether, form them into rounds, and bake them in six patty pans. Cnocotate CAkes.—Beat the whites of two eggs with a quarter of a pound of pounded sugar into a frothy cream, add the juice of half a lemon and six ounces of finely- grated chocolate. Drop this mixture in spoonfuls on a flat tin, and bake them slowly. WORTH KNOWING AND REMEMBERING. How to act when the clothes take fire is an important piece of information. The Scientific American says :— “Three persons out of four would rush right up to the burning individual, and begin to paw with their hands without any definite aim. It is useless to tell the victim to do this or that, or call for water. In fact, it is genc- rally best to say not a word, but seize a blanket from a bed, or a cloak, or any woollen fabric—if none is at hand, take any woollen maiterial—hold the corners as far apa't as you can, stretch them out higher than your head, and, running boldly to the person, make a motion of clasping in the arms, most about the shoulders. This instantly smothers the fire and saves the face. The next instant throw the unfortunate person on the floor. This is an ad- ditional safety to face and breath, and any remnant of flame can be put out more leisurely. The next instant, immerse the burnt part in cold water, and ali pain will cease with rapidity of lightning. Next, get some common flour, remove from the water, and cover the burnt parts with an inch thickness of flour, if possible, put the patient to bed, and do all that is possible to soothe until the phy- sician arrives. Let the flour remain anti! it falls off itself, when a beautiful new skin will be found. Unless the burns are deep, no other application is needed. The dry flour for burns is the most admirable remedy ever pro- posed, and the information ought to be imparted to all. The principle of its action is that, like the water, it causes instant and perfect relief from pain, by totally excluding the air from the injured parts. Spanish whiting and cold water, of a mushy consistency, are preferred by some. Dredge on the flour until no more will stick, and cover With cvttun butting.”

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RECEIPTS. 369 MISCELLANEOUS. A Rary Grass.—The following may be depended upon asa rain glass; Get a common pickle bottle, fill it with any kind of water, to within two or three inches of the top; plunge the neck of an empty oil flask into the pickle bottle. Before rain the water will rise two or three inches in the neck of the inverted flask—often in three or four hours. If the weatber is settled for fair, the water will remain not more than half an inch high, for days, in the neck of the flask. It never fails to foretell rain. It may stand in or out of doors, in sun or shade, and the water never needs changing so long as it can be seen through. The oil flask must be cleansed before the neck is plunged in the water. Soda and warm water will clear it of oil. MELTING Srret As Eastiy as LEAD.—Makea piece of steel red in the fire; then, holding it with a pair of pincers, touch it with a piece of brimstone. Immediately after their contact you will see the steel melt and drop asa liquid. To Increask THE GrowTH oF Hairn.—The following is av excellent application: Take of mutton suet, one pound ; best white wax, four ounces; essences of bergamot and lemon, of each, three drachms; oils of lavender and thyme, of each, one drachm. Mix the suet and wax over a gentle fire, and then add the perfumes. To Remove Mi.DEW FROM LinEN.—This can be done by mixing with soft soap a little powdered starch, half the quantity of sait, and the juice of a lemon, and applying it to the mildew stain with a paint-brush on both sides-of the linen, The stained article should then be left out on the grass day and night until the spot be removed. TAMARINDS or CRANBERRY Jvice, with double the quan- tity of water, makes a pleasant drink for an invalid when approaching convalescence. Lemon Warer is also a delightful drink. Put two slices of lemon, thinly peeled, into a teapot, a little bit of the peel and a large spoonful of capillaire; pour in a pint of boiling water, and stop it close two hours, Simp_e Move or Puriryine WATER.—It is not generally known that pounded alum possesses the quality of purify- ing water. A tablespoonful of pulverized alum sprinkled into a hogshead of water (the water stirred at the same time) will, after a few hours, by precipitating to the bot- tom the impure particles, so purify it that it will be found to possess nearly all the freshness and clearness of the finest spring water. A pailful, containing four gallons, may be purified by a single teaspoonful of the alum. To Fix Penci, Drawixes.—The plan generally pursued by artists is to dissolve a piece of gum the size of a pea in a tumbler of cold water, and with a camel’s-hair brush pass the solution lightly over the surface of the drawing. Leave it untouched until dry. Another way.—A teaeupful of rice boiled in a pint and @ quarter of cold water ; this poured off and another pint and a quarter added ; the moment it boils the liquid is to be poured into a jug and left to stand about ten minutes till the sediment sinks to the bottom, This clear liquid is to be kept for use and applied to pencil-drawings warm. It may be poured into a tea-tray, and the drawing laid upon its face on the liquid, aud then pinned by a corner to dry. A MErHop or Preserving Mvsnrooms to KEEP FOR A Year.—Select some firm mushrooms, not too ripe, throw them into boiling water for a minute, take them out and jay them to drain perfectly dry, When they are cold, put them into a brown earthen jar, with some small but- ton onions, bay-leaves, cloves, whole pepper, and ginger. Make a strong pickle of salt and water, boiled tegether. When cold, fill up the jar containing the mushrooms with it, and cover over very tightly, so as to exclude the air. When required for use, they must be washed from the brine, when they will be found full of flavor, and in ex- cellent condition. CONTRIBUTED RECEIPTS. BY AN OLD HOUSEKEEPER. EveGant Fritrers.—Take eight eggs, sixteen table- spoonfuls of flour, a little salt, and milk sufficient to make a bitter. Mix and fry in butter. Eat with sugar aud cinnamon. Jerrerson CAKE.—Butter one pound, sugar one pound, flour two pounds, a little salt, soda quarter of an ounce, one grated nutmeg, a little cinnamon, and milk sufficient to furm adough. Cut into cakes, and bake. Buus Dyg.—Take one pound of oil of vitriol and put one ounce of the best indigo and 2 small lump of pearl- ash; it will ferment. When this is done, cork it tight, and it is fit for use. You can graduate the color to your fancy, by adding more or less to the water’ into which you immerse the goods. A West-Pornt Puppixe.—One pound sheep’s-tongue chopped fine, half pound suet chopped fine, five ounces of sugar, one tablespoonful of butter, one pound of potatoes boiled. Mix all well together and bake about four bours Usion Puppixe.—Take one cup of white sugar, three tablespoonfuls of flour, two eggs, one grated nutmeg, and one good-sized cocoanut grated fine, two teacupfuls of new milk and a tablespoonful of good fresh butter. Bake like tarts, without an upper crust. Mn. Gopry: I have a way of my own for Breap mak- ing, and I like my own way sometimes, in this particular always. If it is deemed worthy a place in the Book by you, you are welcome to so use it. It is as follows :— Save a gill of bread dough made with hop yeast, cover it tigbtly and place it ina cool room or cellar until bakin day; then make a sponge of it by adding warm water and flour, and a good teaspoonful of sugar. This should be done early in the morning. When the sponge is very light, mix the bread as usual with warm milk, or water, and a teaspoonful of soda or saleratus, and when light bake. This always insures light, sweet bread, and ev- tirely does away with yeast making. Of course a piece of dough must be saved out each time. L. M. 8. Cream Cueese.—The cream cheese we make at home is much admired. We put a quart of cream into a clean jug, with half a teaspoonful of salt stirred in, and let it stand a day or two till thickish. Then we fold an ordi- nary glass cloth about six or eight times, and sprinkle it with salt, then lay it in a sieve about eight inches in dia- meter. The sides of the cloth should come up well over the sieve. Then pour in the cream, and sprinkle a iittle salt on it. Change the cloth as often as it becomes moist, and as the cheese dries press it with the cloth and sieve. In about a week or nine days it will be prime and fit to eat. The air alone suffices to turn the cream into cheese. Another: Take about half a pint of cream, tie it upina piece of thin muslin, and suspend it inacool place, After five or six days take it out of the muslin, and put it be- tween two plates, with a small weight on the upper one. This will make it a good shape for the table, and also help to ripen the cheese, which will be fit to use in about eight days from the commencement of the making. E.

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Evitors’ Sable. FASHIONS OF DRESS AND THEIR INFLUENCE. ‘Minerva, skilful goddess, trained the maid To twirl the spindle by the twisted thread, To fix the loom, instruct the reeds to part, Cross the len’ weft and close the web with art ; A useful gift but what profuse expense, What world of fashions took its rise from hence.”’ Tats “world of fashions,’’ this ‘‘ profuse expense’’ of the rich, bring many benefits to the poor, and many blessings to social life. Like all the arrangements of a wise Providence, this universal desire to be comely in one another’s eyes is, under proper regulation, the source of muoh that is useful, valuable, and commendable. It prompts ingenuity and promotes industry ; comfortable homes are made, families brought up and public pros- perity inereased by this ceaseless ministration to the per- sonal adornment which so thoroughly pervades civilized life; uniting both as cause and consequence of this civil- ization. A home where the decencies and the prettinesses of the toilet are ignored is, usually and must be, an uncomfort- able, dull, and even unwholesome abode. The first necessities of outward adornment are cleanliness and withont these, no jewels, no gauds can please the eye or the taste. To be well dressed does not mean to be expensively arrayed. Form, colors, and adaptation are far more important than costliness. We would have every woman study how she can, in accordance with modesty, discretion, and duty, present the most pleasing personal appearance. Let her dis- crimination and taste be exercised in the choice of colors that become her and in styles that best suit her face, her age, and her fortune. Let no criminal indolence or selfish indifference divert her from making the necessary exer- tions. Let her not weary of taking the trouble to look as well as she can and be as agreeable as possible in her own house and with her nearest and dearest familiar The true lady at home is the real lady every- neatvess ; friends. wriere, We have known goed, and sensible people in most things, in their zeal to crush vanity, try to subvert all taste for dress and decoration. This is like Swift’s advice to the man to eut off his feet in order to save shoe leather. Even in boarding-schools for girls it has sometimes been thought right to eoerce every one into an uniform fashion of dress, under the idea that this would obviate the evils of differences in fortune among the pupils by removing the most obvious cause of envyings and rivalries. What is school but the world in miniature! We begin social life there in a medley of different circumstances, Just as we find it afterwards in the outer world. Is it not easier to learn, in the pliant days of childhood and youth, the absolutely necessary lesson that in luxuries the rich and the poor must submit to differences? And, at the same time, can we too early be brought to comprehend that the silk dress and fine bonnet bring neither happi- ness nor the highest kind of respect? That worth of cha- racter and cultivated abilities will always be the real support of the individual ? 370 It seems to us that these artificial restrictions in Semi- naries for young ladies serve chiefly to foster idleness, discontent, covetousness, and an over-estimate of the finery which is prohibited. Neatness, simplicity, a nice fit, and becoming colors can be obtained by every pupil. These, the real and essential elements in the Art of Dress, should be commended for all womanhood, alike suitable for the daughter of the millionnaire and the daughter of the mechanic. That the cost of materials and of orna- ments must be different, in cases of dissimilar means, requires no more to be disputed than that one girl has black eyes and another blue ; and this difference will bo as easily acquiesced in, if the training and management be of the right kind. Some years ago we gave, in our Table, a few strictures on costumes in general, and propounded a series of ques- tions for our gentlemen friends. No man has taken the trouble to reply; probably no one thought it worth the trouble; and yet we think the subject deserves the atten- tion of good, grave, and learned men. How came the Art of Dress to be considered a silly, tri- fling matter, when the Bible so clearly reveals its high Heaven and earth were united in the discovery and appiication of this Art. The merciful Creator acted in concert with his fallen children. While they sought to make only a covering for the shame of sin, revealed in their nakedness, their Heavenly Father made them cloth- ing that typified his pitying love and gave them hope of salvation through being clothed upon by Christ’s right- eousness. Dress, then, is something more than necessity of climate, something better than condition of comfort, something higher than elegance of civilization. It is the index of conscience; the evidence of our emotional nature ; it reveals, more clearly than speech expresses, the inner life of heart and soul in a people, and the tendencies of indi- vidual character. It shows the progress of man in his destiny of subduing the world; and also his duty to serve God in obedience to all things that are pure and lovely and of good report. Had we room, we should like to give many Bible examples that prove the importance of our manner of clothing. We must defer these now; but we again put forth the questions, and hope that some of our learned and Christian friends will favor ys with their answers. import? 1. Are the mothers of men who rule the world found among the loose-robed women, or among the women who dress in closer-fitting apparel ? 2. Is there not the greatest improvement of the human race where the fashions uf dress are most subject to change? 3. Can a people who go naked or only half covered be Christian, or ever become Christianized, unless they clothe themselves ? 4. Are not those nations most morally refined in civili- zation and Christianity where tie costumes of men and womcn differ most essentially? 4

