Godey's Lady's Book And Magazine 1871-05: Vol 82 Iss 491

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GODEY’S Lady's Pook and Magazine. VOLUME LXXXII—NO. 491. PHILADELPHIA, MAY, 1871. ——————— + iro GETTING ON IN THE WORLD. BY MARION HARLAND. | the house bought and furnished by Peter Wells, | drink wines and eat dainties paid for with the marriage-portion Peter Wells gave his daugh- PART IV. “My objection should commend itself to your common sense, Estelle. I have not hitherto opposed your frequent visits to your parents, | ill-advised as I have thought the intimacy was. When they have returned these at such times as I was at home, I have received them politely. In their absence, I have refrained scrupulously from critical remarks with regard to their social standing, their manners, or aught else that might wound you. science to say whether you have been as for- bearing in your strictures upon my friends.” “You have had no cause of complaint.” The wife’s eyes flashed and her lips trembled. ‘**My relatives have behaved towards you with respect Il have often thought was exaggerated and unwarranted, even by what you are pleased to call the ‘ bottomless gulf lying between you and them.’ While, from the day I was married until now, I have been reminded, in every im- aginable way and at all times, that I was an alien in your family and circle of acquaint- ances. Your father scarcely notices me at all, your mother patronizes and advises me as she might a half-witted savage, your sisters are censorious, your brothers carelessly familiar as to a promoted chambermaid; but the same feeling moves them all.” “You are choice in your use of terms,” in- terrupted the husband. ‘« The thing I describe is more offensive than my language,”’’ was the retort. “It is spite— low, ignoble, malicious! Your relatives re- sented your marriage with a woman of inferior caste asa blot upon your family record, and they will never forgive me for having attracted you on to your degradation and theirs. They have not tried to hide this from me. They have published the existence of it to their asso- ciates, who have taken the key-note from them readily enough. These accept invitations to | ter, because she is Guy Stuyvesant’s wife. | They compromise the question of the deviation from aristocratic usage by insolent neglect of, or disgraceful condescension to their hostess Talk of gentle breeding! My father is a truer _ gentleman at heart than any I have met in the I leave it to your con- | | the point from which I started. exalted sphere where I am barely tolerated, and he is unpresentable.” Guy laughed contemptuously, seemingly un- moved by the torrent of invective. “Having, as usual, talked yourself into a breathless heat, you have only come around to Honest Peter, although a worthy man in his way, is not pre- sentable in court circles. He puts the king’s English to a violent death in every sentence, and is utterly ignorant of the alphabet of polite etiquette. At this party he would be ill at ease, and my friends would have a right to feel affronted at having his acquaintanceship forced upon them. Your mother would get along better, for she dresses in tolerable taste, and speaks correctly. But she lacks the unmis- takable stamp of thorough breeding, and is, moreover, as well known as the whilome fac- tory-girl, as your father is for the fat machinist, who may be seen, any day, riding about town on the spring seat of one of his pondrous wagons, chatting familiarly with his driver. You may wish to ignore these things, but others have not your reasons of desiring for- getfulness. These stormy scenes are in bad taste. I have borne with them the more pa- tiently on account of your antecedents. I had hoped that, despite these, you would gradually tone down to the style of your present asso- ciates. Altercation is vulgar and useless. I will have none of it in the house of which I am master. That I am master here, you will do well to remember.”’ ‘* You threaten me, then !’’ No man of sense and acuteness would have 419

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420 GODEY’'S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. pressed her further without apprehension of open revolt, after looking in her face, and hear- ing the indignant disdain breaking up through her voice. ‘“‘ Threats are undignified and dangerous. I merely assert my rights, and define your po- sition.” ‘*My position! No slave was ever more op- pressed! no beggar more helpless !’’ cried Es- telle, bursting into tears. “1 wish I were either! I wish I had died before I sold myself to you! Ihave lost everything that was dear and lovely—and gained what ?’’ Guy walked out of the apartment without a word ; and she heard him, in the lulls of her pas- sionate weeping, knocking about the balls in the billiard-room, humming, meanwhile, an opera air in a high falsetto, always unpleasant to her musical ear, which now rasped her nerves to rawness. Without a tithe of his father’s talents or moral probity, he had a will as stubborn, a sense of his self-importance as strong, as was possessed by the pompous Congressman. For the senior Stuyvesant had gained his election, although unsupported by the wealthy “‘vulgarian.’’ In this one thing Peter had stood firm, was proof against the insinuating arts of his daughter’s suitor and his wife’s more direct appeals. “I'll vote the way my conscience leads me,” he asserted, sturdily. ‘I don’t like Stuy- vesant’s polities no better than I do his blood.’’ The Stuyvesant interest and Stuyvesant money were more potent in other quarters, and he was returned an ‘Honorable’ by a small majority. Family bickerings might be tabooed in the. patrician code, but a cherished spite was not. The distinguished tribe never forgot or forgave the obduracy of the low-born man to whom they had stooped in vain. They were likewise bitterly chagrined at Guy’s en- gagement to Estelle Wells, which he announced by letter to his parents during their first winter in Washington. ‘Finding I had wasted my efforts to serve my father,”’ he wrote to his mother, ‘it oc- curred to me to undertake a little speculation on my own private account. You have seen the young lady, and that she will not disgrace Lady Stuyvesant’s salon, even in the metro- polis. Aw reste, there are not ten richer men in the city than her father, whose habit is, moreover, apoplectic. I do not expect to be overwhelmed with parental and sisterly bene- dictions upon the occasion of my nuptials. I have too much confidence in your worldly wis- dom not to feel confident that you will appre- ciate the solid advantages of this alliance to your too-often impecunious son.’’ ‘* A cool, young rascal !’’ growled the august father, yet already half-appeased by the argu- ments adduced by his eldest hope in support of his choice. And coolly Guy went through his part of the performances from betrothment to ceremony ; receiving his mother’s and sisters’ tearful ex- postulations, his brothers’ sneers, his acquaint- ances’ wondering comments as philosophically as he viewed his prospective mamma-in-law’s ill-suppressed exultation, Peter’s rea] despond- ency at the prospect of his daughter’s marriage, and Estelle’s moods, varying from the wildest gayety to uncontrollable gloom. No one but Mrs. Wells ever guessed at the trials, the conflicts, the labors, and discourage- ments that beset the mancuvring parent throughout that betrothal season. Perhaps she did not then apprehend clearly the fact that she drove her child into this union as surely as the priests of old dragged the gar- landed heifer to the altar steps. She never said: “You shall marry this man, and cast from you the memory of him your heart would have selected.’”’ She merely made it seem so far expedient that she should adopt this course, that it was next to impossible for her to break the net of circumstantes and sophistical rea- soning. And in all this she honestly believed she was serving her child. I have seen the like process carried on to a similar result by other loving mothers—Christian women, exemplars to the rest of their sex in their day and genera- tion. In proportion to the docility and filial piety of the daughter, is the danger that the promptings of her heart and judgment will be thus overruled. ‘‘ Mother knows best’’ is a safe dictum for the nursery. There may come a time in the woman's life when, in this, she should put away childish things. The attachment between this mother and child had been peculiarly sweet and strong. Mrs. Wells had found in it her chief solace and encouragement in her weary travel fashionward. It was the main lever in the accomplishment of her masterpiece. Never had she been more fond, never more watchful, never more ingenious in the invention of diver- sions from serious thought than during the three months separating the betrothal from the nuptials; never before so lavish of caresses and of money. Estelles trousseau ; the elegant establishment, furnished from basement to attic in accordance with the young couple’s taste ; the handsome carriage and horses, which were among the father’s wedding gifts; the princely dowry settled upon her beyond recall were the town-talk. Peter’s compeers shook doubtful heads over the relinquishment into the hands of a notori- ous rake and spendtbrift of so generous a share of his well-earned wealth. Guy’s associates congratulated him upon his suecessful cast into the uncertain waters of Fortune, and nearly every one in both sets understood perfectly that the match was entirely one of conveni- ence—a regular barter of social advantages for those money alone could buy....A whisper crept through the community, originating with the clerks in Mr. Wells’ employ, that he had ne\ as tho wa: ne\ of | his bla aris tal ricl dirt self shy wo! adu pri con

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never looked so grave over any other checques as over the many and heavy ones he drew in those days, payable to his wife’s order. He was not an avaricious man, commented the newsmongers, but the most generous architect of his own fortune must feel a twinge at seeing his gains melting away like spring snow in the blaze of the prosperity suddenly shed from the aristocratic firmament upon his humble house. He was shrewd enough to foresee, went on the tale, that young Stuyvesant’s easily-gotten riches would be many-winged, and fly in all directions. If these were the misgivings that beset thrifty Peter’s soul, he kept them to him- self, with other thoughts that shadowed his rubicund face with anxiety, made him more shy than ever of trying to “put things into words.”” He was taciturn, even with his lately- admitted junior partner, who had a desk in his principal’s private office. Charley Burt never complained of this reserve ; never mentioned to his mother—the only-confidante of his ill- fated love—how often, when the two were to- gether with no observers near, he felt the grave eyes of his old friend fixed apon him with ex- ceeding tenderness of sympathy, with longing and regret. He understood, and so did she, why Mr. Wells made an errand abread for his confidential agent a month before Estelle’s wedding day. Charley kept all his life the letter that followed him to Birmingham. “T have it in my mind to give you a long holliday,’’ wrote Peter, with his own hand. “ Arthur’s yere at the Germain collidge is up, and he wrights me he feels to want to travvel further yet. He woud like to go to Egipt and the holey land, he says. He’s prety steddy, but I should be better satisfide if he had some- boddy to keep him companny. Won’t you obleege me by going along? I ain’t got but the one boy’’—(he had written “child,” and erased it, Charley noticed, with a swelling heart, noting that the letter was dated the day after Estelle’s marriage.) ‘‘Iain’t got but the one boy left, you see, and I had ought to taik good care on him. I can trust him to you. You two was alwayse frends, and the trip will do you good, my dear feller. I have wrote to Arthur to draw on me for traveling expences for as much as he needs. Pleas except the in- closed as a trifling presint from a frend who will alwayse wish you hapiness. Gop bless you!” You may be sure that Mrs. Wells had no suspicions of this letter or the accompanying cheeque. She was too deeply absorbed in the contemplation of her own consequence as the mother of Mrs. Guy Stuyvesant, Jr., to waste any thoughts about the absent “ineligible ;”’ too busy laying plans for the winter campaign to be seeking out medicine for the wounded spirit of the grocer’s son. “It is quite a part of a young gentleman’s education in this day to make the grand tour GETTING ON IN THE WORLD. 421 of Europe and the East,” she was fond of re- marking to the ‘‘ best people” on her visiting- list. ‘‘ Myson has made a speciality of modern languages during his residence in Heidelburg with a view to this end. And we have sent out a young man—a protégé of his, who is a most trustworthy and intelligent person—to act as his business agent and compugnon de voyuge. I long to have you see my son, my dear Mrs. De la Créme. I have been most happy in both my children; have known the sweetest of a mother’s joys, with few of a mother’s sor- rows.” All this, while she was nearly sure the person she addressed would laugh her, her pretensions to intimacy with herself, and her sentimentality to scorn the moment her back was turned. **I cannot afford to be thin-skinned,” she reasoned, within herself. ‘If I tell these peo- ple often enough how worthy [and my children are to consort with them, they may believe me in time.” Her courage had revived since she confessed to Estelle, with shame of heart and face, her conviction that she could never move in line with the elect of fortune. Elate with her sue- cess at achieving an alliance with the ‘‘ proudest Howard” among them, she became what Mrs. Stuyvesant privately characterized to her daughters as “‘audacious.”” She would enter the Paradise of her riper years—Society—in her daughter’s train. The first blow to these an- ticipations was unlooked for and, for the time, stunning. Mrs. Guy Stuyvesant, Sr., made a feast to her lords and ladies, yclept a “‘recep- tion’’ for the bridal pair on their return from their honeymoon trip, and pointedly omitted each and all of the bride’s relatives from the number of.her chosen ones. “I fear your wife will be wounded,” she said to her son. “ Mais ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute. We must begin as we mean to goon. If we lift the flood-gates now, we may find it difficult to close them when we would. And you cannot’’—imploringly—‘“‘ you cer- tainly do not expect us to adopt all these peo- ple!’’ ‘By nomeans.” Guy twirléd his moustache. **Tt is the last thing I should desire, nor do I suppose Estelle will care a straw about it. If she is wounded, she must get over it as best she can. Iam as anxious to shake off the con- nection as you can be. The sooner Mamma Wells and Auntie Clark learn their proper place, the better.’’ Estelle did not care how early or how severe was the lesson to her aunt, but the open slight to her mother stung her acutely ; was the cause ~ of the first ‘‘scene’’ between herself and her husband. She had been flattered by Guy Stuy- vesant’s offer ; dazzled by the brilliant prospect it opened to her ; pleasantly bewildered by her elevation above the heads of her family asso-

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422 GODEY’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. ciates. She had not dared to question her heart as to her feelings for Charley Burt. Since she could not marry him, she resolutely put away his image from her thoughts, and as resolutely endeavored to prefer the man she wedded, to all others. Her eyes were open to the incon- gruity in many of their tastes and views, but she honestly ‘believed that he loved her, and was hopeful of moulding him according to her wishes by means of that affection. In other circumstances, she would have been too proud to sue for such a boon, even at his hands. But she knew how confidently her mother expected to attend this reception ; that the dress she was to.wear—a magnificent black velvet with dia- monds—was already determined upon ; knew how much her appearance in Mrs. Stuyvesant’s drawing-room as an invited guest signified to the cousin of Guy’s cé-devant nurse ; and the daughter’s heart recoiled with pain and pity at thought of her disappointment when the invi- tations had been issued for some days, and Mrs. Wells had received none. In her distress, Estelle begged her six-weeks old lord to ask his mother for a card for hers ; when he evaded her importunities, and then demurred openly, was so unwise as to insist warmly. “*I really think it is due to me,” she said. “‘T shall regard the neglect as a personal insult, and show Mrs. Stuyvesant that I do.” “This is sheer folly and bluster, Estelle,” returned the bridegroom, but with no show of temper. “In all matters of social etiquette, my mother is, of course, a better judge than yourself. There must be no appeal from her decision; no disregard of her advice. You will learn this in time.” Apparently it was a hard lesson, or Estelle was an unwilling scholar. A year after her marriage, there was born to her a son, and it was with reference to what guests should be asked to the christening party that her opposi- tion to the Stuyvesant ostracism arose to a hotter height than she had before betrayed. Guy’s complaisance with regard to the baby’s name had encouraged her to hope for other things than his absolute command that neither of her parents should be invited to witness the ceremony, or to participate in the subsequent festivities. When the aristocratic scion was but three weeks old, Mr. Wells dropped in late one Sun- day afternoon to see his daughter. She lay on the sofa in her dressing-room, playing with the babe on her arm, the fashionable nurse having so far relaxed her rules as to leave him in her charge for half an hour. Big Peter kissed mother and child without speaking, and sitting down beside the couch, watched them for a few minutes, still in silence, hearkening to the baby patois, falling from the happy parent’s tongue, reminding him more of his merry old- time pet—always his darling—than anything else he had heard or seen in her since he mutely answered the query, ‘“‘ Who giveth this woman tw be married to this man ?’’ By and by, he said, abruptly: ‘“‘ Have you had any thought of calling him ‘Clarence ?’”’ “T have not. The name is not yet decided upon,”’ was the reply. “T wish it eould be so,” continued Peter, hurriedly, looking away from her as he spoke, a trick he had when strongly moved. “I’ve jest been out there. Maybe you ’ve never mis- trusted that I went there always on Sundays. It kinder helps things along when the world drags heavy on me. You'll understand what I mean better now you've got one of your own. He’—nodding at the baby—“ looks some like the other. But, of course, you must do jest what your husband says about it, as about everything else. That’s the safest rule for a wife in these ’ere matters. He’s got a better right nor me to say what shall be. It was only a notion [ had, seeing you and the baby here together so comfortable, and thinking to my- self how I used to enjoy the little chap that’s gone: I dare say I hadn’t ought to a’ spoke of it.’’ Estelle, thinking in her turn over by-gone days, and reviewing this little incident in the Sabbath evening, after her father had gone, and the boy been retaken by the nurse, was touched to tears in the remembrance, and took heart, when her husband came in to say ‘‘ good- night,’ to express her desire that the child should bear her dead brother’s name, enforcing her petition by an account of her father’s agi- tation, and the words that had so wrought upon her sensibilities. Guy mused, his wife fancied, tenderly as gravely. “It’s a nice enough name,” was his conclu- sion. ‘And it might bea neat investment for the monkey. On the whole; you may as well tell your father that he has named his first grand- son. We ought to be thankful he did not sug- gest ‘Peter Wells,’ instead.” The first returns from the “investment’’ were a gold cup, salver and ladle; knife, fork, spoon, and napkin-ring, marked with the child’s name in full, from Mrs. Wells, and an envelope directed to him by his grandfather, containing certificates of bank stock to the amount of ten thousand dollars. «Very handsomely done,” said Guy, in look- ing them over. “‘My father and mother are niggardly in nothing,” replied Estelle,”’ with pride reflect- ing, as she said it, upon certain parsimonious propensities she had detected in Stuyvesant It seemed after this munificence, an exhibi- tion of monstrous ingratitude to exclude her generous relatives from her house. She con- sidered, and did not hesitate to say, that they, above all others, had earned the right to appear as her honored guests. She battled to gain the ity her geth not : mea insu Ni neve quy, the i gent to M nom ful t :

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= == vy GETTING ON IN THE WORLD. 423 point as she had never fought before, only to suffer a signal defeat. She had been assisted by her mother in the arrangement for the /éte, Mrs. Wells had presented the christening-robe, and gone with her daughter to the confec- tioner’s and florist’s to order the supper and flowers. “You were indiscreet,”’ observed Guy, when she stated this. ‘‘I have often expressed the desire that you would choose some more suita- ble companion and adviser in these expeditions. My mother or Maude are fitter to direct your taste. But since the thing is done, you, not I, must bear the consequences of your impru- dence."’ He was angered by her entreaties, and her intemperate charges against his nearest of kin, but he would not imitate her want of taste by flying inte a passion, especially as he was the victor in the conflict of wills. She had had her quietus and her final orders. He hoped the impervious Wellses would be taught by this sharp hint the difference between rank and money. He had no fear of disinheritance be- fore his eyes. He had seen far enough into Peter’s character to be assured that no amount of neglect and ill-usage could rob his daughter of her place in his heart. He knew, moreover, through Estelle, from whom her mother had no secrets, that Mr. Wells had already made his will, dividing his immense property into three equal parts, one of which was bequeathed to his first-bern, while his wife’s third was hers in fee-simple, and would probably at her de- cease be added to her favorite’s portion. Guy, Jr., had lined his nest with softest and thickest down in espousing the pretty plebeian, but that was no reason why eagles should, as a rule, consort with eider-ducks. He was not imagi- native, and he put it in different language. “ Han ’* he muttered, poising his cue in scientific style for a ‘ fancy shot”’ in his solitary billiard practice. ‘They are not-aur sort, and I won’t haye. tiie» fosexer_hanging aroynd. “A ian’s wife should take his rank, and thi cannot be while she is hampered ad Of Objectionable kinspeople. That Wells wo- TmmTmuakes henself alionether oo Tich at hone epee he? sets Madame Mere’s teeth on meet her. She was badgeriig me about it yest®rday, and the girls vow they will cut her dead the next time they are brought to- gether here, or anywhere else. If Estelle were not so deucedly sensitive, she would see that I mean to spare her pain, and her friends open insult.’ Not being imaginative, as I have said, it never occurred to him in this benevolent solilo- quy, or afterward, that his wife would resist the imperial ukase. He did not care how un- gently the news of her banishment was broken to Mrs. Wells, provided he were annoyed with no more ‘scenes ;”’ nor how awkwardly pain- ful the task was to Estelle. His part of the VOL. LXXXII.—27 business was accomplished. The details were for her to manage. Yet, in his careless, ease- loving soul, he was relieved that Estelle did not again refer to the subject, and that she had managed to get the revelation over with her mother without offending her; for Mrs. Wells spent the forenoon of the important day with her daughter, discussing with her the prelimi- naries of the evening’s exhibition. Study the proprieties, and school herself in them as she might, poor Ellie had not yet learned to submit the duty of “entertaining” philosophically to fate and trained servants. Guy inwardly swore at her as “ fussy,” hearing her talk and queries during luncheon, yet treated her more gra- ciously than he generally did. **She’s a sensible woman, after all. She ac- eepts the situation,” he thought, noting her cheerful face as she kissed her daughter at leaving. “ Estelle overrated her expectations, or_her sensibility. ‘These people are used to hard knocks, and. hing Eo” — Master Clarence’s gifts—numerous and costly —were set in array in the rear room of the suite, and when Estelle came down stairs, dressed to receive her guests, she found her husband inspecting them, He smiled disagree- ably in looking up at her. ~ “You are officious in advertising the fact that honest Peter is pére aur ceus. There will be but one opinion as to the taste of this dis- play among the people you have invited for this evening. I call this a sort of ‘Brumma- gem’ arrangement.”’ Under a glass shade in the centre of the table were the certificates of bank stock set to the eredit of Clarence Stuyvesant, with Peter Wells’ card laid conspicuously upon them, and next this was Mrs. Wells’ present of plate. “It is customary to place the handsomest presents in a conspicuous position,’’ rejoined Estelle, dryly, and—whether intentionally or not, her husband could not determine—her eye wandered to the corner on which stood a plain silver pap-cup, bearing the Stuyvesant erest, and accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Stuy- vesant’s card. Guy liked neither the glance nor her manner, which was coldly, defiant. “If there were time, I should insist upon a different arrangement of these things,’ he said, severely. ‘‘ Your polite design cannot be misunderstood by my friends.”’ ‘As you like. It is immaterial to me what place is occupied by my friends’ gifts. The | spectators will classify them for themselves.”’ The dispute was arrested by the first ring announcing an arrival; and, three minutes later, the well-mated pair were welcoming their guests with sunny smiles and suave speech, apparently upon as amiable terms with one another as with Fortune. The Stringhams, haughty and shabby ; Gen- eral Monckton, wife, and daughter, distin-

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424 GODEY’'S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. guished English tourists; the Stuyvesants in great force in honor of the christening of a member of the royal family, and their guest, the daughter of an ex-Secretary ; the bishop of the diocese and his stately spouse, who was a blvod-relation of Mrs. Stuyvesant; honorables not a few and judges many—all notadiléa in society and State—poured into the elegant rooms, and were received by the debonair host and his beautiful wife, who looked like a princess in her white silk dress and tiara of diamonds. The parlors were three-quarters full, when the crowd about the door parted somewhat widely to allow the entrance of Mr. and Mrs. Peter Wells! Guy plumed himself upon his imperturba- bility in situations that would unhinge most mens’ nerves and tempers; but his wife heard him draw in his breath hissingly, with an exe- cration uttered too low for any other ears, be- fore the new-comers were near enough to be saluted. Then he bowed over his mother-in- law’s hand with his wonted grace of ceremony before joining his slender fingers to honest Peter’s big, stubby ones, that looked like tightly-stuffed sausages in white kid cases. He understood it all in a flash of thought and memory. His wife was in open revolt, and in the blindness of rebellion she had made her parents the unconscious instruments of her re- venge and his discomfiture. The scheme was artful in conception and execution. While he and she lived, he would never forget or forgive the deception and the humiliation. This was the hour of her triumph, for which she should pay dearly. The devil within him was slow, but a deep and vindictive one, as some of his own blood and certain of his early associates had cause to know. Estelle had aroused it in all its might, and it would not be laid easily or soon. It was rampant under the decorous crust of serious attention, as he stood, side by side, with his boy’s mother, and listened to the solemn vows dictated by the right reverend to the sponsors, relative to the renunciation on the child’s behalf of “the devil and all his works ; the vain glory and pomp of the world, with all covetous desires of the same, and the sinful desires of the flesh.” For did not the name given in baptism recall his acquiescence in a vulgarian’s whim and the ruse by which his wife had won this? His rule had been too mild. He had been willing to be- have to her as a gentlewoman should be treated, but the coarser blood could only be controlled by stringent measures, From this night he would forbid absolutely, and upon penalty of his severest displeasure, all intercourse between herself and her parents. She must be brought into subjection, and be kept there. Mrs. Wells was in high feather this evening ; less inclined than usual to discern slights she yet dared not notice, more certain of her foot- hold upon the slippery steps of social promo- tion. Several amiable or money-worshipping guests complimented her upon the taste and munificence of her offerings and her husband’s to the infant heir; and Estelle kept her near her most of the time, introducing her right and left with a freedom that startled the mother, until she set it down to the fullness of her child’s love for her. The child, who had, at last, unlocked the golden door leading to the really ‘‘best circles,’ brought to her in this hour of glad exaltation fruition and content. She could have fallen down and worshipped her where she stood, the fairest in that assem- bly of fair patricians—the diamonds, her fa- ther’s bridal present, set like a crown of glory upon her forehead. In the delirium of her joy Mrs. Wells forgot her husband, until she felt his tug upon her sleeve. “T ain’t feeling just right to-night, Ellie,” he said, in a loud whisper. ‘‘ These rooms is powerful hot, and so perfamery like I can’t get my breath. My head has ached all day, and I am downright sleepy. I guess I'll take myself off quiet-like, and get home and to bed.” “The best thing you could do,” answered the excellent wife, promptly. ‘‘ You need not press through the crowd in the hall. Go into the conservatory, and so out to the back gate. You know the way?” “Yes,” said Peter, looking stupid, neverthe- less. ‘‘You’ll say ‘good-night’ to Stelly and the rest on ’em for me, won’t you?’’ Mrs. Wells reddened at seeing a young lady in front of her put up her bouquet to hide a smile, also that Mrs. Stuyvesant was near enough to overhear what was said. **T will make it all right with Estelle. Sho is too much engaged to miss you. If you take the carriage, don’t forget to send it back for me. But the night is so pleasant, perhaps the walk may do your head good.” By dint of patient steering, Peter escaped into the small but pretty conservatory lying back of the state apartments. The air was de- liciously fresh in comparison with the reek of Parisian extracts in the steam-heated parlors, and he felt strangely giddy and tired. “‘My brain's fairly wore out with looking over accounts these two days,”’ he said to him- self. ‘*There’s where I miss Charley again. I may’s well rest a bit here and listen to the music before I start for home; it’s kinder peaceful and pleasant.’’ He stooped over the tinkling fountain in the middle of the room, and bathed his face ; dried it in his pockethandkerchief, mopping and rub- bing his temples hard ; and, espying a lounge at the far end of the vista of flowering shrubs, put aside their branches and the vine-streamers cepending from the glass roof very tenderly, as he handled all delicate and helpiess things, and sidled down the narrow aisle to this rest- ing-place. Several pairs of volatile young

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people, straying in thither, saw him sleeping soundly on the rustic sofa, in the course ofthe evening, and, hearing his heavy snore, made very merry over his supposed semi-intoxica- tion ; while the story of the message he had left for ‘Stelly and all on ’em” went the rounds of the room, gaining as it circled swiftly from group to group. “‘Guy,” said his mother, as he was passing her after supper, “‘can I have a word with you?” She lifted her fan between herself and the crowd to unruffie her hasty speech. ‘‘ Your sisters and I are going home. The mortifica- tions of this evening have been too much for my nerves. Howcould you suffer your wife to invite those odious parents of hers, and actu- ally foree them upon your friends? I never witnessed a more unseemly exhibition. Not even your position can withstand the injuri- ous effects of such behavior. She actually asked General Monckton to take her mother in to supper! I thought I should faint when saw him with that factory creature on his arm I cannot answer for the consequences unless you have the firmness to lop off these very ob) jectionable parasites. ’’ “You cannot be more chagrined than I am,”’ rejoinedGuy. ‘‘limperatively forbade Estelle to invite these people. She has deceived as well as disobeyed me. But it will not happen again. I flatter myself you will have no cause after to-night to complain of the continued in- timacy between the Stuyvesant and the Wells families.”’ He moved forward to the side of a dashing belle, bending to her ear with a smiling com- pliment ; and Mrs. Stuyvesant left her stand by the mantle, giving a chance of escape to Mrs. Wells, who had been cornered by the ex- pansive person of the grande dame. Staying not upon the order of her going, she glided up to the dressing-room, hastily assumed her wrappings, and taking a last advantage of her familiarity with the ways of the house, bought and furnished with her husband’s money, passed softly through the adjoining chamber to the nursery, where the babe layasleep. It was a bitter moment, that in wy Ellen Wells bowed over her daughter’s child, feeling that she said ‘Farewell’ to him and his mother together ; a bitter tear she dashed away in time to hinder it from falling upon his cheek, To do her justice, love was stronger just then than pride. The mother’s soul was up in arms to protect her daughter from her husband’s anger and the disdain of his supercilious kindred ; yearning to take her and her nursling back to the home in which she had never received an unkind word ; the home of which she was the life and pride; the home to which she was never to come again unless by stealth. ““My darling! my darling! If I had but kept her with me! I have made her wretched for life! Heaven forgive me!” GETTING ON IN THE WORLD 425 The stairs were full as she went down, but she looked at no one; went right on with a pale, proud face, very unlike the smiling visage she had worn all the evening; on past the white-cravatted, white-gloved youths lounging in the hall watching the departures ; down the marble steps, remembering as she trod them that her husband had paid for them and the mansion to which they were the noble entrance; to her carriage ; and so to her own house, The house in which she was the beloved and honored mistress; still the indulged idol of a loving husband—not an incumbrance taken to his arms for the sake of her wealth ; not a chattel of which he was half-ashamed, one to be schooled, and bullied, and deprived of all she best loved or most desired. “*My husband would not have allowed any one, not even his mother, to speak of me as that man spoke of my poor child. He would defend me to the last beat of his brave, loyal heart. Gop bless him!” With the thankfulness, came a rush of salt, sweet tears; grief for the helpless, misused wife she had left in the tyrant’s hands; grati- tude for her own estate, so blessed in compari- son. When the last guest had gone, Guy stalked up and down the parlors in gloomy silence, while his wife directed the packing of the christening-gifts in a huge hamper. As this was borne up stairs by two servants, her hus- band pushed a chair toward her with his foot with such needless violence that it struck a mosaic-topped table, and both went over with acrash. The stand had been sent to Estelle from Italy by Arthur, and she sprang forward to pick it up. Guy kicked it across the room, and grasped her arm. “You and I have an account to settle before you look after gimcracks. Sit down.” She looked him straight in the eyes, sur- prised, but undaunted. ‘* You have taken too much wine, Guy. We will postpone our talk until to-morrow, if you please.”’ He swore at her ; an oath as loud and coarse as if it had fallen from a coal-heaver’s lips. ‘‘We’ll have it out now, once and for all! How dared you ask your low-born, low-lived father and mother to my house, to insult my family and friends when I had ordered you not to do it?” ‘‘ Because I chose to offend you rather than wound them,”’ Estelle said, distinctly. “‘ You cannot force me to give up my parents. I will cling to them and love them while I live ; love them in proportion to the contempt I feel for those whose pride of name and station would set husband against wife; make me as misera- ble as my girl-life was happy. This is your answer. Now, will you let me go?” He had held her tightly all this time, glaring at her in dumb fury, and now maddened by

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426 GODEY’S LADY'S BOO wine and passion, shook her as he might an insolent street boy. ** None of that, young man !”’ came in strange, K AND MAGAZINE. ** True nobility does not consist in what men call. blood and rank, Fanny.” Fanny hitched her chair nearer, and broke gurgling accents from the conservatory-door, | in eagerly :— and Peter Wells staggered forward. “If you say that, I needn’t mind telling you His face was purple, his eyes livid, his whole appearance so unnatural that Estelle cried out at the sight. **Papa, don’t come in here! good !”’ *“*T ain’t sure of that,”’ still chokingly in the voice she did not know. ‘“Iallers said I'd kill the man that ill-treated you, and I’il do it if he lays finger on you again.” You can do no how people talk about Estelle and her husband. They say he’s making ducks and drakes of her money, and is unkind to her besides. Some have reported that he wouldn’t let her come to see you, and the town cried out shame because not one of the Stuyvesants, except him, at- tended poor Peter’s funeral, rich and respected as he was. So I contradicted that about Es- telle’s not visiting you, for I said I’d met her ‘I'll kick you out of the house if you come | here often, but never him, and how dreadfully a step nearer !’’ retorted Guy. she looks, to be sure. I never saw anybody Estelle threw herself between them. ‘Papa, | break equal to her since she was married. I dearest, if you love me, goaway! Youcannot | should think it would worry you.” help me! Iam married to him remember.” *“We will not discuss publie gossip, if you “‘That’s the worst of it!’ Peter sank upon | please, Fanny,’’ said Mrs. Wells, with mild a chair, and put his head between his hands. | dignity, “especially when the subject is my “My little Stelly! my pretty, cunning baby! | daughter. She is a dear and dutiful child.” Yes, she’s married to him.’’ But when the busy-tongued meddler had The crouching figure lurched forward, and | gone, the mother cast herself down to weep came heavily to the floor. Estelle’s screams | with alow, long cry, as froma heart over-loaded brought the terrified servants in a body to the | to breaking. And this was what she said :— room. They turned him over, his face to the light. The dark-red flush still flooded his tem- ples; his eyes were closed; his lips fluttered once, twice, thrice, to let out the life—then all was still. “Everybody has expected this great while that he ’d go off in a fit of apoplexy,” said Mrs. Clark, paying a visit of condolence, a few days after the funeral. “But, of course, though ’twas to be and couldn’t be helped, it must have been a shock to you, Ellie. But he’s left you well off, and you did your duty by him while he was alive, and afflictions come toall. You’ll go to live with Estelle now, I suppose ?’” The mourner shook her head, **You don’t say! I supposed that would be just what you wanted, and Estelle, too!’’ turn- ing to her niece, who, dressed in deep black, sat by her mother’s bed. “Arthur will be home next week, Aunt Fanny. Mamma has something to live for yet.” A year later, Aunt Fanny was impelled by another bit of family news to pay a visit of ceremony to her sister. “Tt’s true, is it, that Arthur’s going to marry young Burt’s sister?’ I said how *twould be when I heard they ’d gone into busi- ness together, Burt and Arthur. How does Estelle take it? And what do the Stuyvesants say? Why, somebody told me one of those girls was setting her cap at him.” “My boy has chosen well,’’ returned Mrs. Wells. ‘ Annie Burt isa noble, lovely woman, weil educated, and refined.’’ “* They that sow the wind shali reap the whirl- wind.” VIOLET AND PANSY. A MODERN BALLAD. BY ESPY. z. BESIDE a blue-eyed Violet sprung A little purple flower, That o'er her bent to shade from sun, To shield her from the shower. It looked down on its charge in pride, She raised her eyes above; Asked Violet to be his bride, Was answered with her love. And storm and sunshine came and went, Fair Violet his bride, While o’er her faithful still he bent, And shielded her in pride. And when at length a whirlwind came To sunder their sweet lot, She whispered: “I am still the same!’ And he: “ Rerget me not!” IL Beside a blue-eyed Maiden grew A noble youth, and strong, That o’er her watched in earnest true To shield her from all wrong. He looked down on his charge in pride, She looked to him above ; He asked her then to be his bride, She answered with her love. Life’s storm and sunshine came and went, They met both side by side, While o’er each heart the other bent, Each shielding its own pride. And when at last Death's whirlwind came To sunder their sweet lot, She murmured: “I am still the same!” ** But how about the old grocer?” And he: “ Forget me not!” wl ed of It dis ek ing try cit ap) wh wh Th lim of | anc rea ney to | sub one stre mor seek equi com you dug to tl is so cons whe ones duri the 1 —ms of il to h agail the « heart tain at fir: time these have know from suece The « spirit out of it bac the w fairly Kingd much endea be at 1 seem ¢ into s)

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PEGGING AWAY. 427 PEGGING AWAY. OnE of the most useful bits of knowledge to which men and women can attain is the knowl- edge of their own powers, with the corollary of “‘ pegging away”’ when they do know them. It is of no use to try and till the rocks, nor to dig for minerals in sea sand, nor to aim at clouds and expect to bring them down flutter- ing like wild birds ; it is of no use persisting in trying things for which we have no real capa- city, for the sole result of loss of time and dis- appointed hopes. Yet how many men we see who will go on trying again and again at that which every one else knows is certain failure. Their persistence may have a touch of the sub- lime in it, assuredly it has more than a touch of the tragic ; but it is sublime only in accord- ance with the degree of nearness to which they reach success. When they are always far off, never in any way nearer success than they are to the clouds, then it is quite the reverse of sublime ; unless that familiar image of cutting one’s own throat by swimming against the stream is to be taken as an emblem of the moral grandeur lying in the persistency of seeking failure. But when the powers are equal to the task, and the failure hitherto has come from removable circumstances, then if you like, persist and “‘ peg away,”’ till you have dug down the obstructive heap, and have come to the glistening core of gold within. Nothing is so sure asa wise, strong-hearted, clear-headed constancy, whether in work or plan of life, whether in love for another or in reliance on oneself; and Bruce’s spider—that much-en- during beast who bears, like a second Atlas, the weight of the world of “‘ Try”’ on his back —may once again be pressed into the service of illustration, and be made the peg on which to hang this shred of our subject. Failure again and again, if one can see the cause, and the cause is remediable, ought never to dis- hearten. Say, you have it in you to doa cer- tain thing, you may not hit the right method at first, neither at the first nor at the twentieth time of trying; but the twenty-first? If all these failures have been lessons wherein you have studied causes, and if you have got to know the great reason why, and understand it from end to end, then try again till you have succeeded, for you must ultimately succeed. The divine impulse must have its essor; the spirit of the thing within you must eat its way out of the obstructive envelope that now keeps it back ; and the chrysalis will one day emerge the winged and perfected butterfly—the deed fairly and finally accomplished. Was not the Kingdom of Heaven itself once obtained by much importunity ? and, persisting in spiritual endeavor, however cold and dark the soul may be at times; however much the endeavor may seem a failure, is yet the surest way of coming into spiritual light at last. Take again the question of slander. Well! if on the one hand you ‘‘ peg away”’ at saying evil things of your neighbor, no matter whether they are true or false, you will get some of them believed by virtue of constant iteration, on the principle of throwing plenty of mud when some will stick ; but people unfortunately do not want to be taught how to injure their fellowcreatures. Some things come by nature, and slander is one of them. If, on the other hand—and this would be the right hand—you are slandered, what you have to do is to live it down, and make your “ pegging away’’ a pas- sive quality in place of an active one, which would alter only its syntax, not its sense. If you let yourself be beaten from your position ; if you are timid, oppressed, and have no hold on your own self-respect ; if you feel more pain than power, you are done for, and your ene- mies have got their feet on you, and you know nothing of the value of “pegging away ;” nothing of the dignity of self-respect, and the vitality of that same process of living it down ; and as we all are hardly handled by our friends at times, by our enemies always, so soon as we are out of hearing, as we all have vulnerable spots where we can be struck, and weak places in our armor where poisoned shafts can pene- trate, the art of quietly standing one’s ground, and picking out the shafts as they fall; the faculty of living down ill-natured attacks, and going right through the burning fire of evil re- ports, is a great one, with the blessed result of peace and a good name in the end, if, indeed, one’s little flame of life does not get snuffed out before that end comes. If constancy in endeavor is good in anything, it is good in work. Of all circumstances in which that unwearied uniformity of energy which our heading expresses is of value, work —the thing we have to do, the active object of our existence, and its end maybe—is that in which we should ‘‘ keep pegging away’’ with- out fainting or flagging. All snatch work is sure to be bad; and things done only at inter- vals and laid aside for idleness, pleasure, or novelty, are never worth even the small amount of pains Pestowed on them. This is more than half the reason why women’s work is not as a rule equal to man’s. It is fitful work, rarely done with the constancy of a man’s work; work taken up on occasion, when the fit is on them, and they are not otherwise amused or employed; but it is not taken up and carried on against all incitements to change, all obsta- cles, all hindrances, as men are obliged to do with their work. Yet, until. women learn this, men will carry the flag, and they will have only the cold comfort of marching behind. Here and there, of course, we find a woman who vorks with this visible persistency, but only here and there ; and when we find her, we find her—granting the qualities necessary— successful, at least up to her degree. Her sis- / | | ) | | i ; : | t | |