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a EDITORS’ TABLE. 4 871 HOME MANUFACTURES. (LETTER TO THE EDITRE?S. ) Dear Mas. Hate: I wish, through the pages of your admirable magazine, to say a few words upon the subject of encouraging such home productions as are conpected with feminine employments. True patriotism and good policy, though they do not always combine with good taste, should lead American women, as far as practicable, always to encourage Ameri- can mannfactures. Doubtless, foreign competition may be beneficial on the whole even to staple productions. Domestic competition will certainly take place, just as soon as a good article is seen to control the market. So much the better for the high standard required by the public and reached by the manufacturer. Women who are disposed to prevent, as far as they may, the exportation of gold from the country, inquire anxiously for such articles of dress as they find necessary and suitable. Owing to the demand for French goods of almost every variety required by women, the American manufacturers of similar goods have produced only infe- rior fabrics. Scarcely any competition in the manufac- ture has raised the standard of their quality; but in the few cases where the article is fine and well made, the manufacturers have availed themselves of the feminine penchant for French goods and labelled their own goods accordingly. Purchasers are served with American goods at French prices. An honorable competition among American manufac- turers, although it might not allow so liberal or so fre- quent dividends among stockholders, would raise very much the reputation of the manufacturers. It is to be hoped that a full knowledge of these facts will be exten- sively circulated, and an honorable and liberal competi- tion among Americans make it quite unnecessary for women to purchase foreign goods at all, much less American de laines at Paris prices. Leaving the matter of dress goods for the present, I wish to state that most articles of our necessary use and wear are produced at home. It is at least six years since I asked for French flannels, and was shown them with the remark that no French flannels, so called, were imported or had been for years. Our,own flannels being quite equal to the foreign. The same may be said of American cottons of all kinds, including printed cottons. With the exception of a few French prints, our shepsare filled with American calicoes, at French prices and with French labels. I have been buying Coates’s English cctton the last two years, notwithstanding the high price; feeling that, as nothing but Coates had ever been satisfactory, nothing but Coates would continue to be. I now find I can buy our own Portsmouth steam cotton, as it is called, than which nothing can be finer, stronger, evener, or better every way. It is well known that cotton is injured by ¢rossing the ocean. No European cotton, even if equal in all respects to our own, should have favor with Ameri- eans. We should sew our own cloth with our own thread. We should make our own needles, and cut with our own Connecticut scissors. The sooner we make ourselves independent of foreign countries, the better for ourselves in every way. The fact is, we are in reality much more independent than we know. Weare served with Yankee notions under foreign names, continually, and our pockets suffer accordingly. Let every lady have the independence and good sense to ask at the shops for the American article. Let her show that sheis not ashamed to wear American goods, and that she expects to receive them at American prices. Higher, of course, than she formerly gave, since all rates of labor and subsistence have increased. but that she knows better than to give European prices for goods when those prices have nothing to do with the rate of exchange. Not long ago I bought a crépe de laine, of so delicate a texture and so good a color, that I was sure it must be French, and supposed the shopman was inducing me to buy it on American grounds, as I had inquired ocly for our own productions. “It would be impossible, madam.”’ he said, ‘for me to sell you this at sixty-two and a half cents a yardif I had imported it. It hasa French label, but it was made ino this country. It will be said the laws of trade settle themselves. That whena good article is produced in America, it will answer all our purposes ; that the foreign will not be desired. In time this will be so, nndoubtedly ; but, mean while, the reputation of the country, patriotic feeling, self-respect, all these call loudly on women to give assistance and im- = to the slow laws of trade, by the potent influence of shion. One of the most elegant women in Boston said to her milliner, a few weeks ago, ‘Get mean American bounet —with American ribbous and flowers." ‘Where shall I get it?’’ said the astonished milliner. “At No. 1 Street,’’ answered the lady ; “ you will find delicate straws of every variety, and for ribbons and flowers, I will trust your own taste."’ The bonnet, it is needless to say, appeared in due time, and was pronounced quite fitto wear. A few directions of this kind give a new impulse to public opinion, en- courage the timid, and give direction to the large elass who wait on the ideas of their neighbors. In America everything is done by public opinion. Inthe shops, what is asked for, often, is soon procured. The demand creates the supply, the supply creates competition. Competition opens new avenues to industry and self-help. The war has left, and will Jeave large numbers of women and children dependent on their own exertions. In the manufacture of thread of all kinds, there is an opening for feminine industry. It is to be hoped that the wives of disabled soldiers, and the orphans of deceased ones, will be encouraged in all these employments. That thread may be well, abundantly and cheaply made in this coun- try, let women inquire for it at the shops, and insist on having the American article—the Holyoke or the Ports- mouth. Both are excellent; in every way as smooth, ae reliable, as good for machine as for handwork, and in alt respects equal tothe English. Even if we had to give more for our own spool-cotton, we should buy it, but I think it is cheaper. The same is true of our Connecticut scissors, which are fully equal to the English. Let us show that when we have a guod article provided for us, we have the right feeling to encourage its production, THE IMPORTANCE OF WORDS. (EXTRACTS FROM A LETTER TO THE EDITKESS.} My Dear Mrs. HALE: The terms male and female are best confined strictly to the distinctions of sex, as they ane used by the trauslators of the Bible, men whose Enylish cannot be improved, in force or directness of meaning. When they wish to speak substantively of the feminine half of the creation, they say woman. When they speak of animated nature asa creation, ‘‘ Male and female created he them.’’ That is, male and female of all auimals; buat when human beings are spoken of, it is man and woman. If you say—‘‘I saw a female in the field’'—how can we know whether you mean a cow, a hen, a mare, or any other creature of female sex? ‘An elegant female"’ may be a pea-hen, which is certainly very elegant. ‘A dis- tressed female’ may be a cat hurted by boys. What is the use of this obscurity? Why not say hen, if you mean the bird, cat, if you mean the beast, aud woman, if you mean your mother, your sister, your friend ! * * + * * * * * This vulgarity, like many others, has, through haste or negligence, crept into newspepers; from these sp into the books, and the language of half-educated personas, who have never lived in good company, and who want taste. Everybody knows the slippery case of a descent inte what is wrong. People who ought to know what is right in style, but who are careless and fond of new dic- tion, allow themselves to adopt slang and erroneous words—they communicate these faults to the atmosphere that surrounds them. Thus the “pure well of English" is ‘‘defiled’’ by solecisms and tasteless corruptions, which, if not arrested, take from our literature and cur conyersa- tion all point, spirit, and propriety. MY SAVIOUR'S NAME Saviour, I love thy sacred namet All other names are naught to me; Vain all the honors they may claim; In Thine, alone, true worth | seot O, may I love it with a love Unknown in all the sinful past ; Read it in glowing lines above, And own its power while life shal! last, Love would enshrine it in the soul, Learn all its symbols to the world, When sorrow hides the shining goul, Or has its darkening banner furled { Rejoice, then, O my soul, to know Thy glories linked to that sweet name? Here hope’s serene and brightening glow— Yonder fruition’s holy flame! Name above every name on earth! Angels in beaven that name adoret Mortals can never know its worth, Even when saved to sin nu more!

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A Fraycaman's [pga or SHAKsPRARE.—M. Victor Hugo, in his new work—*“ William Shakspeare’’—gives it as his opinion that the giant dynasty of mortal race num- bers only fourteen names: ‘‘ Homer, the mighty son of the world’s youth; Job, the first dramatist; Aischylus, the terrible; Isaiah, whore words are a perpetual thun- derbolt of righteous accusation; Ezekiel, the Biblical demagogue ; Lucretius, the sad questioner of dark enig- mas; Juvenal, whose pen stung like a poisoned arrow ; Tacitus, whose words branded as with a hot iron; St. John, the seer of celestial glories; St. Paul, the herald of a new age; Dante, the creator of terrible phantoms; Rabelais, the writer of Titanic force; Cervantes, the mas- ter of irony; and Suakspearse!’”? What more need be said ? BOOKS IN THE FAMILY. We must have books. They are necessary as bread to the full life of the home circle. The celebrated Aimé- Martin says: “There is no universal power here below except that of women.’’ In literature woman has not yet gained her empire; but she is rapidly extending her conquests, Of books for family reading there are now many, among the best, written by ladies. As mothers guide their ehildren’s taste and sentiments great care is necessary in the selection of family books; we mean those read and quoted, and made the standards of morals, manners, taste, and principles of action for the young. In the flood of new works continually pouring over our land it is often difficult to discriminate those which are really worthy a second perusal. Unless a book will wear well, draw you to read it over and over, till the senti- ments and truths it teaches, which you particularly need, are made your own, it is not worth a place in the family circle, We are often requested to name the books we can eommend. There are some among those lately written by ladies we consider excellent, and worthy to be household companions. In this class we rank all the works written by the authoress of ‘‘ The Sch. inberg-Cotta Family ;"' aud also the “Poems and Prose’ of Jean Ingelow. These writers are English women. Now we havean American authoress, whose three books, “Country Living and Country Thinking ;"’ ‘Gala Days ;"’ and ‘Stumbling Blocks,’’ deserve to be read by every American family. These works, as yet but little known out of New Enyland, are, as we believe, destined to a per- manent life in our literature. They have the spirit of life in them. “Gail Hamilton’’ has made her nomme de plume a new star in our firmament of literary ladies. We welcome her to the field where true women should work, to make the world better and happier. The influence of her writings, as shown in these volumes, is to do this; and although some of her ideas may be open to question, the scupe of her suggestions are right and good. She draws her wisdom from the fount of God’s Word—and shows from ler own experience and observation that the paths of righteousness are pleasantness. Those who want litera- ture that stirs the heart and soul as well as the mind and the imagination, should get these works, which are not novels, but more amusing.* We must not, however, forget that our young readers sometimes want real novels. One such, a new and in- teresting novel, we have now before us. “The Morris- sons a Story of Domestic Life," by Mrs. Margaret Hos- mer (see Literary Notices, page 374), is a real house- hold book: it will do good. And then there isa novel * Published by Tickuor & Fields, Bustuu, Mass. GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. by Mrs. Wood — ‘Oswald Gray”"’—that deserves to be read in the family. WOMEN’S MISSION TO WOMEN. Iv gtr February number we gave a short sketch of our Mission in Caleutta, under the care of Miss Brittan, who was teaching the women in Zenanas, or Hareems. Siuco then we have had two more papers from this lady's journal, showing the rapid progress she is making in her good work. We give a selection. WANT OF MISSIONARIES. Caicurra, March 22d, 1864. “To-day I received another proposition, or rather beg- ging request, to take charge.of a native school across the river at Howrah. They have no teacher, and fear they must close the school until one, who has been sent for, arrives from England. I told them 1 would take charge of it if I could continue my Zenana work. Every school here is missionary work, and there is a deplorable outcry for teachers. Oh that you could send out another, or eveu two or three teachers, aud means for Zenana work! There could be no place where they are mure needed. We could establish a little mission of our own, for no matter of what denomination the ladies are, they could find churches and friends Already I have over one hundred and twenty pupils needing another white teacher and fands to carry it on, and there are as many more ready to be taught."’ We nced funds. Will not ladies who take a deep inte- rest in the success of our Society aid us? Fifty dollars makes a iife-patron; twenty dollars constitute a mana- ger; one dollar a year is the subscription. Names of contributors and their offerings recorded in the Lady's Book. Mrs. J. E. P. Stevens contributed one hundred dollars, making two PATRONS :— Rev. William P. Breed, Philadelphia, Pa. Rt. Rev. Carlten Chase, D. D., Bishop of New Uamp- shire. Morton’s Gop Pens.—Among the absolute necessaries of life we must reckon the pen. There is no interest in our business, no article of service or of ornament in our hands that we might not dispense with more easily than with the pen. In this little helper we hold the power of con- solativn to the afflicted, and of conversation with the ab- sent; it is the regulator of daily routine, the interpreter of domestic affections, and the soother of individual cares and heart-sorrows. It is the supporter of law, the coun- sellor of duty, the expounder of the world’s doings in its record of daily news; essential to the heart of the lover and the haud of the warrior. to the officer of justice and the teacher of Divine Truth. The pen is an institution. Therefore a good pen is of inestimable importance to all who write. The Editors of the Lady's Book can conscientiously commend the gold pens of “A. Morton, 25 Maiden Lane, N. Y.,"’ to their friends as worthy universal patronage. HINTS ABOUT HEALTH. Tue Uses or Iczr.—In health no one ought to drink ice- water, for it has occasioned fatal inflammations of the stomach and bowels, and sometimes sudden death. The temptation to drink it is very great in summer; to use it at all with any safety the person should take but a single swallow at a time, take the glass from the lips for half a minute, and then another swallow, and so on. It will be found that in this way it becomes disagreeable after a few mouthfuls. On the other hand, ice itself may be taken as freely as possible, not only withont injury, but with the most striking advantage in dangerous forms of disease. If broken in sizes of a pea or bean, and swallowed as freely as practieable, without much chewing or crushing between the teeth, it will often be efficient in checkiug vavions kinds of diarrhea, and bas cured violent cases of Asiatic chelera. A kind of cushion of powdered ice kept to the entire scalp has allayed violent infammation of the brain, and — fearfal convulsioms induced by too much blood there.

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LITERARY NOTICES. 378 In croup, water, as cold as ice can make it, applied freely to the throat, neck, and chest, with a sponge or cloth, very often affords an almost miraculous relief, and if this be followed by drinking copiously of the same ice- culd element, the wetted parts wiped dry, and the child be wrapped up well in the bedclothes, it falls into a de- lightful and life-giving slumber. All inflammations, internal or external, are promptly subdued by the application of ice or ice-water, because it is converted into steam, and rapidly conveys away the extra heat, and also diminishes the quantity of blood in the vessels of the part A piece of ice laid on the wrist will often arrest violent bieeding of the nose.—Dr. Hall. To ovr CoraEsPONDENTs.—These articles are accepted : “‘ Never Mind’’—*‘ Hallie Lyndon’’—‘‘ No Idolin the Hand —No Idol in the Heart’’—*‘ Soft Cash’’—‘‘ May Time’’— “On Idyls’’—*t My First and Last Flirtation.” The following articles we must decline: ‘ You First, Sir’’—“Our Lost Ones’’—“Invocation’’—‘To Life’s Pilot’’ (we are burdened with poems)—‘ The Churchyard Slumberer’’—“‘ Lost Again’’—‘The Burial’? (we want carefully prepared articles—not ‘‘scribblings ;’’ the writer can do better) —‘‘ Supplication’’ — “ Fame’’ — “‘ Night Thoughts’’—‘‘ Aunt Aggie’’—“‘ Charitable People’’—(Cor- dova must try and trust, work and wait, as all who reach the “immortalities of a name’”’ are obliged to do—we can- not give the boon)—‘‘ The Piano’s Story’’—** Names,”* etc. —‘*A Great Want’’—‘The Terrible!’’—‘* Anonymous Writers’’—‘‘Cold Water’’—“ Catastrophe of My Life’’— “ Song’’—‘‘ The Oldest Inhabitant an Impostor.”’ We have many articles on hand; these we will notice next month, if possible. Witerarp Notices, From Peterson & Brotuers, Philadelphia:— THE BEAUTIFUL WIDOW. By Mrs. Percy B. Shelley. The Messrs. Peterson are engaged in the laudable enter- prise of reviving, for the benefit of the present generation, various works of fiction which were most popular in days gone by, but of which the very names are all but forgot- ten now. The book before us is one of these. Its author was the wife of the poet Shelley, and was an attractive novelist in her day. The story is an interesting one, and will find many appreciative readers. THE BROTHER’S SECRET. By William Godwin. Such is the name given to another novel which was extensively read and admired years ago. Its style is smooth and finished ; its sentences are elegantly turned, and abound in flowery phrases ; while the deliberateness of the author in developing his story is easily accounted for, when we bear in mind it wasewritten at a period when the public delighted most in a six volume novel, and were not satis- fied with less than three volumes. FAMILY SECRETS. This is an exceptional book. The author is both witty and caustic, and writes with a bril- liancy and readiness seldom equalled. She applies the lash to society bravely and undauntedly, wherever and whenever she thinks society deserves. To speak truly, its tone is somewhat morbid, and we fear its pages are not entirely free from the manifestation of prejudice. LOVE’S LABOR WON. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. South- worth. This is a new edition of one of Mrs. Southworth’s mest successful works. It is powerfully written, and is full of intense and almost tragic interest. HIGH LIFEIN WASHINGTON. A True Picture from Life, of Real Persons and Characters. By Mrs. N. P. Lasselle, author of ‘‘ The Belle of Washington,’ ete. A VoL, LXx.—30 t * of Beethoven’s “ Moonlight Sonata’’ is beautiful. lively book, affording the reader an insight into the doings of the aristocratic circles of the gay capital. Mrs, Luas- selle is a popular novelist, and her latest work is sure to prove successful. MARCUS WARLAND; or, The Long Moss Spring. By Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz, author of ‘‘ The Lost Daughter,"’ “Linda,’’ etc. The Petersons do well in republishing this work of Mrs. Hentz. It is one of the best from her pen, and while many will now peruse it for the first time, many others will delight to reperuse it. PICTORIAL LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF JACK ADAMS, the Celebrated Sailor and Mutineer. By Captain Chamier, R. N., author of “ The Spitfire,’’ ete. LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF TOM BOWLING. By Captain Chamier, R. N. From Lipprxcorr & Co., Philadelphia :— JENKINS’ VEST POCKET LEXICON. Really, as the author says, a ‘‘ Vest Pocket Lexicon.’’ Very small, yet very good. This is a revised edition, and should be in every body’s pocket. CHAMBERS’ ENCYCLOPAEDIA. Nos. 85, 86, 87, and 88. A Dictionary of Universal Knowledge for the People, on the Basis of the latest editions of the German Conversa- tiones Lexicon. With wood engravings and maps. The best Encyclopedia published. Price 25 cents a number. From Harper & Brotners, New York, through Perer- son & Brorners, and Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia :— OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. By Charles Dickens. With Illustrations. In two Parts. PartI. We have received the first half of Dickens’s last, and, we are convinced, his best story. Dickens is in the zenith of his power. Every person who figures in his book is either a character ora caricature. Silas Megg and Mr. Boffin are destined to earthly immortality, and Mr. Veneering will be the stand- ard example of English “ shoddydom;"’ while ‘“ Pod- snappery’’ is a word with a significance too pointed and apt to be overlooked. We shall anxicusly await the second part of the story. MATTIE: A Stray. By the author of “ High Church," *“*No Church,” ete. A superior novel, both as regards its style and its healthful moral tone. Its heroine isa favor- ite one with writers of fiction: a young girl whois picked up from the streets, and develops into an extraordinary woman. To say that the author has succeeded in attach- ing fresh interest to this somewhat worn-out plot, is high praise. MY BROTHER'S WIFE: A Life History. By Amelia B. Edwards, author of ‘‘ Barbara’s History,’’ etc. A book for a poet or artist to delight in. Its familiarity with the poetry of various nations, its scraps of German legenda, its delightfully faithful descriptions of places, and its easy, finished style are its chief charms. The reminiscence The characters of the book are not strongly marked. From D. AppLeton & Co., New York, through AsHMEaD & Evans, Philadelphia :— CHATEAU FRISSAC; or, Home Scenes in France. By Olive Logan, author of ‘‘ Photographs of Paris Life,"’ etc. The author of this work has so thoroughly imbibed the spirit of French life, and infused it into her production, that it seems almost impossible that it could have been written originally in any other language than French. Its theme is the detestable mariage de convenance 80 common in France, and not unknown in this country ; showing its fatal results in regard to the happiness of those most interested. ’

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374 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. APPLETON’S RAILWAY AND STEAM NAVIGATION GUIDE, containing the Time-tables, Stations, Distances, and Connections upon all the Railways throughout the United States and the Canadas, ete. By G. F. Thomas, Editor and General Travelling Agent. From James Mitier, New York, through Liprtncorr & Co., Philadelphia :— THE YANKEE BOY FROM HOME. This book of travels, while being, no doubt, of interest to the personal friends of the author, is too brief and general in its descrip- tions concerning everything which is supposed to engage the attention of the traveller, and which certainly arouses the interest of the reader, to be particularly commendable as a book of travels. The person who interiards his description of the Alps with indifferent patriotic poetry, who confesses to having neglected the magnificent scenery in the neighborhood of Lake Como for trifling chat ; and who can find little of more importance to relate than the distances from one city to another, and the announce- ments, at short intervals, of the receptions of letters and newspapers, is not a promising narrator of travels. From Joux Brapsury, New York, through G. W. Prtcuer, Philadelphia :— OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. By Charles Dickens. Though we find the second book of a four volume edition of this work upon our table, we have not yet been enabled to acknowledge the receipt of the first. This edition is very neatly printed and bound. From Tickyor & Fie.ps, Boston, through Asumgap & Evans, Philadelphia :-— ENOCH ARDEN, etc. By Alfred Tennyson, D.C. L., Poet-Laureate, This edition of Tennyson's beautiful poem is prepared in paper cover, at a price which brings it within the reach of all. From Henry A. Brown, 487 Broadway, New York :— RAPHAEL'S CARTOONS. An entirely New Series of Plates, engraved by G. Greatbach, from the Originals at Hampton Court Palace, expressly for the Drawing-room ‘Table, or the Portfolio. Consisting of 7 plates. The sub- jects are: The Death of Ananias, The Sacrifice at Lystra, Christ's Charge to Peter, Paul Preaching at Athens, Ely- mas struck with Blindness, St. Peter Healing the Lame Man, The Miraculous Draught of Fishes. Quotation and Descriptive Letter-press with each plate. With an Intro- duction and Memoir of Raphael. The plates and text elegantly printed on paper made expressly for the pur- pose. Size 12 by 17 inches. The whole in a ‘beautifu! portfolio. Price, per set, $10. A few sets of Artists’ proofs reserved, at $15. FRUITS AND FLOWERS OF THE HOLY LAND. We have received from G. W. Tomiinson, Boston, a package of ten of these photographs, very prettily colored. From Govtp & Lixcoun, Boston, Mass. :— ESSAYS: Historical and Biographical, Political, So- cial, Literary, and Seientific. By Hugh Miller, author of “ The Old Red Sandstone,” “My Schools and School- masters,’’ etc. ete. With a Preface by Peter Bayne, au- thor of “The Christian Life,’’ ete. These essays are a selection from the editorial contributions of Hugh Miller to the True Witness, the organ of the Scottish Free Church. They embrace a variety of subjects, lighter generally in tone than hts other writings, but they bear the same unmistakable stamp of the great geologist’s mind—immense vigor of execution, thorough grasp of the subject, and a pleasing though somewhat labored style, the style of a self-made man. The book is a valuable contribution to general literature; and the publishers have done good service in the cause of morals by this publication. From Joun Brapsurs, New York :— THE MORRISONS: A Story of Domestic Life. By Mrs. Margaret Hosmer. We have here a new novel by a new authoress, and although the theme—home life—is old as “Eden, the plot and characters are new in our literature. Mrs. Hosmer has sought to delineate the intelligent and once opulent class of Irish emigrants who seek America to mend their broken fortunes, as the poor peasantry flock here to make their living. We have millions of the last class among us and know them well; but the genteel poor of the first class have as yet attracted little notice. Their numbers are now rapidly increasing, and this book comes in good time to give us an insight of their peculiar- ities. What these are we sha!® ieave the reader to discover and estimate. The book is full of home interest, and never flags. The characters are skilfully drawn, the humor and pathos such as will compel the heart of the reader to sympathize. We need hardly say that, from the pen of a Christian lady, the moral effect of the work must be pure and good ; but this moral is brought out by events and coaversations, not by the direct teachings of the authoress. This dramatic tone gives a life-like cha- racter of reality and truth to the story rarely attained in works of fiction. In short, we like the book, and com- mend it to our friends. The publisher has brought it out in handsome style as a gift-book. , From Hurp & Hovenroyr, New York :— IDYLS OF BATTLE AND POEMS OF THE REBEL- LION. By Howard Glyndon. (Laura C. Reddan.) This very touching and interesting little volume is a collection of fugitive pieces printed in various newspapers during this present war. The poems are gracefully written, with much feeling and patriotism. ‘For the Stricken,” and “The Latest News,’’ are very beautifal. The work shows the inspiration of true genius, and a deep sympathy with suffering in the cause of truth and duty. From J. E. Tr:ton & Co., Boston: — THE THREE SCOUTS. By J. W. Trowbridge, author of “Cudjo’s Cave,’’ “The Drummer Boy,” ete. The author has won himself a wide popularity by his former works, This book will increase his reputation asa stand- ard writer. It is less sensational; it has more depth of feeling, and a higher tone of thougift and action. But as the subject is similar, and some of the characters are familiar, the reader will feel himself at home still, with his favorite author of these books for the times. BOOKS, REVIEWS, AND PAMPHLETS. THE NEW-ENGLANDER. January, 1865. Vol. 24; No.1. New-Haven: Wm. L. Kingsley, Editor and Pro- prietor. AMERICAN EDUCATIONAL MONTHLY: Devoted to Popular Instruction and Literature. January, 1865. New York: Schemerhorn, Bancroft, & Co. BLACKWOOD’S MAGAZINE. American edition. Jan- uary, 1865. New York: Leonard Seott & Co. NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW. Boston: Tickaor & Fields.