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423 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. ter, with more original mental power and less heroism of work, is a failure ; and nothing that she undertakes goes well, simply because she does nothing with continuity of energy, but all by fits and fragments, and so lets her ideas cool and her work become disjointed. For everything runs more smoothly the less its flow is broken ; and everything is learnt more easily the warmer the brain is kept, and the closer the interest for the time being. And yet, if women do not know the value of “pegging away” in work, they do in other things. Half their power as wives consists in the unweariedness with which they come back again and again to the same point, the persist- ency with which they traverse the same line, and will not be beaten off. Argument, anger, silence, disdain, nothing has any permanent effect on them ; they have set their hearts on doing this or having that, and they “‘ keep peg- ging away”’ till they get what they want. It is very well for them that they have this power. Not being able to take things with a high hand, or to carry the fortress of marital oppesition by storm, where would they be if they could not compass by consistency what nature has denied to them by strength? This is not say- ing that they are to establish a sore place, and show their power of constancy by continual rubbing at it when made ; but if they had not this tenacity of hold, this persistency of-en- deavor and unwearied recurrence to a charge, it would be a bad day for them when they fell into the hands of a man who would give nothing for affection and less for justice, but who could be brought to reasonable yielding for the sake of getting rid of importunity. Punch’s famous Mrs. Naggleton was a good example of the art of “ pegging away ;’’ so was Mrs. Caudle. We cannot commend either lady to the imitation of our readers, but they illustrate in a very remarkable degree, if unamiably, the active force of persistent attacks. Many a man has been brought to ruin and the bankruptcy court by the constancy with which his wife has baited and worried him to do this, to go there, to give her that. She went on “ pegging away,” and at last got to the point at which she aimed— without counting the cost of her transit. But it was her will, and he had nothing for it but to yield, after a certain time cf resistance. The constant dropping wore away even the flint of his opposition ; and he came to submis- sion and the financial end as the result. And just as many women have saved their husbands from ruin and despair by “pegging away” on the other side. They have got hold of a mol- luscous man say, ®8 man without much No in him, or a man with disastrous proclivities of indulgence. So they made themselves strong in the way of buttresses against the weak parts, and went on “pegging away” against his fol- lies and for the better thing, till they had got the upper hand, and forced him, however much against his will, to accept their wisdom as the | counter-agent of his own folly. A less per- sistent woman would have gone into the depths with him, and nothing short of the importunate tenacity by which he has been pinned and bored would have influenced him. So of the three results—getting her own dues which else she would never have had, making her hus- band do what he should not to escape her im- portunity, and making him do what he should for the same reason—the art of ‘‘ pegging | away” is one not to be lightly held by wives, /and, on the whole, does more good than ill. As, on the whole, the art does all through life ; the instances in which one is tenacious in wrong doing being, let us hope, far more rare than those in which one holds on to the right and ‘‘ pegs away”’ in a good cause. re DECORATION DAY GARLAND. FOR THE GRAVE OF AN “‘ UNKNOWN’”’ SOLDIER. BY CLARENCE F. BUHLER. DEAD soldier! though upon thy stone T read the single word “ Unknown,” Westminster Abbey’s gorgeous gloom Has never held a prouder tomb. For, like a green triumphal arch, This emerald hillock crowned thy march, And thou hast disappeared beneath To win an amaranthine wreath. Thine humble sepulchre is where No gaudy banners paint the air; But Evening, with a dewy tear, Will trail her shadowy pennons here. And over this sequestered nook The sky will wear a bluer look, Long as Humanity will thrill With Calvary and Bunker’s Hill. “Unknown?” Alas, what eager feet Have hastened thy return to greet, Whenever in the porch were heard The lilacs that the wind had stirred. Half-mast, for him whose march is o’er, The flag he never lowered before! Such men are forming, as they die, Legions of Honor in the sky. And as I tune the solemn chord, Triumphant undertones are poured, As neath a murmuring pine we hear The roaring of a cataract near. In every land by battie cursed The laws of Nature are reversed, And palsied Age unto the tomb Bears Manhood in its ruddy bloom. But, still, however black the skies *Neath which a murdered patriot dies, A sunshine on his funeral sod Falls like the golden smile of God. a OG Ir is worthy of observation, that the most imperious masters over their own servants are, at the same time, the most abject slaves to the , servants of other masters.—Seneca. 6® 6 & & tt ot of me teh eee cl of ee ow ow wm oe elem oe ella le Da = = — Ss wee so sy

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t - AT REST AT LAST. 429 AT REST AT LAST. BY KAY ESS. He said we were third cousins, for Peter Roome, my great-uncle, was his grandfather, and kept the keys of the old jail in New York city, years and years ago. “We must be third cousins, for there could not have been two Peter Roome’s, who car- ried the keys of that same old jail, so that is settled, and now you must call me Cousin Will.” His name was William Lawrance Warrener. But, like most girls at sixteen, I was possessed | with a spirit of perversity, and saucily assured him that ‘‘I would do no such thing, but should eall him ‘ Lawrance,’ as did my Uncle Charles’ family; or, if he liked it better, ‘Mr. War- rener.’’’ I was a country girl, and was really more verdant, perhaps, than I would like now to ac- knowledge. Be that as it may, I was pretty, I know. Ican say it now that my youth is all gone, and there are so few to remember whether it was so or not. My complexion was as fresh as the rose upon whose delicate cheek the ardent rays of the morning sun has just kissed the first blush ; and my teeth were even and white, and the envy of more than one rich city girl, who had spent the greater part of her days crunching taffy. My eyes, I don't know what they were then ; Ae ealled them “ wicked ;” now they are gray and sad, and tears have washed away the wicked light that dazzled more once than you would now believe. My hair was darker some than flaxen, but it was pretty; and I did not lack in animation, or that ever-varying expres- sion that lends to some faces a charm more po- tent, I believe, than that of intellect. But I was poor as poor could be. Lawrance knew that, too, though how he found it out, I do not know ; for I was told to keep silent as to my father’s circumstances, and my aunt talked grandly of her brother-in-law’s—she was my mother’s sister—broad acres, and the spacious mansion that commanded such a prospect as painters might enjoy, though what it consisted of was a query in my mind then, for there was only the stone wall in front, and the little shed of slabs at the back that protected our two cows from the cold and wet. But I have learned to think differently of things now, and suppose it might have been a tolerable good prospect for a painter if some immortalized hero had been born there, but as it was only poor I, it will never be reproduced in oil to hang in some rich man’s parlor, nor be pressed between the lids of richly-bound albums. No matter ; it is indelibly stamped upon the tab- lets of my memory, and is, therefore, worth more to me than that single picture of Humboldt is to its owner, for let me go where I will, that picture is still mine to gaze upon as long and often as I choose. Charles Haven had married my mother’s sis- ter Hetty, when my grandparents were thought to be well off in this world’s goods, but that was no object with him, I think, for Hetty was sparkling, I have heard mother say, and deter- mined to shine as chief ornament of some handsomely decorated parlor on Avenue Fifth ; or, perhaps, glitter in the halls of the Old World. She did both, for fortune seemed to take de- light in lavishing her gifts upon Uncle Charles, and gold increased tenfold by the merest touch of his business fingers. He was a broker on | Wall Street the summer I was there. He has | since retired from business, and William Law- rance Warrener was head clerk, and had been in my uncle’s employ since he was a boy thir- teen, and did errands for barely enough to keep his clothes whole at the knees and elbows. How Aunt Hetty came to send for me, I hardly know, for she had not seen me since I was a little girl, with freckled face and brown, bare feet. A heated wave rushes over me now, though I sit here alone, at the remembrance of the deep mortification I felt when, with her jewelled fingers, she put back my tangled hair to scrutinize my features. I heard her say | something about “teeth” and ‘eyes’ as I shrank awkwardly out of the room, and dashed wildly around the house, down the little path to the brook, where I spent the remainder of the day watching frogs and harmiess water- snakes dive in and out the sparkling wave. When I came back, Aunt Hetty was gone, and my mother was crying, though why I could not tell, for the table was piled with bright things, dresses, aprons, and pretty new shoes for me, and father a whole new suit. Putting my arms around mother’s neck, I cried too, for I could not help it; then I kissed her softly, and stroked her black hair until I saw her smile and feeling happy again. I dressed my- self in my new clothes as carefully as some village belle would have done, perhaps, and danced and admired myself until I was sent to bed ; yet I remember that father considerately jet me sit up that night two hours later than he had ever done before. Iwas the only chfld, and mother was not very well; but I found time to go to school, and father taught me some ; and so at the age of sixteen, I had a fair education, though none of the aecomplish- ments that appear so indispensable to ladies of | society. Well, Aunt Hetty sent for me, and mother let me go, yet reluctantly enough, I think ; but | father thought it best, and I was almost wild at the very idea of New York life. Still, I had not quite forgotten the old impression that Aunt Hetty’s grand appearance had made upon me so many years before. I went, and a queer time I had of it, too. In

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430 GODEY’'S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. of the family ; when we were alone, only as a sort of upper servant. It was a muddle in my own mind how I stood, and afterward led me to do a thing that I would not otherwise have been guilty of. It was early day when I reached there, clean- ing house time; and every woman, rich or poor, young or old, knows something of the meaning of that phrase. The great heavy, golden-colored satin curtains were taken down, and replaced by web-like lace that swept over the windows like fleecy clouds on a misty morn- ing. The carpets, chairs, and sofas covered with shining linen, and all the beautiful gilt frames, and elegant chandeliers, with their bronze carv- ings, were hidden away under a green covering ; marble mantles brushed and scrubbed ; silver fenders, door knobs, and hinges to be polished ; and a thousand other things to be done, that sent the servants running hither and thither, up stairs and down, and everywhere. I had climbed hills and serambled over rocks from dawn till set of sun, but I was not accus- tomed to climbing so many stairs; and my evenings were spent at theatres, concerts, and saloons, until I was tired to death, and longed to get back under the cool shades of the apple- trees and blossoming honeysuckles. When the heated term commenced, Aunt Hetty thought I would not care to go into the country with them ; it would be more of a nov- elty for me to stay and stand as sort of a guard over the servants ; and then it was so expensive boarding at those fashionable hotels. I was quite willing to remain in the city, and so it was arranged. And away went the family, trunks, baskets, and shawls, one morning, for Long Branch, and I breathed a sigh of relief, and vowed in- wardly that the beggars who plead at that door should fare better than they ever had done before. , Unele Charles’ head clerk was sent up to stay in the house nights in case of robbers, or fire, or anything of that sort. He was twenty- five then, tall, with dark curling hair, and deep blue eyes. I did not fancy him much, he was so grave. I remember how it was that we came to talk at all. For some reason, the hall lamp had not been lighted one evening, and I paused, midway on the stairs, to notice the queer shadows upon the wall. The moon shone brilliantly through the hall windows, throwing the shadow of all that open carving, or what- ever name architects have for it, upon the fres- coed wall. I was thinking of Belshazzar, and trying to imagine the horror he must have felt when he saw the fingers of a man’s hand writing upon his palace wall, when lo! the shadow of a man’s hand and arm appeared perfectly plain, coming slowly towards me. I screamed, and almost saw the words, ‘‘ Mene, the presence of company I was treated as one | Mene, Tekel, Upharsin,”’ and shrank cowering upon the stairs, expecting the supernatural hand to seize me in its icy fingers. The haf door opened, and in walked Lawrance War- rener, the first that I knew he carried a night key, and it was bis hand applying the night key that caused the frightful shadow. For the first time I was glad to see him, and said: “O Mr. Warrener, is it you? You frightened me almost out of my senses.’’ Then we passed into the parlor, and had a good laugh over my foolish fright. After I had answered all the commonplaces he could think of asking, I suppose, he proposed a game of dominoes, hoping by that, I believe, to keep me there an hour or so as a sort of play- thing ; for the evenings must have been lonely enough, as I always passed mine in my room after auntie went away. Well, I played the dominoes; and, although the game had always been a tedious one to me, it passed pleasantly enough that night, for it was interspersed with conversation clothed in language more like that I had read in books than I had ever listened to before. I had not been in the city long, you must remember, and had been only to public places of amusement, the time for parties and such things being over, and had heard none of the fine nothings that, to a novice, appear so genuine. But I believe that ‘he was really a sprinkle of the salt of the earth ; and in all these years that have passed I could never once look back at a word that was not in every light a truthful one. The next morning being Sunday, he was not obliged to go down town to business, and so remained to chat with me an hour or so before going to his mother’s to accompany her to church. We were walking in my uncle’s gallery of pictures, and I had paused before one of an old stone ruin, with iron-barred windows, and said, half-musingly : “I wonder if that is not the old jail that Uncle Peter Roome used to lock and unlock so many times.” “Peter Roome was my grandfather,” said Lawrance,‘and so it was that we came to trace our relationship, and he said I must call him “Cousin Will.” He was more than kind to me after that. Still, he treated me as one would treat a child; and once advised me to go to school, offering to pay my tuition. I had a thirst for knowledge in those days ; and, perhaps, he divined my thoughts when I compared my unaccomplished self with the elegant ladies whom I met sometimes ; but I would not accept anything. of the kind at his hands, and I could not help feeling piqued that he should treat me so. I did not love him then ; but I do, now, with a love that has its basis in respect, and had a firmer hold upon my heart than any other feeling ever did, except the love I have for my darling boy. py -— 2 at a a aie a Oe Oe ten ee a & es wi E84

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AT REST AT LAST. Well, the evenings came and went, and I looked forward to each one with a degree of pleasure; for Lawrance lost much of the gravity that at first awed me, and once even ran after me through the long parlors down the steps into the garden, as I went flying be- fore him, with the challenge to ‘‘catch me if he could.’’ O Cousin Will!—I can call you so, now, though I wouldn’t then—the remembrance of you is all that keeps me from losing my faith in all mankind. Those six weeks of seven evenings each that I passed in my Aunt Hetty’s Fifth Avenue parlor time has proved was the one oasis of my life, the only time that I find pleasure in remembering. All that has happened since is so fearfully real, that I shudder to recall it; and, but for the cradle by whose side I nightly kneel, and plead for God’s watchful care, I might, in some one of the moments of despair that are so frequent now, rush prayerless and unsummoned into the vast domain of eternity, where no cry for forgiveness would ever avail me aught. You did not love me, Cousin Will, and I thank heaven that you did not. You were too good for me, a thousand times, and there was that in my heart, even then, that needed the chastening hand of the Almighty to purify and quiet it into calmness and submission. Uncle Charles’ family had been hore but a week, when I was summoned to the bedside of my mother. Her disease had been aggravated, I think now, by the letters I had written home, and her increased illness required the most tender care. She was overjoyed to see me, and expressed her pleasure at my improved appearance and manner I had unconsciously acquired. But she grew rapidly worse, and died in my arms, “When the October leaves turned golden, And blood spots dyed them red.” She was gone, and I could not call her back ; but it was a sweet comfort to linger in the room where she died, and recall each look and word that she had ever given me. But her death made father an altered man. He grew old and bent, and almost shunned the house. He spent all the time that he could in the open air, until the fierce chill of the early winter drove him in. A settled melancholy had fallen upon him, and I grew almost afraid that his mind would become deranged, when we received a letter from his brother Martin, in New Jersey, invit- ing him to spend the winter there. l insisted upon his accepting the invitation, for I felt that it was the only thing that would save him. If he stayed on the old place, he would soon follow my mother. I feared he would, any way, but I must do something to save him. I went with him to Uncle Martin’s, and from there to Aunt Hetty’s, leaving father 431 in good hands, and the old house locked and desolate. My aunt insisted upon my laying aside my deep mourning, and mixing in the gay scenes of her parlor, which, I am ashamed to say, that I did; and, before spring, I had fascinated more than one poor goose who beiieved, I sup- pose, that I had thousands at my command. I was taken to Newport the next summer, for I was very handy about the children, millinery goods, and many other things; and there I flirted, danced, and smiled, until I was about as heartless as one could be. I had not seen Lawrance Warrener this time, for he was not of the invited number at my aunt’s house, and lately he had commenced business for himself in one of the Western towns. Time did not stop for me here—I wish it had—but it went on, and so did I, until I became so wearied with the life that I was leading, always trying to please, and always striving in vain, that, at last, I would have married any,one, I believe, as a means of es- cape. There was one came to me in the winter, whom I had met occasionally the summer be- fore, and ‘he offered me his hand in marriage. Philip Tirace was, in every sense, a man of the world—handsome, dark, bewildering eyes and a stylish address. I admired the man very much; but I knew that I did not love him with the fervent trust one should have in a husband, yet my heart gave a throb of grati- tude when he whispered in honeyed words of his love, and I believed I would be happier, so I married him, for I longed so much for rest. My aunt approved of the match. Uncle Charles was away at the time; he said afterward that he would have told me better. Aunt Hetty gave me a wedding, and then, I suppose, considered her duty well discharged towards her sister’s child. We went to Wash- ington to travel, afterwards to St. Louis, and so on from city to city, and it was not until I had been married three years that I knew my husband was a professional gambler. But I did not upbraid him ; for he had been kind to me, and I knew that my grief was a just punishment for the sin I had committed in going before God’s altar with a lie upon my soul. Two more years of hopes and fears had floated down the dim aisles of the past, and intoxication began to tell upon him. His manner towards me changed to harsh- ness, and from that to cruelty. And twice he had accused me of practising a deep deception upon him, though I had told him before that it was no fault of mine that rumor reported me rich. Still, I clung to him as only a wife can cling, and the more tenderly now that a start- ling truth was forcing itself upon me. His luck at the gaming table seemed to have de- serted him, and taken with it all his love for me. We were boarding, then, at a third-rate

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432 GODEY’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. house, and he had left me for three weeks with only my doubts and fears for companions, for he knew I would not mingle with the boarders. When he did come, he greeted me with an oath, and there was such an evil look in his dark, bewildering eyes that I feared he would kill me. That night I fied. It was the only thing left me. My father’s house in the Northland should be my home, where Ae could never find me. I sold a diamond brooch that I had left, and came back to this house. I found it little changed, for the old house had careful neighbors. After I had been here long enough to get things man- aged, so I could once more feel at home, I sent for father. The deat old man was overjoyed to get back to the house that we might better have never left. I never toid him Philip Tirace was yet living, though we often spent whole evenings talking of the scenes I had left. After a time my little baby was born, and with him, I think, I had my share of comfort. ; We three lived happily together for a few months ; father growing young in the light of my baby’s smile. But again death came—si- lently and unexpectedly this time—and in the darkness of night took father home. I found him one morning with a serene light upon his countenance ; but his spirit had fled, crossed the stream from whence there is no boat of re- turn, and again I was left to mourn. But, oh! there came a time of deeper mourn- ing still. My baby began to droop; and day after day, as I sat by his little crib, or held him to my heart, the conviction forced itself upon me that he, too, was going from me. Oh, surely that was more than I deserved! How could I bear it? And with it all a nameless terror came and fastened itself like a vampire upon me. What if Philip Tirace should think of the past enough to know that he must be father of a child, and seek me out, where should Ihide? What would become of me? I could trace his likeness in every form I saw coming. And every step upon the stones, and every rat- tle of the casement I imagined were occasioned by him. Would he take my baby from me? Oh, those nights of agony that I sat and watched my darling boy! I tell it all in as few words as possible. I cannot bear to dwell upon this latter clause of .my life’s history. I cannot bear to write it, but I must go on think- ing of it year after year without one ray to illumine this inky blackness of despair. Oh, mother, come back to me! My baby is dead, and I am all alone in the world—fatherless, motherless, and childless ! The eleventh day of last month my baby had been buried a year. Ali day I sat looking out of my window towards those three graves—my mother, my father, and my child. It rained dreadfully all day, and the wind blew the dead branches against the house, and I was so lonely that I grew almost frightened at the chill that erept over me. As night fell, the rain ceased, and the moon shed her beams lovingly on my leaf-covered mounds ; so I walked over there, led by a spirit I cannot describe ; and, kneeling between the graves of father and mother, with my head bowed until my face rested upon my baby’s grave, I prayed—oh, how fervently !— for grace and strength to endure to the end, and again and again for forgiveness of my past sins. How long I prayed thus, I cannot tell. I took no note of time ; but surely and truly I heard my father’s blessing, and saw my mo- ther’s wondrous smile, and felt my baby’s little arms about my neck, and his dear form against my heart. My own heart ceased its beating then, and my soul almost went home, for I knew that I had a glimpse of heaven ; and the light that I saw there shed itself over and around me, and something surged through my soul as only a breeze from its Edenized shores could have done. Through all I heard, or thought I heard, the soft rustling of wings; and with its departure faded the forms that were bending near me, and I[ heard a voice calling, “‘ Lorinda, Lorinda!”’ and, for the first time in my life, I fainted. When I awoke to consciousness, the scene in the graveyard swept dimly before me, and, for a moment, I thought I must be in heaven. But again that voice, ‘‘ Lorinda!”’ and this time it was followed by the pressure of a bearded lip upon my own, and I was folded fondiy to a great, broad, heaving chest. I closed my eyes again, and for a moment was at rest; for I knew it was Cousin Will who held me, and I was in my own little room. Then came the thought of Philip Tirace, and I moaned, rather than spoke, my husband’s name. “He went to his reckoning, Lorinda, more than a year ago. I had been a little way West, and coming back there was a railroad accident. The cars ran off the track, owing to the care- Jessness of one of the brakesmen, and three men were injured, but only one dangerously. I carried him to the nearest house; and, when the physician who had been sent for told him he must die, he made a confession of his cruelty to his wife, and fairly shrieked, as he died: ‘I loved you through it all, Lorinda, but my sin led me on, and I could not help it.’ The only thing I found upon him of any value was this likeness, which proved to be of my little cousin, and I have carried it with me ever sinee.”’ ‘But why did you not come sooner, Cousin Will, to tell me that he was gone ?”’ “I did not know where you were. Mr. Haven and family were in Europe; but, at last, one day, I thought of your old home, and I might have written at once, but I would not trust to the uncertainty of a letter, preferring rather to wait a few more weeks until my busi-

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ALLAN HOLME’S HOUSEKEEPER. 433

ness allowed me a little leisure. I wanted to see you myself, Lorinda, to know if you had a thought for the past.’ “But, Cousin Will, have you never married in all these years?” “Yes, darling. I married a good woman four years ago; but eighteen months after she flitted away to heaven, and left me a wee baby girl as my only comfort. Lorinda, will you be to her a mother? I loved you in the past, and T love you now, with a love timt is honest and true ; and, if you will be my wife, I will strive to be to you all that you would desire in a husband.”’ I had no words for a reply, but tears of hap- piness gathered in my eyes; and, as he held me in his arms, pillowing my head against his heart, as if I had been a weary child, I felt that heaven had, indeed, been opened to me that night, for had I not been clean through the troubled waters, and, at last, reached home ? And, oh, the blissful rest that Ifound! All night, or what remained of the night, for it must have been near morning then, he held me in his arms, and would not let me go; but it was my refuge now, and I was happy too. He gave me but one month for preparations for my marriage. A dressmaker was sent on from the city, and with the assistance of my own hands—for I would be allowed that pleasure— Iam allready. This morning she went back to New York, and I have been gathering all my little valuables, mementoes, etc., that I wish to preserve, and amongst the rubbish that Thad heaped for the flames, I found this old scrawl, written as an escape-valve to my de- spair, and I plucked it asa brand from the burning to add what Ihave. If at any time in my happiness and prosperity I seem to forget, I hope some one will point to this page, for I know that memory will stand faithful forever. Against the wall opposite, set two large trunks, locked, strapped, and marked “ Mrs. Warrener.”’ Upon one of them my eyes rest lovingly, for it contains, besides a part of my wedding paraphernalia, some letters that I prize, and the pictures of my three lost ones. Oh, would that they could know how happy I am to-night! Who would have believed in those dark, fearful days that there was happiness in store forme? But God is good; and O, Will, once my cousin, and to-morrow my husband, how my heart goes out in hopeful trust towards you! There is no trembling foreboding that all will not be well; I know it will. I feel God’s blessing upon me now, and with His help I will be a good wife to you, and a mother to your child.

<boae oo As the mind must govern the hands, so in every society the man of intelligence must direct the man of labor.—Johnson.

ALLAN HOLME’S HOUSE- KEEPER. BY PETIT LICHEN. CHAPTER LI. Ir was a charming place. And so thought its owner, Allan Holme, as, slowly pacing the tesselated floor of the portico at the rear of the fine old mansion, he surveyed, with well-satis- fied eyes, his immediate surroundings, and al- lowed these’ same eyes, to roam, in the same satisfied way, over the autumn-tinted woods and sombre fields that.stretched far, far away, and lay bathed in the sweet, peaceful sunshine of a glorious October morning. The pleasant musing, which might have been indefinitely prolonged, was brought to a rude close by a peal from the hall bell. While the serving boy, Dick, in the absence of reproving voice, somersaulted himself to the door, Allan Holme dropped into a new and less agreeable train of thought. Pausing before the steps leading down to what Nature and art had com- bined to make a wilderness of beauty, he re- moved from between his lips the fragment left of a Havana which he had been slowly convert- ing into graceful, fragrant wreaths of smoke. Lightly knocking off the adhering ashes, he stood abstractedly contemplating the smolder- ing spark, till roused by the voice of Dick at his elbow. The next instant the little spark lay winking out its life on the graveled walk. ‘**A lady, sah,’’ said that gum-elastic ebony, presenting a mourning card, on which was in- scribed, ‘“‘ Mrs. C. L. Berne.’”’ ‘‘I showed her to the lib’ry, sah.’ And with a duck of his woolly pate, that threatened to terminate in a somersault, Dick vanished, only to resume his favorite mode of locomotion, and to indemnify himself, as far as possible, for the momentary restraint imposed on his gymnastic propensities by the vigilant eye of his master. *‘ Another dowdy widow, with dollars and cents stamped on every lineament, and deter- mined on taking the control of affairs here at Woodlawn whether I will or not,’’ discontent- edly thought Allan Holme, seeking the indi- cated apartment, with a vivid, and by nomeans agreeable recollection of numerous discussions which had recently taken place there. ‘I am almost tempted to allow cook and chamber- maid to lord it over me at their pleasure, and to give up this search for a model woman in the shape of a housekeeper.” These reflections might have proved destruct- ive of the hopes of any woman less high-bred and noble looking than the one with whom he was speedily exchanging salutations. As it was, “‘ Mrs. C. L. Berne’ secured the position of housekeeper at Woodlawn ere she had re- sponded to the courtly greeting of its elegant and handsome master.

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Standing there, her stately form elad in deepest mourning, her face was a lovely type of that loveliest of all the lovely things to be seen on earth—a regenerate old age. Intui- tively conscious of the purity of her inner life, Allan Holme bent with an emotion of reverence before his strange visitor, coveting her pre- sence at his fireside with something of the longing with which he ever recalled the soft touch of his mother’s hand, and the tender ca- dence of that earth-still voice. Thesacred wrinkles of fifty odd years seamed, without marring, the cheek and brow which, in years long gone, had been beautiful with youth’s flush and smooth fairness; and to Allan Holme’s poetic mind, the lustrous white of the hair, plainly banded on either side of the placid forehead, was only the gleam of the pure light radiating through Heaven's wide open door. So near he deemed her to that blessed abode. He was not a man to disregard credentials of this character. So that, when in the course of conversation Mrs. Berne men- tioned General Cliff, of , as being their mutual friend, the name was only received as pleasantly confirmatory of his own precon- ceived opinions. With gentle, courteous eagerness he urged her speedy installment in her new office. But there was a hesitancy of manner about the lady betokening some difficulty as yet undisposed of. After a minute’s deliberation she said :— “T have a proposal to make, Mr. Holme, which may prove sufficiently disagreeable to change all your wishes. I have a grandchild from whom I cannot consent to be separated. Quite orphaned, Jessie is not only my sacred charge, but the bright blessing of my lonely life; besides, being much too young to be in- trusted to the care of others. Although hap- pily domesticated in General Cliff’s family at present, and urgently desired by them to re- main there permanently, we yet feel that the idea of separation is not to be entertained for a moment. With this statement before you, I beg that you will reconsider the subject per- haps too hastily decided.”’ In some annoyance Allan Holme silently revolved the question in its new, and truly un- weleome phase, Mrs. Berne’s heart keeping anxious time to his busy thoughts. A bachelor, on the shady side of thirty, unaccustomed to the presence of children, and constantly occu- pied with pen and books, the prospect of a noisy, mischievous child forever disturbing the quiet of the house was, indeed, a rather alarming consideration. Eminently frank in his nature, he presently looked up, saying :— “TI will not disguise from you, my dear madam, that, could I have disposed this matter to suit my own tastes, we would have no pat- tering feet about the house—my education being sadly defective in the direction of chil- dren—but, assured that you will kindly pre- 434 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. serve me from the little Jessie’s pranks during my study hours, I beg that you will make me a better and happier man by taking charge of me and my house as soom as you can conve- niently do so.”’ Tears sprung to Mrs. Berne’s eyes at the respectful, almost filial earnestness marking his concluding words. ““You are very kind,” she replied, “and I ean safely promise that you will never be dis- turbed by J a She is” — **My dear madam, pardon the interruption, but I cannot permit you to say another word on this point. I am more than satisfied.” The little amused smile curving Mrs. Berne’s lips was lost in her bow of acquiescence. A few more trifling arrangements, and they parted, with the understanding that she would assume her new duties the early part of the ensuing week. An arrangement duly carried into effect at the appointed time, and, to the secret satisfaction of Allan Holme, without the presence of the much-dreaded Jessie; the Cliffs, Mrs. Berne explained, insisting on re- taining her for another fortnight. Notwithstanding Allan Holme’s secret jubi- lee over the prospect of a fortnight’s respite, he had a kind and generous heart ; and, eagerly desirous to testify that his aversion was chil- dren in general, and not Jessie in particular, he made it convenient, a day or two before her arrival, to visit an adjacent city for the purpose of procuring some pretty toy with which to surprise the little maid intruding so frequently on his thoughts. Shops were ransacked—shop girls, first eager, then anxious, then despairing, were finally left to replace their rejected wares in a huff, tartly and truly remarking that “the gentleman didn’t know what he wanted!’ Almost in despair himself, the would-be purchaser stood in the last one gazing helplessly about him, and fruitlessly regretting not having gained from Mrs. Berne a judicious hint by which to pilot his bachelor judgment through the unexpected shoals and quicksands of atoy shop. Atlength his eye rested thoughtfully on a beautifully- finished rocking-horse with side-saddle and other equipments. “The very thing! I might have thought of it long ago!’’ he exclaimed, and forthwith it was ordered to be delivered at Woodlawn at the earliest moment possible. The next morning Mrs. Berne, busily occu- pied in the dining-room with some housewifely duty, was somewhat startled by an invasive movement on the part of Allan Holme. “Mrs. Berne, will you kindly spare me a minute of your time ?” “‘Certainly,”’ she rejoined, with gentile cor- diality, advancing towards the hall door, which he held open for her. “T have a gift here, dear madam, for your little girl,” pointing to the rocking-horse de- a th OO ech aoet ot £464 ff Ot -—_ _—— , om nn on a a4 Dp ee = =

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ALLAN HOLME’S HOUSEKEEPER. 435 posited in the hall a few minutes before by the carrier from , ‘and I desire your advice about placing it in readiness for her. Shall it remain here, or to be taken to the front portico to serve as a pleasant greeting? I believe you expect her to-morrow?” Laughter bubbled up to Mrs. Berne’s eyes, and rippled softly from her lips as she re- sponded affirmatively to the latter inquiry, adding immediately, with sudden and earnest gravity :— “T appreciate from my heart your generous kindness, Mr. Holme, and so will my Jessie, for she is a most appreciative little thing.’’ And a tear softened the still beautiful eyes of Mrs. Berne, as she uttered this naive com- mendation of her darling. Directly she said, by way of advice: “I would suggest placing the horse within this closet under the stairs, and Jessie can have the fun of discavering it for herself,’ completing the sentence with an- other irrepressible laugh. Allan Holme was happy. Entering his sanctum shortly after, he said to himself, with a radiantly self-satisfied smile :— “‘How pleased the dear old lady is! I am heartily glad I thought of it.’’ Jessie was coming! Gloriously rose the next day’s sun at Woodlawn, happily beat the heart of Mrs. Berne, and smoothly moved the do- mestic machinery. Indeed, since Mrs. Berne’s advent, serenity and comfort were the house- hold blessings, reigning supreme where, late, disorder and its crew had ruled triumphant. And Allan Holme, without a questioning thought as to the means by which this agree- able result had been obtained, gratefully luxu- riated in the new and welcome atmosphere. Dinners were not only cooked, but well cooked, and neatly as well as handsomely served, while slamming doors, rude, harsh voices, and heavy, blundering feet were but among the things stored in the memory of the once ser- vant-persecuted master of Woodlawn. Even somersaulting Dick acknowledged the firm, yet gentle sway of the new mistress, and was more frequently to be seen with head and heels in the respective positions wisely ordained by the laws of Nature. All the afternoon of this day, breaking so gloriously, Allan Holme had been superintend- ing the removal of plants from hot-house to conservatory. When he, at length, left the former, it was nearing sunset. In his wake followed the ever-active Dick, who, under shield of his master’s back, was indulging in various pantomimic antics. Suddenly Dick was motionless—eyes and mouth agape. Then, with another forward movement, he jerked out :— “Thar’s a ge’man, sah !”’ His master’s glance was directed in every quarter but the right one. “Where?” facing Dick, as he spoke. ‘* Thar, sah, a-dodgin’ about the shrub’ry.’’ As his eye followed the indicating finger, a pleasant voice called out :— ‘**Halloo, Holme !’’ “Cliff! My dear fellow, I am a thousand times glad to see you. But where in the world do you hail from? Or, rather, how is it that you spring up so mysteriously from the midst of my shrubbery ?” responded Allan Holme, ad- vancing, and cordially shaking hands with his handsome young guest. “T hail from my own home, of course. I happen to be among your shrubbery because Mrs. Berne informed me that you could be found somewhere about here. But more inter- esting than all this is the fact that I am happy to announce myself the happy escort of two— two fairies, who desired to bless Woodlawn with their presence.’’ “TI am doubly, nay, trebly, your debtor, Cliff.” At this instant, a sudden and most disastrous crushing of some late and choice chrysanthe- mums surprised their ideas into a new channel. Dick, as usual on the alert to see and hear, and scrupulously regardful of opportunities of practicing his great accomplishment, availed himself of the propitious moment of his mas- ter’s engaged attention, to testify his delight at so unlooked for an advent. Unhappily for him, his lithe body for once escaped his con- trol, and a most inglorious tumble ended the assay, and immediately riveted his master’s eye upon him. ‘*You young scoundrel, what are you about there?’’ was the vexed interrogatory. Dick was startled up-right. A musical peal of laughter broke the silence that followed the stern demand, and while Allan Holme’s eyes wandered from window to window, in the vain endeavor to obtain a glimpse of the supposed pretty laughter, the crestfallen Dick beat a hasty retreat. “That strain of sweet music fell from the lips of one of your fairies, 1 imagine, Cliff. Who are they, pray?” ‘‘One is our little Lady Berne, the other—I will leave you to guess.” “T’ll do better than that, Cliff; put myself in presentable trim, and settle the question satisfactorily. But would you not like the use of a dressing-room yourself, my dear fellow?” he added, as they entered the hall. “Thank you, I believe I will aceept the offer, and part with a little of the superfluous dust,”’ brushing his coat sleeve as he spoke. Having seen his friend provided with all the toilet requisites, Allan Holme retired to his own chamber, from which he shortly issued in linen immaculate, and broadcloth unexception- able. As he passed into the hall, his steps were arrested by the sight of a tiny form, the very embodiment of a beautiful dream, seated in the great western window, through which

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ican ae en wae — a. 436 GODEY’S LADY'S BUOK AND MAGAZINE the setting sun was pouring a flood of gorgeous light, turning to amber-like beauty the soft flaxen curls knotted away with a band of blue ribbon from a face of exquisite delicacy and fairness. Seventeen summers must have smiled on this maiden, yet the lovely innocence of early childhood still glorified the face on which nature had so generously lavished her charms. The little white hands lay quietly folded in her lap, while a pair of blue eyes, large and liquid, were fixed dreamily on the fine prospect be- fore her. Repose approaching beatific peace, marked every lineament and every curve of the graceful figure, and Allan Holme stood in almost breathless silence, lest this unexpected vision of loveliness should fade at the first rude sound. Both were startled by the silvery ring of the tea bell. Fully recalled to himself, he turned hastily away, his footfall wooing the blue eyes from the engrossing landscape, to rest for a moment on his retreating form. “John Cliff's fairy, I suppose, of whom he was so very chary of giving information,” he said to himself, tapping at that young gentle- man’s door, with a new and uncommonly curious thrill at his heart. While he waited before the vacant chamber, the “fairy” went gliding down the great stair- case, the very loveliest, purest thing that had blessed the old mansion for many and many a year; went gliding into the drawing-room to meet, with her sweet, unconscious gaze, John Cliff’s ardent, welcoming eyes, Allan Holme reaching the same spot just in time to note the eager devotion with which she was seated, and to read unerringly what the innocent blue eyes had never once seen, nor the innocent mind once conceived. There was no time, however, to philosophize on the enslaved condition of the gallant old general’s son, for one of the general’s prettiest daughters stood smilingly awaiting a greeting from her host. “Miss Caira, I am, indeed, happy to welcome you to Woodlawn ; happy to find in you ‘the other’ of whom John so churlishly refused more definite information.’’ Gracefully acknowledging his courteous salu- tation, she laughed :-— * John was just telling me he had left you in a lamentably unenlightened state.” The next instant he was bowing low before the western window fairy. “Jessie Berne!” he silently ejaculated, as he recollected the purchase safely stowed in the hall closet. ‘“ Jessie Berne!” he repeated, mechanically, offering his arm to the pretty Caira, at a peremptory second summons from the tea-bell. “Jessie Berne!’’ he again and again repeated, as, chatting gayly, they led the way to the tea-room, and seated themselves around Mrs. Berne’s faultlessly prepared board. And “Jessie Berne !’’ was the amazed refrain filling his ears as he dispensed the hospitalities of his table, his heart throbbing a full, glad measure at the recollection that Woodlawn would henceforth be her abiding plate. One quick glance of mirthfu) intelligence had been exchanged between himself and Mrs. Berne as the little party entered the tea-room, and thus they disposed of his laughable error. The fair object of all this undercurrent of thought, split her roll, buttered, and ate it, equally unconscious of her host’s profound astonishment, and profounder admiration. Wholly self-forgetful, ease and grace marked every word and movement; the ease, grace, simplicity, and sweetness of a little child, de- void, withal, of the slightest childishness. But this exceeding sweetness was finely balanced by a latent force of character only requiring developing circumstances to quicken into active life. When they should come, the child-like Jessie would be prompt to conceive, prompt to execute, and unfalteringly brave and enduring. As Allan Holme and his guests passed from the tea-room, Jessie lingered a moment beside Mrs. Berne. “Dear old grandma, I’m so, so, 80 glad to be with you again!’ she cooed, in an eager, loving way, as if the exuberance of her delight must find an outlet before she could descend to the matter-of-fact offer of her services. And she looked greatly disposed to dance forth a portion, as she continued : ‘*‘ Now tell me what I can do to help you, grandma.”’ ** Nothing at all, dearie,’’ smiled Mrs. Berne, her placid face aglow with pure happiness. “T have but a few trifling directions to give, and then I will join you. So away with you at once.”’ With a mock obeisance, and a musical laugh that reached Allan Holme’s ear across the hall, confusing his mind a little to some gay speech of the pretty Caira’s, she obeyed, and entered the drawing-room just as John Cliff was say- ing :— “I did not order the hack to call for us to- morrow morning, Holme, thinking that you would kindly drive us over to the station.’’ “That was right, but you must allow me to choose my own time. I cannot consent to your leaving Woodlawn to-morrow.”’ “T only wish we could stay,” sighed Caira, ‘**but it is quite impossible.” And Caira’s sigh spoke from John’s eyes as he drew forward a chair for Jessie. “‘Miss Berne,’’ promptly entreated their host, “will you not add your persuasions to induce these good friends of ours to prolong their visit ?’’ ‘**Indeed, Mr. Holme, I wish we might rea- sonably indulge the slightest hope of prevailing on them to do so, but I know that they will 0.”” “* Must go, Jessie,”’ softly corrected John. ‘* We will say ‘must,’ then, just in polite con- ’ t ] f } C a c a whi

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ALLAN HOLME’S HOUSEKEEPER. 437 sideration of your stringent regard for terms,’’ laughed Jessie, mischievously. ‘‘Well, Miss Berne, I see that we are to be contented with a promise for the future.” And so it eventuated. By ten o’clock the next morning, the train that bore them away was sluggishly moving from the depot, while Allan Holme and Jessie, returning to the carriage, extended their homeward drive by inaking a détour of some miles. If Allan Holme had before been charmed with Jessie, he was doubly charmed during this drive, though he might have felt rather piqued than complimented by the guileless frankness with which he was treated, had he known that it was in a great measure the result of his riper years. Jessie, it is true, liked and admired him immensely, as she had naively confessed to Mrs. Berne the previous night, adding, in her pretty way: “ And, grandma, it is so nice that he is old. You know it places me so entirely at my ease.”” A confidence re- ceived by that lady with an amused smile, though wisely permitting her darling to cherish the pleasing fancy. As they were about to enter the Woodlawn grounds, Jessie paused in an animated recital of some diverting event, exclaiming, in a hushed voice :— “OQ Mr. Holme, what a fearfully evil coun- tenance !”’ Ere he had time to reply, a man whose ap- proach he had scarcely observed, reached the side of the carriage, demanding, rather than entreating, a gift of money. Checking the horses, his eye wandered gravely, almost sadly, from the massive frame to the face on which forty years of unrestrained evil passions had left their diabolical impress. “T cannot give you money, my poor fellow,”’ he mildly replied. ‘‘You are strong and healthy, and should work, and these are not times when work is difficult to be found. I will, however, see that you are provided with food if you will go up to that house,”’ pointing to Woodlawn mansion. The slumbering passion of the man’s nature glared from his whole face as, with a fierce oath, he cried :— “It was not your advice, but your money I asked, you fool !”’ And, with a muttered threat, he turned away, impotently shaking his fist at the receding car- riage. “‘T perceive that you are not a particularly brave lassie,”’ said Allan Holme, smiling down upon his pale and trembling companion. Jessie’s responsive smile was rather shadowy. Directly she thoughtfully remarked :— ‘It is quite impossible for me to say how I would deport myself if placed in circumstances of actual danger, requiring prompt and efficient measures, but I have a fanciful idea that my action might be more creditable to me than when only obliged to face a countenance like that. There seems to be something so life-de- stroying—I speak not of mere material life—in the presence of such evil, that I am hopelessly and inexpressibly terrified, even while my heart is filled with pity, and a longing desire to aid.’’ “TI think it probable that your ‘fanciful idea’ may be acorrect one. But do not lose sight of the beautiful truth so beautifully expressed in the Holy Word: ‘The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil; He shall preserve thy soul !’”” “Tt is only a momentary forgetfulness,” softly returned Jessie, fixing her reverent eyes on the fair blue sky above them. And the blood flowed slowly away from her heart, and once more tinted lips and cheek with its rich hue, while the remembrance of the wicked faee was soon buried in the happy days that came and fled so swiftly. CHAPTER II. Mrs. BERNE had brought order, comfort, and serene happiness to Woodlawn, but the child- like Jessie crept into the old house, and flitted through the old halls and rooms the very brightest sunbeam that had ever been there ; and the once almost—hermetically—sealed li- brary door was now daily kept wide open, that the soft rustie of an unpretending gown, and the welcome music of a light footfall might oftener gladden the heart, and point the pen of the busy writer within. And in this same writer’s calendar, that day was inscribed sun- niest that had brought most of these gifts, however the leaden clouds might have been telling their beads to the precious seeds and bulbs hidden under the ground. It was a bleak morning about a month after Jessie’s arrival. Allan Holme, suffering from the effects of a severe cold, sat before his table, rather listlessly turning the leaves of a book, when his quick ear caught the sound of Jessie’s footstep in the hall. Then came the repeated turning of a key ina lock, and the light shaking of adoor. Evidently the household fairy was in trouble. “What is the difficulty, Miss Jessie?’ in- quired he, leaving the room, and hastening to where she stood in front of the memorable closet under the stairs. “T am sorry to have disturbed you,” she said, regretfully, “but I am either very awk- ward, or have a most rebellious door to deal with.” And she gave it an energetic shake as she spoke. “Let me try my more vigorous arms,”’ put- ting her gently aside. After many fruitless efforts, he smilingly asked :— “Ts it absolutely necessary that an entrance should be effected ?”’

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438 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. “Oh, no! Grandma only sent me for a lap board which she fancies she once saw here.”’ “She wants it, of course, er she would not have sent for it, so we will make another praiseworthy attempt.” Eventually the door yielded before the alter- nate poundings and shakings liberally be- stowed. The first thing attracting the eyes of both was the rocking-horse ; but Jessie, intent on the object of her search, at first made no comment, an example studiously imitated by her assistant, for certain weighty and secret reasons of his own. But the desired article once triumphantly drawn forth, the embargo was removed from Jessie’s tongue. “You occasionally have children here?” innocently asserted the little maiden, with a pleased smile, stroking the horse’s mane as tenderly as if the soft curls of some cherub rested beneath her hand. ‘Iam glad; I love children ; they seem so fresh from Heaven, and so very near there, too. Don’t you think so?” she added, in a naive and winning way, that sent the blood in quickened passage through his veins. “J am afraid I have never once had a thought about them nearly so sweet as that. But you are mistaken ; the horse is yours.” “Sir?” And profoundest amazement di- lated Jessie’s blue eyes, as she scanned Allan Holme’s face of undisturbed gravity. “The horse belongs to you,” he repeated, folding his arms, and leaning nonchalantly against the door-post, his fine eyes brimming with repressed merriment. “To me!”’ incredulously exclaimed Jessie. “It is even so. I know positively that it was bought expressly for you.”’ *“Youdo? Who bought it?” “TI, please your ladyship?”’ And Allan Holme bowed profoundly, while mirth began to dance in Jessie’s eyes, and curve and dimple lips and cheeks, as a glimmer of the truth dawned upon her mind. ** And wherefore ?”’ “To give pleasure to the little child I ex- pected to welcome to Woodlawn.”’ Jessie’s tiny white hands were suddenly clasped together, and a peal of gleeful laughter echoed through the old hall, Allan Holme’s deeper tones chiming harmoniously with the voice he loved so well to hear in speech, song, or laughter. “Did grandma know ?” inquired Jessie, when she had recovered sufficient breath. “Certainly. But for all practical purposes my confidence was yielded too late, and I was consequently left to learn the truth at the mo- ment of our introduction. Imagine my con- sternation when your name was announced, for I do assure you my very first thought was of this harmless little animal here.” And another merry peal wakened the echoes once wore. “No wonder,”’ cried Jessie, presently, ‘that she favored me with so many remarkable changes about my deportment, counseling ine, among other things, ‘not ¢c go frisking over the house like a young kitten,’ in consequence of which, you see, I had to leave all my friski- ness at General Cliff’s,’’ completing the sen- tence with a mischievous glance. Allan Holme still stood gazing down upon his laughing companion, but the mirth had died out of his eyes, leaving in its stead a softer light beaming there. “Is that indeed s0, Miss Jessie? Have you felt at all restrained by my presence?” he questioned, in a pained tone. “Indeed, no, Mr. Holme; I did but jest, I assure you.’’ And approaching a step nearer to him, she gravely laid the two little white hands in his, as if thus to confirm her protesta- tion, and lifting her innocent, earnest eyes to his face, emphatically repeated: “ No, indeed, no!”’ The soft light deepened in Allan Holme’s eyes, and the hands were closely imprisoned as he entreated :— ** And you will promise never to be guilty of any such crime against ny—my sleepless care of your comfort and happiness? Promise me, little Jessie.”’ And Jessie promised with a sweet flutter at her heart, of which she had -yet to learn the name. If heretofore there had been a slight barrier of reserve marring their intercourse, this little incident very effectually put it to flight, and from that hour Jessie’s manner settled into a more trustful, running dependence, his as- suming a protective gentleness that imparted a new and unanalyzed happiness to her daily life. And that evening, when he entered the parlor, he felt that the compact of the morning bore with it a secret charm, which had united them very closely. Since the first day of Mrs. Berne’s coming, he had drawn freely on the rich stores of library and mind for their mutual entertainment, and these regular evening reunions had become a very delightful portion of the twenty-four hours toeach. But on this particular evening, hoarseness and lassitude indisposing to exer- tion, the book was closed earlier than usual, and at length, excusing himself, he retired to his chamber. Shortly after, Mrs. Berne pro- posed to Jessie :— ‘Suppose we follow Mr. Holme’s example, dear? I am unusually weary, and the ser- vants, too, will be glad to be off duty, I sus- pect.” ““Go, by all means, grandma, and I will soon come. I am neither tired nor sleepy, and would like to write to Caira if you do not mind going up alone.” “Then the servants had better remain till you are ready, dear.”’ OEE BSoocorezodgew neg Kone

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ALLAN HOLME’S HOUSEKEEPER. 439 “Oh, no grandma. Iam not subject to ner- vous fears, you know, and shall feel just as safe as if you were all around me. I will go into the library though, for my writing-desk is there.” The house was soon quiet, and Jessie in the library comfortably ensconced in the depths of the great carved chair, descended to Allan Holme through a score of grand old ancestors. It was a deep and rather narrow room, with two large bay windows at the side, now heavily draped with green damask. Directly opposite to one of these windows, and between the fire and table, sat Jessie. Alwaysa pleasant room, it was this night particularly attractive to her in the cheerful glow of the Argand lamp and the flaming bitumen, and for a little she re- mained quite absorbed in luxurious enjoyment of the brightness, pen, ink, and paper lying untouched on the table beside her. She made a pretty picture leaning indolently back in the quaint chair—the graceful little brown-draped figure, with fair, sweet face, and flaxen curls—two little feet resting on the cushion before her, two little dimpled hands loosely clasped in her lap, and a pair of soft eyes wandering in smiling content around the shadowless room. Presently aroused to the recollection of the neglected letter, this pleasant inertness was shaken off, the paper drawn to- ward her, and pen industriously employed. One, two, three pages were written with scarcely a pause. Then, leaning smilingly back in her chair, she fixed her eyes on the carpet before her, while debating the expedience of narrating the laughable disclosure of the morning. Suddenly horror thrilled every nerve, and for a brief instant a gray mist darkened her vision. But she sat unmoved. Not a muscle told of the unutterable terror within ; not an eyelash stirred unduly. Calm as marble was the face from which the pretty smile was slowly fading, but from which only a tint of color had fled. She knew there could be no mistake. It lay before her frightfully distinct; distinct as anything else in the brilliantly lighted room, a portion of a bare foot, protruding beneath the damask curtain. And even while paralyzed by horror and dread, and actively deliberating on her course of action, she counted in a vague, objectless way, the five disgusting toes, criti- cally noting their exact proportions, and unwit- tingly drawing therefrom certain conclusions in regard to the size of the concealed figure. She felt that behind that curtain vigilant eyes were watching every motion, and realized that, under God, safety depended wholly on her own self-possession. But vainly she struggled to resist the spell that bound her in the terrifying consciousness of those mysterious, unseen eyes, and the oppressive silence reigning over the house. She seemed utterly, hopelessly power- less. Just then the little time-piece on the VOL. LXXXII.—28 mantel slowly and musically told the hour. The effect was electrical. At the first sound, more vigorous life flowed through her veins. Starting up in her chair, she glanced at the clock, exclaiming, as she hastily resumed her n— “Eleven o’clock! What will grandma say ?”’ and, committing herself to the keeping of the Everpresent, she again bent over the unfinished sheet, resolutely repelling every thought of the watchful eyes beyond. The task was soon completed. Carefully and methodically the letter was folded and placed within the en- velope, which was duly addressed with a firm hand. Then, striking a match, she lit the taper, and, with the same steady hand, dropped the wax, and fixed the seal. Rising, she slowly restored her desk to order, lit her night-lamp, extinguished the other, and left the reom. The closing door was the signal for failing strength; but she went bravely on, though with panting breath and trembling limbs. At the door of Allan Holme’s dressing-room she paused, a momentary flush tinging her cheeks as she softly turned the lock and entered. The room was aglow with a blazing fire, and the first glance discovered the gentleman she sought asleep on the sofa drawn partially be- fore it. Fearful of his springing to his feet if suddenly aroused, and thus startling and awakening the suspicions of the miscreant below, she approached close to his side and whispered :— “Mr. Holme! Mr. Holme!” ‘Little Jessie!’ he murmured, a tender smile touching his lips for a moment, and the pleasant dream went on. ‘‘Mr. Holme! Mr. Holme!” she repeated, in increasingly unsteady accents, laying her trem- bling hand on his arm. “Mr. Holme, do awake !”’ He was now wide enough awake, and only Jessie’s restraining hand kept him quietly on the sofa, as he gazed, with anxious, wondering eyes, at her pallid, terror-stricken face. ** Be quiet ! speak low!” she hurriedly whis- pered. ‘‘There is a man concealed in the library, behind the curtains of the window op- posite the door leading to the hall.’”’ He smiled incredulously, but indulged her by observing the caution. “Poor ehild!’’ he murmured, compassion- ately, ‘‘ your face is as white as a dove’s wing. Sit here,”’ her on the sofa from which he had just arisen, “‘and tell me what has ter- rified you so sadly.’ He listened to her story in profound admira- tion, convinced that she was possessed by no deluding freak of the imagination, and unut- terably thankful that the fair head was safe under his immediate eye. For a little he stood in thoughiful silence. ‘*What will you de?” at length inquired Jessie.

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— edi = a : 440 GODERY'S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.

“Secure him, if possible, in order that he may no longer be a scourge to himself and his neighbors. I shall call old Davy, who, though happiest when peaceably employed ina hot- house and garden, is yet bold as a lion when occasion demands, besides having a deal of bull-dog tenacity about him,’’ he concluded, hastily arming himself with cane and revolver, Jessie’s great blue eyes following him wistfully as he did so. He caught the gaze, and paused before her, conscious power and resolute will yielding to the brooding tenderness that beamed from his countenance as he smiled. “Well, what is it? You do not like this?’’ touching the little weapon concealed in his breast pocket. “TI would not like you to kill the man,”’ she murmured, shudderingly. ‘‘Nor would I like te kill him, Jessie ; but I may be forced to cripple him.’’ ‘“*Yes,’’ and the blue eyes still gazed wist- fully in his face. “* That is not all?”’ he again smiled. Tears dimmed the eyes now. ‘*He may be a very desperado, Mr. Holme.” “Well?” quite conscious of her meaning, but intensely covetous of its full expression. **T am oppressed with dread; your life may be sacrificed,” and a tear flashed iis diamond light, dropping among the folds of the modest browr dress. “ ‘Sweetest eyes were ever seen,’’’ passion- ately thought Allan Holme, watching it tremble and fall; his reply being only a smile of ex- ceeding tenderness. Taking her hand, he placed it on his arm, saying gently :— **T must first see you safe in your room.” They noiselessly approached and opened the door. A momentary pause on the threshold, but only the occasional sough of the wind throngh the old firs broke the silence. A few hasty steps, and they had reached Mrs. Berne’s room. “Seeure your door,” he was whispering, turning the lock as he spoke, when a low, shivering exclamation of mortal fear escaped Jessie’s lips. One lightning glance at her face, and his eye followed hers up the hall running through the right wing of the building. There, within a few feet of them, stood the insolent of the month previous, his evil counte- nance blazing out the passion of thwarted plans and murderous purpose. “In, quick !’’ cried Allan Holme, thrusting Jessie into the room, and closing the door. It was done in a second, but it was a valuable second to lose. The next instant lamp and cane were dashed from his hand, end a powerful blow sent him reeling against the wall. In <otal darkness, and half-stunned by the blow, he could not tell whether he had been hurled against the wall of the main hall or the wing, and of the posi- tion of his assailant he knew nothing. Stilling

himself into breathless silence, he listened. Not a sound; then the faint creaking of a board, a stealthy movement. It came from the right toward him, was near. Fully pre- pared, now, he waited the decisive movement, with something better than mere brute force as a dependence. This trust was rewarded in a wholly unexpected manner. On a sudden the hall was ablaze with light, discovering his an- tagonist little more than an arin’s length dis- tant, crouching along the wali, a bit of steel glittering murderously in his right hand. The blinding light was a startling change to the villain. Springing erect, with a muttered oath, he glanced over his shoulder toward the quarter whence it issued, his evil eye resting on Mrs. Berne and Jessie standing in pale horror at their door. Taking advantage of the favorable moment, Allan Holme possessed himself of the cane, lying providentially near, and in a twink- ling the brawny figure was stretched senseless on the floor. ‘*Safe enough for the present,’’ he remarked, lightly touching the broad chest with his moc- easined foot. ‘‘But the future is to be con- sidered. If you will allow me to rob you of that lamp for a moment, Mrs. Berne, I will speedily insure our safety.” Hastening to his room, he quickly reappeared with a coil of ropq, which soon reduced his late formidable adversary to a very harmless state. “What will you do with him?’ inquired Mrs. Berne, as signs of returning conscious- ness manifested themselves. “I shall mount guard for the night, and in the morning see him properly sheltered. And, now, Mrs. Berne, be kind enough to take this brave little ghost of ours, and calm her to a rose-restoring slumber,’’ he added, smiling down upon the pale and silent Jessie. “Ay, she is brave, curse her!’”’ hissed the prisoner, in impotent wrath. . “For, if she had but winked an eyelash, I would have killed her, and curses on me that I didn’t do it, as it was !"’ Mrs. Berne and Jessie shudderingly with- drew. And that night three psalms of thanks- giving ascended as incense before the mercy seat. The morning dawned brightly, and long ere noon the unscrupulous disturber of the peace of Woodlawn lay, securely fettered, in a little cell, whence he was soon borne to receive the due reward of many heinous crimes.

CHAPTER III. Tr was late in February. Over all things brooded the stiliness of intense cold. The wind, hushed to slumber, breathed not a sigh, stirred not a twig. Only a belated snowbird, hopping hither and thither, showed that life was not wholly stagnant without. Woodlawn parlor formed a very different

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re Vw wot CF Oe ALLAN HOLME’S HOUSEKEEPER. 441 picture. Glowing grate; rich, crimson cur- tains, heavily corded away from the windows ; luxurious sofas and chairs, draped in the same color, and crimson carpet, on which the sprays of half-blown white roses seemed verily to be exhaling a faint perfume, gave an aspect of warmth, comfort, and brightness, in delightful contrast to the bleak, cheerless scene beyond. And this balmy atmosphere was deliciously redolent of the fragrances floating through the open doors of the conservatory in which budded and bloomed the rarest and sweetest flowers. Tea-roses, heliotrope, and mignonnette here breathed out their perfumed sighs, whispering, each passing moment, of love, and truth, and heaven ; of the blessedness of living with high and holy purpose—for Christ above, and the brother below. Beautiful, precious, happy flowers, that live the lesson they teach ! Before the grate lay a Maltese cat, purring its content on a crimson, tasseled cushion, while not far distant stood Mrs. Berne’s sew- ing-chair beside a quaint, little table, on which rested basket and work, cast hastily down on some recent household demand; a dainty cro- chet needle and a bit of delicate fabric speaking of another and fairer hand. From the western horizon purple and gold had quite faded, and twilight was fast dropping her mantle of deep- est gray. Yet, unmindfu! of all this, Jessie, curled up in one of the low, broad window seats, still poured over the enchanting page that had hurried her thither to catch the last rays of waning light. It was a pleasant home picture ; and Allan Holme, entering from the hall, paused a mo- ment to enjoy its sweetness, ere proceeding toward the dainty figure, partially shrouded by the heavy curtain. Directly he stood be- side her. Not a movement indicated her con- sciousness of his presence, save the shadow of a pretty dimple curving itself among the roses on her cheek. So he laid a white, muscular hand across the seductive page. ‘I'll call thee Jessie, Snowdrop, Fairy, and bid thee spare thine eyes.”’ She still sat motionless, her gaze fixed on the well-shaped hand, smilingly awaiting its re- moval. Her expectations proved slightly erro- neous. “Nay, you are cruel! Let me read just those last two lines!’’ she plead, still looking at the hand. “Not a line, not a word !’”’ and the book was gently withdrawn from her detaining fingers. “Do you want me to send you to a blind asylum, Fairy?” “T believe I am quite destitute of any such ambition,’’ she laughed, resting her fair head against the curtain’s bright folds, and lifting her sparkling eyes to his. He was smiling down upon her in the tender, earnest way so frequent with him ; she luxuri- ating with child-like simplicity in the protective fondness of his manner, which she constantly received with an exquisitely child-like grace and freedom, that made him sometimes wonder whether her woman’s heart would ever awake, and tremble for the stability of a certain airy castle on which he had lavished many a rain- bow-tinted dream and brilliant hope. ‘*Well, then, be good, or I shall have it to do,’’ and he opened the volume at the title- page. ‘‘Gethe. You may read him in the original if you like.”’ “I may go to the moon, too,’’ nodding her head in saucy mirth, as she looked at him from the pillowing curtain. ‘No, I should object, prevent it,’’ he replied, grave as a judge. ‘*You have become a very despot !’’ ‘‘What do you think, Mrs. Berne,’’ turning to that lady as she entered the room, “of my placing a German grammar in the hands of this young lassie? Just to keep her out of mischief, you know.” “« Any grammar you please, Mr. Holme, only accomplish that desirable end.’’ And she smiled love and blessings on her beautiful idol. “‘O Mr. Holme, will you teach me? Do you indeed mean it?” exclaimed Jessie, palpitating delight at every pulse. “‘T do, indeed, Snowdrop. Come to the li- brary to-morrow morning, and you shall receive your first lesson.”’ And thus it befell that morning after morn- ing found Jessie studiously bending over her German books at Allan Holme’s side, and all unconsciously learning the sweeter lesson re- quiring neither teacher nor books; Mrs. Berne looking on the while, profoundly happy in her darling’s happiness, and utterly oblivious of the aforementioned lesson. It was a charming task to Allan Holme to watch, beneath his developing hand, the unfold- ing of the fine mental powers stored under Jes- sie’s soft curls. And to both teacher and pupil the days went by in winged flight, their pleasant monotony only varied by occasional visits from the neighboring gentry, and flying ones from John and Caira Cliff ; these latter visits serving but to rivet more strongly the gentleman’s welcome fetters, and to awaken in Allan Holme’s mind the thought of a future possi- bility, without disturbing in the slightest, the serenity of the little lady herself. So the blos- soming, fragrant-breathed month of May stole softly among them, and hung forth her delicate garlands ere they had quite awakened to the fact that their happy winter had really gone. One of these balmy mornings, Jessie, mounted on the ladder in the library, was availing her- self of an especial act of grace on Allan Holme’s part, in the privilege of removing from the shelves some of the accumulated dust of years, when Dick burst into the room and panted at her side :-— **O Miss Jessie, please come out and see !”

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— 442 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. For an instant his shining face was eclipsed by the shirt-sleeve applied to it with energetic industry, but only to emerge in even a higher state of polish, delight, and impatience. “Say, Miss Jessie,” he promptly urged on the completion of the operation. “Dick, will you ever learn manners?” laughed Jessie, surveying from her perch the whimsical speck of humanity. ““T guesses not, Miss Jessie. But please come. Oh, if you only know’d what I knows!” And, notwithstanding the presence of the young mistress he adored, his exultation was vented in a chuckle, and an elaborate somer- sault on the spot. Once more erect, he rolled the whites of his eyes guiltily up at Jessie, on whose face mirth and gravity were contending for the victory, saying, in subdued, apologetic tone :— “If you only did, Miss Jessie, you’d turn over, too;”’ an assertion quite too much for Jessie’s gravity. At this moment, Allan Holme’s step sounded in the hall. Dick, shrewdly surmising that his interference might not be exactly relished by that gentleman, forthwith acted on the princi- ple that “discretion is the better part of valor,” and made an unceremonious exit through one of the open windows, much to Jessie’s amuse- ment, if not to her enlightenment. (Conclusion next month.) ——___..g—____ AN APPEAL TO THE WIND. BY MRS. H. R. MORSE. On, wind of summer, wind of night! Linger and tell me of the hills, Linger and tell me of the rills Which you have swept in all your flight. Tell me of all the greenwood dells Through which your airy presence flew, Where song-bdirds trilled, and wildflowers grew, Where cornfields decked the upiand swells. Tell me of all the glorious things Which summer scatters in her train, Filling the earth with joy again; Tell something of the songs she sings. Tell me if near the homestead wall The bluebells blossom, sweet and rare, As when I twined them for my hair, When youth's gay dreams were over all. And tell me if the roses bloom On the lone hillside far away, If e’er is heard the robins lay Above the stillness of the tomb. For, oh, sweet wind! oh, whispering wind! Those summery Junes are not for me; Beyond the blue waves of the sea, I left their splendors far behind. And now I only hear the roar Of Huron’s waters, night and day; I dream of summer far away, I linger on a wave-washed shore. LOOKING THEM OVER. ““Can’r you look over some manuscript for me, my dear?” said my affectionate spouse, a few days ago. ‘I have been so busy for the last two months that I have not had time to read up, and we are in want of matter for the next issue.”’ It was a way of assisting my partner, in that much-enduring position, an editor of a weekly paper, that was not entirely new to me, so I assented at once. “I'll send them up by John as soon as I get to the office,” he said, with an air of relief, “with a note of the number of columns we require.” In accordance with that promise, a smutty little printer’s boy, in a paper cap, presented himself before me, an hour later, with a huge bundle of manuscript. Manuscript in en- velopes, manuscript in packages for express, manuscript in newspaper with the direction on letter paper pasted over the strings, manuscript “‘done up” in every variety of style, directed in every kind of handwriting. I smiled faintly as John deposited his bundle upon the table, and handed me the promised memorandum. The quantity required looked absurdly small compared with the pile from which to make selection ; so I told John to return in about two hours, drew my rocking-chair close to the table, settled myself in a comfortable attitude, and, after arranging the nondescript bundle into neat piles, commenced the formidable task of looking them over. This was the first effu- sion that met my eye :— “SNUGGLESVILLE, Dec. 13, 18—. “ Eprror oF THE Blazing Meteor : DEAR SIR: Isend you the following hints for your Agri- cultural Department, founded upon actual ob- servation and experience. The price is $50 (fifty dollars).. Address Wm. B——, etc.” And these were the hints :-— “Creatures of the bovine species require much devoted attention on the part of those desirous of extracting a voluminous amount of the lacteal fluid. During the season when Na- ture smiles and summer reigns, the nourishment of this domestic animal omes a sinecure ; but when stern winter reigns, the dried mantle of the meadows must be preserved for the use of this most useful species. When the foaming, showy waves of creamy lusciousness fill the dairy” — Did the man have his cows milked on the floor? I decided that he was entirely too ex- travagant in his demands for the funds of the Blazing Meteor, and took up the next. Poetry! I groaned in spirit, but read :-— “THE BREAKING HEART. “Will it never, never, never break, This bleeding heart of mine ? Must it live and dwell forever On faithlessness of thine ? Can I bear the daily torture Of seeing thee afar? Can I think of thee forever, And never know where you are ?” en Mkt a -- -

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LOOKING THEM OVER. 443 Comment is needless! There was no letter nor address, so I put the choice production aside to commence the list of “respectfully declined’ articles. The next production, written upon the coarsest of paper, and sealed with a thimble, was as follows :— “CARTUR’s HOLLER, Gagne | 2. “DERE Str: This cums hoppin you'll taik pitty on a lone widder wummun, who wants to maik an onist liven with her pen, and rite fur the paypers. Send me the prise you give regglur, and except my blesin. ‘““Ures, to kummand, etc.” “SEENS ON THE OSHUN. “Tt was on the Mary Ann that I seen these Seens with my own ize. We was kumin from the Injees, my late lammented beina ship kap- ten, and it was in the wintur we left, tho it was warm out thare as gewlie is uther plases, and I wore a musling dress when we startid, a blew musling, with white figgers unter it, maid with a fishew cape, and fit me kumplete, for I fell in with a frensh wummun out thare that maid me four dresses, and munney thrown away, for he died afore ever we got to Bostin, and I had to put on mornin as soon as we arriv at land, and the cargo was as good as throne away with dewtys and sellin anyhow, and no head man about, and me but a weke wummun to see to evrything, and am always that see sic I ain’t fit for nothin for a munth after a voyaige, and them as swinduled a widder under such sirkumstances won’t never proffeet by the gane they git, and so say I, mi loss ante yure gane, if yer did poket the widder’s mite pro- misecuous’’— I was sorry for the “‘ widder,”’ but limited as to time, so I had to send her to keep company with ‘The Breaking Heart.”” I was not get- ting along very weil with my selections, and tossed over my neat piles a little to see if I could not find an encouraging looking en- velope. There it lay under my hand, white and glossy, directed in a compact, business-like hand, not too thick nor too thin, about two col- umns in bulk, I thought, measuring the writing and package mentally. I opened it hopefully. The letter was charming, pleasant, and grace- ful, and desiring nothing for the article beyond the pleasure of seeing itin print. As for the article, you will find it in the Blazing Meteor for the coming week. .Much encouraged, I proceeded in my work. The next envelope coniained the following extraordinary epistle, without date, address, or signature :— “In the cause of eg Sew I ask you to publish the following tale, the record of a heart crushed and forsaken, but, alas! still beating. Only the names are false. Let some who read feel their guilty hearts tremble! Let my suffering and wrong warn the young against the flatteries of the other sex. Print! J bid you print :— “A TALE OF TRUTH. “Tn a village not a thousand miles from here lived a maiden, whom I will call Katie Jones, though there are those who know her name was no more Jones than it was Smith. She was fair, and had blue ore and glossy curls, whereas the other girl had a snub nose and her hair was as straight as a shingle. But what is beauty, when an artful piece like that comes along and talks honied sweetness to him that has been courting one girl steady two years, and driving them as might a-been constant, and some of them richer, too, into the bargain.’’ Thinking the Blazing Meteor far too feeble an organ to carry this explosion of feminine spite, I put it also aside. My next envelope con- tained a neat little note, modest and wistful, from a novice; who would “like so much’’ to become an authoress. And this was her maiden venture, poor child! :— “TO A VIOLET. “Peeping from broad leaves of green, Little blue-eyed treasure, Nothing fairer can be seen, Nor give purer pleasure ; Soft as velvet to - touch, Fragrant as no other, Let me press thee to my lips, And in sweetness smother.” Tweedle dum and tweedle dee! There were seventeen verses, and the words “blue and fra- grant’ came in twenty-eight times. Of course, I was very sorry for the poor little writer ; but, you see, the interests of the Blazing Meteor were at stake, and scorched up the unfortunate violet, who was consigned to the rejected pile. The next package was without a letter, and contained the following :— “THE PLEASURES OF HOPE. ‘Hope! Fleeting goddess of the sanguine soul! Hope! Who can deny to thee the foremost rank in those transcient emotions that fling their rosy light upon the human bosom? With- out hope we are utterly hopeless !’’ This sentence being utterly undeniable, I put the effusion among the hopeless efforts on my table. Really the pile was swelling ominously, and only one poor little article accepted to bal- ance it. The next letter was to the following effect :— ““WALKERSVILLE, Dec. 18th, 18—. ‘*DEAR Str: I rede a grate dele, and git mest of the nu novils as they come out, and I thote if you wood like some kritisisms on modern orthurs, I could furnish you sum at ten dollars a kollum. I could use up them you wanted used up, and prase the rest. I ain’t never predjewdised by redin the books, but would fritisise just as you wanted. “T’ve got two writ on two novvuls, and can send them if you desire. Yours, etc.’’ “‘Kritisism” is useless. I was getting des- perate. Judge how much the following helped me :— “THE DRUNKARD’S HOME. “Mary Jeslyn was a drunkard’s wife, and lived in a drunkard’s home, where three drunk- ard’s children nightly dreaded the drunkard’s return, after a drunkard’s wage had been spent in a drunkard’s carousal at the drunkard’s fa- vorite resort—the tavern. Mary was the child of or, but respectable parents, who would have boon heart-broken if the grave had not kindly

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anes ae 444 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.

opened for them before their child became the ject of adrunkard’s abuse. She little dreamed when she stood beside her handsome husband at the altar that already her rival, the wine cup, was more powerful than her love, and that a drun *s home awaited her, where ee by year her husband would tread the nkard’s path to a drunkard’s grave unless he reformed, as you will see if you read on.” Which last sentence failed to stimulate my interest in the twenty-five closely written pages that followed. The next envelope contained what purported to be “A GOST STORY. wale now-a-days don’t believe in ee except them as raps, but in the good old times they would have doubted their own existence as soon as doubted the existence of gosts. It was in those days that there lived an old miser whose name was Graball, and who was said to live on fried candle-ends and heel-tops sooner than buy one solid meals vittuls! Any how he was thin as a match, and mean as they make ‘em. One night a traveller stopped at Graball’s for a night’s lodging, but was only taken in upon promise of paying handsome. He was that simple that he teld old Graball he had a bag of gold in his ket ; and the old miser first put him to bed, and then ‘murdered him and carried the rr to a river near by and drowned it. Butif the body sank, the riz. From that hour the murderer was a doomed man. Day and night he was haunted by the ost of the murdered man. He pined awa ll he was a ect shadder, and finally di confessing his crime, and wildly calling upon the gost to let him die in peace.” For this choice literary effort the modest sum of twenty-five dollars was demanded, but the writer kindly offered to take it in weekly in- stallments of five dollars each, if the Blazing Meteor was unable to command so heavy a sum at once. Poetry again! Oh! if the would-be poets could imagine the competition that drives edi- tors to the verge of insanity! “TO SOPHIA. “O Sophia! my own Sophia! | Aan tions soar no higher seat me at thy feet look upon thy beauty, sweet! you turn your radiant eyes him who before thee lies, You would it his heart’s desire, O Sophia! dear Sophia! On : Should another thus aon I'd throttle him! I would, Sophia! “O Sophia! my own Sophia! Ladmire Wakes my love to thee alone, Sweetest girl I’ve ever known! Smile upon me my : From my heart take every fear; Paks parson knot the tier binds thee to me, my Sophia!” The author only wanted thirty dollars for that! Ten dollars a verse, he wrote, seemed to him “about fair.” About fair!

The next envelope was not very bulky, but I found upon opening it, that the contents were written on both sides of ocean paper, ina small cramped hand, It contained “INSTRUCTIONS FOR RIDING A VELOCIPEDE. ** You can never ride a velocipede if you are addicted to the use of beverages that make your head heavy and your feet unsteady. It oe Might ae ~ 9p you must sit = ie ng straight, or over you go, wheels and all. Of course, you row sa Tg a veloci- pede is. It is one of those new fangled go- carts that you see now on Broadway any hour of the day ; a sort of a cross between a go-cart and a stick-horse. If you are expert in riding a velocipede, you can run down a locomotive as easy as winking; but if you are not expert, Sey are apt to find out just how much harder e floor is than your own nose. Velocipedes were started in Paris, and bag” Fe say that legs are of no further use toa nchman, as the velocipedes over there waltz, polka, and dance the German. I don’t know as we shall ever reach such perfection in their use in this country. I tried to run mine up stairs the last time I came home from the club, but either the stairs or the velocipede, I forget which, objected so strongly that I have never dared to repeat the experiment.” I was interrupted. ‘If you please, ma’am, Mr. Hopkins says if you can send him about two columns, he can get along this week.” So I gladly dispatched my one accepted arti- cle, and postponed the further task of looking over my still unopened manuscript.

MINE AND THINE.

BY UNDINE.

Sort and fair, as a rose-bloom white, Was the dainty hand I pressed that night, In the silver flow of the May moonlight. Bright and chaste was the golden band I left that eve on the plighted hand Of the purest maid in a Christian land. Sweet the lay of the minstrel bird In its chamber green, by zephyrs stirred ; But, aye, sweeter far was each trembling word Dropt by the fragrant, rare-ripe lips, Like scarlet buds, where the trochil dips, And the bee of the honeyed nectar sips. Dim the light of the morrow'’s rise, Though a rosy flush o’erswept the skies, For the dead lids sealed down the sea-blue eyes. Mine! when the misty moonbeams fair Swept o’er the gloss of her golden hair, And the night-buds breathed on the dewy air. Thine, O God! ere the sunbeams kissed The skies into gold and amethyst— And my life throbs on through a tearful mist.