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GODEY’S ARM-CHAIR. THE UNDEVELOPED POWERS OF THE CHURCH. A Primary Charge, delivered to the Glergy of the Diocese of Pennsylvania. By the Rt. Rev. Wm. Bacon Stevens, D. D., Assistant Bishop of the Diocese. HALL’S JOURNAL OF HEALTH. Edited by W. W. Hall, M. D., New York. MOUNT WASHINGTON COLLEGE FOR YOUNG LA- DIES, Baltimore Co., Maryland. Gade ys A nC) nin, APRIL, 1865. Tue first plate is “The Recognition.” We need hardly commend this plate. It is its own letter of recommenda- tioa. Read the story. Our colored Fashions are those fur Spring; but we give several additional novelties in our wood engravings. ‘First of April’’ is a pleasant and agreeable subject for the season. Fast as this custom is going out of use, yet still some adhere to it, and where it is used in the harmless way as suggested by our engraving it is not out of place. Messrs. A. T. Stewart & Co., the millionnaire merchants of New York, present us this month with one subject. Next month we shall have three from the same house. Flower-Vase Mat, Printed in tints. We give also in this number five patterns of the most approved Spring bonnets. In every number of the Lady’s Book we give the most recent Bonnet fashions and Head- dresses, To AvTtHors.—We respectfully suggest that in sending articles you would omit “Many persons will take the Book if my articles are published. Some are waiting now, who will subscribe as soon as you publish the story now sent.’’ We publish no articles that we do not ap- prove uf, no matter how many subscribers we may lose. We would also suggest that the following may be omitted: «Mr. don’t care how many misters have read and approved. We do not publish unless we approve. has read my story, and approves of it.”’ We ReEMOVAL.—The office of Godey’s Lady’s Book is now at the North-east corner of Chestnut and Sixth Streets, and occupies four stories, 30 by 70 feet each ; has two untrances, one on Chestnut and one on Sixth Street, Seven-Tuirty U.S. Loan.—We call attention on our eover to this loan, and the advantages ofit. There is no other investment as good asthis. Here is an incontro- vertible recommendation from the agent’s, Jay Cooke, Esq., Cireular:— ‘* Nothing can be safer, for we are all bound for it, and all that we have is held and firmly bound for the pay- ment of principal and interest. How foolish those people are who keep idle, and locked up, their gold and green- backs, or purchase mortgages or railroad stocks and bonds, which pay only 5 or 6 per cent. interest, when these Seven-Thirties pay (counting the premium on Five- Twenties) over ten per cent., and are so much safer and surer.’’ Monkey Siipper.—Please look at the slipper we pub- lished in the February number, and read this: The num- ber of type used in setting up that slipper was 30,000. How very little our subscribers know of the great expense and labor there is in catering for their amusement and instruction. ‘when we carry the Book in our pocket."’ Tue Bachelor Editors who give The Book such splendid criticisms, poor fellows, are fo be pitied. To have it upon the tables, and know there are no bright eyes at home looking for its coming ; no taper fingers eager to be occu- pied with its pretty patterns; no rosy lips .o thank the donor (how is a matter of taste), in short, no wife to make her treasure useful. There he sits, looking with wistfal eyes at the patterns for dressing-gowns and slip- pers, and sighing for some one to make them more than patterns. The literary matter he has read and admired, the pictures are beautiful, but there is no one to join a clear, silver laugh to his loud one at the jokes; there is no tear to do credit to his skill in pathos, as he reads the pathetic parts, there is no one to admire the “‘ dear, cunning baby,” or ‘‘that lovely face,’’ or ‘‘that pretty group”’ in the frontispiece, and he throws down the book, sighing for a sympathizing wife. Oh, ye bachelors. Button up your coats, put your hats firmly on your brow, place a copy of Godey in your pocket, in place of a revolver, and start forth to conquer, So armed you will be irresistible. Listen to the voice of the press on the subject. Since our friendly notice of bachelors our friend S——, of the ©- Republican, has been forced to marry in self- defence ; he was in receipt of so many letters that it was either to marry or hire a clerk to answer them. So he mar- ried. The ladies only required to have their eyes opened to understand his case thoroughly and—they prescribed. The editor of the A Democrat says: “ lintend to show the Lady’s Bock to my wife—when I get one!’’ The G Union editor gives out the following ; “ Wethink, for bach- elor editors like ourselves, Godey is a sine gua non, for we are always sure to be welcomed into the society of ladies A junior edi- tor, with his senior before him, a happy married man, writes thus: “ Even in the face of his partner’s happiness he remains dependent on the Lady’s Book for his welcome into the society of the fair sex.’’ Ladies of G ville, take him in hand, make him happy, and (in your ear) gain a husband and—his copy of the Book. Tue following questions are asked by subscribers. Will some one respond ? “‘Cannot some of your subscribers give us a receipt for knitting Shetland veils?’ “We would like also some one to give a receipt for making wine without sugar.”’ Misstna Numpers.—Subscribers, take notice! When you miss a number, write at once for it. We are not bound to supply numbers when you renew your sub- scriptions—numbers that you have lost by lending or otherwise. You say to us that you did not receive them. Well, then, send for them at once, when you miss them, and we shall be better satisfied in supplying them. Wax Fiowers, axyp How to Make Taem.—With this book any person of taste may learn how to make Flowers, Fruit, and all articles in Wax. Also, how to make Sheet Wax and Wax Materials. The best and most popular Teachers have had no other instructions. Much valuable information is here that Teachers not owning the book do not possess. Price $2. J. E. Trton & Co., Publishers, No. 161 Washington 8t., Boston. A Lapy wishes a receipt to make ‘‘ Diaphanie Varnish."’ If furnished, we will publish it in the Book for the benefit of all.

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376 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. OUR MUSICAL COLUMN. Opera at the Academy.—The close of winter brings with it one of the most brilliant seasons of opera ever known at our Academy. The grand German Troupe of Mr. Grover, largely augmented for the occasion, is at this writing presenting a splendid series of operas, including Mireille, and Faust, those two renowned works of M. Gounod; Meyerbeer’s Les Huguenots; the Figaro of Mozart; Halevy’s Jewess; Weber’s Oberon, for the first time entire in this country; and a revival of Auber’s most beautiful light opera, Fra Diavolo, which used to be so popular in its English dress, twenty years ago. Karl Formes, Herr Hermans, Mesdames Rotter and Johannsen, and Theo. Habelman, one of the best tenors in this coun- try, are included in the troupe. Lovers of opera music will find that we are now pub- lishing, in Holloway’s Musical Monthiy, the gems of all the new grand operas of Gounod, Verdi, Balfe, and others. The February number contained the grand Cheur des Moissonneurs, from Mireille, arranged by Kruger, for ac- complished performers. This piece was not published elsewhere in this country at the time of its publication in the Monthly, and it cam only now be had at 60 cents, while in the Monthly it is given away to subscribers, as they get for the thirty-three cents which the number costs, two other pieces worth respectively 30 and 25 cents. The March number also contains from the same splendid opera, the grand opening chorus, arranged in a simpler style than the other, by Brinley Richards, a composer whose brilliant genius is familiar to the patrons of the Monthly. In the same number we give a fine operatic ballad, O Would that my Heart, from Balfe’s grand romantic opera, The Armorer of Nantes. The April number is also bril- liant in operatic gems. In fact, operatic music is a spe- cialty in the Monthly. Holloway’s Musical Monthly for April.—This month’s number of the Monthly opens with an arrangement from the grand opera of Don Sebastian, by Donizetti, now per- forming with the most distinguished success in our prin- cipal cities. We also givea spirited Gallop from Weber’s beautiful opera of Oberon, referred to above as a speciality of the German Troupe this season. Also a vocal arrange- ment of The Orphan's Prayer, which, as an iastrumental piece, was so successful in the November Monthly last year. It is by Badarzewska, author of The Maiden’s Prayer. We publish it now arranged as a quartette for mixed voices, with piano accompaniment. It can also be sung by solo voices. We pronounce this piece, and this entire number of the Monthly, a gem. Any of the pieces in the number is worth more than the entire cost of the number. Price of single numbers, 40 cents; the January double number, 50 cents, Any three numbers will be sent free of postage for $1 25; or the four numbers for the new year thus far published, will be sent for $1 50. Our friends, however, should secure the regular visits of the Monthly for a year by inclosing $4 00 to the publisher, carefully addressed as follows: J. Starr Holloway, Pub- lisher Musical Monthly, Box Post-Office, Philadelphia. The Monthly is not for sale at the music stores, and can only be had as above. New Sheet Music.—We can also send the following new and beautiful songs, each 30 cents: To- Morrow, by Glover. All Day Long, by Foster, his very best song. The Splen- dor Falls on Castle Walls, adapted to Teunyson’s beauti- fal words. Norah Mavourneen, new Irish Ballad. Mother Waiting forthe News. Beautiful Valley. We Met and Talked of Other Days, fine song by Stewart. Christinas Bells, same. Address, as above, J. Starr HoLtiowar. Impostors ABouT.—A woman calling herself “‘ Addie _Craven,’”” has been imposing upon the inhabitants ef Brooklyn, Washington Heights, and other vicinities of New York City, representing herself as an agent of the Lady’s Book and other publications. Another person, a man named Fairchild, has been in the neighborhood cf Jamestown, New York. Neither of the above are agents of ours. We have no agents soliciting subscribers, and have so published for years. No respectable magaziuve has. ‘‘ Addie’’—-who can hardly write, finding from her receipts that have been sent us—always exacted the full $3. Fairchild, we understand, took subscribers at $1 50 for the whole year. We do not pity them, as they have paid for their attempt at saving. Common sense would havo told them that an agent could not undersell a pub- lisher. “*T usgp to have a bright little girl in my school, whose original remarks sometimes evinced a depth of thought, which, considering her age, was quite remarkable. The word secured occurred one day in the lesson ; I inquired the definition of it; Lizzie promptly replied: ‘ Secured means to be sick, and then get cured again.'"’ 8. GERMANTOWN TrLEGRAPH.—We noticed in our last this excellent paper, and commended it for its excellent selec- tion of stories and its editorials. We certainly ought to have mentioned its great specialty as an agricultural paper. It is authority! and we presume no paper is more freely extracted from—particularly its agricultura columns—than the Telegraph. Not being a farmer our- self, the stories first struck us, and they are good—but agriculture is our friend Freas’s hobby. Youne America! Young America! What will become of you? Listen to the last “store regulations.’’ A young gentleman of this city had a situation as clerk in a large wholesale store, with a liberal salary, spare time, except in ‘‘ busy season,’’ but a very stiff employer, who belonged to the Friends’ meeting. Our young friend had, by patience, perseverance, and ‘‘ bear's oil,’’ raised ‘‘ the most intense moustache and whiskers.’’ They were very black, very regular, and altogether “killing,’’ and he flattered himself, as his tout ensemble was very good, that those adornments made him quite irresistible. Boss looked on these whiskers with an eye expressive of dis- like and stern determination—boss having given up all these foppish vanities.”” “Thomas,’’ said his employer ta our young friend, ‘*does not thee think thy whiskers keep thee from thy work?” **Sir!’’ said the astonished elerk, ‘‘keep me from my work?"’ “Yes, thee is so very fond of them, and thee strokes them, and admires them there,’’ pointing to three square inches of looking-glass, sticking up in Tom's desk, “about half thy time. I'll tell thee what to do. Keep thy whiskers and moustache for Sunday, and don’t wear them in the store. Thee may go, Thomas.”’ Poor fellow! The old man was resolute, and Tom‘s place was more valuable than his hair. So off it came; while the owner had his revenge in telling all his friends about “that boss of his, who expected a fellow to ‘raise’ a moustache and whiskers like that over Saturday night.”’ H. Crate, 180 Centre Street, New York, has sent us “The New Bellevue Stereoscope.’’ It can be carried in the pocket, and it slides to accommodate any vision. It isa complete instrument. Price $3. Servant-GAt-ismM.—We gave an instance in our March number. Here is another. A girl left a good situation because she could not have a feather-bed to sleep on, and a fire in her room. We have received a very pretty photograph of a sold‘er and histwo children. Who sent it? = Sean et © -Seseawa @ a a..« @ ~ > = here ~~ sa i i. hn hana. -- a. a a 7 c¢an-

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GODEY’S. ARM-CHAIR. 877 CROQUET. As this gameis now becoming very fashionable, we give gome of the rules that govern it:— RULES OF THE GAME OF CROQUET. 1. The game may be played by not more than four players on each side. The length from peg to peg to be etghty feet across the ground, and the hoops to be placed according to the engraving. On commencing, each player must place the ball within a mallet’s length of the start- ing peg in any direction; the opening stroke must be through the ‘rst hoop, and any player missing the first hoop may take his ball up, and, when his turn comes round again, plays from the starting place, as at first. No ball can croquet, or be croquetted, until it has passed through the first hoop. 2. The players on each side are to play alternately, ac- cording to the colors on the starting peg, and the order in which they play cannot bealtered during the game, Each player continues to play so long as he plays with success, that is, so long as he drives his ball through the next hoop in order, or croquets another ball, or strikes the turning peg. 3. A player must fairly hit his ball, and not pushit. A ball is considered to be fairly hit when the sound of the stroke is heard. Some players rest the head of the mallet on the ‘urf, at a distance from the ball, which they strike by sharply advancing the mallet from its resting place ; and this is a fair stroke, if the sound of the ball is audible. A bail is “ pushed’’ when the face of the mallet is allowed to rest against it, and the ball propelled without the mallet being drawn back. 4. A player may play in any attitude, and use his mallet with his hands in any way he pleases, so that he strikes the ball with the face of the mallet. 5. When a player strikes his own ball so as to hit an- other at a distance, he is said to roquet it: and having thus hit a ball, he may then, as it is termed, “‘take the croquet,’’ which is done as follows: He lays his own ball against the other so that it touches it. He then places his foot on his own ball, which he strikes with his mallet. This will drive the other ball with any strength, and in any direction he pleases. In croquetting a ball away, a player will hold his foot firmly on his own ball, but the player is not bound to take the croquet; this is entirely at the option of the player. 6. A player must move the ball he croquets, He is said to “take a stroke off’? when he places his own ball to touch the roquetted ball very lightly, so as to leave it, when croquetted, in nearly the same position; but in doing this the croquetted ball must be perceptibly moved. 7. Ifa player in atiempting to croquet a ball does not remove it a mallet’s-head length from centre to centre away, it may be croquetted again. 8. If a hoop should be misplaced during the play, it must be replaced. 9. The sides may advise each other as to the best stroke to make. 10. A player may croquet any number of balls consecu- tively ; but the same ball canuot be croquetted twice dur- ing the same term. 1l. Instead of aiming at his hoop or another ball, a player may strike his ball towards any part of the ground he pleases. When he has made a complete circuit from the starting peg back to the starting peg, he may either retire from the game by pegging, or, by not doing so re- mainin. In this case leis called a ‘rover,’ and will still have the power of croquetting, consecutively, all the balls during any of his turns. 12. A ballis considered to have passed through its hoop (‘‘ made its hoop,’’) if it cannot be touched by the handle of the mallet laid on the ground from wire to wire on the side from which the ball passed. 13. A player wrongly roquetting or playing with a wrong ball or out of turn, loses a turn. 14. If in roquetting the other ball be sent through a hoop, the player may place the ball close to the roquetted one, bat must afterwards play through the hoop, as no ball can be considered played through a hoop, that has not been driven through it either by another ball or by a blow from the mallet; for when a ball roquets another it is **dead,’’ and ‘tin hand’’ until after the player of it has taken the croquet. Hence it follows, that if it cannons from one ball to another, or from a ball through its own hoop, or from « ball on to either of the pegs, none of these subsequent strokes count anything, while any ball dis- placed by the dead ball is restored to its former ition in the game. If, however, a player cannons off a ball which in the same turn he has croquetted, and then runs off it and makes a stroke, that stroke counts. 30* 16. A player after striking the turning peg in due course of the game, must not movethe ball into position for play- . ing through the retarn hoops, but must play it from the place where it stops after striking the peg. 16, When the ball of a player hits the starting peg, after he has been through all the hoops, whether by his own play or by being roquetfed (subject to the provisions in law 14), or by being croquetted, he is out of the game, and it goes on without him, his turn being omitted. 17, All disputes that may arise, to be referred to the Secretary and Captains of sides, whose decision shall be final; should the Secretary be a Captain, then an Umpire may be ¢hosen. TERMS USED I8 THE GAME. Roqvet.—To hit another ball with one’s own. “ Ro- quetted’’ is pronounced ‘* Roquéed.”’ Croquet.—To strike one’s own ball when in contact with a roquetted ball. ‘“ Croquetted"’ is pronounced “ Cro- quéed.”’ Wirep.—To be “‘ wired” is to have your ball in such, a position that a hoop prevents the stroke you wish to make. Pea.—To “ peg’’ is to strike either of the pegs in proper order. Disuiss.—To ‘‘ dismiss’’ a bal! is to croquet it to a dis- tance. Rover.—See Law 11. Tue Foster Home Association.—We will receive dona- tions for this establishment. Were its merits better known, every one would be willing to subscribe for it. It receives , children whose parents cannot get work with the incum- brance of their offspring. It educates, clothes, and feeds them, Many of the children of our soldiers are now sup- plied by its bounty. The price of everything has so in- creased that the managers find themselves a little in want of fands. Any sums will be thankfully received and passed over to the institution by the publisher of the Lady’s Book. Is a Montreal paper the following puff appears for a face-wash :—- “The face of my daughter was covered with pimples, With freckles her shoulders were all stigmatized ; Vain she'd recourse to the drugs and the simples, And nostrums by ignorant quacks advertised. I saw your advertisement, sir, and I bought her A flask of Plantagenet’s bloom-giving dew: The pimples have fled from the face of my daughter, The freckles have vanished, and bully for you. The “bully for you”’ is particularly good. Mosic RecriveD:— Golden Treasuries of Piano Lyrics. A most excellent selection of music worthy the attention of connoisseurs and amateurs. Slumber song. Schumann. Il Penseroso. Heller. Chant du Bivouac. Campsong. E. Ketterer. Trebelli. Polka Mazurka. La Mode Polka, for Piano. Rondo Pastorelle. Golden Days. Aballad. By Thomas A’Beckett. Whispering Trees. Asong. By Thomas A’Beckett. Kissing in Fun. A popular song. Confidence. By Mendelsshon. Serenade, from Stradella, for Piano, I Love the Breeze, A song. I Saw the Moon Clear. A song. Ah! Che la Morte. From I! Trovatore. The last four from Louis Meyer’s new Collection of Piano Music. “ The above Music received from the new and recherché establishment of Louis Meyer, 1323 Chestnut Street, corner of Juniper, where every description of foreign and Ameri- can music can be obtained. Teachers and artists have in Mr. Meyer a gentleman well acquainted with their merits. Aagexcies.—We have no agents, and no persons solicit- ing subscribers for us. Let this be remembered.

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378 PARIS ITEMS. Wounp that dressing and undressing were the only follies of our women! The mode now is for them to imi- tate the color of the Empress’s hair. We laugh at the courtiers who had operations for imaginary fistules per- formed because Louis XIV. was so afflicted, and here all the women are imitating the Empress’s Spanish walk and color of hair. 1 don’t wonder that so many people are daily carried off to the mad-house—the wonder is that some monstre commission de lunatico inquirendo be not sued out against us all, and result in all of us being sent to Charenton, where the Paris Bedlam is situated. Would you know the process by which jet black hair is trans- furmed into golden hair? for our fair dames at court and all our lorettes (they rather began it) sacrifice their beau- tiful black hair as freely as a red-head with you sacrifices his carrot. You wish to hear how the metamorphose is obtained ? At the appoirted hour the candidate for golden honors enters the dressing-room, attired in a long white dressing gown. Her hair floats Joosely over her shoulders, unse- cured by comb or pin. The “artist’’ is there. He begins by seeing that the hair is thoroughly separated ; then he by degrees pours over the head a phial of some ‘‘ water’’ (which probably holds in solution corrosive sublimate, or some equally deadly poison), and he takes hair by hair and saturates it with the water from one end to the other end. This «kes two hours. He allows fifteen minutes to elapse, and then he soaks the whole hair in ice-water ; then he pours another phial of his ‘‘ water’’ upon the hair and kneads the hair with his hands. Another respite of a quarter of an hour is given, which is followed by soaking the head in ice-water, which is succeeded by a new phial of ‘‘ water.’’ These processes take two hours and fifteen minutes more. The “artist’’ then takes two tailor’s “* gooses,"’ heated to a high degree of temperature. he chambermaid holds the end of her mistress's hair, and the “‘artist’”’ moves backward and forward the ‘*gooses’’ within a few inches of the hair until the hair becomes red. This ends the operation, which has lasted five hours, and leaves the lady with red hair, an intoler- able headache, jangled nerves, and eighty dollars less in pocket. I say eighty dollars—not eighty francs, but four hundred francs. Felix, the hairdresser, who invented the operation, is making more than ever, and before he re- sorted to this measure he was literally coining money: So we go! The city is not only changing its appearance and even its names, but the women themselves are undergoing metamorphose. You quit your brunette in the Rue de Cluny in an old-fashioned house—be absent a few months —you find her living on the same spot, but the street is called the’Rue Victor Cousins ; the name has been changed, the house has been pulled down, and a vast caravansera erected on its site, and she has become red-headed. Won- der after this that so many of us are going crazy. A Love Srory.—A good story is reported from Vienna. A lady of property and thirty years fell in love with a young lawyer, a Dr. Kant, and invited him to her house. He.came, and she, imagining he was shy in popping the question, herself opened up the matter, and he replied: “I bave already thought of marrying, and made my choice, but—’’ ‘“But?’’ the lady hastily interposed. “‘But,”’ he continued, “the lady is rich, very rich, and I am poor. I am afraid I can hardly aspire to her hand, and, rather than allow myself to be taxed with sordid de- signs, I will bury my passion in my breast, and leave it auavowed forever."’ saaking over the sum of £15,000 to Dr. Kant, and sent him the deed with a note to the following effect :— ‘*Dear.Sir: I have much pleasure in inclosing a paper which I hope will remove the obstacle in the way of your marriage. Believe me, etc., ALICE MARTINI.”’ Therenpon he proposed for the hand of the Fraulien Fischel, the real lady of his love, and was accepted. Miss Martini forthwith sued the happy bridegroom for restitu- tion; but, as no promise of marriage had been made, the case was, by two successive courts, decided against her. A Decision on Manyers.—The Paris correspondent of the London Star says that the Jockey Club, before whose deerees the fashionable world bend, have decided that the English custom of shaking hands is henceforth to be con- sidered the correct thing; and furthermore, in order to protect ladies from the annoyance of having to return the bows of any man who may happen to take off his hat to them in public, the English fashion is to be adopted of ladies bowing first. incLoseD please find club of your old subscribers. We cannot do wikhonut the Lady’s k. Mas. M., Pa. The next day she executed a deed | | GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. BiLock.ey Insane AsYLuM.—We have received and pe- rused with satisfaction the Fifteenth Yearly Report of the Rev. Edward C. Jones, the well-known and laborious chaplain of the hospital alluded to. As a faithful and in- telligent philanthropist in this unique department of min- isterial toil, he certainly has never been surpassed. As an auxiliary to the regular medical care of the patients, his system of moral influences has long been regarded as invaluable. The influence of Mr. Jones over his large charge, composed of about six hundred, is remarkable, and both his reading and preaching have for them a truly visible, tranquillizing influence, while his sympathizing and fraternal spirit engenders in them a warm personal attachment. The amount of positive comfort given to minds diseased by such suitable and tender pastoral min- istrations, must be indeed incalculable. An angel him- self might almost envy a philanthropist such a field in which to toil, for the reduction of human woe and the advancement of human happiness, “We have a queer character in our city, whose fanny blunders amuse every one; he is the captain of a coal boat which occasionally plies between this city and Cleveland. On one of his first journeys up the canal, he saw upon the bank a mile-stone, which he mistook for a gravestone ; gazing sadly upon it, he read: ‘ Miles Cleveland, seventy- nipve years old, and buried upon the toe-path.’”’ w. BeapDue & Co’s. Dime Novets.—We were agreeably sur- prised on looking over the series of these works, to find how much excellent matter is given for that now defunct article the dime, but still purchasable at 10 cents. His- tory, fiction, and useful works, some of which are suitable for schovls, are to be found in this remarkably cheap publication. One thing we can assure our readers, that nothing immoral, or of a slang kind, is published. We know the editor, and can answer for him. He is a gentle- man of education and of great worth; so if you want a cheap and good 10 cents worth, get a Dime book. A PREACHER once said that ladies were very timid; they were afraid to sing when they were asked ; afraid of taking cold ; afraid of snails or spiders, but he never knew one afraid to get married. Wnrart tables may be very easily swallowed? Vege- tables. What vice is generally indulged in, even by the most, scrupulous? Ad-vice. A Nove. Catcu.atioy.—One who must have been a confirmed subject of ennvi has made the following calcu- lation, which is said to have occupied three years of his life: Old Testament—Number of books, 39 ; chapters, 929 ; verses, 23,214; words, 532,439; letters, 2,728,100. The middle book is Proverbs. The middle chapter is Job xxxix. The middle verse would be 2 Chronicles xx. 17, if there were a verse more, and verse 16 if there were a verse less. The word ‘‘and”’ occurs 35,543 times. The word “Jehovah”’ occurs 6855 times. The shortest verse is 1 Chronicles, i. 15. The 2lst verse of the 7th chapter of Ezra contains all the letters of the alphabet. The 19th chapter of 2 Kings and the 37th chapter of Isaiah are alike. New Testament—Number of books, 27; chapters, 260; verses, 7948; words, 181,258; letters, 838,560. The middle book is 2 Thessalonians. The middle chapter would be Romans xiii. if there were a chapter less, and xiv. if there were a chapter more. The middle verse is Acts xvii. 17. The shortest verse is John xi. 35. Old and New Testament—Number of books, 60; chapters, 1819; verses, 31,173; words, 773,697; letters, 3,566,680. The middle chapter and the least in the Bible is Psalm exvii. Cirs or $45. My club were so well pleased with hoe excellent Book this year, that they think it impossible to do without it next; so you will find the names and $45 inclosed. ©. M. K., Tenn.