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WHICH CORNER? 445 WHICH CORNER? BY DELL STANLEY. ZADEE Rossrns stood by one of the great windows of her pleasant city home, tapping uneasily on the window pane. She was in a sadly discontented mood. The weather was certainly dismal enough to make even the most cheerful person depressed in spirit. Besides, there was nothing to anticipate for the coming week ; no parties or wedding receptions on the tapis; no more pleasant evenings at the Academy, for Ristori had left for New Orleans ; and then the carriage horses were lame, so she could not drive in the Park. Most decidedly, there was nothing at all attractive in the pro- gramme for the next week’s performances. She had drummed on the glass until her fingers ached, and was about to turn from the window, with a long drawn sigh, when sud- denly some object in the street below brought a happy smile to her face, and she ran lightly down the broad stairs to welcome her grand- father, whose visits being very infrequent, were always doubly welcome. The dull weather was all forgotten in grand- pa’s pleasant society, and, best of all, he had come with the determination of taking Zadee back with him to the old homestead, situated in the charming county town of Sardine, about an hour’s travel from the city. He said: “Cousin Kate was very lonely, and he knew a few days of Zadee’s society would be a great treat to her.” Zadee was delighted at the prospect of a change ; and, although she found it rather dif- ficult to obtain her mother’s consent to a trip into the country at that inclement season, after permission was once gained, it did not take her long to don her pretty new walking dress, and pack a travelling bag with the few necessaries required for a short visit to Sardine. Zadee and Kate were never happier than when together. Being nearly of the same age, and of similar tastes and habits, they were al- most inseparable ; and, although their nominal homes were separated by several miles, yet they managed to see each other frequently, and, when absent from each other, were always faithful correspondents. Kate was an orphan ; and, since the death of her parents, had been cared for by her grand- parents, to whom she was fondly attached. They were both in the sere and yellow leaf— three score years and ten had passed over their heads—and grandma especially was very feeble, and required much nursing and care. Kate delighted to make their home sunny, and she often prayed that with them “at the evening time of life it might be light.” One hour from the time Zadee left the city with her grandfather, she stepped upon the platform of the depot at Sardine; and, among those waiting there, soon discovered Kate’s bright black eyes, rosy cheeks, and smile of welcome. A stranger would imagine, to see their greeting, that they had heen separated from each other for years instead of a few short weeks. For a day or two they were en- tirely satisfied with each other’s society ; and then Kate began to fear the country must be dull to her city cousin, and proposed, by way of variety, a walk in the village. So having pulled on their thick rubber boots—the only sure protectors from the mud—they started on their tramp, ‘‘in search of an adventure,’’ Kate said. By and by they passed a snug little cottage, on the door of which Zadee noticed the sign, ‘* Edward Cooke, M. D.” ‘* What doctor is that, Kate? I never noticed his shingle before. Is he a new arrival? Is he old or young? Have you ever seen him? Do tell me, quick! That cannot be he, sitting in the office window, so young and handsome !’’ “Why, Zadee, you seem to have found a very sudden interest in this young physician, for young he is, and handsome, too. I have seen him several times, but have not yet been presented to him; he has practised in Sardine but a short time.”’ “Let me see, what is that other notice on the door? I left my glasses at home ; perhaps you can decipher those hieroglyphies, Kate.” ““They are certainly plain enough—‘Com- munication Box.’ ”’ “Oh! Ihave a plan, Kate. Come, let’s go right home, and I will tell you what we shall do. We will send a communication to this handsome young doctor.’’ ‘*Zadee, you must be crazy! What do you mean?” ‘*T mean to have a little fun, and you shall help me; ’twill be such an oasis in the desert of country life in winter.”’ ‘* What do you intend to write in this wonder- ful epistle ?”’ “Come home, Kate, and you shall see. But, remember, if I write it, you must drop it into the box; that will be your share of the plot.” “Very well, Zadee. I am ready to do any- thing that will contribute to your amusement; but will it not be rude and unladylike thus to address a stranger ?”’ ‘‘Bah! No, indeed, he never will know where it comes from. We shall mystify him.’’ The girls soon reached home, and seated themselves at the little writing-desk in Kate’s room. Zadee selected a delicate sheet of note paper, and, after a moment’s thought, took up the pen, and scribbled off a short note, and then handed it to her cousin for perusal. Kate took it, and read aloud :— Doctor Edward Cooke will please call on the corner of Cherry Street to-morrow morning, at ten o’clock, and greatly oblige A. C.5S. “But, Zadee, suppose he should come. But,

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Eager we es = ne ne ee lt a pia on ar ert ee os ee le 446 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. then, he never will, for your note is so very in- definite. Of course, there are several corners to Cherry Street.”’ ‘‘Well, my dear cousin, you know a young physician is always anxious to secure practice, and I will venture to assert that he will make his appearance to-morrow punctually at ten o'clock.” After dinner, the girls again started for the village, Kate carrying the missive, which, with trembling fingers, she dropped into the box. That night, before retiring, they spent more time than usual crimping their hair, and decid- ing which was the most becoming of their morning dresses, for they were determined to make an impression on the doctor should he make his appearance the next day. But disappointment and blighted hopes come even to merry young girls. The next morn- ing they watched in vain. Ten o’clock came without the expected arrival, and Zadee’s face began to assume a rather long look ; but Kate looked up from her work, and said, quietly :-— “The doctor certainly has common-sense. He evidently knows better than to come on such a ridiculous errand; his time is too pre- cious to waste.” Zadee smiled, but only said: ‘“‘We shall see.”’ The next morning Zadee went to take a sleigh ride with her grandpa. It had snowed heavily during the night, and in the early morning the sleighing was excellent; but a thaw soon set in, and the sleighing was spoiled in a few hours. While the others went to ride, Kate stayed at home to read to grandma. Quiet reigned in the old homestead, broken only by Kate’s sweet, girlish voice, as she read aloud a long, dry article, written by some starched, anti- quated person, on a subject not at all interest- ing to the young; but it pleased grandma, so Kate wae content. She was just approaching the end of the second column, when she was startled by a knock at the front door; the knocker was evidently handled by one not ac- customed to those old-fashioned institutions. Kate, glad of some excuse to rest her weary throat, laid down the paper, and determined to wait on the door. She opened it, and—there- stood the doctor. She was startled, but she willed down the blood which she felt flying to her cheeks, and answered pleasantly his ‘‘Good- morning !’’ He said: “I regret that I couid not call yes- terday, as you desired, but I was obliged to go to New York on business.’’ As Kate remained taute, he continued: ‘‘I came in answer to a note left at my office.’’ ‘* What office, sir?’’ ‘* Doctor Cooke’s office on Main Street. Here is the note,’’ and he took from his pocket the note, which Kate knew too well, handing it to her. He watched her closely as she read it. She felt his. eyes, and, after glancing at it, said :— “You must be mistaken, sir. ‘A. C. S.! There is no one with those initials residing here.” “The note is very indefinite,” said the doc- tor. ‘Of course, there are four corners to every street, and it does not mention which corner.” “Tis too bad,’ said Kate, ina sympathizing tone. ‘‘On the corner opposite there is a sick babe; you might try there.’ He decided to do so; and, raising his hat in the most approved fashion, bade her ‘“‘Good morning !’’ and took his departure. Kate de- termined to watch his proceedings ; so she ran to the parlor window, and through the half- open blind saw him cross the street to the opposite corner. His patent-leathers suffered slightly by coming in contact with the mud, and he had scarcely finished rubbing them on the mat when the door opened. He made quite a long call, and, when he came down the stoop, Kate saw that he was laughing ; but he certainly could have made no discovery there, for the neighbor opposite knew nothing of her flirtations, so she could not conjecture the cause of his merriment. He crossed over, un- hitched his horse, which was attached to a post, and she saw that he had taken his de parture. Kate intended to know what his next step would be, for she imagined that he was about to try at the other two corners of Cherry Street ; so she ran out to the gate, and watched the sleigh. Surely enough, he drove up to one of the other corners, and, having hitched his horse, went into the house, which Kate knew was unoccupied; and she laughed merrily, as she thought how he would bruise his knuckles in vain, trying to gain admittance to that dom cile. After a time, he again made his appear- ance, and rushed over in rather a frantic manner to the cottage opposite, in which lived a lone widow. Here, too, his errand was evidently fruitless, as he remained but a moment, and then returned te ais sleigh, and drove off in the opposite direction. “What a capital joke!’’ thought Kate. ‘‘More appropriate, though, for the first of April. How cheap the doctor must feel! But, oh, what elegant eyes, and those side whiskers are superb! If Zadee had only been at home! How disappointed she will be!’’ She coyld searcely wait for her cousin’s return. Zadee was dreadfully provoked when she heard that the doctor had called during her absence. ‘She would not have missed seeing him for fifty sleigh rides, and the sleighing was so miserable that morning she did not enjoy it at all.” Kate gave a vivid description of his gentle- manly manner, ete., and Zadee said: ‘‘She was determined the romance should not end eye Cee ee 4wewa

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WHICH CORNER? 447 with that morning call. Next week will be the middle of February, so ‘ Valentine’s Day’ is not so-very far distant. Kate, let’s send a Valentine to this paragon of a doctor. You know it must be original, and to the point; poetry, of course, or rather rhyme. Our two eraniums, I am sure, will be able to manufacture one which will be presentable. Let’s run up stairs, and commence right away.’’ The writing-desk was again brought into re- quisition. One would suggest one line, the other the next; some were rejected, others turned and twisted to make the rhyme com- plete. Finally, after several hours spent in writing and re-writing, Zadee completed the final copy, which Kate read aloud. Zadee lis- tened attentively, applauding each line, and, at the conclusion, there was a most terrific clapping of all four little hands. ““Pshaw.!”’ Kate said, after a momentary pause. ‘I believe it is full of horrible mis- takes. You and I appreciate it much better than the doctor ever will.’’ **Well,”’ Zadee replied, ‘‘in my opinion, all the rhetoric and such stuff that doctor’s at- tempt to learn goes in at one ear and out at the other; they devote all of their time to cramming their brains with the laws of chemis- try, and the Latin names of herbs and drugs. He will not take it as a grammar lesson, to be analyzed, and parsed, and to discover all of its awkward imperfections; but, if there is one particle of fun in him, he will appreciate our Valentine, and we shall receive a reply before another week has passed. You must go to the post-office every day, and see if there is not a letter directed to ‘‘the corner of Cherry Street.’’ You know I shall be obliged to return to the city before the fourteenth, and I shall depend upon you to drop the Valentine into the ‘com- munication box ;’ and, if we receive an answer, as I am sure we shall, send it down to me, for I am anxious to discover whether or no he will excel us in writing Valentines.’’ After a few days Zadee returned to the city, her last words to Kate—from the car window as the train moved off—-were “Now, mind, don’t forget the fourteenth.”’ Kate did not forget, but deposited the Valen- tine on the proper day. The answer, however, did not arrive as soon as Zadee had confidently affirmed it would. Kate visited the post-office every day for the remainder of the week, with- out any result, and she wrote to Zadee, saying, “She thought all the time that the doctor would never deign to notice anonymous epis- tles.’’ But Zadee had decided that Kate should re- ceive an answer at all hazards ; so, after reading Kate’s letter, she took her pen, and commenced scribbling at a furious rate ; and, finally, with a triumphant smile, she said: ‘‘ That will do,” and gently patted a huge yellow envelope, di- rected in a very masculine hand to “‘ Miss Kate Robbins.’’ The next day Kate’s visit. to the office was rewarded. But she was prevented by household duties from forwarding at once the doctor’s Valentine ; so Zadee watched for the postman’s arrival very impatiently for several days, and finally received the following note :— DEAR CovstnN ZADEE: We have at last re- ceived an answer from the doctor, or rather J have. Strange to say, it came directed to me, but how he discovered my name, “I dinna ken.”’ Tinclose the Valentine for your perusal. Perhaps you will consider it a splendid effusion, far surpassing ours. But what will you sa when you read that he has a little wife? Zadee! is it not shameful, to think that we have attempted a flirtation with a married man? I think he is a most miserable writer, and I no- tice several grammatical mistakes; besides, the lines do not rhyme at all well. I imagine I see your pretty lips curl, as you say, ‘Sour grapes. Married men are so dull and uninter- esting.’’ You do not know how I long to see you. You hel get me into the scrape, and now you ought to help me out; for, Zadee, you ave not yet heard all. Grandma has been more feeble lately ; and yesterday, when our old family physician came to pay his customary visit, he said, that “He was obliged to leave Sardine to go West, and would probably be gone several weeks. He was sorry to leave randma when she was so ill; but he would eave all the directions necessary, unless her symptoms should change for the worse, in which case we must immediately call in another phy- sician; and he would recommend Doctor £. Cooke—one young in the profession, but ta- lented, and worthy to be trusted with the most recarious cases.’’ He wrote his address, and anded the card to me, saying, ‘‘ Now, remem- ber, my dear, to send for this doctor if your grandma should get worse ;”” and then he gave me a searching look, and said: “I hope you are not subject to rush of blood to the head, Kate ; you look very much like it. Keep cool, my dear,’’ for you know, of course, at the men- tion of Doctor Cooke I had blushed scarlet. But the dear old doctor attributed my unusual color to disease, and, if he was to remain at home, would probably pet me through a series of doses not at all palatable. Don’t you pity me, Zadee? I am confident that Doctor Cooke’s services wi!l be required ; and how shall I dare to meet him, when I have been guilty of such very unladylike deport- ment? I assure you I repent in sackcloth and ashes. Write very soon, and comfort, if you can, Your own loving KATE. “That muddy walk up Main Street has brought about quite a romantie snarl,’’ thought Zadee ; ‘‘ but I can see no reason why I should attempt to pick it out, or why I should let Kafe know that the Valentine was not really from Doctor Cooke. She will probably discover that, sooner or later, and I may as well let things take their own course.’”” However, she wrote back a sympathizing letter, saying, “‘Would it not be odd if the doctor was not married at all? You know he might have in- serted that line about his better half to make the rhyme complete.”

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Aetna a ae 448 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. After this, for several weeks, Kate’s letters were very short and unsatisfactory. She apolo- gized for their briefness on account of grand- ma’s feebleness, but she never once mentioned the doctor’s name. This was very tantalizing to Zadee, for she knew that Doctor Cooke must be attending grandma during this severe ill- ness, and Kate was generally so communicat- ive. She could not account for her silence on this subject. One afternoon, as Zadee was sitting in her own room, playing with her pet canary, the servant came up, bringing a card, and saying, **A gentleman in the reception-room desires to see Miss Zadee.”’ She glanced at the bit of pasteboard, and read: ‘“ Edward Cooke, M.D.”” Dropping the eard, she ran in girlish fashion to the mirror to see whether she was presentable. She had just arranged her chignon very high on the head, after the prevailing mode ; so, pulling a sprig of trailing arbutus from a bouquet holder on the toilet table, she pinned it in her hair, and giving each cheek a vigorous pinch to bring back the roses, which the arrival of this unex- pected visitor had banished, she gave a little approving nod at the reflection in the mirror, and started for her first interview with the handsome ‘“‘M. D.”’ of Sardine. The call was a long one, and some rather important truths were communicated, if we may judge from Zadee’s last sentence as she _ bade him adieu: ‘‘ Tell Kate that I intend to give the ‘announcement party,’’and she must come down as soon as possible to make prepa- rations for it.” Kate came the next day, and gave Zadee a long account of that which she had omitted in her letters. “You do not know, Zadee, how surprised I was, when I discovered that Ned was not married,” she said. “After grandma grew worse, and I was obliged to send for him, I kept in the darkest corner of the room during his visits,and behaved as demurely, as any apinster would have done, who had turned more than one corner. I was so in hopes that he would not recognize me as the damsel who layed ‘hall waiter,’ on that fatal morning ; ut it seems he knew me all the time. His treatment proved so beneficial to grandma, that she improved very rapidly; so, after a time, I thought # not essential to his patients’ comfort, that he should call so frequently. Be- cause, you know, after he had attended to grandma, he would always linger to have a little chat with me, or to hear me play an air or two from his favorite opera. And one day he asked me to drive out with him, and I thought ft would not be right to go if he was married, as I supposed ; and when I declined his invita- tion, he seemed to feel so hurt about it that I thought he had best know the reason; so I managed to bring into the conversation some allusion to his wife, when he stared at me in blank amazement, and said, ‘Miss Kate, I am minus such an appendage.’ And then, Zadee, as soon as I knew that he was not married, there came a very queer feeling into my heart, and I knew I was very much in love with this talented doctor. By and by he said, with an odd little smile, ‘The horse and buggy are at the door, woa’t you go to ride with me now? AndIwent. Itwasa lovely moonlight evenings and before we returned he told me a story which was very sweet to hear, and—I made a promise. And afterwards grandpa and grand ma did not say ‘no,’ because they admired him so much, and they wanted that their little granddaughter should be happy. Very soon I wore another ring on this finger. Here it is, Zadee ; is it not a beauty? “ You see,” said Kate, “‘he had never even mentioned our first note, or the Valeptine, until he gave me the ring ; and that evening he took from his pocket both those epistles with which you and I are so familiar, and said, that ‘I was quite a little rhymster, but he thought I would never make a Mrs. Browning ; indeed he knew, I would not.’ Then I ran up stairs, and brought down the Valentine, which I supposed he had sent, and pointed to the line where he spoke of ‘his little wife.’ He looked puzzled, and after a while he said, ‘I never wrote this, Kate. Examine the letters separately, and see if they correspond with the chirography of any of your friends ;’ and then, Zadee—you wicked girl—I saw some of those curious flourishes, which our old writing professor could never teach you to forget, so I knew you had been at the bottom of itfall. And the doctor took the Valentine, the next time he came to the city, and said he was coming to see that naughty cousin of mine, and scold you for representing him as ‘twice one,’ and so nearly losing for him a ‘ darling little wife.’ , “He says, Zadee, that you explained it all satisfactorily, and I believe you are good friends, are you not? I know you are, or you would not give for us the “announcement party,”’ which, you say, is to be the grandest affair of the season. And after the party, I must commence immediately to arrange my trousseau, for the engagement is to be a short one, as Ned is intending to sail for Europe on the first of June, and he says he cannot go without me. The old homestead wore a more bright afi cheerful appearance than usual, on Kat®s wedding day. Many friends came out from the city, laden with elegant bridal presents. Zadee was first bridesmaid, and after congratulating the groom she said to him, slyly, “Are you quite sure, doctor; that you have found te right corner of Cherry Street?’ He looked down at his beautiful, blushing bride, and then said, im a deep, fervent tone, “ Yes, Cousin Zadee, I am sure.” Oe O08. OO. a ae be et, te,

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MARRIED FOR FUN: 449 MARRIED FOR FUN. BY THE AUTHOR OF “ MALBROOK” AND “‘ HONOR: BRIGHT.” May WHARTON was 2 sort of solecism among women. Sh@ was both handsome and puz- ziing, winning and reserved, a romp and yet proud. Pious old ladies always shook their heads when she was mentioned, and said she was a hoidenish, daring, reckless coquette, and added, with a sigh, that ‘“‘She was in the Lord’s hands,” as if it was infinite relief to clear theirs of her. To gentlemen she was fascinating, bewildering, and offish as a bird. The girl was an orphan, without “kith or kin,” and boarded in the family of her guar- dian. Judge Harmon resided in one of our towns, which, like the beautiful, spontaneous fruit of the tropics, had sprung up, as it were, ina night, on our “‘ Western wilds,” with all the elegance and refinement of cultured energy. Judge Harmon’s home was palatial in as- pect. The lawns were like spread velvet— England never boasted of softer or richer—and in all his wide estate generous Nature had been lavish, with her long kept gifts, as if rejoicing in a recipient, imitating her Maker, who urges His own creatures to accept His love. Underneath a spreading oak stood this girl of whom we are telling. She was the centre of a merry group, whose fortunes she was reading; her dark eyes flashing, her dark cheeks brightening with excitement. Palm after palm was bared to the young priestess, whilst she held them spell-bound with her thaumaturgic powers, tracing through the deli- cate network of each the striking incidents which had marked each life from its birth; causing some to grow pale with fear, and others to blush scarlet with anger and shame ; for, with characteristic daring, she shielded none in laying bare the past, and, with mys- tical fascination, she predicted the leading events to come, seasoning each with a terse, pertinent, funny bit of advice. Outside the circle stood a young man—a large fellow, with broad shoulders and splendid figure—his Panama was in his hand, his light, curly hair cut close to his well-shaped head. He had given rapt attention whilst the pro- phetess had fearlessly penetrated the forbidden Arcana of the future. As he listened, his clear blue eyes flashed and sparkled, as if planning mischief. He waited until each of the group had his or her peep into the beyond, then he entered the circle, and with innate grace knelt at the girl’s feet, baring his large, shapely hand, with an expression of mock faith upon his face. The girl flushed as she touched the hand, for between these two existed a strange sort of magnetic influence, now attract- ing, now repulsing. Oftenest they were at variance, disagreeing on all subjects, and. oc- easionally trenching on open quarrel. But sometimes a single glance from those teazing blue eyes would send the blood surging up the girl’s dark cheeks, and the accidental touch of her small hand would thrill the man’s strong frame like a powerful electric shock. This mysterious influence, whilst it puzzled, had its fascination to each. To cover the sudden blush, the girl looked fearlessly into his eyes, exclaiming :— ‘* Am I the subject of a mental hallucination, or do I really behold Park Lloyd, the acknow- ledged skeptic of all hidden, unexplainable things, coming to question occult lore ?”’ His only reply was to raise his hand a trifle toward her bending face. After that she never glanced at his, upturned and teazing, but served his hand as she had done the others. “You are both better and worse than people think you. Your nature is positive, not nega- tive. You are genial, generous, sometimes gentle. To counterbalance these virtues, you are tyrannical and exacting, and require as much and more than you give. If you ever have a wife, she will have a stormy time of it. Your will is inflexible and unrelenting. In your past life you have had no great trouble, and have committed no glaring sin; not that you have resisted from principle or conscience, but because you are not open to influence. Temptations will not mix with your nature, any more than water will mingle with oil. You owe your freeness from taint, not to any self-fought battles, but to the fact that you were born morally, as you are physically, strong; so may thank your God, and not yourself. You have imagined yourself in love ever since you were in pinafores, but the great passion has never yet swayed you’’— Sud- denly she stopped, with a little, low, ringing laugh. They all drew nearer, with breathless curiosity, exclaiming :— ‘““Why, May, what do you see?” The girl only laughed the longer, dropping his hand to bring her own together, a habit she had. Merriment is contagious. The whole group became convulsed, laughing until they could not stop, simply because she did. Park Lloyd caught the clasped hands in his ; and, looking up into the irresistible face, said, with that determination and will that she had told him was a part of his being :— “May, what do you see in my hand to evoke such laughter? ‘Tell me, instantly !”’ At once she obeyed, controlling her lips, and answering comically in the sudden silence :— “Why, Park, your hand says that you will marry for fun.” A sudden determination, sealed as soon as conceived, flashed across his teazing face. He sprang suddenly to his feet, keeping her hand in his, and, opening her small, white hand, spread it quite before her face, demanding :— “ And what will you marry for?’’ It is when the castle is stormed through

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apes ye 8 a yeaa ary riety it ti cree on ert aw 450 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. quick strategy that it falls. The unexpected attack found her unarmed. She was surprised into reading the riddle of her own life :-— ‘JI shall marry in terrible earnest.”’ He retained the hand firmly, his blue eyes full of inexplicable lights. “Let us cheat fate into refuting her own decrees, May. Dominie Bowen has just gone into the house with Uncle Harmon. Marry me now, for fun, will you?” and his blue eyes, with their strong, unbending will, looked down into hers. The blood rushed to her very brow, then ebbed, leaving her pale as death; while those around, not seeing the swift current beneath the surface, and thinking it all a farce, laughed long and loud. The blue eyes never moved from hers, with their subtle, fascinating will power. ‘* May, this isan age of progress—you are a type of the age, brave, and courageous—let us show ourselves two moral empirics, and de- clare all such conventionalities as engagements effete.”’ His tone was low, though so clear that all heard, and the merry laughter contined to ring round the circle at what they deemed his per- fect acting. We have said this girl was a solecism—daring, reckless, and self-sustained, having been used to making her own decisions from her birth. Never had the magnetic forces existing between these two been stronger. It drew them together with a force utterly irre- sistible. Neither loved the other, yet each de- manded the other as his own. The power was that of mind and will, not of heart, a sort of mental and nervous magnetism. The smoth- ered fire in her dark eyes blazed and sparkled. Instantly he caught the flash. He bowed his head so low none other ears than hers caught the words :— “May, shall I seal it?’ Her head was neither raised nor drooped. With bright, triumphant eyes he stooped ; his lips touched hers. It was but for an instant, but lips never touch without hearts pulsing. A kiss upon brew or cheek is simply a kiss, but the meeting of lips is the touching of souls. At that sudden, unexpected kiss the merry cirele looked at each other in startled surprise, then greeted with a round of applause what they considered the very consummation of fine acting ; while Park Lloyd took the girl’s hand, and led her into the house, the others following with laughing curiosity. Judge Harmon and Dominie Bowen were in the bay- window in the drawing-room, the judge displaying some rare exotics that filled the apartment with theirexquisite perfume. They went quite in front of the minister, the others grouped about with all the graceful effect of animpromptu tableau. Thedominie and judge looked on in mute surprise. Park explained in his clear, coherent way :— ‘**Dominie, will you please speak the words that shall make May and I husband and wife ?”’ In an instant there was great excitement, all, at length, catching the deep meaning of the seeming farce. The dominie exclaimed, the judge laughed heartily. Park wag his nephew, and he had long desired the match. The con- fusion increased. Park Lloyd raised his hand with an impatient gesture, his face demanding silence, with that expression seldom disobeyed. He said, quietly :-— “Dominie, there is nothing to keep us apart ; marry ps at once,” The dominie, though a good, was a weak man, and Park Lloyd’s will was iron. He yielded instantly, drew his prayer-book from his pocket, and proceeded with the impressive service of the Episcopal church. The hand that the bridegroom held had grown cold as ice. At its increasing chill, his lips hac for one moment set themselves, then relaxed with a smile of triumph at the words “I pronounce thee man and wife.’’ When they arose from this blessing, they were met, with laughing congratulations. In the dining-room a feast had been spread for the benefit of the little company. Judge Harmon invited them to partake, and make it asymposiumindeed. At the dining-room door Park left the wedding guests to enter alone ; he, by a sudden turn, leading his bride away from them, out upon an adjacent veranda, When there, he raised the little cold hand to his lips; the blood tingled to its very finger ends. He looked into her face teazingly. She flushed painfully, and snatched her hand away ; then, lest he should possibly think she had mistaken the caress as given in earnest, she returned it gayly, touching his hand with her lips, and saying with a laugh, from which all merriment had fled :— “For fun.”’ The set look stole about his lips again ; in- stantly he led her back to the dining-room. After that the bride and groom led the feast with their gayety. A little later, in the drawing-room, there was music and: dancing. The bride’s hand rested on the bridegroom’s arm. They were convers- ing merrily with those about them. The dreamy strains of a waltz floated through the room. He bent his head to her’s. ** Will you waltz ?”’ They had waltzed together many a time, and did it to perfection. Now, the girl drew back. He bent his head still lower, and said: ‘For fun.’’ She yielded instantly. Always before, he had laid his hand lightly upon her waist; to-night he quite encircled her in his arms, yet never had they seemed so far apart, even in their quarrelling days. The girl shivered ; the man set his lips. They were married before ever they were lovers. Of old they were the last to tire; now they made but one round of > — i i i sk ss PFPePetrwo ae EBsce@strrunae

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MARRIED

FOR PUN. 451

the room. After that dance he left her for a moment. When he returned, she was standing by the judge’s wife ; he came quite beside her, and said, in a low tone: “There is a train starts for the East in an hour. Can you be ready, Mrs. Lloyd ?’”’ She bowed assent, and instantly left the room with Mrs. Harmon to make preparations, whilst Park called his younger brother Roy to one side, sending bim home to pack his trunk, and ask his friends to meet them at thedepot. An hour later the good-byes were spoken ; the en- gine shrieked its shrill whistle, and the train whizzed out into the night. , Park Lloyd and his bride sat side by side. She, with pale still face resting in her hand; he, with set lips and folded arms. Yet these two had married ‘for fun.’ Fate is not to be hood-winked. Sheis like a weasel, you cannot catch herasleep. Her fiats areunchangeable. They had ‘married in fun,’ and found it in ‘‘terrible earnest.’’ The rela- tion in which they were, henceforth, to stand to each other was settled in few words. They were spoken in a tone so still, so bitter, so poignant, you would never have recognized it for Park Lloyd’s genial, heartsome voice. “* May, we understand each other. The farce has proved astragedy. It has made but one change in your life. To the world only, you are May Lloyd, instead of May Wharton.”’ And yet in the heart of each at that moment the love, which was born in a kiss ’neath the oak tree, grew strong, wild, wrestling. But neither understanding the other, each sought to crush this thing, with its Titanic proportions, and bury it deep, carving upon its sealing stone—‘‘ For fun.”’ This man said bitterly to himself, what the patriarch, Abraham of old, said of his wife— ‘She is my sister’’ His blue eyes grew eynical and unbelieving, his fine mouth set and cold: whilst in this journeying, though this modern Sarai grew pale and apathetic, “the Egypt- ians beheld the woman, that she was very fair.” Everywhere this man heard and saw the suppressed admiration his beautiful wife alicited—heard and saw, writhing with jeal- ousy even of the eyes resting upon her, and with a bitter, exultant triumph that-she was his. There was no more of the old quarrelling ; every thing, antagonistic and polemic, seemed to have forsaken their characters ; they treated each other with studied politeness. The world could have found nothing at which to cavil ; would have pronounced them elegant in their etiquette and dignity. They had travelled thus for weeks, visiting the several watering-places, and every point of interest in our Eastern States One day Park Lloyd entered their private parlor in the hotel at Newport. A book lay

open on the table. His wife had evidently left it suddenly, perhaps hearing hisapproach. He picked it up, and kissed the leaves, where but a few minutes before her fingers had rested, then glanced at the page. It was one of Emerson’s works, open on travelling. He read these words—“ Travelling is a fool’s paradise. We owe to our first journeys the discovery that place is nothing. At home I dream that at Naples, at Rome, I can be intoxicated with beauty and lose my sadness. I pack my trunk, embrace my friends, embark on the sea, and at last wake up at Naples, and there beside me is the stern fact, the sad, self, unrelenting, identical, that I fled from. I seek the Vatican and the palaces. Laffect to be intoxicated with sights and suggestions ; but I am not intoxi- cated. My giant goes with me wherever I go.”’ He smiled bitterly. He was her stern, sad, unrelenting fact ; her hated, ever-present giant. That evening when they were promenading the piazza among the gay throng, he asked her if she would like to go home. She bowed assent. Through the agency of his brother Roy Park had prepared a beautiful home for his bride. All that culture and elegance could suggest, had been garnered with lavish hand, for Park Lloyd was wealthy. <A splendid féte in the new home, celebrated their arrival. For the first week or two after their return they were in a constant whirl of excitement. The little world in which they moved, curious to see the result of this daring experiment, this in- fringement of an established rule of society, were on the alert. Woman is more apt at a part than man. Thus May succeeded in mis- leading them more readily. Never had she been more brilliant ; whilst Park’s even dis- position seemed to have uadergone an entire change. Sometimes he was unnaturally gay ; but oftenest morose and taciturn. In company he watched his wife with jealous stealth, and, when she was the centre of an admiring circle, his blue eyes grew gray and sharp as steel, his fine mouth set to fierceness. All this escaped not the Argus-eyed world. Gossip ‘‘rolled this dainty morsel under her tongue” with infinite relish. Nice old ladies, of the “I told you so” school, said: ‘‘ They al- ways knew if Park Lloyd and May Wharton married, there would be lawyers’ fees to pay,”” though the most far-seeing croaker of them all would have found it utterly impossible to pre- dict results from a thing whose immediate ex- istence was its consummation. They found great delight in it, however, like “The juggling fiend, who never spoke before, But cried: ‘I married thee!’ when the deed was o'er.” The younger people shrugged their shoulders ; some pitying May Wharton in the stormy life she had herself predicted for Park Lloyd's

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—= ee ed Qi ee 452 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. wife ; others spending their sympathy on him, reasoning that, since he was the more changed, he must necessarily be the greater sufferer of the two. But all the excitement and dissipation inci- dent to their return had to come to an end. The result was inevitable. The quiet routine of daily life was before them, and they were forced to meetit. Park plunged deep into busi- ness, May into books, renewing her long for- saken lessons, her French and German. Each sought as much as possible to avoid the other ; but their contact was constant, and the very suffering it inflicted was filled-with an intense fascination. If they but metin the halis, and exchanged a common-place remark, or came upon each other suddenly in the garden walks, the presence would cling to each for hours. Their very desire té avoid each other con- stantly had a diametrically opposite effect. May, walking in the garden, would catch a glimpse of her husband under the trees, and turn suddenly to go into the house; and he, having simultaneously seen the flutter of her dress, and not wishing to obtrude his presence, would seek to accomplish the same object by another route, thus bringing them face to face at the door step, when, with his courtly grace, he would touch his hat, and say :— “Do not let me prevent your walking, madam,”’ and she would return to the garden without speaking. Thus each, in his strong effort to conceal his heart secret, confirmed the other in his cruel conviction. One evening May was in the drawing-room, playing the piano by moonlight. Quite un- known to her, Park sat on the closely-shaded piazza, a little to one side of the French win- dow, listening. His blue eyes were full of such longing despair as we would imagine an artist would paint in the eyes of Tantalus. After awhile she ceased, and, driven by her restless spirit, stepped out on the piazza, intending to go into the garden. It was so dark she put out her hand to grope her way, and laid it di- rectly on his cheek. She started, with a little ery of joyful alarm, which he mistook for horror and repulsion. He arose instantly, saying, in a low tone :— ‘Your pardon, madam !”’ Then, as she, mortified and flushing lest he had discovered in her tone what for weeks she had been seeking to hide, turned quickly to- ward the house, he added :— “Do not let me disturb you. Iam going to the library.’”’ His tone was cold. She replied, with well-feigned indifference : “IT was only on my way to the garden, sir,” and left him, walking as far as the first rustic seat, there crying as if her heart would break. “The very touch of my hand is hateful to him,” she thought. A few evenings later his mother was with them. They were in the library. Park had wheeled a stool to the old lady’s feet, and laid his head upon her lap, and she was stroking his hair with her gentle, mother hands. May was seated at some li@le distance, bending over her worsted work. ‘They had been silent for a space, when the dear, unsuspicious old lady said : ; “Park, you are just as fond of petting as ever. May, darling, does my boy teaze you most to death with his loving ways?” The blood surged to the wife’s very brow. She bent low over her work. The old lady laughed merrily, saying :— “Why, you little bashful puss! I thought, by this time, you were so used to Park you would not mind his mother.” Park changed the subject. Everything must have anend. When things come to the worst, they naturally better them- selves. Thus their fate reached its erisis. In the weeks that had Park had grown careworn and haggard; whilst May, through constant excitement, stood on the very verge of a nervous fever. One morning she was wandering about in her restless way—her cheeks burning, her eyes unnaturally bright, her pulse bounding at fever rate—she happened to pass Park’s room. The door stood open. Impelled by an irresistible impulse, she crossed the thresheld, and stood for the first time in her husband’s apartment. The quick, guilty blush of an interloper dyed her cheeks. She closed the door softly, and turned the key. She stood for a moment mo- tionless, looking about with a sort of frightened curiosity, in which pain and pleasure were strangely mingled, then moved about, touching the articles he was wont to handle with a sort of tender reverence; looking into the mirror that was used to reflecting the face she had not looked at, save by stealth, for weeks ; handling the brush that had pressed the curly locks her fingers had longed but to touch with a sort of bitter jealousy ; toying with each article of the toilet, even once peeping into a bureau drawer, and starting back with sudden fright as if she had been a detected thief. At length the over- wrought nerves relaxed. She threw herself into his easy-chair, and cried as if her heart would break. Love, with wild, rushing tide, dashed aside every obstacle, even pride. She felt as if she could fling herself at his feet and implore him to love her. In the excess of her grief she arose and hurriedly paced the room. In her walking she noticed what had before passed unobserved—his writing-desk stood open upon a table. She approached it, with quick jealousy, as if he, her husband, had_no right to aught apart from her. Upon the desk lay an open letter. May Lloyd was an honorable girl, but the temptation was strong. She paled in the struggle, and was turning quickly away, when her own name caught her eye. It was an unfinished letter to herself. She seized it OO NSS —eeee—rtl le

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MARRIED FOR FUN. 453 greedily, her hands trembling so she scarce could hold it whilst she read. The contents were in this wise :- “May: Neither of us ean longer endure this agony ; the tortures of the inquisition were mild in comparison. It is only exceeded by the suf- ferings of the damned. Since the first time I ever met you, you had a strange, unearthly attraction forme. It was not love ; sometimes I said to myself that the passion you elicited was the perfection of refined hatred. To me ou were scarce human. I had a strange no- jon that, if I could catch you in my hands, I could crush you to an essence, and then gather — being into mine. But = were 80 Offish, dare not even so much as take your hand in mine. The power you wielded over me was inexplicable. I think you were yourself ruled by it. There seemed a cord reaching from = being to mine, which now contracted, wing us to close contact; now relaxed, parting us wide, yet never broke. I did not wish to make you my wife; yet felt assured if you ever married another man, the moment at made him your husband made him a corpse. That day under the oak-tree I was seized with a qo bee apnea longing to own you. The idea took possession of me and ruled me. I was itsslave. Judgment and rea- son crouched before my wild demand. I de- termined you should be mine, past all reach save God’s. My will trampled yours; I con- uered. My God! we were ‘married for fun.’ he words are sharper than Damascus steel ; they cut, and hack, and tear my very soul. The vow that made us one rent us asunder. The world calls us husband and wife; the words are the perfection of poignant sarcasm. Husband and wife! And but one caress, that ren in the presence of the world ‘for fun!’ hat kiss changed my entire being. From the time your beautiful lips touched mine, my heart has pulsed in wild, craving, agonizing love. Sometimes I think it will drive me mad. You grew tohating me. If you but chance to meet me, you pre and shiver ; whilst if your skirts but touch me when you pass, every nerve in my being thrills and quivers, with an excess of joy that trenches on exquisite pain. You have not looked into my eyes for weeks. I never’’— There it stopped suddenly, as if he had been called away. The wife bowed her face, white with this sudden joy; then, through very ex- cess, calm and still, knelt and thanked her Maker. A little after she replaced the letter, carefully erased every trace of her presence, and left the room. The first sudden burst of joy rendered her quiet. In its continuance she grew restless and excited. He thought she hated him! She longed to tell him of the love that had filled and absorbed her entire being. It seemed as if the hours grew to eternities, as if the evening would never come. How should she correct this mistake? His strong will had won her ere he had wooed her. Her pride forbade the revelation. Then, with the versatility of hap- piness, she burst into the old merry laugh, that had been silent for weeks, at the remembrance of those awkward encounters in the garden, where each was hiding the self-same secret from the other. She made her evening toilet early in the afternoon, thinking to attract her attention, and thus chase time. She arrayed herself with exquisite care, hoping to look beautiful in his eyes. Searcely was it com- pleted, when she heard the clatter of a horse’s hoofs in the broad carriage road, and reached the \vindow just in time ,to see him dismount anc enter the house. ‘“What had brought him home so early? Was he ill?” She trembled and grew pale, longing to assert her wifely right, and hasten to his side; but, bashful and frightened, she lingered in her room until she heard him go to his apartment, and after a little leave it again, then with cheeks now brilliant, now pale, de- seended the broad staircase. As she passed the drawing-room she glanced in. He sat in an easy-chair, wheeled in one of the windows, his eyes closed wearily, and an expression of pain about brow and lip, as if his head ached as well as his heart. She hesitated a moment, then, for the first time since their marriage, entered the room where he sat alone. He moved slightly, as if .to warn her of his presence. She blushed pain- fully, but did not draw back, as was her wont ; but, instead, seated herself at the piano, and began playing. He looked surprised, but re- mained seated. She made countless mistakes, timid and trembling, in the presence of this man, who had been her husband for weeks—aye a long sum- mer, for now it was early fall—yet to-day, for the first time her acknowledged lover. The position was novel, and full of fascination. A wife yet to be wooed. A spice of her old co- quetry returned, a sudden determination seized her. She turned on her stool and looked at him. He was leaning back in his chair, his eyes closed. He had acknowledged in that letter that the very touch of her dress thrilled him. She would take him unarmed, and draw a declara- tion of his love from his own lips. She went timidly to his side, with brilliant cheeks and half veiled eyes, standing so closely beside his chair that her sleeve touched his shoulder. The blood mounted to her very brow ; she did not glance at him, but said, in a broken, bashful way :— ** You are home early.” He answered : “‘ Yes,” shortly, looking at her in utter astonishment. ‘Is there anything the matter, Park?’’ She had not spoken his name before in all that summer. The man paled with the inward struggle. Her close presence—her very sleeve resting on his, and yet so far apart. “Nothing but headache,”” he answered, in a voice rendered hard and sharp by excess of anguish. “Tam sorry,” shesaid, simply, and bashfully left him, going into the window by which he | 1 | | |

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eI ie ne SAE EO Si kw Fee. - OEE A IRIE SEN ne ba — 454 GODEHY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. was seated, and trimming some rose-trees that grew in rustic baskets there. He was watching her ; she knew it, and grew restless and uneasy. How should they ever understand each other. Our lives, like rose- trees, may be trimmed into beauty and sym- metry by very small pruning knives. This is how fate, by the hands of May Lloyd, trimmed the thorns that parted two lives which months before by Divine law had been declared one. The knife was sharp. The mind, utterly ab- sorbed, left its management entirely to the fingers. They, unused to freedom, lawlessly dashed it into the palm of the little white hand, The blood flowed a crimson flood. Park Lloyd sprang to her side with a cry of mingled agony and terror. She turned deathly pale, and reeled at the pain. He caught her in his arms, carrying her to an adjacent lounge. She sank back in the cushions sick and faint. He knelt at her side, and bound up the wounded hand with his handkerchief, his own strong hand trembling as he did it, then hastily brought her a glass of wine. She did not offer to take it, thus compelling him to place it to her lips. His hand was unsteady ; she raised hers, and laid it on his to guide it. At the light touch the man flushed to his very brow ; but with fierce setting of the lips, he drove the color back. She drained the glass; then with one quick, bashful look thanked him. He left her instantly, going over to the win- dow where the flowers were, and standing, his back to the room, his arms folded. The touch, light, frightened, lingering, of that little han#l ; the look incomprehensible, which he had never n before in those dark eyes, baffled, be- pisere, maddened theman. Hecould endure is agony no longer. Never before had he questioned the dislike of his wife. Now he said to himself: ‘‘ The girl either hates or loves me.” And with white set lips he determined to know his doom at once, and if the former proved true, to leave her then and forever. He turned, she had left the lounge, and sat in‘an easy-chair, drawn in front of a window, through which the wind blew fresh and strong, A slight blush dyed her pale cheeks when he stood beside her. “May.” She could not raise hereyes. Quiet through every excess of suspense, he wheeled an ottoman to her feet and sat down. Since their marriage he had not even so much as touched her hand, now he rested his arm upon her lap, and leant forward, thus bringing his ace directly and closely before hers. She did not shrink, only the blush deepened. “ May, neither of us can longer endure this. I love you so, that to be longer in your presence with- out love will drive me mad. The relation we have sustained to each other has rendered in- difference utterly impossible, you must either hate or love in return. If the former, bid me instantly leave you ; if the latter, renounce that fearful ‘marrying in fun,’ and show me that now you are my wife in earnest.”’ He waited, she, paling and flushing before him. Her face drooped, seeking in vain to hide itself from those searching blue eyes. She had not calculated his close proximity ; he movel a trifle, their lips met. , A little later, the servants looked in wonder to see so indifferent a coupléas the master and mistress come cut to dinner arminarm. Her face brilliant with happiness, his overspread with a proud deep joy. That evening a notorious gossip called, with her husband. They found Park Lloyd and his wife enjoying the: moonlight on their vine-clad veranda, She or a low rustic settee, he re- clining with a sort of lazy grace at her feet, his head upon her lap. Her wounded hand was held in his gentle caressing clasp, whilst the other toyed with the light closely cut curls, which'she had longed but to touch. The gossip made buta brief stay, going away delighted with the happiness these two were enjoying, though ihey had “ married for fun.” -__ ee el TO A FRIEND. BY EMMA NASH. WHENE’ER they meet thee, all must feel The goodness which thine eyes reveal Lying beneath the drooping lid, E’en as the violets by leaves hid. At sight of pain thy tears will start— Flowing in pity from thy heart, And hungry child, and shivering poor, ° Each finds a welcome at thy door. And ne’er a rude word meets the ear Of those who love thee and who hear The gentle accents of thy voice, At sound of which thy friends rejoice ; For ‘tis so like the silver note That gushes from the graceful throat Of bird, that all who stop and listen, Feel their eyes with glad tears glisten. Thy gentle ways, thy graceful form, Thy tender words so free from scorn, Thy lovely smile, thy soft blue eye, Makes thee a vision of the sky. hatin >_> Many delight more in giving presents than in paying their debts.—Sir Philip Sidney. WE are ruined, not by what we really want, but by what we think we do; therefore, never go abroad in search of your wants. If they be real wants, they will come home in search of you; for he that buys what he does not want will soon want what he cannot buy.—Colton. SELF-FLATTERY.—It often amuses me to hear men impute all their misfortunes to fate, bad luck, or destiny, whilst their success or good fortune they ascribe to their own sagacity, cleverness, or penetration. It seems to such minds that light and darkness are one and the same, concentrating from, and being part of the same nature.—Uoleridge. — - « —t © st = = oadnm

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THE HAWTHORN COPSE 455 THE HAWTHORN COPSE. BY LOUISE BARTON. **T am awaiting your answer, Mildred.” There was a thrill in the words which jarred on Mildred Ravenstone, as she stood apart in the shadow of the draperied bow-window. She moved with an impatient gesture, and glanced round at the speaker. ‘There he still leaned against the mantel, his head bent, just as it had been when she rose up from the low seat, facing him, and came away to gaze out on Ravenstone Cliff, and the valley which it over- hung, and see if she could possibly resolve to leave them. This heterogeneous gray-stone mass, by cour- tesy yelept The Towers, crested the cliff with odd projecting turrets and eccentric gables. Round them a broad flagged terrace, flanked with a flowery oak-shadewed slope, swept away to the very brifk of the precipitous front, whence purple heath, broken by rocks, descended to the dale far beneath. There the Dent River, shrunken in the summer heats, brattled along its bed of solid rock which lifted wave-worn furrows now and then above the waters like storm-black billows. Over it, on either hand, Barking, and other mountains of the winding range, stood up shoulder to shoul- der, and well nigh foot to foot, their steep base rife with cultivation. The frequent gills that leaped in foam, or twined in gleaming threads from pasture-perches, white with flocks, lent an Alpine aspect to this Yorkshire vale, sustained by little Denton at its farther end, with overhanging roofs and stairs that mounted outside to the open galleries. But Mildred’s attention had not strayed all the way to Denton. Looking toward that vil- lage, Ravenstone Fell was cleft by a turbulent gill, fringed on this side by a tall and strag- gling hawthorn copse, which veiled the bridge across the stream, and the rock-rent crags be- yond. Mildred’s eyes flashed while they rested on the copse, as if some memory lurking there angered her. And hastily she reverted to the lovely scenes below. Could she leave these? All things were cold, uncertain, dead, to her, but this familiar face of the one lonely home she had ever known. Nothing else she loved; she had almost said, had ever loved. A tear plashed down upon her dress, the crape folds of which were crisp and fresh, the outward mourning for her last of near kindred—the brother on whom yesterday shut the ancestral vault of Denton Church. But he was not now more deeply buried from her in the hush and cold- ness of the tomb, than he had always been in the hush of his great library, the coldness of his never-opened heart. Once in her life had he summoned her to that solemn room to lay before her an offer of marriage from a gray VOL. LXXXII.—29 earl, who had met her, shy and silent, and wondrously lovely, at the one or two dull county dinners, her sole glimpse of the world. The young girl had instantly declined the honor, which her brother did not urge upon her. He merely stated that it was an honor, such as did not offer itself every day in a se- cluded life like hers, and she must be aware that by law of entail his death closed the doors of The Towers upon her, to open them wide for her far-away cousin, Hugh Ravenstone. She had that day concerned kerself as little about prospective homelessness as he in reality about death. While he spoke, she had been fronting the west window, through which wafted the faint breath of those hawthorn boughs, and seemed to whisper words which had thrilled among them not many gloamings past. That whisper shut out from her hearing the formal utterances of the brother. But to-day a year had passed since then, and these tones of Hugh Ravenstone’s were the only sounds which had recalled those passed, she knew not how nor why, out of her life. She only knew that Arthur Vere had said fare- well, as if for a brief space, beneath that haw- thorn tryst, and he had never come again. In the first months a sick fear smote her that he might be ill, even dead. Until one Sunday, at Denton Church, she met his cousins of the Grange, and heard them mention him as travel- ling abroad with a gay party, one of whom, an heiress, rumor said—. Mildred would listen no more to their whispers, nor to those of the gloaming hawthorn copse. And the thrilling of Hugh Ravenstone’s voice now vexed her with somewhat of the self-scorn with which she turned fram her one day-dream faded out so dully. She had almost decided to take The Towers, as Hugh Ravenstone proposed. But that she must also take that paltry thing called Love, was not to be thought of for an instant. She looked again at her cousin, and that second look decided her. Had she beheld a graceful figure, dark and fiery glances, which forced her own to fall before them, then memory must have stirred the mould of pride which she had heaped above it. And then she would have turned her face from him, have turned her face from the beloved one of her home. But that heavy frame; the strongly marked counte- nance; the deep-set fire of his eyes hidden as they lowered under straight, thick brows, were nothing in her past. She moved from her re- treat until she came and stood also on the hearth, opposite to him. He raised his head, shading his eyes from her still. “TI hardly know,” she began, composedly, “how to thank you for what you have just said. You cannot understand how dear to me is this ruinous old place. It is the one thing which I have loved—which I love ; and to leave it, would be bitterer than death. You say you are waiting for my answer, but the answer you

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a 456 GODEY’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. yourself must give. You have asked me not to leave my heme; to keep it as your wife. Perhaps, in speaking thus, you thought I was as easy and quick to love as other girls of eighteen are. Itell you, no. All my life long, all feeling has been crushed out from me. I love my home, only my home. Hugh Raven- stone may well find a truer wife than this.’’ “Hugh Ravenstone will have this wife or none,’’ he said, quietly, without a moment’s hesitation. The glad color rushed back into her face. “You are very good,”’ she began. And, rosily bashful as ever a just-promised maiden should be, she sank once more upon the seat from which she had moved away to the window. He looked down on her steadfastly. He was paler than his wont, and the gray eyes had a strangely wistful, yet pained tenderness, within their depths. He answered nothing, hardly seemed to have heard her last words, but started as from a reverie when the library- elock chimed out the hour, through deserted halls between. ' “Not a moment to lose,’’ he said, “since [ must not miss the London train. This day four weeks, then, Cousin Mildred ; I shall leave you in undisturbed possession until then. On that day you will make the home you love forever yours. You must let my sister come to you shortly before. And now, good-by! God bless you!’’ She rose and gave her cold little fingers to his hold. She hung her head in dread un- speakable, lest he should not be content with that formal farewell. Once only in her life could she remember any one had touched her lips, and he—. Kisses, it seemed to her, were only to betray. Whether her cousin read something of this shrinking in her clear young face, certain it is that he merely grasped the fingers till they grew warmer in that grasp. He merely glanced at the fresh mouth, and watched the fluttering of auburn lashes over warm bright eyes of the same shade. And then he loosed the hand, and the door closed upon him before Mildred had stirred. She drew a deep breath of relief, then went to the window, hearing his step upon the terrace. “How good he is!’’ she said again, and then, watching him cross toward the stables, “How comfortably prosaic !’’ Her brow sank on her folded arms upon the window-sill, and did not lift itself again, al- though Sir Hugh, while waiting for his horse, was walking up and down the terrace, within sound, and more than once glanced toward the window for some sign. The rebeliious thought had come to her that this might be her task : to follow at his beck, like any purchased thing, since Ravenstone Tower was her price. Yet no desire to draw back from that sale awoke. She could not go; the shred of heart she had was there. No, she would not draw back ; she would but be free until her time. And so Hugh Ravenstone flung himself upon his horse and rode away, and Mildred rose up smiling, as the hoof-beats rang out on the twilight air. Upon that dewy air stole in the scent of haw- thorn, and she shut the window hastily and rang for lights. “Will Ae hear of it? Will he be sorry, then?” escaped from her, at the last glance she cast upon the hawthorn copse, the snowy boughs of which brought to her mind white orange flowers. “*Will he hear of it?’’ The same question was ringing its changes through Mildred’s mind, when, on the last day of that month which had seen her sole ruler of The Towers, she escaped from the kindly scrutiny of Hugh Ravenstone’s sister and the final arrangements as to the white wedding attire that sister had ordained. “‘Will he hear of it? Will he care for it?’ She was troubled more and mere by these re- curring questions, as she wandered from the terrace, and struck into a path which fringed the Denton side. Mechanically she turned into it, without at first appearing to mark where she was. The way led midway down the fell, behind the hawthorn copse—no very secure path for twilight wanderings. But those feet strayed on, as if they did not move by any will of hers, until they reached the pathway’s very end, where Ravenstone Fell overhung the dale. The rivulet there made its last plunge down a rock, and lost itself within the Dent, and lashed with spray its strip of margent turf. High above, a mossy bridge, closed by a stile, spanned the ravine; and formed a short cut to the village—disused now, however, since the decaying moss-grown tim- bers were no longer deemed quite secure. Notwithstanding which, at this moment, who but Hugh Ravenstone came sauntering up the cliff beyond, and through the Woodland fringe, and set his foot upon the bridge? Who, but Hugh Ravenstone—although he was supposed to be still far enough away, awaiting the morn- ing express to Ravenstone?. But he started back when he saw the young girl at the farther end upon the stile. He had longed for the sight. Once, toward the close of Parliamentary duties; he had come up for one hour, and gone away unseen, but with a glimpse of his bride’s face to carry back with him. He had longed for the sight ; but, as he looked, his eyes grew dark with pain. How little like a bride’s that drooping face, from which the shielding hand was now dropped listlessly. The mouth was shut with a harassed weariness, the eyes were set in @ hard, cold glitter. He could not bear that apathy, apparent in the features’ every line ; in the very folding of her hands, as she clasped them with the rosy palms outward, and 2 a ie ee ee ie oe eZee

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Geamerteanoosnor” ~~ sv" “ aes THE HAWTHORN COPSE. 457 let them fall listlessly over the railing. He must have gone to her in another instant; but in that instant she had lifted herself up wearily, and turned away. He went down to the beach again, and there strode up and down a gray, bleak hour before he followed her. He had not yet determined what to do, but followed with the feeling that, when the time was come, he would be given that which he should speak. Mildred had gone on before, and he did not see her until he reached The Towers. But over the bridge, in the shelter of the hawthorns, near where she had stood, there was a knoll all arbored in by snowy boughs. Beneath them a something else as white was there. Hugh Ravenstone stooped and raised a dainty handkerchief— quite wet, soaked through with tears. He took it up. ‘*The poor, poor child! She shall be free, if it is this which makes her wretchedness,’’ he said. He thought he did not doubt, he did not hope. But his was not the calm of hopeless- ness, but of self-control. He went on till The Towers gloomed between the gloaming trees. He mounted the steps to the portico. The drawing-room windows opened upon it; and, as he stood there, he heard her voice within that room in which a month ago she had given him his answer; heard it for the first time since she had blushed before him, stammering of his goodness to her. Was it goodness to suffer her to bind herself with fetters she might one day chafe against, yet never break? His resolution did not falter ; only he paused one instant that his words, too, might not falter. In that pause her voice eame once again in the deep peace of the twilight—he could see her through the half-drawn curtains where she sat, her head against his sister’s knee, while the kind, matronly hand was stroking back the shining auburn hair from the girl’s temples— Mildred’s voice, so softiy, saying :— ** And you will sometimes come to me, sister, will you not? It seems so strange that I shall have love given me—I, whom no one ever loved! You will teach me to be loving, good, and gentle like yourself? You will teach me to forget’’— “What, dear child?” as the wistful eyes were suddenly hidden in the folds of her dress. “All this dreary, dreary time,’ she an- swered. ‘*Shall not that be my brother’s task?” ‘** How good, how good he is!’’ the sweet lips said, again, ason that other evening. And the listener turned and went his way. She did not love him; that he had not dreamed. But he did dream his task should be accomplished—that she should forget “this dreary time,’’ and learn to be happy, shaking off that strange, ungirlish depression which touched him so in her. And, yet, against his breast the handkerchief was lying, wet with the bitter, wrathful, heart-wrung tears wept for another’s falsehood, and almost still warm with the sighs in which she had wailed Vere’s name, her face pressed down upon the haw- thorn-checquered bank. The marriage morning came, and Mildred stood before her mirror, flushing a brighter flush before the radiant loveliness reflected there. “If he could see me !” she was saying to her- self ; and forthwith rose a vision of the quaint, old village church of Denton, sunshine stream- ing in a rosy flood through long, narrow, painted windows on her white-robed figure; while another—upon his bowed head should flit no ray in his dim, distant corner of the church, but to him be darkness without as within. No third form did she see. All else was misty and vague. Vague, even when Hugh’s sister en- tered presently, and, with a smile of approval, laid her hand on Mildred’s shoulder, saying, ‘Hugh had just arrived, and was so bent on seeing his bride that she must indulge him.” Mildred followed in a dream, from which the opening and shutting of the library door failed to arouse her. Radiant with the triumph of her vision in the church, she did not remember that she was alone with the man who, an hour hence, would be her husband. He turned from the window at the rustle of her dress. A tardy fear had struck him, which he was. now here to solve. Was he taking advantage of her helplessness to bind her? Yet, surely, this brilliant crea- ture was no victim adorned for the sacrifice? ‘“Mildred,” he said, slowly, ‘*I must have from your own lips the assurance that you do not fear to trust yourself tome. Even now it is not too late to draw back if you would. Do not think of me in this—or, rather, think of me, remembering that your happiness is mine. If even now you regret” — ‘Regret! Draw back!” An almost scorn- ful emphasis was on the words, uttered in her sweet, clear, ringing tones. “Draw back!” and Arthur Vere believe it might be for his sake ! ‘Regret! Drawback!’ The thrilling voice left no more room for whisperings of fear. His face changed rapturously, and he would have drawn her nearer, would have spoken, but the door swung open. A London friend of Sir Hugh’s stood on the threshold, confounded at the bridal apparition. Mildred started, and vanished precipitately through the conserva- tory; while Sir Hugh, nothing disconcerted — seemingly, advanced and gave his friend the hand he had held out to Mildred. It seemed hardly a moment after that she was walking up the churchyard path, where yew-shades flickered on her floating veil, and the dank scent of rain-beaten grass and flowers, ' f i |

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ee ey, ee SS Te 2 458 GODEY'S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. still wet in the shadow of the tombstones, blew ehilly on her face through the lace folds. No shadow had darkened that face this morning hitherto. The keeping of her home, the gain- ing of a sister, the care which should hence- forth surround her—all were dimmed, forgotten in the glow of pride and triumph as she thought of Arthur Vere. But now those visions faded out; and, as she glanced around, and saw how she was walking among graves, the color fled her cheek. The shadow of the great yew by the entrance porch, the chillness of the tombs —what was she doing ? Just overhead, upon the yew branch, that so nearly bent to touch her orange flowers, swayed and twittered asparrow. A dim remembrance erossed her of a shelter where the little helpless and uncared-for sparrow might build her nest in safety. Was she wrong—poor, fluttering, scorned heart !—to nestle in the shelter she had found? The ‘No’’ to her tardy self-question- ing did not come. All triumph died cut. En- tering the aisle she cast a shrinking glance around, and saw the thronged, familiar faces of the cottagers, gay and smiling on her over the huge nosegays one and all were wont to bear. There, too, were the young girls from the Grange, the old earl, and a fewclose friends of Sir Hugh’s own; none else. No dark, lithe figure bowed down with remorse ; no fiery eyes following her every movement with passionate regret ; no lips that quivered, fain to speak, to claim her for his own, while she should sweep by, ealm with scorn. Instead, she glanced up to Sir Hugh, as they two stood together at the chancel railing. He was looking down upon her, with his whole soul in his eyes. For the first time she saw in his gaze a something more than charity, or the fullness of that charity which hopeth all things, trusteth all things. Was she betraying that trust? Giving nothing for everything? Dared she do it? Dared she do it? The first solemn pause came after the words: “If any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.’”” Hugh Ravenstone stood erect, conscious of rectitude ; but Mildred bowed and quivered, shuddering and white. The second adjuration followed: ‘‘I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that, if either of you know any impediment why ye may not be lawfully joined together, ye do now confess it.’’ Mildred heard no more. She felt the spirit - of the words, and knew that by that spirit she were perjured, keeping silence. There twas that which Hugh Ravenstone might well hold an impediment between them. He might turn from her now, and she go forth into the world alone. What matter? She dared no longer deceive him. With every instant she grew deadlier white, and now she held to the chancel rail for support, shivering so that she could hardly stand. She raised her great, wide, frightened eyes to Hugh. There was none other in the church or in the world that mo- ment for her, though before she had not so much as once remembered him. Hugh, watch- ful of all change in her, saw how the color went and came, and put hisarm out. But she stayed him with a repellant gesture. ** Hear me first,’” she said, in tones that, de- spite their quivering, were clearly audible, and had in them the strength of her resolute mood. ‘*Hugh Ravenstone, I have dealt untruly with you. There is an impediment between us. There is a heart once given to another man, and flung aside by him as nothing worth.” It was all. over, and she trembled no more. She merely bowed down, covering her face, waiting till she should hear his footsteps leave her side ; waiting ‘till she should be left alone in the deserted church, when she might steal out unobserved. Whither she did not think or care; only never to her dear old home, never where familiar glance might seem to taunt her with her shame. She waited, but the footsteps did not stir. There was only a faint rustle through the awe-struck church, a fluttered breath of southernwood and thyme in the hundred rude nosegays. The place seemed heavy with it, and she gasped for air. A man’s hand touched the braids of her bowed head. . She lifted it up slowly, slowly. Hugh’s true eyes looked downward into hers. What had she done? The gray, bleak look upon his face smote her. The manly breast was heaving as with passionate struggle, and the firm lips set. She shrank away, shame-stricken at her work. ‘Forgive, forgive !’’ she moaned, ‘‘and I will go, will never cross your path again.’ With evident effort, he returned: “ Mildred, you have told me all ?”’ ‘All. Idare not perjure myself.” “You love that man?” He spoke with greater effort still, and his voice sank, audible to her alone or to God’s priest who stood so near. ** I do not love that man, Hugh Ravenstone.” Her reply was audible enough, and she lifted herself haughtily. One stepiand he was at her side. One move- ment and he grasped her hand. “You have heard,” he said, quietly, to the clergyman. ‘‘ There is no impediment. You will proceed.’’ He did proceed, unhesitatingly, reading the two faces turned to him. His voice, more ear- nest than ever, was broken by the low sob of the bride, who leaned against her lover. And when the last words of the service were pro- nounced, she clasped both hands upon Hugh’s arm, and looked up to him with flashing eyes. “God has made one noble man,” she said. G @-006 2 a? ak ah ee et eee me tk

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a THE HAWTHORN UOPSE. 459 And she walked out proudly through the aisle and down the path among the graves, seeing none save her husband ; needing no sunbeam even underneath the yew-tree glooms, and in the shadow of the tombs. They were bright days, those that followed that morning begun so drearily. Mildred’s life had hitherto been bounded by the narrow Denton glen, shut in by Barking and his fellow mountains, as completely as was ever Rasselas within his Happy Valley. Her lonely life had known little change, save when now and then, in some eseapade of her childhood or earlier girlhood, she had gone with her old nurse to the “knitting rounds,’’ when man, woman, and child, among the peasantry assembled in some cottage to knit and tell old legends, and to sing their knitting-songs together. But now she saw beyond the mountains, and that “‘beyond” was surely a new world. Her utmost day- dream had been once to see the Tower of Lon- don. But now she went much farther, even across the channel—to Paris—and at last ac- tually up the Rhine. She had gazed eagerly up to the “‘ Castled erag of Drachenfels ;’’ had listened to the syren echoes of the Lurlei Berg; passed the ruined Schonberg Castle, where in the river’s bed slept its seven fair countesses, all turned to stone for their stony-heartedness to faithful knights. And now she must also visit that crowning glory of the Rhine, its falls of Schaff- hausen. It was a jewelled crown indeed, as Mildred and her faithful knight, Sir Hugh, watched it one evening standing on a bridge which crossed from a wooded promontory to a slender tower on an insulated pile of rocks. There had been a thunder shower, from which she had sought refuge in the tower, and now she stood with Hugh upon the balcony and watehed the misty rainbow spanning the river to the other shore, which stretches back in long and lofty undu- lating ranges. Three straight towering rocks uplift themselves in the fall of fifty feet, and the water dashes round and past them in great showers of spray that, as the setting sun breaks forth from clouds, flash out and crown the river with a gem-like glow and glitter. Mildred lingered, facing them, and glancing ever and anon up to the far-off mountains, when a voice below her startled her. She could not see the speaker, for he must be on the bridge just under her balcony. But it was a man’s voice, speaking English, and she once had listened for those tones too eagerly to be mistaken in them now. At first she flushed and drew herself up with a proud smile toward Hugh, who was looking down absently into the water. Upon her wedding’ morning she had wished for Arthur Vere’s presence in the village church, simply because she longed to see in him some sign of wishing for the prize beyond his reach. But now his presence brought no such feeling; brought only a glow of pride in the man at her side. With the in- stant, however, both glow and flush vanished. She remembered her confession to Hugh in the ehurch, and she knew that he remembered it. He had borne himself toward her not like a man who has won, but rather as one who hardly yet begins to woo. He anticipated her évery wish; he walked, and rode, and talked with her; but she often strove to check her growing liking for him, because she could not be sure that he felt more than kindly and generously toward her. “The hand of the giver is ever above that of the receiver; and Mildred’s was so freighted down with his gifts that it could not steal up to meet his. As she thought over all this, she became nervously anxious that Hugh should not meet Arthur Vere; and she was engrossed in thinking how a meeting could certainly be avoided ; so en- grossed that Hugh observed she no longer took any interest in the scene around, and so he proposed to set forth on the return to Schaff- hausen, which was more than a mile distant. “Ah! no, not yet,” began Mildred. But then, as she heard a footstep ascending the flight of steps to the tower, she amended, hur- riedly : ‘‘ Yes, yes, letus go.’”’ And she put her arm in his, and drew him round the balcony in the opposite direction to those mounting steps. She had grown so suddenly pale that Hugh stopped, anxiously. **T was very wrong to linger here so long,”’ he said, with concern. ‘You are really thoroughly chilled. What was I thinking of?” ‘‘Of my pleasure, as usual,’’ she said, smiling up at him. For the first time, she saw another expression than the calm and friendly one she was accus- tomed to, in the eyes which met her own. The narrow stairs were reached just then; were descended ; and, as he stopped to offer his arm again, he lifted the little ungloved hand and just touched it with his lips. But Mildred turned abruptly away ; so abruptly that he im- mediately believed she was offended. Without a word she passed on before him, never looking back nor pausing until she reached the end of the bridge. For there, close by the stairs, leaning on the railing of the bridge, and gazing over toward the falls, steod two Englishmen. Mildred’s dress brushed against them in the straitened passage, and she needed but one glance at the face averted from her to tell her one was Arthur Vere. She passed unseen ; the peril was over, but she was deathly white as she stopped for Hugh to join her. ‘“‘ Sir Hugh,” she said, breathlessly, ‘‘ cannot we go to Berne early to-morrow? You know we were to see the Bears of Berne,”’ she added, trying to smile. Sir Hugh looked at her gracefully, and the words. faltered on her lips. He toohad observed the Englishman ; more, had observed Mildred’s

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ate Se ee ese A el ROB. ) 460 GODEY'S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. giance and manner in passing him. He needed not to be told who that man was, nor why Mil- dred was seized with so sudden a desire for visiting Berne, and for leaving Schaffhausen, where they had only that day arrived, and with which she had expressed herself so delighted as to be eager for a stay long enough thor- oughly to explore. But he only replied, ‘‘Certainly,” to het tremulous question. And the next morning saw them on the way to Berne, while Arthur Vere was left behind, unconscious that Mildred had been near him. Mildred congratulated herself upon herclever avoidance, and her presence of mind upon the bridge. So gay and bright she was now, and. so at ease, that she did not think of closely observing Hugh, and never noticed that al- though he was still ready to follow her every whim, the zest of travel was over for him. He was not slow to second her movement at last teward home. “That hawthorn copse, Mildred—it is that which breaks the view of pictaresque little Denton. What doyou say—shall I give orders to cut it down to-morrow when the shrubbery is trimmed ?”’ Hugh Ravenstone was just mourting his horse, and Mildred stood above him on the ter- race. They had been pacing there together till the lengthening shadows warned him to use good speed if he would make his ride by set of sun. Yethe lingered unaccountably. Mildred’s hands were full of bright October roses, and their breath was blown to him by the freshen- ing breeze. Mildred herself was radiant as those roses—more radiant with a sudden flush, as she started at his words. She hesitated, looking towards the hawthorn absently. “ Yes—no—yes, cut them down,” she said. “Their blooming is long over, and—their blooming was not sweet, I think.” She watched him while he wheeled his horse round rapidly, and with a wave of the hand dashed off. And as she watehed, vividly re- curred the first time she had seen him ride away from Ravenstone Fell. She recalled her thoughts then, mockingly—‘‘One might be a little proud of him, however.’’ The words which now rose to her lips she stifled with a sigh. She went within-doors to the library, no longer closed and dim, but with signs of life in books and music and sketches carelessly strewn on the tables; while upon the window ledge there sat a dainty work-basket with a half- mended riding glove of Hugh’s. She arranged her flowers on his writing-table, idly whirled the leavesof his book lying open there, touched a cord or two on her piano. But all did not drive out the spirit of restlessness which pos- sessed her, and she went out once more on the terrace to watch for Hugh’s returning. Up and down she strolled, with a strange sinking at the heart—a foreboding of she knew not what, which wearied for Hugh’s home- eoming. She mocked at herself for childish- ness, and tears stood in her eyes. She saun- tered from the terrace down across the flowery slope, and strack into a path beside the haw- thorn copse, which, in the summer and the early autumn rains and suns, had sprang up, arched above her head in wilder growth than ever, intergrown with longer, darker shades of sapling birch or ash. And on the other, the steep gorge of rocks, in the clefts of which the mountain cistus swayed, or crimson gera- nium found shelter by ferny mosses. Now and then an oak upreared its head just under Mildred’s feet; and lower yet the gill was brawling. This was but the second day since her return to Ravenstone from the prolonged bridal tour upon the Continent. She was truly glad to be at home again; but on this evening the past weighed upon her. Nearly eighteen months ago, just here in the gloaming, Aithur Vere had loitered by, admiring the sunset-view—had started when he saw her there, and had come and leaned beside her. Just here, too, upon the eve of her marriage, she had flung herself upon the sward, and wept and sobbed in bitterness of heart—not with love, but wrath, for him who had gone his way and left her to herself—not that the morrow would build upan everlasting wall of separation between him and her, but that she could not hope that wall would cast a chilling shade across his life. No sob, no tear, came now—no thought for shadow or for sun- shine upon him. The only bitterness still in her heart was, that through him she had been forced to speak words which all this while stood between herself and Hugh. True, Hugh was ever gentle, thoughtful of her every wish. But he never forgot her avowal. She sighed as she seated herself. The branches of the copse and of the trees on the ravine’s farther brink, were rustling in the twi- light breeze. But to her ear a louder rustling eame. She glanced around, With just the bridge between herself and him, there stood a man. The branches threw dense shadows on him ; yet she lifted herself to her full stature, and with very slightly heightened color, said :— “Colonel Vere, I believe.” He crossed over hastily, and stood close by the stile in the full light of the last sunbeam. A dark, handsome man—a passionate face— waxing still more passionate before her. “It is you! in the old place !’” he cried, borne on past the bounds of prudence by the hurrying tide of memories. ““Why have you come here ?” she asked. ** Mildred ! can you ask ?”’ “T need not,” she said, haughtily. ‘ You have heard of the words I spoke before the altar. You have dared to dream I loved you ~~ i Oe eee ew dee ee — oo nm —AOrere +s = os hi:

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THE HAWTHORN OOPSE. 461 still—and dreaming thus, have thought to enact an idyl underneath the hawthorn boughs, as once—”’ “On my soul, you wrong me!”’ he broke in, paling even to the lips. “I did not hear of your return. I came here because—O Mildred, you would have some mercy, did you know how I have wrecked my whole life !”’ ‘‘Wasit your fault, mine is not also wrecked ?” *‘ And are you happy, then ?”’ “No, Arthur Vere!’’ she cried out, hotly. “No. Although the memories you came to seek here, died long months ago; although I love my husband with a life-abiding love, before which such a dream as I dreamed here flits like the vision of a moment, I am not happy. Because the words which you forced from me on my marriage-day—”’ She broke off in a storm of tears, and, sinking on the stile, crossed her arms there and bowed her head upon them. The agony in his face was terrible. But he made no sign—only it seemed he could not drag himself away; could not withdraw his gaze, which, once removed, must never more rest on her. For he had loved herall this while. That he had struggled against this love—had striven to convince himself that she would not remember the week’s trysting by the stile—had tried to turn to the fair heiress who could build again his fallen fortunes—that he had so striven, and 80 failed, was but in keeping with the character strong to feel and weak to will : and it brought its own most bitter punishment. She was still weeping there, oblivious or care- less of all presence save that of her own grief, when a firm, quick step approached along the lawn. Though Arthur Vere heard nothing, Mildred’s ear had far too often yearned and listened for that footstep, ever to be closed to it. She rose up, dashing the drops from her lashes, and when her husband stood beside her, she turned and put her arm in his. “Colonel Vere,’’ she said, ‘‘let me present my husband. Sir Hugh, Colonel Vere is an old friend.” Hugh Ravenstone colored angrily, for he was not slow to read the man before him. But he met his wife’s clear glance, uplifted. At once he advanced, still with her arm in his, and shook hands with the stranger, without shrinking or mistrust. Arthur Vere, still deadly pale, with difficulty commanded himself so far as to apologize for his intrusion on the ground of ignorance of Sir Hugh’s and Lady Ravenstone’s return. Then followed sundry comments on the beauty of the evening and thescenery. And then he bowed and would have taken his departure. But Mildred stayed him. “*Good-by !’’ she said, gently. ‘If you ever think again of Ravenstone Fell, think of it as you see it now—¢alm and peaceful through the twilight shades.”’ ‘“*T will,” he said, hoarsely but firmly—wrung her offered hand, and forgetful of Sir Hugh, recrossed the bridge and plunged into the wood. Hugh had been courteous as his wont, but his grave brow lightened when the young sol- dier disappeared. Mildred sank upon the stile again, as if she watched the shadows gathering and chasing one another through the dale. Not Arthur Vere had gazed on her with more of passionate yearning than this man, so calm and unimpassioned in her sight. The silence tortured him, and presently he said the dew was falling, and— She interrupted. ‘Sir Hugh, do you know who Colonel Vere is?’ Her voice, full of tears, her humble shrink- ing manner, moved him. In an instant he had thrown himself beside her on the stile. “T would know only that which my little wife—my true, sweet girl!—would have me know. I trust her utterly.” She kept away no more a downeast head ; she turned and laid her two white hands upon his shoulder, looking in his eyes. But some- thing she saw there, put to instant flight her hardihood. Her lashes drooped, quick flushes flitted after one another, and she stammered :— “You trust me utterly ?”’ “* Because I love you utterly.” “ Hugh—it cannot be !”’ ** And you?” But what need to ask? One glance from the shy brown eyes, and they were hidden on his shoulder. An hour later, when they reached the terrace, he paused, and again he said :— ‘Mildred, that hawthorn copse—it breaks the view just there. Shall I give orders to- morrow—’”’ A rosy palm laid on the mocking lips. ‘The hawthorn copse has blossomed for the first time this night, Hugh ; and its blossoming is-—’° ** Sweet !”” >>> SONNET—TO SUNSET. BY C. E. L. HOLMES. From Orient to Occident once more The sun has whirled his blazing chariot rims: And, now, his coursers bathe their wearied limbs In that zrial jasper sea, which pours Its baptism of golden spray sheer o'er The crimsoned bastions of that high sea wall, Upon the foreheads of the hills to fall. Day passes outward through the jewelled doors ; And star-eyed twilight—timorous, dusky maid !— Steals in, with backward glance and dainty tread, Of e’en her own sweet, shadowy self afraid ; She dances coyly through the fading light, To rest in the enamored arms of night.