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* GODEY'S ARM-CHAIR. 87S THE FLOWER GARDEN. Tue season for setting out plants has now arrived, and we offer to those who desire a choice selection, the following assortment of seventy-five varieties, which will be care- fully packed, and delivered to the forwarders for ten dol- lars. The assortment consists of:— Ten Choice Ever-blooming Roses, 6 Fuchsias, 12 Ver- benas, 4 Dahlias, 4 Petuniax, 4 Lantanas, 4 Heliotropes, 4 Geraniums, 4 Chrysanthemums, 3 Salvias, 2 Coleus Versch affeltii, 1 Pampas Grass, 1 Tritoma uvaria, 2 Pansies, 1 New double Tropeolum, 2 Canna, 1 Yucca filamentosa, 1 Alyssum variegatum, 2 Cuphea platycentra, 2 Lobelia Speciosa, 2 Jacobean Lily, 1 Ipomeza Learii, 2 Doubit Tuberose. Spectattigs. A selection of twelve of the finest free- blooming, hardy Hybrid Perpetual Roses, 75 cents to $1 each. $7 50 for the dozen. Genéfal Washington, brilliant red, very large and fine; Cardinal Patrizzi, dark, velvety crimson; Glorie de San- tenay, large blood red; Belle Angevine, blush, stri with rose; Dr. Arnal, rosy-red, very free; General Jac- queminot, bright scarlet; Reine des Violets, light violet purple; Triomphe de Alencon, very large crimson; Vic- tor Verdier, large rosy carmine, very free ; Eugene Appert, large brilliant crimson ; Empereur de Maroc, dark velvety maroon, Comtess de Chabrilliant, deep rose, beautiful form. *Tritoma Uvaria. A splendid half-hardy summer and autumn flowering plant, with stately flower-scapes, and magnificent terminal dense spikes of rich orange-red, flower-tubes. Price 50 cents each. *Tue Pampas Grass. The most magnificent of grasses, with long terminal silvery plumes; throughout the late summer and autumn months, presents a beautiful appear- ance when planted in groups on the lawn. Price 25 to 50 cents each. *VioLets. Five varieties of this popular fragrant flower, consisting of white, violet, dark-purple, striped, Neapoli- tan. One dollar for the five, *DousLe Daun.ias. A splendid collection of premium varieties all colors. From 3to5dollars perdozen. ~° *CHRYSANTHEMUMS. Upwards of fifty varieties of this beautiful autumn flower, including the Liliputian and large flowering varieties. $2 per dozen. *GLapIOLUs. Nothing can exceed the richness and beauty of the New Hybrid French #ladiolus, the great variety of their colors, comprising the most brilliant scarlet, orange, white, blush, carmine, crimson with intermediate shades, with their free biooming qualities, render them one of the most attractive of the summer and autumn flowering piants; the bulbs can be readily jor- warded by mail. Price from $3 to $5 per dozen. The varieties marked thus *, can Le readily forwarded by mail. For directions for the cultivation of flowers, with select lists, see Dreer’s Garden Calendar for 1865, mailed co all who inclose a postage stamp to my address. HENRY A. DREER, Scedsman and Florist, 7i4 Chestnut Street, Philada, Pictortat DouBLe Nompers.— The Phrenological Jour- nal and Life Illustrated, for January and February, appear with 32 quarto pages each, and beautiful Illus trated Covers. They contain Portraits of Tennyson, Silli- man, Sheridan, Cobb, Phillips. Susanna Wesley—mother of John—an Indian Chief, Franz Muller, Miss Muggins, Miss Fury, the Princess of Wales, Florence Nightingale, AGroup of Warriors—Hannibal, Julius Cwsar, Pizarro, Cromwell, Charles the XII., Frederick the Great, Scott, Wellington, Napoleon. Also, the Greatest Surgeons of the World— HARVEY, ABERNETHY, JENNER, Hunter, Cooper, Mort, and Carnocuax. Also W. 8. Lander, Mrs. Farnham, Mr. Clarke, Mr. Kilbourn, Mr. Morrill, etc. Articles on Gain- ing Confidence, Affectation, The Human Face, Pre-exist- ence, The Lost Races; with Eruxotogy, Purenowoay, PaysioLloey, PaysioaNomy, and Psycnonogy. Numbers 1 and 2, Vol. 41. Terms only $2 a year, or 20 cents a number. Sent by return post. Please address Mesé¢rs. Fow.er & We tts, No. 389 Broadway, N. Y. Auways Loox aT THE Next ParaGrapa.—We were much amused lately by reading an account of the presen- tation of a set of silver to, no doubt, a worthy recipient. He was surprised ; nay, he was totally surprised at this unexpecied gift—totally unprepared—so unexpected, for- tunate that he was at home when they called. After the speeches of the giver and receiver were concluded, the latter invited them to a supper in another room which he had prepared for them. Lovis A. Gopey: Without the Lady's Book, we can’t get along, say the ladies, and God bless them. Without them, the ladies, we can’t get through the world, as all good Christians shoukd do; so I send for the Book with pleasure, yet there are more reasons, first of which is, ite own value. Have had the pleasure of sending for it for years, though yet only a young man, this being the first time I have sent for it as for my better half. Respectfully, an Oid Soldier, And now a Farmer, Nrx. We receive many letters requesting us to attend to business—which does not concern us; and also letters making inquiries forthe writer’s benefit, but no stamp for an answer. If an answer is required where the letter concerns only the writer, a stamp must be sent. OxE OF THE ADVANTAGES OF PUBLISHING THE INCOME Tax.—An adventurer paying court to a girl of respectable standing had his income published at $7,000 a year. The parents of the girl, thinking him a rich man, consented to the match, and have now to eupport the pair, as the hus- band spent all his available means to pay the percentage on his supposed $7,000. “Some years since, while spending a few months in Tllinois, 1 went to hear a famous ‘hard shell’ Baptist preacher. After preaching two or three long hours, he closed with an aimost equally long prayer, which con- cluded in this wise: ‘ And now, O Lord, this is the prayer of your humble servant, James A. Bradford, of Kane County, Ill., Amen.’’ M. Tue Uses or Eaos~—The manufacture of kid leather (which, by-the-by, is made from lamb-skin) for gloves cannot be accomplished without the use of yelks of eggs, the oil of which softens the ‘eather, and produces that ex- quisite pliability that enables the grove to fit close to the hand ofthe wearer. Every pair of kid gloves necessitates the destruction of two eggs for this purpose. — ASmaLt Matrer. Eriqvetre or THE Frexcu Court.— Ladies who do not appear with trains to their dresses do not receive a second invitation to the Tuileries. A flanky is employed to spy about to see who is trainless. What an occupation for a man! Civs oF $25. The getting up of this club is my first attempt, and I am happy to say I have had good success. The times are hard, but we could not do without Godey. Maras. M., Ky. Mr. Gopry: I hope you may live to publish your in- imitabie Book for many years to come; it is indispensa- ble; we cannot do without it. Many are the blessings showered ou your head by the ladies. Your friend, Mrs. A., West Va. Tue Heir Apparent to the British Throne, on being ap- plied to, lately, to make an investment in our oil cow- panies, replied that he preferred his native Isle. What dress conveys the best impression? Ad-dress. What dress is most acceptable to on “injured indi vidual?’’ Re-dress,

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880 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. JUVENILE DEPARTMENT. How fair is the rose! what a beautiful flower! The glory of April and May! But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour, And they wither and die in a day. Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast, Above all the flowers of the field ; When its leaves are aj] dead, and fine colors are lost, Still how sweet a perfume it will yield! So frail is the youth and the beauty of men, Though they bloom and look gay like the rose; But all our fond care to preserve them is vain ; Time kills them as fast as he goes. Then I'll not be proud of my youth or my beauty, Since both of them wither and fade ; But gain a good name by well doing my duty ; This will scent like a rose when I’m dead. The Elastic Egg. Take a good and sound egg, place it in strong vinegar, and allow it to remain for twelve hours; it will then become quite soft and elastic. In this state it can be squeezed into a tolerably wide-mouthed bottle; when in, it must be covered with water, having some soda dix solved in it. In a few hours this preparation will restore the egg nearly to its original solidity; after which the liquid should be poured off, and the bottle dried. Keep it as a curiosity to puzzle one’s friends for an explanation how the egg was iaid in it. THE ROSE, “T HAVE a l'ttle cousin, five years old, whois quite an original in his way. At the dinner table, the other day, his mother reproved him for not sitting up straight, and at length told him that she believed he was trying to look like a neighbor of ours, who is quite noted for his obesity. Bennie electrified us all by exclaiming: ‘Oh, he isn’t round shouldered, its the fat that pushes his back out.’ ‘*A little nephew of Bennie’s invariably ‘makes a scene’ at bedtime. The other evening his mother sat in the roam waiting for him to go to sleep ; at last, completely out of patience with him, she said: ‘Bob, aren’t you asleep yet?’ The young man drawled out, in 4 very make- believe sleepy tone, ‘Me dot un eye sut.’ His mother relating the affair at the breakfast table the next morning, Bennie thoughtfully replied: ‘He was just half = then. . AppreEss on a letter: — In Philadelphia City fair, Seek for L. A. Godey there. This Three Dollar note inclosed, For subscription is proposed, Which to him at once con-ey And bring the Lady’s Book this way. Hear the Tunckhannock Republican: ‘We have said it repeatedly, and we can do no more now than to say that Godey’s Magazine is far superior to sates | of the kind we haveever seen. Who would be without ‘Godey?’ Not the ladies, we are sure.”’ ‘Ay urchin suffering from the application of the bireb said: ‘Forty rodsare said to bea furlong. I know better ; let anybody get such a licking as I have had, and he ’il find out that one rod makes an acher.’’’