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Ss as SEL SBE ae DP em re or ee ae 462 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. SELF-EXAMINATION. HvuMAN nature, inallits various phenomena, has occupied the attention of the most learned moral philosophers, both of ancient and mod- ern times; and after all their research and study it still remains a sealed book. . The mysterious combination of mind and matter, the motives of action, must always re- main a problem, never to be solved till we bow before the throne of Him, “‘in whom we live and move, and have our being.’’ The most ac- curate knowledge of human nature, at which ave are permitted to arrive, is probably derived from a thorough investigation of our own hearts ; for, “‘as in water face answereth to face, so the heart of man to man.” Thus, by a strict examination of ourselves, we can judge more justly of other men’s characters. This, of itself, is very advantageous to us in our in- tercourse with the world, enabling us to exer- cise an influence over the minds and actions of men, which we could not otherwise attain. The power thus obtained, is invaluable, both te the philanthropist and tothe yotary of the world. In the social circle, where the softer feelings of our nature are supposed to prevail, one, who has a nice perception of the secret operations of the inner man, can, by soothing words and gentle smiles, illumine the cloud with which sorrow has draped its victim. And this influ- ence can be duly appreciated by the manly heart, which has been bowed down by the fre- quent disappointments in the battle of life, and is taught by it to look upwards to the image of Hope, beckoning him to more enduring efforts. The corrupt and designing man, too, derives peculiar advantages from the exercise of this power. Heis much more likely to succeed in his dark plots and nefarious schemes by sc in- timate an acquaintance with the ground which he has to traverse. But as this is the abuse, rather than the use, of self-examination, and the close inspection of such a career would be revolting to the purer feelings of our nature, it will be best to pass it over, without further remark. It has been the habit of great and good men, throughout all ages, to indulge in this practice. The Psalmist says, ‘I will com- mune with my own heart,upon my bed.” There is nothing better calculated to elevate us in the scale of being than this habit of self- examination. The contemplative man can searcely be oblivious to the immense disparity that exists between himself and the most im- perfect celestial beings, of which any Know!l- edge has been vouchsafed to us. This reflec- tion should arouse to action any mind at all imbued with a desire of improvement, and should have a tendency to strengthen his en- deavor to rise above the low standard of human perfection. When we behold the dignity of virtue, we feel more Inclined to regulate our lives according to the precepts of the divine Philosopher, and to emulate, in our degree, the purity of the angels. But how few of us are even willing to deal ingenuously with our own souls! Who is wil- ling to take a brilliant action to the caverns of his heart, and there, disrobed of its attractive attire, behold it in its new deformity? The world, with its syren voice, applauds, and its pleasant smile greets us, and we would fain believe that it is “an offering worthy of Heaven.” But in self-examination the plain story is told. There is no flattering deceit available here. Conscience points to the base, selfish motive that prompted us to action, and the blush of shame involuntarily mantles the cheek of the world’s hero. ‘ What in me is dark, illumine ; what is low, raise and support,”’ might well be the prayer, arising from such a heart, to the throne of the Eternal. To the good man, self-examination is a source of most sustaining comfort ; for, where he has erred, he makes resolutions of amendment, and he knows where to procure the necessary strength to re- sist evil and to do good. Thus, knowing the sincerity of his own heart, ‘‘he lies down to pleasant dreams,” amidst the tumult of this restless world. —o- VENTURES. BY MARY BE. NEALY. L OvR ships sailed out on a summer’s day, Willie’s, and Tom's, and mine, And they parted each on a separate way Across the glittering brine. Willie’s was lost in the deep mid-sea, Tom’s on a foreign strand, And mine alone, of all the three, Came back to our native land. And mine alone came back again, But tattered, and broken, and old ; And I learned how the dreams of youth are vain, And how little that gleams is gold. IL We set our hearts afloat one night— Afloat upon Love’s dear stream, While Hope shone out for a beacon light, Like the starlight in a dream. Willie’s came back with another as pure; Poor Tommy's was cast away ; While mine, ah! I cannot say, I’m sure, That I never have rued the day. But ships will venture the treacherous wave For the chance of a golden prize; And Love—it will risk an early grave For the light of answering eyes. POLITENEss.—He that is truly polite knows how to contradict with respect, and to please without adulation ; and is equally remote from an insipid complaisance, and a low familiarity. -— Se —- —

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© mee WORK DEPARTMENT. 463 WORK DEPARTMENT. CHILDREN’S CLOTHING. CLOTHING FOR A GIRL EIGHT YEARS OF AGE. (For Figs. 1, 2, and 3, referred to, see last month.) Dress and Tunie.—It is very usual now for little girls to wear frocks of two colors, or Fig. 4. black and a color, and consisting of body, tunic, and petticoat. These skirts are entirely gored, and have no plaits at the waist. Fig. 4 is an illustration of one made of black vel- Fig. 5. Fig. 7. veteen and blue Cashmere. The petticoat has four entirely gored widths, cut like Figs. 2 and 3, and a front width gored away each side till it is as narrow at the top as at the side gores (see Fig. 5). The side gores are joined on to the front, as shown in Fig. 1, and the slopes meet at the back, as shown in Fig. 6. When completed, it must not measure more than twenty-six inches round the waist. The back can be left partly open as a placket hole, and here it must have false hems of the material, cut on the straight, of ribbon. A false hem is a piece run on the right side, turned over, and hemmed down on the wrong side like a real hem. To strengthen placket and pocket holes in children’s dresses, put a transverse piece of ribbon or tape, as shown at A in Fig. 7, on the wrong side, and hem it down neatly and strongly. Also make a loop and overcast it at B. Cuta lining for the gored breadths of Fig. 6. the petticoat in gray twilled calico. Tack each breadth of Cashmere toa corresponding breadth of lining ; then stitch them together, and over- east the wrong side—it is lined to allow it to bear the weight of the flounce; hem the bot- tom. Cut a number of pieces on the cross of the Cashmere nine inches wide, for the flounces, and join the breadths. It may be hemmed or bound with black velvet at the lower edge. Finely plait all the length at the top, and after- wards arrange it on the skirt with pins, and finally neatly stitch it all round, or run it merely at the top. Before plaiting it, tack down about half an inch all round the top. Put the waist of the petticoat into a two-inch wide band, or sew it to a body made of gray Derry. The latter is very preferable, because skirts on bands drag round the waists of chil- dren, and spoil their figures, Put no sleeves to the Derry body, and merely hem the neck and armholes narrowly. The length of each breadth of the skirt is twenty-six inches ; half an inch of this is allowed to turn in at the waist and one ineh for the hem. When fin- ished, it should measure ninety-four inches ali round the hem of the skirt and twenty-six round the waist, If it is a little fuller in the waist, make a few plaits at the back. The flounce, when completed, is seven inches wide. From the wajst of the skirt to the top of the flounce should measure seventeen and a half inches, when complete. The tunic is either cut in the same way in gored breadths, or, if the velveteen is wide enough, is ‘cut out in one like a cape. The gored skirt of the petticoat should be folded in half, the fold coming at the back seam and down the front. Lay it on paper, and cut out the pattern. Newspapers may be joined with pins when not large enough, and afterwards tacked together with needle and thread. Cut the pattern double in newspaper, make it eight inches shorter than the petticoat, by cutting

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t ‘ | : ‘| ee ne ee Lee 464 GODEY’'S LADY’S BOOK AND MAG AZINE. off the lower part. It then serves to spread on the velveteen as a pattern. The tunic looks best if cut wide enough at the waist behind to allow all that part to be gathered which joins to the back of the body; but it may be plain all round. The tunic measures sixteen inches long. Down the centre of the front it must be exactly on the straight of the material. Cut out the turrets as shown in Fig. 4. They are each three inches long and three wide, making three-inch wide tabs. See that one comes ex- actly in the centre of the front, and that they meet well behind. If the skirt is in breadths, the breadths must be joined before these tabs Fig, 8. F are cut. There is also a space of exactly three inches between each tab, Run a half-inch wide strip of black muslin lining, cut on the cross, on the right side all round the edge of these tabs, very easily; turn it over on the wrong side, and hem it down. If it will not stretch enough to be flat, it must be snipped at the corners. A better way is to tack a four- inch wide strip of soft black Victoria lawn all along the right side of the tabs or turrets. Run the tabs all round to this. Then cut out the lining between the tabs. Untack it; turn it on the wrong side ; tack it down again, and finally hem it. The tabs are handsomely trimmed all round with narrow braid and jet beads. Fig. 9. back, Fig. 9, measures from G to H, the dotted line at the neck, nine inches ; from H to L, the ‘length of the back, nineteen inches ; from J te L, the waist, seven inches. This does not allow for turnings. It will be noticed that, although the back of the neck is cut square in shape, it is very much higher than the front. Fig. 10 is the shape for the brace, twelve inches long from A to B. When the pattern of the body is cut out, the braces are lined (the shape must be reversed for the two sides) with Vic- toria lawn. Trim them by a pattern with nar- row braid atid jet beads. The braces are then to be joined to the body by the dotted line, shown ‘in Fig. 8 taking corresponding slopes both sides. “The wrong sidg of the brace is first tacked and then stitched to the right side Fig. 10. Fig. 11. \ of the body, and turned over. This is accom- plished *by rounding both conveniently over the hand. Tack the brace at the shoulder to the front of the body and also at the waist. Then join the backs and fronts of the body, stitching the sides and shoulders, and hemming the back full an inch broad. No allowance was made for this hem in the size. Next pipe the waist, using black silk or satin ; then pipe the neck. It is better nét to hem down the piping, but leave it raw and narrow, and run a ribbon or a tape over ft. Children’s dresses are better without bones at eight years of age ; otherwise bone casingsS are run on before the pipings. Pipe the armhole. Next cut the sleeve by Fig. 11. From A to B this measures eighteen inches long, and from C to D eleven and a half. It may be cut in two pieces, and joined together. One piece is hollowed by the dotted line from A toC. The rounded side is put to the top in stitching it in, and the seam an inch behind the shoulder seam. Pipe the cuff, and line it a few inches up with black silk or satin. Braid and bead it to correspond with the tunic. Round the neck of the dress a deep lace is tacked inside, and drawn round the throat by a narrow ribbon. The braces cover the tops of the sleeves like epaulettes. A handsome blue sarcenet sash completes this pretty costume. The shoes should be blue or trimmed with blue bows.

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WORK DEPARTMENT.

465

A charming summer dress ean be made like Fig. 12. The measurements and pattern may easily be taken from the previous costume. The under-skirt and low body is of silk ; any color, or even black, may be used. <A light

RE AY grayish sage-green is pretty. The skirtis quite plain, and gored like Fig. 1, with plain back breadths. Over this is a fine sprigged book muslin tunic. It is gored first like the front breadth in Fig. 1. (A), but wide enough at the top of the waist to go from one side-seam of the body to the other ; thesfope in the skirt, of course, proportionate. It is hollowed out at the waist to sit well, and scalloped at the hem. Pig. 13. Fig. 13 is an illustration of it. Cut the pattern first in tissue paper, try it on the child over the silk skirt, and make any @ecessary alteration. It is to cover the front like and A forming a seam straight from : of the bedy down the skirt as show:at B in Fig. 12. The back is a single straight breadth, rounded at the lower part from C to C, see Fig. 14. From D. to ©, each side, it.must be the same length as from B to A, in Fig. 13; but it hangs much longer in the centre, from E to F. Join these two breadths at the side by a mantuamaker’s seam; hem all round the lower edge very narrowly indeed, and neatly sew on an inch-wide insertion and a narrower edge, both Valeneiennes lace. Gather the back breadth, without turning down the edge, from D to D, having first made a placket-hole at E. Set the waist intoa very narrow band,

hemmed over it both sides. Cut the bodice, by the help of a low body pattern, in the way shown in Fig. 15; the dotted lines represent the corslet, now to be cut fromthe muslin. The Fig. 14. D “Eg D

FE body of the tunic isa good guide for this one, and can be cut away in the manner shown in Fig. 15. Make avery narrow hem round ihe top, after joining the sides and shoulders, and run the insertion over the muslin, not beyond it, as in the skirt. Hem the waist, and fasten it to the skirt-band. A handsome sash of a corresponding color to the dress is worn over this, and bows on the shoulders and on the skirt, as.in Fig. 12. As an out-door dress in Fig. 15.

summer, a short loose jacket, ent up in the centre of the back a few inches, completes the costume. Place aribbon bowatthe neck. The hat should be white, of a color like the dress. We shall shortly give directions for making a mantle. The articles on dress-making, which will be published in future papers, will be a great as- sistance in the making of the clothing of chil- dren over four years of age, because the prin- ciples are generally the same in regard to the rules and methods of cutting and placing. - ’&<

KNITTED BERCEAUNETTE COVER. Tuts cover is knitted with white, blue, pink, red, and black wool, and fine wooden knitting needles. Cast on eight stitches, and knit a strip as long as you wish the cover to be, in plain knitting, and always with wool of two colors ; for instance, white and blue, white and pink, black and red, or two shades of one color. When you have worked a sufficient quantity of

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a ae = SS 2 ao rmememnea ee eR oe Bs Sn I a pee a GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. strips, join them together from itlustration, passing one strip alternately over the next one, and under it, alternating the colors. On each square place a silk button or a small tuft of white wool. Then work a fringe for the cover. Our pattern consists of chain-stitch loops of two colors, finished off with small tassels. Any other fringe you prefer can be worked round the coyer. | soe CROCHET SQUARE. (See Plate Printed in Blue, in Pront of Book:) Tuis crochet square, which imitates darned netting, forms a pretty cover for a toilet pin- cushion ; arranged with other squares, it makes a handsome couvrette, or antimacassar. The original pattern is worked with crochet cotton, in rows backwards'and forwards. The raised pattern in the centre is sewn upon the ground- ing when completed. GARTER AND INITIALS IN EMBROIDERY. Mape of fine cloth, and ornamented with ehain-stitch in different colors. — a oe Oa lus on wil ong

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WORE DEPARTMENT. 467 LEAD CUSHION FORMING A plaited on the other side. The sewing-on of WORK-BAG, the ruche is covered with green silk cord. Tuts lead cushion consists of a deal box pa seven inches long, four inches and four-fifths wide, two ria high. «On the bottom of the WALL BASKET. box place a flat pieee of lead two-fifths of an A WALL basket of willow work is the founda- inch thick, then cover the box on the out and | tion. Itislined at the back with bright scar!ct inside with calico, then with green silk. The | silk. The drapery shown in the full size in cover consists of a thin piece of deal, covered | Fig. 2 is of scarlet vel¥et, with a little embroi- inside with calico and green silk, and quilted | dered medallion, worked with floss silk on white on the outside. It is then covered with n | satin. The draperies should be pinked, accord- silk, and ornamented in the manner seen in il- | ing to design, and embroidered with purse silk. Fig. 1. lustration with flowers of green purse silk | A gold braid is sewn on above the scallops. worked in satin stitch. Then sew the cover | The basket is also ornamented with ruche on to the box; ornament the edge of a box | trimmings. Two designs in the proper size with a ruche of green silk ribbon, edged on | are given in Figs. 3and 4. Fig. 3 is made of one side with white guipure lace, and box- | scarlet silk, with a satin rouleau and knots.

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eee as Da 468 GODEY’'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. Fig. 2 Fig. 4 is of ribbon, of two Widths. rangements of ribben and cord, with by which our model is suspended, is very ful, and should be carefully copied from the design. abadim one COVER FOR INFANT'S PILLOW. Tuis cover is of muslin, trimmed on the edges with an embroidered ruffle an inch and a half Wide, and on the upper part in the manner ‘Bhown by the illustration, with plaited strips half an inch wide, which are worked in button- hole stitch on the edges, and headed by strips of muslin a fifth of an inch wide stitched down. This trimming is edged along the sides with tatted insertion an inch wide underlaid with ribbon, and again edged on the outside with a its

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a rh WORK DEPARTMENT. 469 plaited ruffle ; both these are also headed by stitched strips of muslin. Cut of muslin one piece of double material from engraving, and of the same another plece sixteen and a half long and seventeen inches wide ; cut of single muslin two pieces each sixteen inches and a half long and eight inehes and a half ~~ ! iS yy -\ Gi, a vy hve | a id f Su oe Week wae oe ee giao Sk ASS Jeb OSs wide, Having hemmed these latter pieces on one side and on the ends, bind the other side between the double material of the other piece. Furnish the hemmed sides with several tapes, by means of which they.are fastened. Run the edges together on the remaining rounded edges, sewing in the ruffle at the time. n arrange the trimming on the Ue of the smaller upper piece in.the mannerFshown by the illustration, run the edges together, and join the under edge of the upper part with the principal part, fastening in a at the same time. On the upper corners of the upperpiece, and on the corresponding, places in under piece, sew on tapes, by means of which the over piece is tied on. oe VISITING CARD BASKET. Tuts tasteful basket, which not only serves its purpose as a receptacle for visiting cards, , but. would also prove an ornament to any drawing-room, is formed principally of erystal beads. Of course, it is impossible in the design to give the brilliant effect of the reality, but our readers may believe us when we assure them the result of carrying out this triumph of bead-work is charming. Begin with the foundation. Form five strong rings of iron wire. For the relative sizes we refer you. to the illustration, The foundation is surrounded by seAllops, also forined of wire, adorned with strings of crystal beads. The outer and under scallops ate twelve in number. The wire of which they afe formed is bound round-with cotton, and them surrounded with beads strung on white A section of the basket, Fig. 1, gives betterdirections (as to the manner in which wire is ¢ither threaded with’ crystal beads.or surrounded by beads already strung on strong silk) than mere written expla- nations cam convey. Both the foundation and the sides of the basket are suppbrted by staves (straight wire), covered with crystal beads. The illustrations must serve 4s guides for the use of the larger or smaller beads, and the thick or slighter wire. This visiting basket should only be un- dertaken by these who have talent, ambition, and a deeided taste for fancy work.

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ee tm, ot ge age cerry = tcc pe, a: 470 GODEY’S LADY’S BUOK AND MAGAZINE. Fig. 2—Visiting-Card Basket. WREATH AND INITIALS FOR MARKING CORNER OF TABLE-CLOTH. TO BE WORKED IN WHITE AND SCARLET COTTON, eS i a tt SGPrenctnorer

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se RECEIPTS. 71 Leceipts, Etc. SALADS AND SALAD MAKING. THE art of making a salad is one of those attri- butes with which every person credits himself, whereas, in truth, it is possessed by a very small number of the favored few. The English, as a rule, are as crude and.coarse in their salads as in their cooking. A hard, overgrown cos lettuce, some tough, pungent, fibrous, or woolly radishes, a few onions, and a bunch of watercress put into a dish, with some common malt vinegar, pepper, mustard, and salt, constitute to the majority of English people the beau idealof a salad. We would as soon graze with Nebuchadnezzar, or turn ruminant at one». There are, however, salads, and salads grav\.niing from the simple repast got together exte::)-.cane- ously to the most elaborately prepared viands, culmi- nating in the glories of a delicious lobster salad. Even the simplest form of salad admits of prepara- tion on several different principles. Our own method is diametrically opposed to the common practice, but let our readers give it a trial; they can but return to the other system if they do not like our directions. The ordinary plan may be exemplified by the fol- lowing directions for a lettuee salad: Wash and pick two or three well-bleached lettuces, taking off the outer leaves; then dry them well in an open wicker- work basket, swinging it to and fro at arm’s length to get rid of the water, and cut them across a few times (not very small); mix a saltspoonful of salt into a tablespoonful of vinegar until dissolved, and pour it over the salad, adding half a spoonful more of vinegar to suit the palate if desired ; then pour in three tablespoonfuls of Lucca oil, sprinkle a little pepper over this, and mix the whole with a wooden spoon and fork, and keep turning the salad over and over as you mix it, until it has well imbibed all the ingredients. A few nasturtium flowers are often added, which give a far more pleasant zest than Cayenne pepper ; watercresses, or mustard and cress, may be introduced if agreeable. In this plan the vinegar is first added to the washed salad, and a large amount of stirring is required to diffuse the oil, so that the salad should not taste oily. Our system is the opposite. .The lettuce should not be washed if the process can be dispensed with; but if necessary each leaf should be separately wiped, cut up, and put into the bowl; now add the oil, and stir until each portion is covered with a thin film; then stir together in your salad spoon the salt, vine- gar (which should be real French), pepper, and a little powdered white sugar, without which no good salad was ever made. Add these to your Jettuce, stir, eat, and be thankful. If you like additional flavors, they may be added. Mustard may be mixed with the vinegar, and Cay- | enne used with or instead of commou pepper. The remotest suspicion of scraped onion may be added— not large slices, Which will make you odorous for a week, and other vegetables, as beetroot, cresses, lamb’s lettuce, etc., may be introduced, but let the grand principle still remain, namely, that the salad be dry, and that the oil be universally diffused before the vinegar is added. By so doing the salad is never greasy, and the vinegar and other adjuncts preserve their true flavor, not being absorbed by the vege- tables. So much for the preparation of a simple salad. Mayonnaise Salad Dressing.—Beat up well the yelks of two fresh raw eggs, a teaspoonful of salt, and Cayenne to taste; mix with this by slow degrees VOL. LXXXII.—30 four tablespoonfuls of oil, till it is about the consist- ence of cream, and then stir in gradually two table- spoonfuls of Chili or tarragon vinegar. This excellent sauce is frequently used for meat or fish salads; like all salad sauces, it requires great care in mixing. PEAS AND THEIR PREPARATIONS.. GREEN peas, the most delicious of vegetables, are now coming into season. Every one knows how to cook them, although, after cooking them, some spoil them by the addition of melted instead of plain but- ter. The ingenuity of French cooks has devised many other modes of preparing peas in addition to the plain boiling. -Seme of these may be new to many of our readers, and others may like to try them. We therefore subjoin a few French receipts :— Peasala Bourgeoise,—Put your peas, which should not be old; into a clean stewpan with butter, in the proportion of half a pound toa quart of peas; add the heart of a good large lettuce, a bunch of parsley, a few small onions, and a pinch of salt; let them stew together slowly till done; thicken before servy- ing with a little butter and flour; add a little white sugar in powder, and serve. Some cooks thicken with the yelks of two eggs instead of flour. Petits Pois au Lard.—Fry thin bacon in small pieces in a stewpan. Moisten with a little water or | sour stock; put the peas into this with some white onions, the heart of a lettuce, and a bunch of herbs; simmer till done, then take off the fat and serve. Another.—Fry some fat bacon cut in dice; drain your peas well, after washing them ; put them into a stewpan with a piece of fresh butter; let them heat, then add a little stock; put in your bacon in dice, add a bunch of parsley and thyme, pepper and salt ; put them on a quick fire, and let the fire diminish so as to stew them slowly until done enough; skim your sauce, take out the parsley. Serve, * Purtée of Peasheils for Soup.—The French even utilize the shells of the common pea when young and green. They carefully reject all the damaged shells, wash the remainder carefully, and boil them in water until tender. They are then pulped through a cullender, which is most conveniently done by using a coarse-holed cullender first, and then a finer one. The purée is then flavored, and used either with or without some peas as stock for vege- table soup. VIRTUES OF BORAX. IT may not be generally known how very valuable borax. is in various purposes of household use. We find it the very best cockroach exterminator yet dis- covered. One half-pound, costing but fifty cents, has completely cleared a large house formerly swarming with them, so that the appearance of one in a month is quite a novelty. The various exterminating pow- ders puffed and advertised have been found not fully effective, tending rather to make the roaches crazy thantokillthem. There issomething peculiar either in the smell or touch of borax, which is certain death tothem. They will flee in terror from it, and never appear again where it has once been placed. It is also a great advantage that borax is perfectly harm- less to human beings; henee no danger from poison- ing. It is also valuable for laundry purposes. The washerwomen of Holland and Belgium, so proverbi- ally clean, and who get their linen so beautifully white, use refined borax as washing-powder instead of soda, in the proportion of a iarge handfull of bo- rax powder to ten gallons of water. They save soap nearly one-half. All the large washing establish- ments adopt the same mode. For laces, cambrics, ete., an extra quantity of powder is used; and for

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il ay } oe 20 SP 472 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. crinolines, (requiring to be made stiff) a stronger so- lution is necessary. Borax, being a neutral salt, does not in the slighest degree injure the texture of linen. Its effect is to soften the hardest water, and there- fore it should be kept on the toilet-table. As a way of cleaning the hair nothing is better than a solution of borax in water. It leaves the scalp in a most cleanly condition, and the hair is just sufficiently stiffened to retain its place. This stiffness, however, can be readily removed, if objectionable, by washing with water. Borax is also an excellent dentifrice; dissolved in water, it isone of the best tooth-washes. In hot countries it is used, in combination with tar- taric acid’ and bicarbonate of soda, as a cooling beverage. MISCELLANEOUS COOKING. Calf's Lives and Bacon.—This is commonly tossed in butter, the liver sliced moderately thin, is first dressed, and the rashers of bacon afterwards ; serve garnished with the latter. Calf’s liver may also be fried; dip the slices into seasoned beaten egg and olive oil, and fry quickly. In France, similarly shaped pieces of liver and bacon are skewered together, then dipped into oil, and subsequently sprinkied with bread-crums, and broiled; season and serve. When tossed without the bacon, a glass of wine may be poured into the pan, and served in the dish, with the liver arranged round. Cooking New Potatoes.—New potatoes, when they first appear,are considered a delicacy, though not so wholesome as the old, unless they are perfectly ripe, and can be cooked without being made waxy. If they are plainly boiled, a sprig of mint will be found a most pleasant addition. The following is an excel- lent though more elaborate way of dressing them: Choose the potatoes as nearly of a size as possible ; wash them, and rub off the outer rind; then wipe them dry with a clean napkin. Put a quarter of a pound of fresh butter into a stewpan; set it on the fire, and when it boils, throw in the potatoes. Let them boil in the butter till they are done, taking care to toss them every now and then, so that they may all go successively into the boiling butter. They must be carefully watched, because if done too much, they shrivel up and become waxy. When the fork indicates that they are done, they must be taken out before they lose their crispness, put into a dish, and some salt sprinkled over them. As soon as they are taken from the boiling butter, a handful of parsley may be thrown into it, and, after it has had a boil or two, laid upon the potatoes asa garnish. They must be eaten immediately. This is a beautiful dish to serve up with fish, or it may be eaten alone. The butter in which the potatoes were dressed may be * poured into a jar, and serve again for the same pur- pose. Old potatees may be cut into round pieces about the size of a large walnut, and dressed in the same way. Curries.—With Oriental people it is mutton; with the French it is veal; and with the English it is chicken, which most frequently forms dishes of curry. Rabbit, too, is particularly good curried ; but it is an unpardonable error to make use of four in the com- position of this dish. When cold meat is warmed up us a curry, it is only requisite to cut It up, and toss it in butter, then pour in some curry, mixed in either wine, gravy, milk, or lemon-juice and water. It may subsequently be thickened with tomato sauce, yelks of eggs, or cream. Fried onions, apples, or cucum- bers are often added. Serve surrounded with capsi- cums or other strongly spiced pickles. For a curry made with meat not previously dressed: first, toss in butter some neat rashers of bacon ; when done, take them up and put in the meat, which should be cut into moderately-sized pieces; if a rabbit or a fowl, the thick parts of the joints should have the flesh scored across; toss it till done, then pour in the curry, mixed as above directed; replace the bacon, stir it about till the meat is well colored, and dish it up with the sauce poured over it. There are no fixed rules for the quantity of curry to be used; tastes differing and the strength of the powder vary- ing; but it should always be piquante in fiavor. A few chopped pickles, such as gherkins, shalots, etc., are an advisable addition. Tomato Soup.—Slice two onions, and fry them in butter until brown; then fry two dozen tomatoes just sufficiently to heat them through, and put them into a stewpan with their gravy and the onions, add- ing a head of celery and a carrot sliced ; stew these gently for half an hour. Add three pints of gravy, and stew for an hour and a half; then pulp the whole of the vegetables through a sieve, season with white pepper, salt, and Cayenne, and serve with toasted bread cut in dice. Scrambled Eggs.—Break four eggs into a saucepan into which a large pat of butter has been thrown, and keep stirring the whole until they are cooked, which will be in a few minutes. You will know when they are done by their appearance, as they will get intolumps. Some buttered toast should be ready on which to spread the eggs, and then pepper and salt them. Some people add the latter while cook- ing. They are easily prepared, and very good. Ham Toast.—Chop some lean ham fine, put it in a pan, with a little pepper, a lump of butter, and two eggs beaten; when well warmed, spread on hot but- tered toast, and serve. Hashed Mutton.—The remains of cold roast shouil- der or leg of mutton, six whole peppers, six whole allspice, a faggot of savory herbs, half a head of celery, one onion, two ounces of butter, flour. Cut the meat in nice even slices from the bones, trim- ming off all superfluous fat and gristle; chop the bones and fragments of the joint, put them into a stewpan with the pepper, spice, herbs, and celery; eover with water, and simmer for one hour. Slice and fry the onion of a nice pale-brown color, dredge in a little flour to make it thick, and add this to the bones, ete. Stew for a quarter of an hour, strain the gravy, and let it cool; then skim off any particle of fat, and put it, with the meat, into a stewpan. Flavor with ketchup, tomato sauce, or any flavoring that may be preferred, and let the meat gradually warm through, but not boil, or it will harden. To hash meat properly, it should be laid in cold gravy, and only left on the fire just long enough to warm through. Apple Trifle. (A Supper Dish.)—Ten good-sized apples, the rind of half a lemon, six ounces of pounded sugar, half a pint of milk, half a pint of cream, two eggs, Whipped cream. Peel, core, and cut the apples into thin slices, and put them into a saucepan with two tablespoonfuls of water, the sugar, and minced lemon-rind. Boil all together until quite tender, and pulp the apples through a sieve; if they should not be quite sweet enough, add a little more sugar, and put them’at the bottom of the dish to form a thick layer. Stir together the milk, cream, and eggs, with a little sugar, over the fire, and let the mixture thicken, but do not allowit to reach the boiling-point. When thick, take it off the fire; let it cool a little, then pour it over the apples. Whip some cream with sugar, lemon-peel, etc., the same as for other trifles; heap it high over the custard, and the dish is ready for table. It may be garnished as fancy dictates, with strips of bright apple jelly, slices of citron, etc. Buttered Ecqs.—Beat together the yelks and whites of four or five egg3, put a quarter of a pound of but- ma ate ae eh ae Sana a oe es _ = > Oo ae ae i oF 42 es A ~_& Stereo dag oot eae

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eel RECEIPTS. 473 ter into a basin, and put that in boiling water, con- tinuing to stir the butter till it is melted; then put the melted butter and the eggs into a saucepan. Keep a basin in one hand, and hold the saucepan with the other over a slow part of the fire, shaking it one way; as it begins to warm, pour it into the basin and back, then again hold it over the fire, keeping it stirring in the saucepan and pouring into the basin, more perfectly to mix the eggs and butter, until they are quite hot without boiling. Serve on toasted bread, or in a sauce tureen to eat with salt fish. Carrot Preserve.—To make carrot jam, boil some carrots till quite tender, and rub them through a sieve. To one pound of the pulp add three-quarters of a pound of loaf sugar; boil it to a jam, and when nearly cold, add the juice and grated rinds of two lemons and half a teaspoonful of essence of cloves. The latter may be omitted if the flavor is not agreea- ble. For Carrot Marmalade : Well wash and scrape some carrots, cut them into pieces of about two inches in length, and put them into a pan with only as much water as will prevent the contents from burning. Cover them close, and let them stew over a moderate fire until they are quite tender; then mash them thoroughly and pass them through a hair sieve. Prepare and clarify a syrup, using for every pound of pulp a pound of sifted sugar, and half a piut of water ; clarify it, and boil it up until it adheres to the spoon; put in the pulp, and boil it up until it forms a fitting marmalade ; then put it into pots. ECONOMY DISHES. Cold Mush.—Cut it in thin slices, and fry brown; serve with syrup or molasses. . Pie Crust, deft over.—When any is left after baking, work in all the flour possible, and form it in crackers. Remnants of Preserves, to use to advantage.— When several jars of preserves have been opened, and a little of each left without being enough of one kind for a dish, mash and cook them down toa jam with the syrups, and use the jam for tarts, or save the syrups to put in pudding sauces, and make jam of the fruit only. Cold Potatoes.—These can'be prepared in many different forms; the best are fried, broiled, and in hashes. Cold Corn.—Grate it, and make in cakes with egg and a little flour, fry brown. Cold Peas.—Mash them; boil cream and thicken it with peas, or make a soup with water and butter thickened with peas; beans can be used in the last- described manner. Cold Egg Plant.—Egg plant can be heated over, as also squash, turnips, onions; beets are better used cold. Parsnips are better heated the second time than the first; cold sweet potatoes are nice fried or broiled; soup, if not left in iron, can be warmed several times, but to be kept sweet long, it must either be heated boiling hot each day, or be kept very cold. Dry Bread.—When bread has accumulated and there is danger of losing it, it is well to make a plain beef soup, and boil in it as much bread as the family will use. Bread left from the table each day should be thoroughly dried, and kept in a dry place, where it can neither mould nor contract unpleasant tastes. For dressings, thoroughly dried bread is much better than when only moderately dry or stale. Rusked Bread.—Dry and brown very gradually slices of oid bread; it should be browned through without scorching; pound it in a mortar until as fine as Indian meal; use in it milk as a meai for children | the collops. or lunch for adults. Use with clams, fish, cutlets; to thicken soups, in scalloped fish, or dressings for geese, duck, or pigeons. Dried bread without brown- ing is nice for scalloped oysters, to make griddle cakes and puddings, etc. CONTRIBUTED. Rhubarb Pie.—Cut the stalks into small pieces, and stew them soft in a small quantity of water. When sufficiently done, sweeten with sugar, and allow them to cool. Then bake as we do other pies in two cruscs of rich paste. They should be used the same day they are cooked, for after the first day they be- come insipid. Calf's Foot Jelly.—To five quarts of jelly put two pounds of loaf-sugar, one quart of Maderia wine, one glassful of good vinegar; “lemon-juice, mace, and cinnamon to taste. Red Currant Wine.—To eight quarts of currants put one quart of water, press and strain, and put three pounds and three-quarters of sugar to one gal- lon of juice. Let it set twenty-four hours Skim and fill the demijohns. Do not boilitat all. 1t can be used ina month. “Wine made from this receipt took the premium at Lynchburg Fair in 1860. It was made by my friend, Mrs. Col. T. P. M., of Bed- ford Co., Va. Gems or Breakfast Cakes.—One pint of sweet milk, two eggs, one teaspoonful of salt, one of baking pow- der, flour to make to the consistency of sponge cake. Bake in small cake rounds. Splendid. Mrs. A. V. Marble Cake (Black Part).—Two cups of brown sugar, one of molasses, one of butter, the yelks of seven eggs, two tablespoonfuls of clnnamon, two of cloves, two of allspice, one nutmeg, one teaspoonful of black pepper, halt a cup of sour cream, half a tea- spoonful of soda, five and a half cupsof flour. White Part.—Two cups of white sugar, one of butter, half a cup of sour cream, the whites of seven eggs, two teaspoonfuls of cream of tartar, one of soda, three cups and a half of flour, and lemon to taste. Put one layer of black, and then one of white, and put black upon white, and white upon black. There is another way to put it. Take a spoon and run it round with either that you want, black or white; and then, if it is black, put white on top. That makes a very nice cake, too. Miss N. B. D. Pearl Starch Cake.—Two eups of white sugar, two of butter, one and a half of pearl starch, one and a half of flour, the whites of eight eggs, one cup of sweet milk, and three teaspoonfuls of baking pow- der. Starch to be rolled fine and mixed with flour. Stir the butter and sugar together, stir the whites of the eggs to a stiff froth, add milk, then other ingre- dients ; flavor to suit taste, and bake ina slow oven. M. E. F. Scotch Mince Collops.—Take any quantity of good beef off the round, and chop it up very finely with a mincing knife on a block; it cannot be minced too fine; season with black and Jamaica pepper and salt to taste. Mince some onions, and add to it. Put it into a large stewpan, adding a little water, and dredging in some flour. Then take a collop mincer, which is a piece of wood about twelve inches deep, and four across, with the end sharpened, and beat the collops for a few minutes till they do not cilng together ; then cover them, and let them slowly stew. About four pounds would take half an hour to cook in this manner. Toast some bread, and cut in diamonds; put the collops on a large dish, and lay the toast all round the edge of the dish. A few poached eggs laid on top is an improvement. If de- sired, a little nushroom ketchup may be added to Mars. T. P. B. |

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474 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. Editors’ EGOTISM IN POETRY. THERE is a disposition among young and inex- perienced writers of verse to make their own ex- periences and feelings the subjects of their rhyme. As these are the topics of greatest interest to them- selves, they are apt to suppose that their readers will be equally interested in them. It isa serious mis- take. A shrewd writer long ago enunciated the truth which these youthful bards would do well to bear in mind, that “self is a subject on which all are Cable, mance, and all the wide field of the imagination, in which to look for subjects. If they find in all this scope no topics to suit them, they may rest assured that the impulse which urges them to write is not the hunger of genius for expression, but the craving of vanity for applause. OUR MOTHER TONGUE. To teach the young to use their native language —or, as the Germans appropriately call it, their fluent and none agreeable.” Indeed, if they were talking, or writing plain prose, they would probably have a consciousness that it would not do to take up much of the time of their hearers or readers with descriptions of their state of mind, or complaints of their ill fortune, but they imagine that by setting forth the same matters in harmonious verse, they can make them interesting. If they were aware of the impatience or indifference with which these produc- tions, that delight themselves so much, are perused by others, they would be not a little surprised and mortified. The greatest poets have been the most forgetful of themselves. Homer, as is well known, gives not the slightest direct hint, in his poems, from which we can learn who and what he was. So utterly imper- sonal is he that some German critics, as is well known, have denied his individual existence alto- gether, and have maintained that he was at least half a dozen poets at once. Shakspeare avoids all reference to himself throughout his plays and other poems, except, perhaps, in a few of his sonnets; but it is now supposed that these sonnets were written for a friend, who, being in love, desired to have his feelings expressed by the poet in this manner. Mil- ton alludes to himseif only three or four times, and then with a grave dignity and resignation which, considering the greatness of his sufferings, make these passages rather a rébuke than an example for the writers of ordinary egotistical verse. The kind of poetry to which we refer is generally of a melancholy and bemoaning cast ; and one objec- tion to it is the strong impression which the reader usually receives that it is all a delusion. He feels pretty sure that the demand upon his sympathies is a mere pretence, and he has a notion that if he could come upon the hapless poet or poetess who had just finished a little effusion, in which the loss of dear friends or the wreck of fortune is bewailed in mourn- ful numbers, he would find the writer speculating on the probable success of the poem, in a very comforta- ble and self-satisfied frame of mind. It is true that some poets of undoubted genius have written about themselves in strains which the world was glad to possess. But before doing so, they had attained an eminence which made their inner life and their experiences matters of interest to their readers. Any writer of poetry who has gained the celebrity of a Goldsmith, a Byron, or a Longfellow, may safely assume this hazardous privilege, which his natural good taste and acquired tact will then keep him from abusing. Our advice to all young writers of verse would be to exclude the first personal pronoun from their com- positions altogether. Let them forget themselves and their own trials and troubles entirely. They have the whole world besides, all history, all ro- “mother speech’’—correctly and elegantly, isa special and recognized point of woman’s work. The ca- | pacity for giving this instruction can only be attained | by study and by much practice. Many useful works | have appeared, of late years, designed to aid the stu- | dent in this branch of scholarship, and the manner | in which they have been received shows the great | interest that is felt in the subject of which they treat. | We commence this month a series of “ Hints on Lan- guage,”’ prepared by a contributor who has given much attention to this subject, and who wil! dwell | more particularly on those peints which are likely to | be of practical use and interest to writers and speak- ers. Some of these will doubtless be “‘ moot points,” concerning which there may be differences of opinion. Indeed, questions of language are often merely questions of taste, and about these, according to the well-known maxim, it is idle to dispute. We can only inquire in regard to such questions, what views | have been maintained by those who are deemed | the best authorities on this subject. For this and | other information, the reader is referred to our | eorrespondent’s “ Hints,” in which questions of this character will be discussed, and the conclusions of | the best writers respecting them set forth, as fully as ean be done in the space to which the articles must of necessity be limited. HINTS ON LANGUAGE.—NO. 1. WORDS UNDER BAN. Some words, like some people, appear to be spe- cially unfortunate. They have, perhaps, no actual defect or demerit. They are, in every way, as proper and as useful as others that are received without ob- jection. Yet they fall, somehow, under a cloud. Some stigma—perhaps a mere nickname—gets at- tached to them, which cannot be shaken off, and they are ostracized from the best circles, or admitted with hesitation and apology. A good example of words of this class is our old and much-debated friend, talented. Why should this unlucky word not be as well received, for instance, as moneyed? Both are examples of adjectives formed after the manner of participles, and yet formed not from verbs, but from nouns. If this be an objection, both are equally objectionable ; and so, indeed, are many other words to which no exception has ever been taken, such as turreted, bigoted, lettered, and the like. Who ever thought of objecting to the adjective in Tennyson’s beautiful line :— “Oh, saviour of the silver-coasted isle!” As to antiquity, if moneyed is used by Lord Bacon, talented is employed by Archbishop Abbot, who lived in the same age, and was one of the translators of our Bibie—that “well of English undefiled.” It e) n hi m ul It ol th ti La la! tic dij gr gr to lea 7 tol An Fi tiv an gui str def wit 80, Wwol exp tha is it itse whi whi bet: tati unf It wor tion cuss utte him. be 7 have ing. othe as a as t be si true man, the 1 after band imag appe: heav exact the fi “reli of rey his lij

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seems, however, that talented then went out of use for a time—at least, in England—and, when it was revived, an absurd notion got afloat in that country that it was a newly coined * Americanism.” This epithet was enough. The critics assailed it. Even such a large-minded writer as Coleridge left his “ objective and subjective” abstractions to assail the word as “that vile vocable.”” Though, under this sort of ban, it still survives and holds its place, simply because it is needed for an idea which no other word exactly expresses. Able, intelligent, intellectual will not convey the meaning. Gifted comes nearer, but has a sanctimonious air, and is, besides, almost as much disparaged as talented. Then there is the verb to progress. The noun is unexceptionable, but the verb, it seems, is naught. Its history is curiously like that of talented. It is an old English word, used by Shakspeare, though with the accent on the first syllable. In Doctor Johnson's time it was, as his dictionary affirms, “‘ not in use.” Later it was revived, with the accent on the last syl- lable, as in digress, with which, in origin and forma- tion, it corresponds. Why, it may be asked, should digress be admitted into the best society, and pro- gress shut out? Without undertaking to answer so grave a question, we shall simply maintain our right to “progress” as well as “‘digress”’ at our pleasure, leaving others to go their way unchallenged. Then we come to lengthy—a dreadful word, we are told by some critics. “Why not say long, at once? And then,” they add, “look at its absurd formation. First, from an adjective, Jong, you make a substan- tive, length, and then from this substantive you make another adjective. It is anabuse of the English lan- guage. If we are to have lengthy, why not also defenders of the word are not put down. They reply with arguments which are, if we may venture to say so, both “lengthy” and “strengthy.” ‘“*We use the word,” they say, “because it furnishes us with an expression for a shade of meaning different from that conveyed bylong. Andas toits formation, why is it not as correct as healthy, from health, which is itself derived from hale; or wealthy, from wealth, which comes from well ; or droughty, from drought, which goes back to dry?” It is not for us to decide between such linguistic doctors. Fearing the impu- tation of lengthiness, we pass on to another of the unfortunates. It is a little odd, considering its meaning, that the word reliable should be one of the most sharply ques- tioned words in the language. Mr. Grant White dié- cusses the word at much length, and condemns it utterly, as Dean Alford and others had done before him. To be properly formed, we are told, it should be rely-on-able, and there is no need of it, for we have trustworthy, which expresses the same mean- ing. But the word finds advocates. They adduce other terms similarly formed (as they consider), such as available, indispensable, and unaccountable. And as to its use, we may well ask, will the newspapers be satisfied with trustworthy as a substitute? It is true that we no longer hear of the “reliable gentle- man,” who, during the war, kept coming through the lines, bringing us such interesting news, which, after being corroborated by an “intelligent contra- band,” usually turned out to be a fine fabric of the imagination. But though gone in one shape, he re- appears in another. Trustworthy, we all feel, is too heavy and precise an epithet for him. Reliable is exactly the word. However much we may admire the force of Mr. White’s attack, we suspect that the “reliable gentleman,” supported by a strong army of reporters and correspondents, will break through his lines, and come out victorious. EDITORS’ TABLE. 475 Why so simple and useful an adjective as sparse should fall under the critical ban, it is not easy to imagine. In England, however, it has been de. nounced as an “ Americanism,” which seems to be, or rather to have been in times past, the favorite term of condemnation ; while it has been defended in the same country as a “ well-applied” term, and as “the proper correlative of dense.’ The mere con- troversy has been enough to induce some timorous writers to avoid the use of the word. Two other new words, of Latin origin, donate and recuyerate, arc sharply criticized by Mr. White. indeed, it is not easy to see why they should be al- lowed to displace the guod and every way satisfactory English words, give and recover. Still, there are some speakers and writers, as well as readers and hearers, who are specially fond of large, mouth-filling expressions. If any one of these chooses to “donate” a liberal sum to any charitable purpose, the gift will, doubtless, be cordiaily weicomed, and the recipients will gladly pray that the generous and magniloguent donor may “recuperate” from all the ills which flesh is heirto. After all, recuperate, pompous and useless as it now seems, is no worse than desiderate, which is used by some good writers, when others would prefer desire. The special characteristic of the English language is its irregularity, to which are due its abounding variety and richness. As the English people, and still more the Americans, have been wont to welcome all strangers who come to settle among them, what- ever their origin or their oddities, so long as they prove themselves useful members of society, in like manner the English language has received acces- | Sions of all sorts, and from every quarter, under the strengthy, depthy, heighty, and breadthy#” But the | same liberal system. No doubt, this freedom has been abused. Criminals and paupers make an un- desirable accession to any population. That very useful body of word police, the critics of language, have done good service in expelling some utterly law- less and useless expressions. They have fair game in the whole rabble of slang terms, and in the ever- shifting rout of grammatical (or ungrammatical) corruptions. But as regards the harmless and some- times useful words which we have cited, the case is somewhat different ; and we suspect that most, if not all, of them will maintain their ground. Cautious writers, on this side of the Atlantic, may, for some time, avoid them; but in England, where the charge of “ Americanism” is beginning to tell with less effect, all these words are more freely used. Even the least defensible of them, reliable, comes under our notice, as we write, in the recent translation of “‘ Mommsen’s History of Rome,” made by the Rey. W. P. Dickson, “Classical Examiner in the University of St. An- drevs.”” We there read that “In the age of the Homeric poetry, there was an utter want of reliable information respecting Sicily and Italy."" Elsewhere the same translator uses trustworthy. The truth is. that mere synonyms are often desirable, to vary the form of expression. The language cannot afford to lose any word, howeyer uncouth, which expresses an idea, and which is not, like slang, repulsive in its character or association. N. THE EARTHLY PARADISE. AT last Mr. Morris has finished his great work, destined by the universal judgment to remain as one of the enduring literary achievements of the age. It is seldom, in this world of incompleteness and disap- pointment, that we see an undertaking involving both genius and labor carried so bravely to perfec- tion. Mr. Morris never flags through his fifteen hun- dred pages. Our space forbids us to do more than make a short extract :—

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76 GODEY’'S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. DECEMBER. Dead ionely night, and all streets quiet now, Thin o’er the moon the hindmost cloud swims past Of that great rack that brought us up the snow; On earth strange shadows o’er the show are cast; Pale stars, bright moon, swift cloud make heaven so Vast That earth, left silent by the wind of night, Seems shrunken ‘neath the gray unmeasured height. And then, e’en while its last stroke’s solemn drone In the cold air by unlit windows han Out break the bells above the year foredone, Change, kindness lost, love left unloved alone ; Till their despairing sweetness makes thee deem Thou once were loved, if but amidst a dream. ASLAUG MEETS HER LOVER. When upon the beach she came, A bright thing in the sun did flame *Twixt sun and shipside, and the sea Flamed, as one waded eagerly Unto the smooth and sea-beat sand. And for one moment did she stand Breathless, with beating heart, and then To right and left drew back the men; She heard a voice she deemed well known, Long waited through dull hours bygone, And round her mighty arms were cast ; But when her romnling red lips passed From out the heaven of that dear kiss, And eyes met eyes, she saw in his Fresh pride, fresh hope, fresh love, and saw The long sweet days still onward draw, Themselves still going hand in hand As now they went adown the strand. With these two imaginative landscapes, in which Mr. Morris so excels, we take our leave of him, heartily congratulating him upon having added much to that small legacy of immortal verse which our age will hand down to posterity. PHILADELPHIA has been called the City of Homes, in reference to the number of its dwellings compared with its population. But the name holds good in another sense. The charities for the poor, especially the refuges which she provides for the helpless, dis- tinguish her among great cities. Several new enter- prises of this sort have lately been undertaken; among them The Home for Little Wanderers, whose anniversary showed the success and usefulness of the good work. Another is now projected whose impor- tancé may be seen by the following communication. The good it may do is incalculable :— A PLEA FOR THE WOMEN’S CHRISTIAN ASSOCIATION OF PHILADELPHIA. This association has been formed for the purpose of extending help, protection, and sympathy to the working girls of our great city; throwing around them, by means of Christian love and charity, in- fluences that shall conduce to their temporal, moral, and religious welfare: Among other enterprises, it has been determined to establish boarding-houses, under the charge of competent matrons, where these gt may be provided with irreproachable homes at he mere cost of living. Although not ne until the 12th of Decem- ber, 1870, a house (1605 Filbert Street) has been pur- chased, and as soon as some necessary repairs and alterations are completed, will be ready for ocecu- pants. This, however, is but one branch of our work. We design opening a restaurant as soon as the means can be procured, in some central locality, where store girls, and women engaged in other work that takes them from their homes, can get good sub- stantial food at a merely nominal cost. ose who have never given this subject careful consideration have no idea of the great good such an establishment is calculated to do. It will reach the wants of a class who would rather starve than acknowledge that they had not, cr could not spate the wherewithal to pur- chase a dinner. It will keep out of temptation many a fair young gi rl who to-day is obliged to resort to an ordinary urant for her meals. It will be under ' the immediate supervision of Christian gentlewomen, who, following the example of their Lord and Mas. ter, will ever strive to say the right word at the right time, and it shall be their duty to see that no sad looking stranger ever leaves their rooms uncounselled or uncomforted. We wish to secure a large membership, and as our platform is broad and liberal, embracing all Chris- tian denominations, our desire and prayer to God is, | that every Christian woman of Philadelphia be im- Ah! through the hush the looked-for midnight elangs! | lied to extend to us her aid and influence in this mportant enterprise. L. B. N. NOTES AND NOTICES. WoMAN SUFFRAGE.—There seems some danger that this question may be forced on Congress before the members have really been informed of the feel- ing about the suffrage among women themselves. To aid in showing how little such a power is desired by the great majority of our sex, we insert the fol- lowing petition. The editors of the Lapy’s Boo« hope that those of their readers who disapprove of the proposed extension of the franchise will take up the matter in earnest. Let ladies copy the petition, and obtain signatures, each in her own neighbor- hood, sending it then to one of the persons named below; and at the next session of Congress we will be able to show that for one woman who desires there are fifty who disapprove. Should the person receiving this approve of the ob- ject in view, his or her aid is respectfully requested to obtain signatures to the annexed petition, which may, after having been signed, be returned to either of the following named persons :— Mrs. General W. T. Sherman, Mrs. John A. Dahl- green, Mrg Jacob D. Cox, Mrs. Joseph Henry, Mrs. Rev. Dr. Boynton, Mrs. Rev. Dr. Samson, Mrs. Rev. Dr. Butler, Mrs. Rev. Dr. Rankin, Mrs. B. B. French, Miss Jennie Carroll, Mrs. C. V. Morris, Mrs. Hugh McCulloch, all of Washington, D. C.; Mrs. Senator Sherman, Mansfield, Ohio; Mrs. Senator Scott, Huntingdon, Pa.; Mrs. Senator Corbett, Portland, Oregon; Mrs. Senator Edmunds, Burlington, Vt. ; Mrs. Luke P. Poland, St. Johnsburg, Vt.; Mrs. Samuel J. Randall, Philadelphia, Pa.; Mrs. Catha- rine E. Beecher, 69 West Thirty-Eighth Street, New York City. Please attach to this a paper for signatures :— THE PETITION OF THE UNDERSIGNED, To the Congress of the United States, Protesting against an Extension of Suffrage to Women. We, the undersigned, do Rereby sper to your honorable body, and desire respectfully to enter our protest against an extension of suffrage to women ; and in the firm belief that our petition represents the sober convictions of the majority of the women of the country. Although we shrink from the notoriety of the pub- lic eye, yet we are too deeply and painfully impressed by the grave perils which threaten our peace and happiness in these proposed changes in our civil and political rights longer to remain silent. Because Holy Scripture inculcates a different, and for us higher sphere, apart from public life. Because, as women, we find a full measure of duties, cares, and responsibilities devolving upon us and we are therefore ‘unwilling to bear other an heavier burdens, and those unsuited to our physical organization. Because we hold thet an extension of suffrage would be adverse to the interests of the working- women of the country, with whom we heartily sym- nize. "ieenus these changes must introduce a fruitful element of discord in the existing marriage relation, which would tend to the infinite detriment of chil- dren, and increase the already alarming prevalance of divorce throughout the land. Because no general law, affecting the cendition of all women, should be framed to meet exceptional discontent. ~~ we whet ae ew OA Ce a | \- ah nn hen n) us st

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al re n- ul n, il- ne of HEALTH DEPARTMENT. 477 For these, and gry! more reasons, do we beg of your wisdom that no law extending suffrage to wo- men may be passed, as the passage ef such a law would be fraught with danger so grave tothe general order of the country. SAYINGS OF CHILDREN.—From “ Great Mysteries.” By John Neal:— “Tit for tat. A pretty, four-year oid midget went out to play on the sidewalk. When she returned, with wet and muddy feet, showing that she had been somewhere else, her mother began to look serious ; whereupon the child, anticipating the worst, mur- mured, with her head in her mother’s lap: ‘Now, mamma, you be dood to me, and I'll be dood to you.’ “A fine, manly little fellow of five years tumbled on the door-step and cut his upper lip, so that a sur- geon had tosewit up. He sat in his mother’s la during the operation, pale and speechless, though large tears gathered in his 7 and seemed ready to fall. ‘Oh, dear!’ said she, ‘I’m afraid it will leave a bad sear.’ ‘ Never mind,’ said Charlie, Eaes her on the cheek, ‘never mind, mother, darling, my moustache will cover it.’”’ A TRUE STATEMENT.—In no profession is woman’s right to work so clear as in that of medicine; and the ladies who are by their suecess quietly establish- ing the fact that women are suited to the profession, and even to its higher branches, are doing more for the true advancement of women in the matter of the right to a livelihood than can any oratory. THOMAS HvaHes said the Philadelphia Girls’ Nor- mal School was the finest institution of the kind in the country. NEW JERSEY LEGISLATURB, 1871.—Trenton, Feb. 6. The Senate to-night passed the bill giving mothers pA ng authority with fathers in the custody of chil- dren. WoMAN SUFFRAGE.—Four hundred women of the Illinois Normal School have sent a remonstrance to Washington against woman saffrage. AN EXPERIMENT IN IowA.—The Board of Registers of Clarendon, Iowa, have decided that women are entitled to vote in that city, and the names of all ladies of proper age were placed on the rolls. Several gentleman, not liking this movement, erased the names of their wives. Several ladies also erased their names. On the election to-day no women claimed the privilege, and the men had it all thelr own Way. A Goop result from a foolish experiment :— “The Wyoming papers say that the people of that Territory are about to ‘abandon woman suffrage as both mischievous and impracticable.’ ”’ We are glad to see that the intelligent men of Wyoming find themselves capable of performing their own cuties. To CORRESPONDENTS.—The following articles are accepted: “Starving’—‘“ Mince Collops”—* Life's Retrospect’’—‘“ Prince Charlie and Prince John”’— “Flowers of June’’—‘ Only an Old Maid”—“ What Can Women Do?’’—“ A Fancy of Childhood”’—* Mr. Dawson’s Holiday” and “ The Books We Read.’ The following are declined: “ Night’—‘To the Mississippi’’—** To the Young Ellen Moore”’—*“ Of the Past in All Its Beauty’’—“* Anniversary Humbugs’’— “Wedding Presents” and “Return, Return, Once More I Ask.” Notice.—Manuscripts must in all cases be accom- panied with the name and address of the authors, and stamps for their return, if not accepted. The utmost care will be taken and all possible expedition used with regard to them; but it must be under- stood that the editor is not responsible should a MS. be mislaid or lost. Health Department. BY DR. CHARLES P. UHLE. SALT RHEUM. THE word salt rheum conveys a vague and indefi- nite meaning tothe mind of the practicing physician. It is a word not to be found in the pages of medical literature. Yet it is constantly made use of among a'l classes of people, and seldom understood in the sense that it should be. In reality, there is no such disease as the salt rheum. | Our best physicians, though they use the phrase, ad- mit its utter fallacy ; and medical writers at home and abroad have never presumed to noticeit. It isa popu- lar name here in the United States, for a little of everything in the shape of an eruption that appears upon the cutaneous surface, It doesn’t mean anything in particular ; only a stubborn and refractory break- ing out of the skin, that certainly is not the itch or a ringworm. ‘“Tetter,” “The Hives,” and “ Rash” are terms of a very similar nature, and possess about the same amount of meaning. TZ’ his is why the salt rheum, so called, is such a “ pill” and always will be. There are a great many diseases, both acute and chronic, that are known by this ever ready and con- venient cognomen, “the salt rheum.” Zezema, lichen, and a disease called psoriasis, are probably more frequently “salt rheum” than anything else; and a description of them and their proper treat- ment will constitute what we have to say upon the subject. Hezema, as described by Dr. Wilson in his work upon “ diseases of the skin and appendages,’ is divided into thirteen different varieties, and treated at such a length, alone, as would fill thirty or more of the pages of GopEr: lichen would occupy twenty, at least, and psoriasis would monopolize the entire publication. If we can abridge them to one and a half, and give our readers a “clear uuderstanding,” we are amply repaid for the labor attending. The eruption of ezcema, to take them up in the or- der that we have mentioned them, is generally pre- | ceded by considerable redness and inflammation of the skin, accompanied, in the course of twenty-four or thirty hours, by much irritation and pain in the parts. The vesicles when they first appear are very small and indistinct, and look like glistening little points orpimples. These enlarge, and when fully de- veloped have about the size of a pin’s head. In the mildest cases, these vesicles dry up in about a week, and are succeeded by a scaling of the skin, after which the surface remains of a reddish color for a few days, and then resumes its healthy appearance. In the severer cases, instead of drying up, many of the ve- sicles break, and discharge a serous fluid over the skin, irritating and excoriating it and increasing the exuding surface. After atime the secretion dimin- ishes, and the extravasated liquid hardens into thin, soft scales, which, upon separating, are followed by others several times successively. If a favorable termination is to take place, the exudation gradually ceases, the scales become firmer and more adherent, and upon separating leave the skin less inflamed: and, at the expiration of two or three weeks the dis- eased surface resumes its healthy appearance. When the affection is general, some of the patches are fre- quently renewing and extending themselves by suc- cessive crops of vesicles, while others are healing and fast approaching a termination. It is generally attended by more or less itching, and tingling, and burning, and in the severer forms this is almost in- tolerable. In young and healthy persons, with a fair and deli-

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478 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. cate skin, though the eruption may raise more quickly to its height, it yet declines more rapidly, and leaves at last no observable traces behind it. But inthe old, and those with dark, dry, and harsh skins the heal- ing process is slow and interrupted; and, when the disease has disappeared, it leaves behind a brown or brownish color of the affected part, which continues for years and often for life. The causes of the dis- ease are often sufficiently apparent, but equally often it is not to be accounted for. Females are more sub- ject to it than males, for the reason of their skin be- ing finer and more delicate. A peculiar disposition | exists, too, in certain families, to diseases of the skin, which appears to be hereditary, and this pre- disposition is well marked, as regards the causation of eczema. Among the local excitant causes are ex- posure to the rays of the sun, or artificial heat and various irritants to which the hands or skin are pe- culiarly exposed. Washerwomen have it, from the effect of the alkali’s in soap; grocers and confec- tioners from contact with sugar; and cooks, bakers, and others from the irritation of the fire over which they work. In these cases it is sometimes known as the washerwoman’s itch, grocer’s itch, baker's itch, | &c., &c. In the higher walks of life it is not unfre- quently produced by the too frequent use of stimu- lant soaps and cosmetic washes to the face and hands, and also the habit of washing the face, when heated, in cold water, and not drying it sufficiently after it has been washed. Sitting in close, heated rooms, engaged in any occupation in which the face 1s constantly kept stooped, as in that of writing, is also a common cause. In its lighter forms, eczema is a trivial affection, getting well in a week or two and affording but little discomfort. In its chronic state, it is often very ob- stinate, continuing for several years and proving a source of horrible inconvenience. It almost always, | however, ends in recovery. Lichen does not differ materially with the disease we have justdescribed. It consists of smallred pim- | ples, about as large as the head of a pin, appearing usually on the hand, forearm, neck, face, and breast, and sometimes over almost the whole surface of the body. They are attended with heat, tingling and itching in various degrees, and after having contin- | ued stationary for several days, begin to decline, and terminate usually with a slight scurf in one or two weeks. Sometimes, however, the attack is of much shorter duration ; and sometimes, by the recurrence of successive crops of eruption, is prolonged for seve- ral weeks, and even for months. In their course the pimples frequently exhibit small bloody scabs upon their surface, arising from its abrasion by scratching. It arises usually from causes similar to those of ecze- ma, and in its chronic forms is about as obstinate and discouraging. Psoriasis is classed by medical writers with the scaly diseases. It first appearsin small papulous ele- vations, often not larger than a pin’s head, the summit ot which is soon covered with a slight whitish scale. Many of these break out at a time, and they gradually increase until they resemble little drops of liquids scattered here and there upon the skin. Their form is irregularly circular; and, when freed from their scales, either spontaneously, or by the nailsin seratch- ing, they present a bright red, sometimes painful, and slightly elevated surface which quickly again covers itself with scales. They may occur upon all parts of the body, but are said to be the most frequent upon the hands and limbs. They are attended with some itching, especially when the patient is warm In bed. Sometimes, instead of having the distinct form just described, the little red elevations appear 80 numerously, and so near togethes that they neces- sarily coalesce as they grow, and thus forin large ir- regular surfaces, which are covered with scales of various thickness and adhesiveness, and sometimes exhibit remains of the original papulous elevations within their boundaries. When freed from scales, the patches are red, rough, and chapped. They are often very large, sometimes covering the whole front part of the leg, or posterior part of the forearm, and especially affect the knee | and elbow. They seldom appear upon the face. | Occasionally the patches are seen without any ele- vation. merely presenting irregular circumscribed | patches, covered with minute thin scales. The erup- tion is attended in this form with burning tingling, and a very troublesome itching when the patient is near the fire. Sometimes it becomes inflamed, the surface is more elevated, the scales thicken, and the skin cracks into fissures, whichare painful and bleed upon movement. And attimes again, the secretion, which is always present in a more or less degree, sud- denly diminishes in quantity, and hardens into thin, yellowish, lamellated scabs, which fall off trom time to time, and are replaced by successive deposits of thinner scabs. The surface upon which they rest becomes less red and hot, and the diseased skin ap- | pears to be gradually progressing towards a cure, | when, from no apparent cause, the redness and tu- | mefaction returns, and a fresh discharge is produced. In this way, with fresh outbreaks occurring at diffe- | rent intervals, the morbid action is kept up for months and even years. The causes of this disease, are for the most part obscure. There appears in some to be a hereditary tendency to it, and from the circumstances that it occurs most frequently among the wretchedly poor, it is supposed that its attack is favored by the priva- tions, hardships, and uncleanly habits incident to ex- treme indigence. It occurs, nevertheless, among per- | sons who live well, and pay strict attention to clean liness. Salt meat and fish, vinegar, sour fruits, and acescent vegetables produce it in some constitutions. | It seems to have been sometimes called into action by strong emotions, and by cold water taken by persons | greatly overheated. It occasionally alternates, or is associated with gout and rheumatism. The time of the year seems to have some influence, as it usually | comes on either in the spring or autumn; and it has been observed that certain mild cases are apt to leave the patient upon the approach of very hot or cold weather and to return again at the former seasons. The treatment of these diseases we must delay to another number. Literary Aotices. From PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia :— THE MYSTERY OF EDWIN DROOD. By Charles | Dickens. It is but fitting that every library which | bears Dickens’ works upon its shelves should contain also the last unfinished work of that great author. We have not read it. We probably never shall read it while it remains in its present unfinished condition. And we can see no really good reason why Wilkie Collins should not take up the thread of the story and carry it on to completion. Collins is the man above all others fitted to do this. He was Dick- ens’s most intimate friend: they have before now united their efforts in the production of a story ; and though, of course, Collins falls below Dickens in the rank of a novelist, “‘ The Mystery of Edwin Drood” seems of a character especially fitted to draw out Collins’s peculiar characteristics in its development. — oOo ee daw-= «4 Willi Janu

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LITERARY NOTICES. 479 A few may prefer the story in its present shape, rather than have it touched by any other writer ; but we believe the public at large would choose to see it finished. We trust it may yet be deemed advisable to place the story in Collins’s hands, if he will accept the task. THE SEALED PACKET. A Novel. By T. Adol- phus Trollope, author of “Garstang Grange,” etc. “The Sealed Packet” is a story of the Italian war of 1848-9. The hero becomesa captain in the Sardinian army, and finally inherits rank and fortune. Mr. Trollope is evidently more at home on Italian ground than on his own native shores; and, of the various novels he has written, his Italian ones are almost in- variably superior to his English ones. THE LOST BEAUTY; or, The Fatal Error. A Spanish novel. A new edition of a novel by an au- thoress who has been called by high authority the “Spanish Walter Scott.” This story will give the reader an insight into Spanish life which he would long look for in vain in reading English novels re- lating to that country. MAD MONCTON; and Other Stories. By Wilkie Collins. One of Collins's earlier stories, revived in the new and cheap edition of his works now in pro- cess of publication by the Messrs. Peterson. THE BLACK TULIP. A Novel. By Alexander Dumas. The recent death of this author will pro- bably cause a revival of interest in his works. When it is announced that he left twenty-three unpublished novels, besides the scores (or is it hundreds?) pub- lished, we think the literary critic whose business it is to announce them, and the publie who is expected to read them, may both well stand aghast. CHARLES O'MALLEY: The Irish Dragoon. By Charles Lever. Lever is another whose works are legion, and periodically we seem called upon to an- nounce their titles. This, at least, speaks well for their popularity, for if there were no demand for them, they would not, of course, be published. From Evans, Stoppart, & Co., Philadelphia :— CHECKMATE. ByJ.S. Le Fanu. Le Fanu is not the most wonderful of writers, but his stories are sufficiently interesting and sensational to be in fair demaad. The present story will compare favorably with his previous efforts. From ALFRED MARTIEN, Philadelphia :— NANNIE ANDL This little story bears no name, and we suspect is the writer's first essay in tale-tell- ing. It is straightforward and simple. The print leaves nothing to be desired. From Henry A. DREER, Philadelphia :— DREER’S GARDEN CALENDAR for 1871. This valuable little annual contains brief directions for the cultivation and management of the vegetable and flower garden, together with select lists of seeds and plants. Mr. Dreer keeps on hand all the stan- dard flower and vegetable seeds, while every year he adds such novelties as promise to be valuable to the gardener or florist. His list of bedding and green- house plants is exceedingly fine, and his roots and bulbs for summer planting are not excelled by any other florist. This calendar fs distributed free. Send for one. From Hewry C. LEA, Philadelphia:— , THE HALF-YEARLY ABSTRACT OF THE MEDICAL SCIENCES. Being a Digest of British and Continental Medicine, and of the Progress of Medicine and the Collateral Sciences. Edited by William Domett Stone, M. D., F.R.C.S. Vol LIL January, 1871. | } From Harrer & BrotrHeRs, New York, through CLAXTON, REMSEN, & HAFFELFINGER, and LIPPIN- corr & Co., Philadelphia:— OUR GIRLS. By Dio Lewis, A. M., M.D. This is a brave book, healthy in tone, and pure in sentiment, for reading and heeding which every girl would be the better. He treats of exercise, dress, studies, and employments for women, and condemns boldly the many sins to which women are prone, being led to their commission by fashion, custom, or ignorance. A MANUAL OF ANCIENT HISTORY, from the Farliest Times to the Fali of the Western Empire. By George Rawlinson, M. A. This volume comprises a history of Chaldza, Assyria, Media, Babylonia, Lydia, Phoenicia, Syria, Judea, Egypt, Carthage, Persia, Greece, Macedonia, Parthia, and Rome. This is the only modern work which enters so extensively into ancient history. The “ Handbuch” of Professor Huren, published in 1799, and republished in 1828, was of similar character, but is now out of print. The author of the present history has been “content to adopt, generally, its scheme and divisions; merely seeking in every case to bring the history up to the level of our present advanced knowledge.” NOTES, EXPLANATORY AND PRACTICAL, ON THE ACTS OF THE APOSTLES; Designed Jor Sunday-School Teachers and Bible-Classes. By Albert Barnes. Revised edition. This is a volume which has already become standard among a large class of Christians as authority in the interpretation of the portion of Scriptures which it analyzes, dis- cusses, and explains. SIR HARRY HOTSPUR OF HUMBLETH.- WAITE. By Anthony Trollope. Though Mr. Trol- lope is one of our favorites among English novelists, we must confess that this book has @sappointed us. It is not up to the author’s standard of excellence. EARLS’ DENE. A Novel. By R. E. Francillon. This belongs to Harper’s Library of Select Novels; and that fact is sufficient to vouch for its compara tive excellence. From CARLETON, New York, through Porter & CoaTES, Philadelphia :— CROWN JEWELS: or, The Dream of an Empire. By Emma L. Moffett, author of “‘Cragfont.”” This is an historical romance, taking the melancholy and tragic story of Maximilian and Carlotta for its theme. It is not a book of any extraordinary literary merit, though neither is it marked by special blemishes. OUT GF THE FOAM. A Novel. By John Esten Cooke, author of “ Hilt to Hilt,” ete. An extremely sensational story, in which bigamy, murder, and hy- drophobia are made to do duty in the plot. We can hardly recommend it asa book for profitable reading. From D. Appleton & Co., New York, through Lrpprncort & Co., Philadelphia :— THE HEIR OF REDCLYFFE. By the author of “The Two Guardians,” ete. In two volumes. This novel has become a standard in modern English lite- rature. Its author is one of the most gifted of English writers, and every one who wishes to become familiar with the best of English books should by all means secure these volumes. THE DESCENT OF MAN, AND SELECTION IN RELATION TO SEX. By Charles Darwin, M. A., F. R.8., etc. In two volumes. Vol. I. This volume will call forth discussion and dissent among the mas- ter minds of the age, which will, perhaps, culminate in such a battle of words and ideas that, compared | to it, the wars of the giants when they hurled huge rocks at one another will seem mere child’s play. We are not yet an avowed convert to Darwin’s theories, but we find his book exceedingly interesting. Prof.

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480 GODEY’'S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. T. H. Huxley, who is himself a man of world-wide celebrity, as a scientist, says of Darwin, that he knows “ more about the question he has taken up than any man living.” WESTWARD BY RAIL. The New Route to the East. By W. F. Rae. There is a new field open to travellers and writers of books of travel. Europe and the East furnish no longer the accepted routes, but America and the West take their places. The Pacific Railroad possesses novel and attractive fea- tures to the tourist, while the plains, our half settled territories, Utah and California, present each and all of them themes for narrators to dilate upon. This volume, as giving the writer's views and experiences, possesses the average interest of a book of travel. From Ropert CarTER & BrotHerRs, New York, through ALFRED MARTIEN, Philadelphia :— THE LORD’S PRAYER. By Henry J. Van Dyke, D.D. This work divides our Saviour’s prayer into its separate clauses, and devotes a chapter to each clause, after the manner of Dr. Cumming. It is, in fact, a series of short sermons. The author is one of the ablest clergymen of his denomination in New York, and this handsome volume will, no doubt, find many readers. OPPORTUNITIES. By the author of “ The Wide, Wide World.” Miss Warner’s stories for children are always interesting, because there is a constant flow of incident and feeling which keeps alive the at- tention of the little readers. This is the second of a series, the continuation of ‘What She Could,” and itself to be continued as “The House in Town.” Miss Warner’s little girls are somewhat too inclined to lecture their elders; but there is real fancy and invention in hgr books, and they are, in many ways, superior to the ordinary run of children’s stories. THE DRAYTON HALL SERIES. IV. “Frank Austin’s Diamond.” V. “Eagle Crag.” By the au- thor of “ The Golden Ladder Series." These books are two of a series on the Beatitudes. They are stories of real interest to boys, dealing with school life, and written by a man who has had some expe- rience of it. The characters are not lifeless puppets, but have an individuality which will make the reader remember them. THE TWO BROTHERS; and Other Poems. By E. H. Bickersteth, M.A. Mr. Bickersteth’s previous volume was much admired. This seems to be a col- lection ot his smaller poems. It is well bound and printed. Messrs. Carters’ books are models of typo- graphy. From Cartes Scrrpyer & Co., New York:— WONDERFUL. ESCAPES. Revised from the French of F. Bernard, and original chapters added. By Richard Whiteing. This volume belongs to “Scribner's Library of Wonders.” It fs exceedingly interesting, and is profusely illustrated. From Lorre, Bostorf, through Porter & CoaTEs, Philadelphia :— PHANTASTES. A Fuerie Romance for Men and Women. By George Mac Donald, author of “ Robert Falconer,” ete. This beautiful fairy story is, in re- ality, an allegory, in which the author has hidden his ideas, and sought to convey lessons concerning life, its temptations, and its responsibilities. It is deli- cate and pure, and {n every way worthy of the au- thor who has produced it. From SAMUEL R. WELLS, New York, through Lrr- Prncort & Co., Philadelphia :— THE CONVERSION OF ST. PAUL. Three Dis- courses. By George Jarvis Geer, D. D., Rector of St. Timothy's Church, New York. The three dis- | courses which comprise this volume have for their | Subjects, each relating to the conversion of St. Paul, “Tts relation to unbelief,” “Its false uses and true,” and “Its relation to the church.” From ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston :— THE EARTHLY PARADISE. Fourth and Last Part. By Wm. Morris. In our Table for this month will be found short extracts from this beautiful vol ume. Messrs. Roberts have conferred a lasting bene- fit upon the public by publishing Mr. Morris's poetry. We hope the enterprise has been as profitable to themselves as delightful to their readers. The poem is now complete in three volumes, bound in handsome vellum cloth, at prices ranging from $4 50 to#%. No work has been published equal in kind to this for many years. REVIEWS, PAMPHLETS, ETC. From THE LEONARD ScoTT PUBLICATION COMPANY, New York :— BLACKWOOD’S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE: February, 1871. The literary enterprise undertaken by Mr. Leonard Scott goes on with unabating pros- perity under his successors. The quarterlies main- tain their positive, if not their relative rank in literature; and Blackwood we could hardly do without. From Doctor Jomun P. GRaY:— THE AMERICAN JOURNAL OF INSANITY. January, 1871. This interesting quarterly sustains its character for closely reasoned and thoughtful articles upon various branches of insanity. The “MeFarland Trial’ and “Rib Breaking in Insane Asylums” are topics that will attract the attention of the reader. From GEORGE W. CuILps, Philadelphia :— THE AMERICAN LITERARY GAZETTE AND PUBLISHERS’ CIRCULAR; January to March, 1871. This little fortnightly, which well deserves to be called the Bibliographer’s Manual, contains not only announcements of new books to be issued in this country, but literary news from England, France, and Germany. Our readers who desire to be posted upon the forthcoming literary attractions of the year will do well to subscribe. Goden’s Srm-€bair. MAY, 1871. . Ovr ENGRAVINGS.—“ Rustic Gallantry” is a well- executed steel plate. The colored fashion-plate, seven figures, contains everything requisite for home and out-door costumes; so does our extension sheet, which always contains later designs. “Devotion” is our wood-cut picture. We have here displayed worship, without the fashionable sur- roundings of the present day. Sprinc Beps Witnovut Sprincs.—What are we coming to? The Woven Wire Mattress Company, of Hartford, (onn., have introduced to the notice of the public the past year a beautiful woven wire mat- tress. The beauty of these mattresses are that they never lose their shape, never need a repair, and never make a noise. They are warranted to be as good at the end of five years as when first purchased. See cover. oo: a Mie jee A eh itt Lh ke

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» Goenmis | aS GODEY’S ARM-CHATIR. 481 THE editor of Old and New addressed to his con- tributors five questions, all of which are so excellent that we make haste to transcribe them here, in order that the legion of writers for the Lapy’s BooK may study, digest, and apply :— “]. Could you not live, and yet not roll up your manuscripts?” (We mean, some of these days, to organize an association of editors pledged never to read a manieeres that comesinaroll. If you would save the editor, ladies and gentlemen, no little vexa- tion, let your sheets be flat—but don’t apply this advice to your style.) “2. Could 7 so kind as to write your proper names legibly?” (and write your address on the manuscript; and when you have occasion to write to the editor, to recollect that he possibly has more than one article under considerat on, so that it would greatly aid him if you would kindly mention what ou are talking about? weezy day come letters, say- ng: “I sent you a manuscript, etc. ;”’ or, “* When are you going to print my article?”’ without any mention of the title of the work inquired about, which it would seem to be easy enough to give). “3. Would you leave off the introduction, and omit the conclusion?” (That is, begin at once, without circumlocution, and end when you have finished. ) “4. Would you write on note-paper, not folded?” (or a any small sheet, with the pages of uniform size? “5. Would you send the manuscript to us, instead of sending it to a friend of a clergyman, who knows a doctor, one of whose patients was in college, etc. etc.?”” (Send by post, with stamps for return, and don’t expect the editor to enter into explanations why he does not accept your article, or to point out its errors and defects, and show you how you can make it acceptable. An editor is nota schoolmaster, anil it is not his province to educate his contributors. He purchases whatever may seem to him suitable, provided he has space to print it, and he would have no time for his ordinary duties if he were to act as literary mentor to every one who might demand his critical aid.) But while all this advice is good for contributors, there is something also to urge upon subscribers. If our friends only knew the difficulties and vexations that arise in a publishing office, because people will forget to give their post-office address, and insist upon signing their names illegibly, there would be a reform in these matters at once. Will our friends bear in mind that almost every town has several du- plicates of its name, and that, unless the State is given, we are utterly at a loss to know where to send an answer to a letter, or to direct a subscriber's paper? And if the name is not given distinctly, let- ters and papers are quite likely not to reach the right persons. We shall not grumble at the number of subscriptions that may reach us; but subscribers, for their own sakes, if not for ours, should be definite and clear, in giving name and address, CHILLS AND FeEveR.—The following is recom- mended as a cure for fever and ague, which now prevails so generally in some parts of the city and adjoining places. It is a Yankee notion, and ap- peared first in a Connecticut paper :— “Take a teaspoonful of finely pulverized egg shells, mixed with molasses, on going to bed, after soaking the feet in warm water. Two or three doses often cure. Whether the above is a remedy or not, we cannot tell, but we do know of a friend who was cured of the shakes by taking, early in the morning, a whole nutmeg, grated into a glass containing the juice of one lemon. He had only to take it two mornings and he was cured; perhaps it would not have cured another person, but we know it did him. “Look not on the wine when it is red !”’ *T don’t,” said a wicked fellow; “For I drink Jersey lightning now, And that is a dirty yellow.” [Clarence F. Buhler. HOLLOWAY’s MUSICAL MONTHLY for May, is just published, with music suited to the wants of both singer and player. The songs in it this month are beautiful, and there isa brilliant fantaisie by Brinley Richards, a graceful little mazourka, and a lively and sparkling galop; ali for the price of an ordinary piece of music. Let every one buy this number and be convinced of the merit and cheapness of the Monthly. Price 40 cents, or the last three numbers $1. By the year $, and a premium given of $1 wort of new music. Address orders only to J. Starr Hol- loway, Publisher, Box Post-Office, Philadelphia. New Sheet Music.—Charity Child, a touching song and chorus, 35cents. Father’s a Drunkard, but I’m not to Blame, a song that is rapidly growing into favor, 30. Phantom Bells at Sea, beautiful duet, 35. I wish I Were Single Again, capital comic song, 30. We Met and Talked of Other Days, pretty heart- song, 30. Forget Thee, by Balfe, 30. Also, Moss Basket Waltz, 30. Mad Cap Galop, by Carl Faust, 35. Steiger March, by same, 30. Fan- taisie L’Elisire d’ Amore, 35. Fantaisie Blue Bells of Scotland, 75. Night in Spring, beautiful nocturne, by Spindler, 50. A new piece of music given without charge on all orders of sheet music amounting to $1. Address all orders for music to Mr. Holloway, as above. Goon advice for the Cherokee Nation :— Now is the time to get up clubs for the Lapy’s Book, the oldest, best, and most popular Magazine net in America. There should be one club in he vicinity of evety post-office in the country pot up by some lady who only has to ask a few of ier male acquaintances to subscribe as a gift to their wives, and it is done, or our Cherokee husbands are not what we take them to be, the worse for them. What a help to conversation and entertainment is the presence of such an attractive publication upon the centre-table of a courteous hostess. What a peri- odical source of pleasure to the hostess herself, and to her family. As an indication, it tells of intelli- gence, refinement, and taste ; a love of the beautiful, ae, and true, which every man should wish to fos- er in his “home circle.”"—Advocate, Tahlequah Cherokee Nation. COLGATE’s SOAP.—We have no hesitation, after hav- ing tried this soap for many months, in pronouncing it the best soap made in America. See advertisement in Lapy’s Book. Very PRopER DEcts1on.—A court in Michigan has decided that a physician is not warrantor or insurer of a case, and he is not to be tried for the result of his remedies. His only contract and duty is to treat the case with reasonable diligence and skill. MORE TYPOGRAPHICAL Errors.—They never will get done abusing a New York editor’s handwriting. The other day he wrote a puff for “* Anna Dickinson’s lecture on Joan of Are.” The compositor set it up “ Any Dutchman can’t play a jewsharp.” There is no wonder the good old man gets soured against humanity, and often speaks out in meeting. A careless printer made a dancing master’s card to read: “I offer my respectful shanks to all who have honored me with their patronage.” “There was an old family fuel between them,” was what the principal in a Chicago murder case said to the jury. The judge asked her if she didn’t mean “feud,” and she said to him: “I boss this story.” A Gotham reporter told of the “twin noses of health and beauty” on the “bony face” of a bride. He meant roses and bonny, unless he had been too industriously interviewing some Boniface.