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GODEY'S ARM-CHAIR, SUBURBAN RESIDENCE, Designed expressly for Godey's Lady's Book, by Isaac H. Hosns, Architect Philadelphia, Tre above design is intended for a simple residence, and within the reach of must persons. It would cost be- tween $1800 and $2000, and will make a very pretty and comfortable residence for a small family. And as much will depend upon the proportions of its details, I will furnish to those who wish to build it tracings that will give ample information, by remitting to me $15, without alterations or additions. fr —=— a T 7 i 7 ’ a a 4 4 fi _— os | @ A. uy D i =f St | LF Cc H LJ wong First Story.—A porch, 6 by 8; B lobby, 8 by 12; C par- lor, 12 by 20; D dining-room, 12 by 12; E kitchen, 12 by 14°6"; F Veranda, 12 by 5. Second Story.—G Stair hall; H chamber, 12 by 20; I chamber, 12 by 12; K sitting-room, 12 by 14°6”. Isaac H. Hosss, Architect, Ofice No. 154 South Fourth Street, Philadelphia. TrEReE is a good deal of hop in a gallon of ale, but there is more stagger in a pint of whiskey. Waar istx tart Beproom?—The importance of venti- lating bedrooms is a fact which everybody is vitally inter- ested in, and which few properly appreciate. If two persons are to occupy a bedroom during a night, let them step upon weighing scales as they retire, and then again ifthe morning, and they will find that their actual weight is at least a pound less inthe morning. Frequently there will be a loss of two or more pounds, and the average loss throughout the year will be more than one pound. That is, during the night there is a loss of a pound of matter which has gone off from their bodies, partly from the lungs, and partly through the pores of the skin. The escaped material is carbonic acid, and decayed animal matter, or poisonous exhalations, Tur ‘Gobbled Goblin of the Gory Grotto” is the title of one of the new English Christmas Pieces. Here is also an extract from one of the Harlequenades:— “T grew extremely nervous when it blew, And heaved a sigh from fear; the boat heaved two, Then the waves rose—they always do, in gales; Such mountains! I imagined it was whales. Though I was too afraid, of course, to speak, I thought of Wales, and then we sprung a Leck. We felt sure, to escape a watery lot, The vessel wanted lightening, which it got, Together with a good supply of thunder. _Then we went over—that’s to say, went under.”” Tue Money Order System and Drafts. If your office is & money-order office, get one from your postmaster for the amount you wish to send us. If it is not, then try and procure a draft. These are the most safe methods of re- mitting. If you send a draft, please pay the premium on it. Whar qnadrupeds are admitted to balls, operas, aud dinner parties? White kids.

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3S2 Postage on the Lady’s Book, according to the late law passed last winter:— Section 36.—Postage on Goa v’s Lady’s Book, 2 cents a year, payable yearly, sem:-ye ‘rly, 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. Our 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. $27 50. 1 HAVE been so accustomed to getting up a club, that it would not seem natural to step. Well, send on the club soon, We think we cannot do without the Lady’s Book, and the same feeling is felt by all who can appreciate a good magazine. H. C. A., Minn. A Wire’s Srratacem.—‘'‘ A case of separation, arising from a most original cause, is about to occupy the forensic talent of Lyons, and is exciting immense curiosity. A husband of colossal strength complains of having been beaten by his wife. It appears that for several months the neighbors of this ill-assorted pair have been disturbed by the cries and moans of the wife, caused by the blows inflicted from the herculean arm of her lord and master. The lady vowed vengeance, in words not loud but strong ; and thus she fulfilled her purpose: The husband returned one evening, unusually weary, from hunting, dined and drank copiously, immediately retiring to his bed, when he was soon in the arms of Morpheus, dreaming, perhaps, but not of the long packing-needle and strong twine which, by the fair hands of his wife, was fast inclosing him, a helpless mass, in his sheets. This preliminary measure taken, the lady, armed with a powerful stick, returned with interest the accumulated blows of past years, till, exhausted by the exertion, sheywas compelled to pause. After an instant’s rest, she made a deep curt- sey to her belabored husband and announced to him her intention of eloping to her parents’ residence.”’ Harr Uproorep tn Five Mixvres, py tas Use or Up- HAM’s DeptL.aToRY Powper.—This powder has been found highly beneficial and of great use to ladies who have been 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. S.C. Upnam, No. 25 South Eighth Street, Philadelphia, Pa. To Writers.—Accompany your articles with short let- ters. Ifthe story or poetry is good, it is well; but if not, long letters do no good. 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 ail 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., GOIMEY'’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. A. H.—Sent lead comb January 21st. Mrs. E. A. B.—Sent pattern 21st. Dr. G. H. H.—Sent pins by express 26th. Mrs. J. A. W.—Sent hair chain 26th. Mrs. J. W. B.—Sent pattern February 2d. E. M. T.—Sent pattern 2d. J. P.—Sent pattern 2d. 8. J. C.—Sent pattern 2d. 8. E: B.—Sent pattern 2d. L. H.—Sent lead comb 8th. H. M. J.—Sent ring 8th. 8. A. N.—Sent lead combs Sth. E. F. 0.—Sent pattern 10th. N. G. H.—Sent pattern 10th. M. L. L.—Sent pattern 10th. H. 8, D.—Sent pattern 10th. A. B. C. P.—Sent pattern 10th. Mrs. R. B,—Sent pattern 10th. Miss F. C,—Sent pattern by express 13th. Mrs, E. L.—Sent pattern 13th. Mrs. J. B.—Sent pattern 13th. 8. M. M.—Sent pattern 13th. Mrs. O. P.—See notice in March number. sale by D. Appleton & Co., New York City. Box 60.—We have complied with your request, and advertised for the article. But we cannot answer letters that have no signatures. Martha.—Send a stamp, and your name, and we will answer by letter, giving all the particulars. Mrs. D. R.—Salutary correction when young is useful. It need not be harsh. We have seen a child fly froma newspaper held in a threatening attitude. Novice.—We have several times answered your ques- tion. Suppose we were to give you a form to be used, and everybody should use the same, how ludicrous it would be! You must be guided by your own common sense. There is no “form’’ about these matters. Don't wish them ‘“‘ Many happy returns.’’ 8. D.—We cannot answer your letter here. It would require too much space. Send your name and a stamp. Mrs. S. V.—There is no absolute rule. A portion of the fruit is generally placed on the table during dinner. H. K. W.~+-There is no custom of the kind that we ever heard of; but there can be no possible objection to such a practice, and we believe it to be frequently resorted to. In some parts of the courtry the bridegroom first salutes the bride, and his example is then followed by the parents on both sides, and the officiating clergyman. Miss S. B.—Some on the right and some on the left. It is a matter of fancy. Miss B., Baltimore.—We are sorry to say that very few ladies thank gentlemen who give up to them their seats in the cars. It shows that they have not been well brought up. The consequence of this rudeness is that few gentiemen now yield their seats. Mrs. B. A. 8.—No doubt it may prove happy, for we do not agree with the sentiment from Hamlet— Book for ‘In second marriage may I stand accurst, For none wed the second but who killed the first.’’ Miss 8. S. T.—This is the answer to which you refer:— *“ When lovely woman tilts her saucer, And finds, too late, that tea will stain, What ever made a lady crosser? What art can make all white again ? The only art the stain to cover, To hide the spot from every eye, And wear an unsoiled dress above her Of proper color, is—to dye. Kallie K F.—Please let us know in what number of the Book the article appeared,

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FASHIONS. 883 Mrs. A. J. 8.—We do not. Address J. Starr Holloway, Editor Musical Monthly, Philadelphia, and he will attend to your requests, Fashions, NOTICE TO LADY SUBSCRIBERS. Havine had frequent applications for the purchase of jewelry, millinery, ete., 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 econo- my, as well as taste; and boxes or packages forwarded by express to any part of the country. For the last, distinct directions must be given. Orders, accompanied by checks for the proposed expen- diture, to be addressed to the care of L. A. Godey, Esq. No order will be attended to unless the money is first received. Neither the Editor nor Publisher will be account- able for losses that may occur in remitting. The Publisher of the Lady’s Book has no interest in this department, and knows nothing of the transactions ; and whether the person sending the order is or is nota subscriber to the Lady’s Book, the Fashion editor does not know. Instructions to be as minute as is possible, accompanied by a note of the height, complexion, and general style of the person, on which much depends in choice. Dress goods from Evans & Co.’s; mourning goods from Besson & Son; 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. When goods are ordered, the fashions that prevail here govern the purchase; therefore, no articles will be taken back. When the goods are sent, the transaction must be considered final. DESCRIPTION OF STEEL FASHION-PLATE FOR APRIL. Fig. 1.—Dinner-dress of ruby silk, with a box-plaited ruffle on the edge of the skirt, bound with black, and headed by a rose quilling of heavy black silk. The cor- sage is trimmed with a small cape, finished with a narrow ruffle of ruby silk and a quilling of black silk. The sleeves are in the coat form, and trimmed with quillings of black silk. The hair is rolled from the face. The coiffure is of black velvet. Fig. 2.—Child’s dress of white alpaca, trimmed on the edge with a very narrow fluted ruffie. Above this are seven rows of bias blue silk. The point, bretelles, and sash are allof blue silk. Guimpe with long sleeves made of the manufactured puffed muslin. Boots of blue lasting. Fig. 3.—Fawn-colored spring poplin, open at the back the same as in front, and showing a skirt of blue silk. The epaulettes, cuffs,and band round the neck are of blue silk, the same as the underskirt. White silk drawn bon- net, trimmed with blue ribbons and flowers, also a fall of blonde lace. Fig. 4.—Rich green silk dress, trimmed with thick cable cord, arranged round the skirt and graduated up the front. Plain corsage, with coat-sleeve trimmed with cord, to match the skirt. Leghorn hat, edged with a fringe of straw pendents, and trimmed with black velvet and black feathers, Fig. 5.—Spring suit, made of light cuir-colored mohair, trimmed with buttons to match. Leghorn hat, trimmed with green velvet, fancy grass, and straw. The hair is rolled from the face and caught in a net formed of heavy green chenille. Fig. 6.—Suit of parple silk, trimmed on the edge of the skirt with two rows of narrow black ribbon quilled. Between the rows of ribbon are rosettes formed of the quilled ribbon. The same trimming is carried all round the paletét and up the back. White straw hat, trimmed with white flowers and violet velvet. The hair is rolled from the face and arranged in a bow at the back. CHITCHAT UPON NEW YORK AND PHILADELPHIA FASHIONS FOR APRIL. Tue mania for butterflies seems to be on the increase. They are now the fashionable trimming for dresses, coif- fures, caps, bonnets, collars, and cuffs. On handkerchiefs, wé see them of all sizes, and dressed in the gayest colors, flying round, or else hovering over a bunch or wreath of delicate flowers in one corner. A cheaper style has just been introduced, in which the butterflies instead of being embroidered, are stamped in gay colors, and have a very pretty effect. The more elegant handkerchiefs have the butterflies entirely of white, but of extremely fine and light embroidery. Quite a novel style of handkerchief has a garland of flowers, embroidered in the freshest and brightest of colors, while above it, is stamped an oval picture resem- bling a fine engraving. Another pretty style is all white, with hem-stitched border brightened at each corner with 1 small rosette of colored cambric. A more expensive and elegant hand- kerchief, however, is edged with a tiny scallop and dots of some pretty color, such as Magenta, violet, blue, or black. It is also ornamented with a wide band of cam- bric, matching the scallops in color, and speckled over with embroidered white dots. This is one of the prettiest styles we have seen with colors. Another beautiful style without color, has an initial two inches long in the corner, and thrown through it, is a single flower, such as a tulip, a rose, a lily, or fuchsia. The embroidery is of the finest kind, and very elaborate. There is also much variety in mourning handkerchiefs; the fanciful black designs standing out in beautiful relief upon the white grounds. We have merely described a few of the novel styles suitable for promenade, or home wear. For full dress, the most suitable styles are of lace, or a mixture of lace and cambric. Plain linen collars and cuffs are still very much worn. The collars are small, some quite round, others have pointed fronts. The more dressy ones are made with short tabs in front trimmed with Valenciennes, while a design of the same lace is appliguéd overthe linen. A butterfly or bee of lace is frequently inserted in the thick linen collars with admirable effect. Undersleeves are made with a deep cuff either tight at the waist, or loose enough to pass the hand through. The sleeves should be of the coat shape, in order to fit well under the dress sleeves, which are now too small to admit of a very full undersleeve without giving the arma stuffed appearance. A novelty in lingérie is the Queen Bess ruff. It con- sists of a double fluted ruffle, the lower one three inches deep, and the upper one, which stands up round the neck, about three-quarters of an inch deep. They are generally made of French muslin, and many of them are perfectly plain, while others are prettily trimmed with Valen- ciennes lace. They vary in price from fifty cents to four dollars, according to the ornamentation. Very pretty ones can also be had trimmed suitably for mourning. As headdresses are in requisition daring the entire year, we cannot do better than give a description of some

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384 very novel and elegant ones just received at the Maison Tilman, 148 East Ninth Street, New York. The ‘‘ Joan of Arc’’ is composed of superb crimson car- nations festooned with small chaius, and ornamented with long strings of smal! steel beads. The “ Empress” is made with a full front spray of white Persian lilacs, surrounded by blue forget-me-nots. On this spray is a blue enamelled dragon-fly, and the long branch of white lilacs drooping over the shoulder, is dotted over with blue enamelled insects. The “Regent” consists of the most beautiful passion flowers, surrounded by the softest green feather grass sparkling with large diamond ornaments. One is placed in the centre of the flower over the forehead, the others are suspended by delicate crystal chains. The “ Princesse’ is made of Mexican blue velvct an inch wide, arranged in clusters of loops, with long ends. A wide bow composed of threads of spun gold is arranged with brilliant effect to take the place of a comb at the back. A circiet of gold braided and fastened with slender pendent ornaments, gives a very novel and distingué ap- pearance to the front. Headdresses are also ornamented with jet and pearl ornaments shaped like daggers, crescents, or tassels. Diamond and crescent shaped nets with a pendent fringe, are now used for the front of headdresses, the fringe fall- ing over the forehead. Beads enter largely into the decorations of the present day, and when artistically mounted, are really very effec- tive and beautiful. Some are quite costly, being of mala- chite, pink, or red coral, amber, and frosty-looking crystal. All these are employed for headdresses, particularly for the trimming of nets. The invisible nets which are now woven as fine as hair, are net generally trimmed. The more showy and elaborate kinds form the must effective of coiffures. They are generally very large, and adorned with immense pear!, jet, steel, or crystal beads. ‘The most elegant have a double row of beads forming a coro- net in front, while a fringe of beads with pendent ends falls at the back. Another pretty novelty is the velvet jewelry. These comprise necklaces, bracelets, earrings, buckles, and combs, formed of balls, chains, and grelots of blue or scarlet or black velvet, caught and fastened with gilt and pearl ornaments. This velvet jewelry is extremely pretty and effective with a white dress, and very suitable fora young lady. An immense collection of spring flowers are also to be seen in the show-rooms of the Maison Tilman, May roses, field daisies, poppies, volubilis, and china asters spark- ling with dew and rain-drops, are perfect chef d’awvres in the way of flowers. These rain-drops, just brought out in this country by Mme. Tilman, are still a novelty in Paris. They consist of a very light and pretty crystal globule, to which is attached a tiny gilt link, by which they are caught on to dresses and coiffures. They are used with admirable effect over the puffings of the light tulle bonnets, sq pretty and becoming for summer or evening wear. Mme. Demorest made an unusual display of novelties on the oceasion of her spring opening. Among the pat- terns, we noticed some very graceful models of double dresses, spring cloaks, morning robes and jackets. There were also girdles for young ladies, with sashes placed at equal distances and extending the entire length of the upper skirt. Gored walking-dresses are becoming exceedingly fash- ionable. A very stylish one was of black and green Linsey | GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. woolsey, looped up with broad bands of gimp worked with jet and trimmed with fringe. Among the dresses on exhibition at the establishment of Mme. Demorest, wasa charming evening dress of white grenadine. It was made with a tunic over-skirt, orna- mented with five blue sashes or streamers fastened in at the waist. On the edge of the tunic was a festooned bor- der of large blue and white glass beads, which gave the dress a very brilliant effect A gray moiré antique tunic skirt was ornamented in a similar manner, with a festooned border of steel and jet beads over a skirt of blue corded silk. This dress won universal admiration. The jackets for walking-dresses were generally cut away very much in front, and graduated off into long, square lappels behind. House jackets were very short, and cut into squares or battlements edged round with steel beads. Large butterflies formed of gimp and beads are very much used for trimming silk dresses. A new finish for white bodies is ribbon velvet, on which are fastened small flowers. This style of decoration is placed round the throat and wrists. A bright blue velvet, edged with lace and dotted with very small roses, has a charming effect. It is said that a radical change is soon to take place in fashions. Crinoline is to be discarded, skirts to be gored almost tight to the figure, and very short. Waists are also to be short, and heart-shaped in front, and worn with wide belts and large buckles. We give this merely as anon dit ; we think the costumes of our grandmothers are not likely to be adopted very soon by us. We have lately seen some very charming materials for ball dresses, Some of the prettiest were tarlatanes of delicate shades of blue, buff, and pink, on which were elaborate designs formed of a kind of silver sand. Others were of tulle, on which butterflies, bees, and flies seemed to be resting. Others were of white tarlatane brocaded with buttercups, roses, and daisies in the richest of shades. We copy from a foreign journal the following descrip- tions of dresses with reversible trimmings, which are real novelties: One was a dress of black tulle trimmed with quillings of the same material, edged with black satin ribbon, and at intervals on the skirt rosettes of blonde were disposed, having damask roses in the centre. These rosettes could be turned upon the skirt in an instant, and the reverse presented a plain black puff of blonde, edged with black ribbon. Another dress was made much in the same style, only that the reversible rosette contained a tuft of swan’s down in the centre instead of a rose. Others were trimmed with rows of buttons down the frout and on each side of the front, in the tablier style. The centre row of buttons could be unfastened, and the dress opened and folded back, in which position it was secured by the side trimming of buttons. The tablier was then formed of some bright-colored silk contrasting well with the dress. Another robe was trimmed with medallions of black, oval-shaped, and clustered together in sets of three, and embroidered with black beads. By a slight mancuvre on the inside of the skirt, these medallions suddenly ap- peared of violet braided with white; and again of white braided with violet. Another skirt had reversible ounces mauve on one side, and black ou the other. The change is said to be so complete, that nothing of the portion in- tended to be hidden is at all visible. These decorations must certainly be admirably contrived, and we do not see how the change can be effected, unless by the heip of a little magic powder. Fasuion

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2 ti} Aa Yyys Td eS) SAY WR ‘ W WS WOK x

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SOFA PILLOW IN LONG HOOK CROCHET. (See Description, Work Department.) we” WORKING PATTERN. ag, FLOWER-VASE MAT IN CROCHET. (See Deseription, Work Department.)

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ee Y LAWEPR BEACH SE VoL. Lxx.—31 GOOD NEWS. 393

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THE WEARY WORLD IS HUSHED TO REST. SONG, FOR THE GUITAR. WRITTEN BY FANNIE STEVENS BRUCE. COMPOSED BY 0. M. CHARTER. ARRANGED FOR GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK BY W. L. HAYDEN. SSS liininenton i i Cc ou e ( MODERATO, ‘aa ae 3 en = == —-s--5— 4— f = ee 5 ee) ee ee i ry? rr p-4-$- 1. The wea-ry world is hushed to _ rest, The sky is bright and | | | # 7 = —- om ——ao— a cs =H eS ee 7 so " PP re ee mil “wil dis - till-ing grove, The warm and clear; And from yon balm eT Ff Ve wil

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THE WEARY WORLD IS HUSHED TO REST. nN _—_— NO RANA NNN NNrrrmrrwwwv ee eee eee ose eee) Seer he night- -bird’s plain-tive notes ree hear: The air is sweet with fra-grant winds, Soft tf 26-85-45 [8e— 5 ethane ss — of o — 2s ——_s—_—_|-a—__ = Fo FREELY FP OPP ra - diance floats . Then rouse thee from rall. ph» # oe _ ‘ on tye + ae -_ r ST se ——o— ja —-© aan. =a : + —— Se i" at a . = aaee 8 on - - | EE mai-den dreams, My own dear love, come down to me. ee allie | x 3 —— Se 2—F == =P —_— e = Pe, -F 2. 3. Without thine eyes to mine are raised, I'll sing thee lays by minstrels sung The moonbeams lose their fairy power: To coartly dames ’mid southern bowers: There is no glory in the stars, I'll whisper tales of far-off climes, No magic beauty in the hour; Where life is garlanded with flowers. But in thy presence earth is heaven— I'll make thy heart as glad and light It must be sweet since heaven is thee! As heart of mortal e’er could be: Then rouso thee from thy maiden dreams ; Then rouse thee from thy maiden dreams ; My own fair love, come down to me. My own best love, come down to me,

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LATEST STYLE OF ROBE. (From the celebrated establishment of Messrs. A. T. Stewart & Co., of New York.) Robe Helvetienne. The robe and rotonde are of white cambric, with a bordering of delicate mauve outlined with black. Leghorn hat, trimmed with mauve velvet and white feathers. 396

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LATEST STYLE OF ROBE. (From the celebrated establishment of Messrs. A. T. Stewart & Co., of New York.) Robe and palet*t of toile de lin, a very pretty wash material. The color is a delicate buff, with the pattern in black. White straw hat, trimmed with buff ribbon, black velvet, and buff feathers. 31* 397

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LATEST STYLE OF ROBE. (From the celebrated establishment of Messrs. A. T. Stewart & Co., of New York.) Cen ék eS silty, 4 pi, ' Y Y ¢ y g) UNNQQQA \ WMA, Robe with Zouave jacket and rotonde of a light shade of cuir-color toile de lin, printed in black to resemble braidiug. %

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THE CASTIGLIONE. [From the establishment of G. Broptz, 51 Canal Street, New York. Drawn by L. T. Voter, from actual articles of costume. } This beautiful style is made up in black silk, or any preferred summer fabrics, It is adorned with the rich passemen- teries, made in silk and beads, now so much in vogue. The one furnishing the illustration fits very easily to the figure, but they are also made adjusted to it, or more loosely than the one above, at the choice of the wearer; the mode being thus suited to the taste. 399

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BONNETS. {See Description, Fashion Department.) E SS 42 mY x \ S . V4 Z nd rs \ \ YG, id SS ‘ 4 \% 4 S y K J As

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4ul “sTys B Jo pury Luv QUA TIOM OG TO} THO IT “TPIOTD HOVlq jo opyur Ayoud S| IMM Jo OfA]s SIGT, “Bapururts jof pus yoVTq qa pow ‘ayjdod taoig jo opvur st 7, ‘sseup onbsug (‘naa yoog pun pu04g) “AQV1 ONNOA V ¥O4 SSIYG-3JWGH

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ee