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tee reefs as vet gti EE Stoned, 482 GODEY’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. Paris Gossip.—The siege of Paris developed the fact that there are some heroines still left. The fol- lowing we have taken from the reminiscences of that period by one who was inside :-— “Our grandes dames have turned out very brave little women. One with whom we were talking the other day inhabits the smallest rooms of all her bi apartments, so as to bear with the least possible bit of fire—for wood has become horribly scarce, almost unattainable; and the lady had taken six wounded soldiers into her house, and they must have their rooms well warmed, she said. Another, who attends the ambulantes, and whose horses have been claimed by government, as all in Paris will be in turn, now roes to her self-imposed avocations on foot —~o e frosty streets; and, as she goes and comes daily ' the Boulevard Haussmann. I know of one lady who ' supplies a whole host of poor children with miik from her cow, and another the whole circle of her | friends; and both these happy ay ayy watch 1e with constant care and anxiety the rapid decrease of their fodder. May it last out, for many sakes! Two amusing exchanges were produced recently in one of the Paris papers, as follows: ‘ Offéred, a bottle ot old Rubebourg, first quality, in exchange for a ae cabbage, and a box of sardines for a pint of aricot beans; acceptances to be sent to the office of the paper.’ Is it not a droll and terrible sign of the times? Such rarities as old wines and costly liquors are drugs in the market, and the most homely arti- | eles in highest patrician searcity. In fact, there is in her comfortable-looking winter dress, none of her sister-nurses from the humbler classes can under- stand how much resolution on her part the act be- tokens. One lady, the wifejof an officer in the army, went as far as the Plateau d’Avron, braving col and fatigue, and sights of pain, to carry he and consolation to the wounded there ; and others, though less adventurous, still do their part of courage and kindness, since many evenings see them return home faint and tired, after hours spent at the soldiers’ bedsides, having refused, as all these volunteer in- Jirmiéres do, to touch any of the soup for fear that | the supply for their patients should run short. Young Mme. Heintzler, who was wounded on the Plateau d’ Avron, is recovering, though the injuries she received were somewhat severe. She had gone to see her husband, the commandant Heintzler. whose batallion was quartered at Avron, and hac remained to breakfast with him while the Prussian shells were pang ane erashing near. The soldier's wife must have course, the commandant’s breakfast-room (in one of na brave woman, although, of | the little houses of the village) was supposed to be | out of danger. And then, while the party were talk- ing, crash ng on to the tiny house came the terriffic bomb, bursting on to the very breakfast table, and laying dead around it four young officers and the | almoner of the regiment, and wounding several ae amongst whom were the colonel and his e. , Of the artists who mounted guard on the ramparts, an interesting account of their manner of passing away the time is given:— “Two artists, MM. Falquiére and Moulin, both sculptors, were on guard with their company the other day on the ramparts. The snow lay on the ground, and they and their comrades, feeling ver cold, and seeing the nice sheet of snow spre around, formed the — idea of having a game of snowball. ut, as the white projectiles were being quickly made, it was pro (for was not M. Falquiére there?) that these heaps of snow should be built upintoastatue. The young sculptor was quite willing, and with Chapu, the painter, and a dozen others as his working sculptors, a rock of snow was piled, a cannon soon placed beside it, and against this Falquiére reared the figure of a woman, her round arms folded across her breast, her hair flung back from her brave, fair face, her small feet firmly planted on the soil, and beneath he traced the words, ‘La Résistance.’ _Meanwhile—two or three hours’ work sufficed for each—M. Moulin executed a colossal bust of the Republic, and the two figures ob- tained such unanimous applause that the authors had to promise their comrades to remodel the works when their guard was over. Théopile Gautier went himself to see the snow originals on the rampart and in giving an account of the scene reminds us 0: a mighty precedent—of Michael Angelo, one winter ohrare severity, ng up a colossal statue of snow the court of the Grand Duke’s palace of Florence, and dealing such blows of genius on the pile that the — Me the favor of Pierre de Medicis hence- ‘orward.” The value of a cow:— “T think it is incontestable that a person now oc- copying one of the highest social pesitions is a person who. possesses a cow. Not only is it a resouree un- speakably presom, but it is a privilege, too, for overnment knows all about the cows and where “x are, and one must declare a large provision of fodder for one’s cow in order to be allowed to keep her. One was to be seen grazing on the geaceelcs of a garden belonging to a splendid private house in | | | Her Majesty's annual allowance nothing that is not upset.’ Buiack ALPacas.—Peake, Opdycke, & Co., of New York, are determined that the ladies of the United States shall have alpaca goods that will suit the spring and summer seasons. They have been importing an article of a fine, light make that is spoken of as very desirable. In purchasing, be sure that you ask for the OrreR BRAND. They now have on the market the Buffalo Brand Alpacas, the Beaver Brand Mo- hairs, and the OTTER BRAND Alpacas. SNOBS AND PaRVENUES.—Take notice of the follow- ing, and send your names over :— “ American resorts in Italy are said to be overrun just now by seedy Italians, with titles of nobility of such length that half the letters of the alphabet are made to do duty in giving them ye ae ex- pression, who are anxious to marry American girls with rich fathers. In Italy counts and marquises are plenty, while money is scarce.” THE following is the annual cost of Queen Vic- toria’s family to the English people :— . £385,000 To members of the Reigning House - 104,432 hee ci ees 7 £9 hie - 8,564 Cost of palaces, parks, and pleasure gardens 81,514 | Total £574,510 Reduced to our money, this amounts to $2,872,55 A LITTLE friend of ours writing a letter for a school ag pe dated it February 1th. The teacher said to him:— “You must not write the first of the month with th ; it is 1st.” : - —— ma’‘am,” was the reply, “didn’t you know thp?” He was informed that a lisp need not be transferred to paper. THOMPSON'S GLOVE-FITTING CORSET has so long been used that it is only necessary for it to be once seen to be appreciated. It is made of the best ma- terials, wears well, and gives a graceful and hand- some figure to the wearer, adding comfort to its list of virtues. It can be purchased of all dealers in dry goods. FREIGHT ON LETTERS AND PREMIUM ON DRAFTS.— Subscribers will please understand that when they send their letters by an express company they must | pay the freight, and those who send drafts must pay the premium. We advise subscribers to remit a post-office order or a draft payable to the order of L. A. GopEy. The rates for postal money orders as established by law are as follows:— “The postal money order —- established by law provides that no money order shall be issued for any sum less than $1 nor more than $50. Ali persons who receive money orders are required to pay there- for the following charges or fees, viz: For an order for $1 or for any larger sum, but not exceeding $20, the sum of 10 cents shall be charged and exacted b the postmaster giving such order; for an order of and up to $30, the charge will be 15 cents; more than $30 and up to $0, the charge shall be 20 cents; over $40 and up to $50, the charge shall be 25 cents.”’

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WE copy the following from the Philadelphia Bul- letin, a paper engaged with the Lapy’s Boox in the crusade against wedding gifts :— THE SILVER WEDDING OF MOSESSKINNER. Shrewd Diplomacy of Mrs. Skinner.—The following narra- tive will be oer to married folks generally :— “It being just twenty-five years since my first wife died, I thought I could not better celebrate the event than by naving a grand silver wedding. Alas! twenty-five brief summers, and it seems but the day before yesterday since I returned from her funera an altered man, and told the undertaker to call round for his pay in the fall. “The great trouble in silver weddings is that you are apt to get two or three presents alike; but I flat- ter myself that I fixed em here. In the first place, Mrs. Skinner and I look 2d over our stock of silver- ware to see what we were out of, and found that we could take about twenty-five square presents without etting bilious, and then we invited a few children n reference to nut-crackers, butter-knives, and other small fry. Lissued my invitations two weeks before- hand, to give everybody a chance to buy a present and in addition hinted in a delicate manner what should like each one to bring. So the invitations read very much like this:— “Mrs. Charity Phieabottom and Husband, You are both askec To Mr. and Mrs. Mose Skinaer’s Silver Wedding, January 17th. *,* Please bring iil with extra mustard ug. “Mrs. John Beezum and Husband, To Mr. and Mrs. Mose Skinner's Silver Wedding, January 17th. *,* We cherish fond hopes in your direction in refe- rence to a silver teapot. “On the back of each invitation was a neat gilt scroll, inclosing the words: ‘Please avoid dollar stores.’ “To say the affair was a success, would be defraud- ing the dictionary. I have looked that venerable paimphiet through, but fail to tind a word that meets the case. Nothing short of seven syllables and a ‘French roof’ will do, so I give it up. “On the arrival of the guests, I took charge of the presents with as much emotion as the value of the present called for. A silver pie-knife I received with a husky tremor in my voice, while an elegant silver tea-pot caused me to entirely break down with emotion. But I recovered, and went through the trying ordeal with unflinching bravery. Those who didn’t bring presents were told that we were not at home, which, of course, made the gathering more select. We received some very fine presents, in- cluding a share in a silver mine, a lock of gray hair streaked with silver, some silver tones from a maid- en’s voice, a silvery beam from the moon, and some castor oil made from a silver castor. “Then my wife and I stood up and received the silver-tongued congratulations of our guests on our happy married life. But I didn’t need *em ; no, Ishould say not. When I see a man utterly crushed in spirit and bald-headed at the premature age of fifty, with a black ¥~ constantly on hand, and a wife who is ready to furnish him_ with more black eyes at the lowest market price, I pause ere I congratulate him on matrimonial bliss. Not that I would insinuate that Mrs. Skinner is not as gentle as a dove in the olive branch business. Not at all. I simply say that in a case like this, I should probably pause to the ex- fens of a semicolon and a comma ere I congratulated nm. A WOULD-BE poet waited npon a celebrated theatri- cal lady with two sonnets he had written upon her, and demanded to know which she liked best. She read one, and handed it to him; said, without hav- ing read it: “I prefer the other.” AN agricultural fair poet. thus draws the line be- tween the hog and the Chinaman :— “ All hogs, like John Chinaman, Time out of mind, Wear cues in the style Of their fathers—behind. “This difference though In the swine seemeth quaint; His caudal is curled, And the Chinaman’s ‘aint.’” GODEY’S ARM-CHAIR. 483 PERFECT COFFEE.—A correspondent of the Inde- pendent, travelling in Sweden, was immensely de- lighted with the coffee served on steamboats and hotels. ‘ At Upsala,’ he writes, ‘‘ we determined to find out how they made such perfect coffee as we had just drank, and stepped into the neat kitchen of the little hotel; and this was the report: Take any kind of coffee-pot or urn, and suspend a bag made of felt or very heavy flannel, so long that it reaches the bot- tom, bound o” a wire just fitting the top; put in the fresh ground pure coffee, and pour on freshly boiled water. The fluid filters through the bag, and may be used at once ; needs no settling, and retains all its aroma. The advantage of this over the ordinary filter is its economy, as the coffee stands and soaks out the strength, instead of merely letting the water pass through it. ‘Do you boil it?’ inquired the learner. ‘ Na-a-a-ay,’ said the maid, im simple as- tonishment that any one should be so wasteful as to send the precious aroma away in steam; should rob that prince of food of that evanescent something which constitutes his nobility, and reduce him to mere aliment. As soon would one think of throwing away that drop of sunshine, charged with all the summer’s gold, which lies at the throat of a bottle of Johannisberger.”’ The above may be all right, but we do boil ours, and we defy any one to have a better cup of coffee. THE MOTHERS OF STAGE HEROINES.—The use of a mother to a popular actress is obvious. Who can so urgently and indefatigably besiege a manager with applications for the privileges and perquisites which every actress desires ? Who can so well guard the tender flower from too close observation? Who can so well watch in the em ey while the per- former is on the stage? And who can so well dis- course on the artistic merits and general Poeneny of an actress as the maof that actress? The first time I went behind the scenes at the Phoenix was in the morning, Unused to the place, I stopped at the greenroom door, wondering if that was where the rehearsal was, and if there I should find the manager, with whom I had business to transact. Four ladies, elderly, dingy, and of severe aspect, were wildly gesticulating. I supposed it was a scene from the new piece, and stood observing them. ¥: How impressive,” thought I, “is this devotion to art! These women, absorbed in their characters, forget the existence of the outside world, and do not notice my presence, absorbed as they are in the ideal!” It was at this moment that the doorkeeper touched me, and said :— “The manager is this way, at rehearsal, sir.” “Why,” said I, in some surprise, “isn’t this re- hearsal ?” “No, sir,” said the doorkeeper, with a smile. “Who are these ladies?” I asked. “I thought surely they were acting; they seemed so earnest.’ The doorkeeper grinned. “Them,” said he, “is mas of different ladies in the cogpeny and they're oing on about their daughters. The almost always does when they gets together.” It was then, for the first time, that I realized how much a mother was to a dramatic performer. The life of the stage is terribly full of temptation, and quite as likely to destroy feminine modesty and re- serve as a course of fashionable society flirtations. A MartTiaL BEARING.—According to the Delhi Gazette a constable at Jubbulpore, in giving evi- dence before a magistrate the other day, are,® clear definition of his idea of a “ martial bearing,’ which is probably not inaccurate as regards many of the soldiers in that country. The constable, having ap- prehended some men as deserters, was asked by the magistrate: “ What led you to suppose that they were deserters?” ‘ Their martial bearing,” replied the constable. ‘ What,” inquired the magistrate, “do you mean by their martial bearing ? * “They were very free,” said the constable, “with their money, were drunk, swore a great deal, and wanted to fight.” ‘And that,” rejoined the magistrate, “is your definition of martial bearing?” “Yes, sir, was the reply. ’

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gre iy ee 484 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. Wrirtxe Lerrers.—“‘ The three R’s” are notori- ously the three elemental necessities of education. With reading, writing, and arithmetic you are held able to do quite as well for yourself as you choose, and to have the power of climbing up to the top of the ladder of which these are the first rungs. No corner of the intellectual kingdom is closed to you, and it is your own fault if you do not explore and take possession—if you do not cultivate a wide hoid- ing, and gather in a rich harvest, without leave asked of any, or hindrance possible by any. Popu- lar beliefs are not always worthy of much credit, but this comes somewhere near the mark. Given these elementary tools, and what lovely work for our in- tellect, what beauty for our future career, may we not fashion for ourselves! And yet of one of these, the art of writing, we can scarcely say too much as to the infinite mischief it has wrought in its time. “Oh, that mine enemy would write a book!” said the Wise Man, in days when book-making was as a drop of water toa bucketful, compared to what book- making is now; yet we see that even in Sclomon’s time the art was held a dangerous one, and for one’s enemy to write a book was considered a by no means uncertain method of obtaining a terrible and telling revenge. But more dangerous than book-writing to the peace of families and the happiness of individuals is that of letter-writing. If half the people who now write let- ters did not know A from B in running hand, and were as unable to use the post as they are to work the telegraph, we should have less than half the mis- understandings which now afflict society, and the quarrels by which friendships are uprooted and affec- tions destroyed would be reduced by at least nine- tenths. More mischief has been done by hasty words written in anger, by doubtful words takenamiss, and by letters going astray and falling into the wrong hands, than by anything else we can mention. Spoken words, however violent, have a chance of being for- gotten. Allowances are made for the mist of passion that had risen up and obscured the better feeling of the speaker; but litera scripta manet, and that cer- tain air of cold-blooded deiiberateness which belongs to letter-writing seems to put all charitable excuses out of court. Besides, it is not always in intentional harshness that the danger of letter-writing lies. Peo- ple are sometimes clumsy, sometimes ambiguous, in the way in which they express themselves, and readers have often dense wits and sleepy imagina- tions. A phrase said with a certain tone, a certain look, an arching of the eyebrows, a comical accent, or a pretty pursing of the lips, as one knows so well how to give by way of signpost to one’s meaning, read coldly and without such indication, is taken as something quite foreign to one’s intention—some- thing of grave accusation, when one intended nothing more than a laughing ascription of evil deeds and criminal neglect which, read in one’s own way, was an evidence of one’s love. As the voice is not heard, its special tones are not imagined ; and if the person who receives that clumsily loving letter happens to be bilious and ill-tempered, the very words which vira voce would have sounded as a caress, and been accepted as a caress, in black and white look like insolence ; so that deadly offence has more than once been taken at what was meant only for fun or love. This is one of the dangers of letter-writing; the practical application of which is, never to write am- biguously, never to trust to our correspondent’s imagination to supply the manner by which our matter is to be interpreted, but to have it always clear and unmistakable as to what our meaning really is, and to use words according to their received value, and not according w that changeful signifi- eance born of the curl of a lip or the tone of a voice. One great lesson, too, to teach the young is not to tell family secrets in their letters, not to complain of their little hardships, and not to describe themselves as miserable and ill-treated, when they are only hys- terical and impatient. There are some people, more especially girls, who write themselves into almost frantic states of excitement; who speak of an evan- escent feeling as the growth and persistent condi- tion of their lives; who weep as they detail, with much exaggeration, their small domestic woes, and tell how mamma misunderstands them, and papa tyrannizes over them, and how wretched and forlorn they are, and what should they do without their dear bosom friend, to whom they are opening their hearts? And then the bosom friend writes back, commiserat- ing their wretchedness, and taking it all for gospel; and, perhaps, the letter of sympathy for her hard and loveless life at home finds the poor martyr perched on papa’s knees, smoothing his dear gray whiskers; or hanging round mamma’s comfortable waist, and telling her what a darling she is; or dressed in her pretty new costume, on the point of setting out for a croquet party where he is to be, and at which she will consequently be the happiest of the happy, and the most ble of earth’s daughters. But four days ago she had written to her confidante such a tale of woe, such a miserable confession of grief and tears, that her friend would not'have been surprised to hear she had ended her life in- some tremenduous tragedy; and here she is now, decked in smiles and her brightest ribbons, without a cloud on the sunny surface of her life! This kind of letter- writing is by no means rare with impulsive girls who cannot hold their tongues, who will not subject them- selves to discipline, who have no power of calculating consequences. They mean no harm, poor fools! though they do speak against their parents, and get them, and their brothers, and sisters a bad name and much ill-will ; they are only impulsive, impatient, confidential, and without faith in the future. With- out understanding, too, that their feelings of to-day are mere transitory moods which will have passed by to-morrow, which the very act of writing out changes, and which will be brought back to them as ghosts when the letter of reply comes in the midst of quite a new set of facts and feelings, shaming and disturb- ing, but not teaching wisdom for the future. There is another class of letter-writers who are also not to be judged by their epistles—those who be- gin in one mood and end in another. Sometimes they set out coldly. They have been affronted, and they want to show resentment thereat, and that they are made of stuff demanding more careful treatment ; so they begin stiffly, with a dearth of adjectives and superlatives, as the best way they know to express their sense of wounded dignity, and to show that they have been “hurt.” But they soon write their dignity dry. After a page or so of this unnatural stiffness, the backbone of their resentment begins to relax, and they lop over into the slipshod affection of their ordinary intercourse. Theaffront avenged, the flood of inane confidence takes its usual course, and the letter ends in the customary blaze of affection after its cool beginning of wounded pride. Some- times it is just the contrary way; and the letter, which began kindly and affectionately, gradually trains off into coldness and anger, as one after an- other old sores are uncovered, and one after another the spectres of old sorrows are brought back to life. These, and more than these writers, never remember that a letter is only atemporary expression of feeling at the best, and that one hour may undo all that the other has woven, and to-morrow see destroyed the e+ ee ae. Se ee ee ao DP Pe Ot Od Oo i ot

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ee ee ae ww wr ee FN GODEY’S ARM-VHAIR. 485 whole fabric of feeling which yesterday was held to be eternal. The most delightful and the most dangerous of all letters are those known as “love letters.” What pieasure in writing them; what rapture in reading them; what laughter by an unfeeling audience when they are read out in full court, and every endearing ex vession is appraised as worth so much in the ver- dict fordamages! What sadder than laughter some- times, when the fatal element of guilt is mixed up with their folly ; and how suicidal the madness which wrote them and the madness which preserved them, when by them is discovered the secret which else might have been kept hidden, and, perhaps, re- pented of, before too late. Yes, letter-writing is a danger if a blessing, a snare for unwary.feet if also a home wherein the heart takes its rest, a garden whereby it has its dearest enjoyment. Rousseau was accustomed to leave his wife for the pleasure of corresponding with her; and if anything can soften the sorrows of separation, it is those sweet and ten- der letters which assure us that our friends have not forgotten us, that out of sight is not necessarily out of mind, and that absence does, in some instances, make the heart grow fonder. And of all people to whom we ought to be diligent and dutiful in our let- ter-writiag, those who are away in foreign countries have the strongest claim. None but those who have experienced it for themselves know the rapturous joy of “letters from home” when the mail arrives, and its contents are distributed; and only those know the biank despair, the mortification, the dis- 2 peintment of an empty post! It is not much to do to write often and lovingly tothe absent; and surely the joy that is given is worth all the labor taken, and the love retained pays back the love that is bestowed. TuoOsE interested in anagrams will find delight in the following :— Astronomers, No more stars. Impatient. Time in a pet. Masquerade, Queer as mad. Matrimony, Into my arm. Melodrama, Made moral. Midshipman, Mind his map. Parishioners, I hire parsons. Parliament, Partial men. Penitentiary, Nay, I repent it. Radical reform, Rare made frolic. Revolution To love ruin. Sir Robert Peel, Terrible poser. Sweetheart, There we sat. Telegraph, Great help. An American captain had as paccenser on board his ship a very beautiful young lady, with whom, in the course of a very short voyage, five young gentle- mien, aiso passengers, fell desperately in love. She — all the young gentlemen, and liking them al equally well, felt herself placed in a ition of some difficulty, and in the emergency applied to the cap- tain for,advice. He, ~y- a man of an original turn of mind, suggested that she should jump overboard (he taking care to have a well-manned boat alongside to prevent the possibility of the farce turning intoa | tragedy) and that she should accept the man who jumpe it notion, and one fine morning, when her five admirers were all upon deck, went over the side head-fore- most. Four of the five immediately followed her lead. Then said the puzzled maiden to the captain: “What am I todo now? See how wet they all are!” “Do?” replied the captain ; “‘ why, take the dry one!” whieh she did; and, it is'to be hoped, lived happy ever afterward. WHuenr: is our old friend Murat, once of Borden- town? We have not heard anything of him since the last kick-up in Paris; and his lovely daaghter, the Duchess de Mouchy? Only that we know our old chum knows how to take care of himself when money is about, we are afraid madame would have to re- sume the school business. \ ito the sea after her. The lady liked the | THE following pretty legend is related, and de- voutly believed in by the inhabitants of the Harz Mountains, of the night-blowing lily of Lauenberg:— “Beautiful Alice dwelt with her widowed mother in a small cottage at the foot of the Harz Mountains. Her principal occupation was that of gathering forest straw—that is the rm of the pine and fir tribe, which is very much u in certain parts of Germany as a stuffing for beds, etc. Thus was the maiden oecupiea when the lord of Lauenberg Castle rode by. ith wily words he extolled her looks, and swore that she was too pretty a blossom to be hid in Spreennt'e cot, and beg er to come and dwell in lordly castle, where she would have nothing to do command, and where all would obey her. “The simple girl was dazzled by the brilliant pros- pect, but, true in her simplicity, flew to her mother and rel all that had transpired. The terrified mother wept bitterly over her darling’s communica- tion; for too well she knew the character of Lauen- berg’s dissolute baron. pay Pees up her few household treasures, she carried off her wondering and sorrowful child to the shelter of a neighboring convent, within whose sacred walls she believed poor Alice trest insecurity. Not long, however, had the simple country girl been immured in the holy edi- fice before the enraged noble discovered her retreat ; and, determined to obtain his prey, assembled his vassals, forced an entrance into the convent, and coizing the object of his passion, bore her, half dead with dread, to his castle. “On arriving at midnight in the garden in front of his embattled dwelling, he alighted, with his sense- jess burden in his arms ; but as he attempted toenter the castle, the guardian spirits of the place snatched the poor maiden out of his grasp, and on the ver spot where her feet had been, sprang up the beauti- ful lily of Lauenberg. “The annual appearance of the lily at midnight is an y looked forward to by the inhabitants of | the Z, and many of them are said to perform a | nightly pilgrimage tosee it, returning to their homes overpowered by its dazzling beauty, and assertin that its splendor is so great that it sheds beams o! light on the valley below.” The following affecting sketch, in which the lily again plays a pari, is given by Lady Herbert in her “Impressions of Spain :”"— “In a cemetery near Seville is a very beautiful though simple marble cross, on which is engraved these lines in Spanish :— *I believe in God ; I hope in God; I love God.’ It is the grave of a poor boy, the only son of a widow. He was not exactly an idiot, but what people call a natural. Good, simple, humble, every one loved him, but no one could teach him anything. . ... He could remember nothing. In vain the poor mother put him first at school and then to a trade; he could not learn. At last, in despair, she took him to a neighboring monastery and implored the abbot, who was a most charitable man, to take him in and treat him as a Jay brother. Touched by her grief, the ab- bot consented, and the boy entered the conyent. There all possible pains were taken by the monks to give him at least some idea of religion; but he could remember nothing but these three sentences. Still he was so patient, so laborious, and so good, that the community decided to keep, “When he had finished his hard out-of-door work, instead of coming in to rest, he would go straight to the church, and there remain on his knees for hours. “*But what does he do?’ exclaimed one of the novices; ‘he does not know how to pray.’ “They therefore hid themselves in aside chapel, close to where he came in. Devoutly kneeling, with clas hands, and his eyes fastened on the taber- nacle, he did nothing but repeat over and over again, ‘I believe in God ; [ hope in God; I love God.’ One day he was missing ; they went to his cell, and found him dead on the straw, with his hands joined, and an expression of the same ineffable peace and joy they had remarked on his face when in the church. They buried him in this quiet cemetery, and the ab- bot caused these words to be graven on the cross. Soon a lily (emblem of rok was seen flowering by the grave, whereon one had planted it; the grave | was opened; ‘the root of the flower was formed in the heart of the orphan boy.’” | Who was the Lady of Lyons? A Lioness, we | suppose.

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486 GODEY’S LADY'S BUOK AND MAGAZINE. A SUBURBAN RESIDENCE, Drawn expressly for Godey’s Lady's Book, by Isaac H. Hosss & Son, Architects, 809 and 811 Chestnut Street, formerly 436 Walnut Street, Philudeiphia, THE above design was built for Mr. J. McCormick from drawings furnished by us, and is situated upon the corner of Locust Street and the river bank, in the city of Harrisburg, and is considered a success- ful building for proportion and grand effect. It maintains a solid mansion-like effect. The windows are large, ceilings lofty, and the material cut lime- ona, laid broken range and pointed. We place it forward in ee with any building of equal cost in the United Sta Those who admire the style will do well to see this house. The cost, finished, was about $15,000. Some Semateoranie beauty rests in the material, which with rchitecture, should always be left so tha it strikes with full foree the beholder. No money is here wasted in unnecessary detail, yet enough to satisfy and not to 0 gorge the taste. FIRST STORY. We have invented a new = of architecture: “The American Ovo order of ceenneteen ” ~~ church buildings and iaaee B public edifices. superior to the most ela’ oe ot oe hest se te Pood adie, wees pill give a design of & house in a few months yes | aes ae i NUIT = : ——— that will illustrate this order. Its characteristics are elegance, perfect perspective atagtesion, an order of constant ¢ mange and variety of which every little de- tail is fixed by the laws of perspective and mathemat- ics. The whole preserves a unity and grandeur unsur- = no other order or style invented by the ancien SECOND STORY. First Floor.—A porch | B hall, 9 feet wide; C par jor. 17 ue 30 feet; sitting-room, 15 by 16 feet; E 5 18 feet ; F dining-room, 17 feet 6 inches by 22 feet; G kitchen, 16 by 18 feet ; H China closet: J peers *K po rch. ond Fldor. —L chamber, 17 by 22 feet; M cham- ber, 19 17 feet four inches; chamber, 16 feet 3inehes by 15 feet; O chamber 17 feet 8 inches by 16 feet 9 inches; P chambe r, 14 feet 9 inches by 18 feet; R chamber, 14 by 18 feet; 38 bath-room. THE present style of men's hats is an exact repre- sentation of the fashion of 1840. The present scram- bled style of ladies’ headdress is of older entieal being, according to a capemnereey, the iden fash ion which prevailed before the invention ‘of com rete oF heise ees awe et. 4 5S... .j s@eeed th ee" Boy op ° aos Bs 2 $s gn OSS Sb be ee te tt ee . = iB peeees pEB uber pSeiF3 ,

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FASHIONS. 487 COLLEGE WIT.—While the learned and venerable Doctor Lord still presided over Dartmouth College and Kept as keen an oversight upon the habits and morals of the young gentlemen o} as they required, a report reached h freshmen, C——, a good student, but rather a fast fellow, was contracting the awful vice of gamblin The doctor was always accustomed to take the b by the horns, and upon this occasion the delinquent was immediately summoned into his * bluntly inter ted. ‘ How’s this, Mr. C——?"! the resident sternly questioned. “I hear that you have en known to na for stakes.” The eye of, the oung reprobate twinkled as he saw a chance for a joke, and he a ae “You have been niisinf , Sir. I have never played for steaks, though I must confess that I have, once or twice, for oysters.” The doctor seprecteted the ingenious wit- ticism, and was easily satisfied that the delinquency had been grossly magnified. ‘ SUBSCRIPTIONS to other magazines sent through us we pay over to the magazine ordered in a elub with the Lapy’s Book, and there our responsibility ends. If you miss a number, write to the publisher of that magazine, or upon any other business connected with it. Somes abandoned male character says he believes that the leading champions of Woman's Rights are men’s lefts. PHILADELPHIA AGENCY. Appress “Fashion Editress, care L. A. Godey, Philadelphia.”” Mrs. Hale is not the Fashion Edi- tress. —" ‘eens attended to unless the cash accompa- es All persons requiring answers by mail must send a post-office stamp; and for all articles that are to be sent by mail, s ps 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. Any person making inquiries to be answered in any particular number must send their request at least two months previous to the date of publication of that number. Mrs. A. M. 8.—Sent articles February 24th. Mrs. M. A. M.—Sent pattern 27th. R. F. B.—Sent pattern 27th. Mrs. G, McL.—Sent pattern March 14th. Mrs. H. C. W.—Sent pattern 14th. E. I. G.—Sent ring by express 17th. L. B.—Sent pattern by express 17th. H, W, M. nt pattern 18th. Mrs. Sos pattern 18th. Miss L. E. T.—Sent dress by express 18th. Mrs. F. C. B.—Sent — 22d. Mrs. N. 8.—Sent articles by express 22d. R. A. Collins. —G6-de, Alice.—We have answered this question twenty times. Your “lady subscriber” cannot be very ob- servant. Ethel T.—The doll’s body could be purchased for $1 50. We do not prepay the freight. It is to be paid by you on rece'pt of the package. “Creve Cocus,” by H. A. W.—You will have to send three three-cent stamps; one to pay three cents FP yours, and two to return MS. You did send any. Mrs. E. A. W.—We do not know what pattern you mean. A Friend.—We always give articles on mourning every season as it changes. You cannot read the Book ategsioety. Too late for the A number by two months. To prepare those initials expressly for benefit of one person, yourself, would cost us ten Sarah.—Chain stitch is made by foeming a loop on the thread, then inserting the k, drawing the thread through the loop already made. Continue this, forming succession of sti Mrs. E. R.— finest of all wools is that from the goat of Thibet, of which the Cashmere shawls are Agnes.—Warm water is preferable to cold water ac 8 drink to persons who are subject to dyspeptic bilious complaints. VOL. LXXxII.—31 Mrs. A. K.—You did not give your post-office but we i not want patterns. are y , Fashions. NOTICE TO LADY SUBSCRIBERS. Having had frequent applications for the purchase of jewelry, millinery, ete., by ladies li . a dis- tance, the Ed the Fashion ment will hereafter execute commissions for any who may de- sire it, with the charge of a small percen for the Po ey material fon arenes. on s for envelopes, hair-work, wi children’s wardrobes, mantil, las, and mantelets will be chosen with a view to eco- nomy as well as taste; and boxes or packages for- express to any part of the country. For the last, directions must be given. Orders, cecomparnas by checks Jor the egsgooes expenditure, to be addressed to the care of A, Godey, Esq. No order be attended to unless the money is first received. Neither the Editor nor the Publisher will be accountable for that may occur in re- mitting. Instructions to be as minute as >, accompa- ams Sy nite os the , com and general rH) choice. style which much depend When gouds are’ PDs gy the fashions fiat revail here govern the panenaee therefore, no articles will be taken back. he per enaer, fee gece action must be considered final. DESCRIPTION OF STEEL FASHION-PLATE. Fig. 1.—Dinner dress of blue silk, made train skirt, and tfmmed with two rows of fancy knotted fringe ; overskirt and bodice of dove-colored silk, trimmed with fringe to correspond in style with that on under- skirt. Square neck postilion bodice, trimmed with lace. Blue vest; elbow sleeves, trimmed with blue silk and deep fall of lace. Fig. 2—Walking dress of light green silk, with an overskirt of fine black and white striped silk; the overskirt is trimmed with ruffles of the same, headed by a ruche of green, and green bows at the sides. Plain corsage, cut heart-shape, and trimmed with striped silk ruffle. White chip hat, trimmed with green velvet and white feather, and lined with green silk; veil of gauze flowing behind. Fig. 3—Visiting dress of white foulard silk, trimmed with purple silk, and worn over a purple silk underskirt, trimmed with a side plaiting. Plain corsage, trimmed with purple silk to represent heart-shape ; open sleeves, with lace sleeves under- neath. White chip gypsy bonnet, trimmed with purple and white flowers. Fig. 4.—Suit of éeru buff silk pongee, made with one skirt, trimmed with white silk, black lace, and black velvet bows. Plain corsage; coat sleeves. Cape over corsage, coming down in front as an apron, and in the back as a basque, trimmed to cor- respond with the skirt. White Milan straw bonnet, trimmed with white and green flowers; black lace veil, falling down in back. Fig. —Evening dress of pink silk, trimmed with flounces of point lace, trimmed with ribbon and black lace, White cloth opera cloak, trimmed with black lace and velvet. Hair arranged in puffs, with pink velvet and white fiowers in it. Fig. 6.—Kilt suit for boy of three years, of buff piqué, trimmed with black braid. Fig. 7.—Suit. for girl of six years old, of white al- paca; the underskirt is trimmed with a band of slik, finished with braiding; the waist and sleeves are also braided ; cherry-colored silk overskirt. Low corsage and open sieceves, trimmed with a narrow ruffle and braiding above it. White straw. hat, trimmed with velvet and feather.

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ee re a grees 488 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. DESCRIPTION OF EXTENSION SHEET. FIRST SIDE. Fig. 1.—House dress of brown silk, trimmed with bands of silk ofa darker shade around the bottom. Deep coat waist, almost forming an overskirt, of a lighter shade of silk, trimmed with ruffie of the same fold of the darker silk and bows; coat sleeves, trimmed to correspond. Fig. 2.—Walking costume of Nankeen-colored serge, made with one skirt, trimmed to simulate two, with points of brown silk, and folds of the same. Basque waist, cut heart-shaped at the throat, finished with a narrow lace; coat sleeves, open on the back of arm. Brown straw hat, trimmed with feathers and velvet of a lighter shade. Fig. 3—Walking dress of very light stone-eolored silk, trimmed to represent an overskirt from the sides, with three ruffles of the same, headed by a blue silk band ; the front breadth is trimmed straight across to correspond. Basque waist, open at the throat, with muslin chemisette beneath ; open sleeves. White chip gypsy bonnet, trimmed with blue velvet, and veil of crape de Chiné. Fig. 4.—Underskirt of purple silk, trimmed with bands of velvet ; overskirt and basque of lilac crape, embroidered with purple silk, and edged with a silk fringe. Black lace hat, trimmed with two shades of purple feathers, and lace scarf at the back. Fig. 5.—House dress of black silk, made with two skirts; the lower one trimmed with one plaited ruffle, headed bya band of silk, piped with satin, and a quilling of satin above it ; these bands are comtinued up the skirt, the ruffle has satin loops on each plait, fastened with a button; the overskirt is cut in three pieces, each piece trimmed all around to correspond with the dress. Basque waist, cut slightly heart- shaped at the throat. Fig. 6.—White chip bonnet, trimmed with white lace, blue ribbon, and blue flowers. Fig. 7.—Bonnet of lilac crape, trimmed with black and white lace and green leaves. Fig. &—Bonnet of white straw, trimmed with white and black lace and pink ribbon, and bird with fea- ther aigrette behind it. Fig. 9.—White chip bonnet, trimmed with white ribbon, black lace, pink roses, and feathers. Figs. 10 and 12—Brooch and ear-ring of Roman gold, with bird in the centre with jewelled eyes. Fig. 11.—Ear-ring of two-colored gold, set with small pearls on the pendant. Fig. 13—Necklace of gold, with three butterflies pendant in front. SECOND SIDE. Fig. 1.—Black silk suit for a lady; the sacque trimmed with a band of velvet, edged with black lace, the edge of saeque being trimmed with fringe. Black straw hat, trimmed with lace and pink flowers. Fig. 2—Walking dress for a lady, of stone-colored summer serge, made with two skirts; the lower one trimmed with a deep side plaiting, headed by a quill- ing of the same; upper skirt trimmed with the quil- ing alone. Coat waist, faced with satin underneath ; coat sleeves. Fig. 3.—Suit for boy of four years, of light-colored cassimere, made with Knickerbocker pants and jacket, with undervest, trimmed with brown silk braid and buttons. Brown straw hat, trimmed with plume and velvet. Fig. 4—Dress for girl of six, of stone-colored silk, trimmed with plaitings of blue silk and blue velvet ; basque waist, trimmed to correspond. Stone-colored straw hat, trimmed with blue velvet and flowers. Fig. i4—Suit for boy of eight years, of Havana- brown cloth, made with plain jacket and pants, trimmed with a stripe of darkercolor. Felt hat to correspond, Fig. 7.—Ladies’ flannel skirt, edged with a scallop and dots in buttonhole stitch. Figs. 8 and 9.—Gentleman’s embroidered dress shirt. The most fashionable shirts are ornamented with a fine embroidery, which may be worked sim- ply on the hem that crosses over where the shirt buttons, ora wider space may be embroidered, and the buttonhole hem ornamented with hem-stitch. Fig. 9 gives a plain style, Fig. 8 a more elaborate one. Fig. 10.—Waist of white Cashmere, plaited and trimmed with blue velvet and narrow black lace. Fig. 11.—Nursery pinafore for a child from two to three. This pinafore is made of brown Holland, with a frill of the same round the sleeves and throat. Fig. 12.—Bow to be placed on the shoulder, of gros grain, with ornament of bead leaves. This bow is made of loops of gros grain ribbon three inches and one-fifth wide, and of lappets of similar ribbon two inches wide: the latter are fringed out all round about three inches and one-tenth, and sewn on pieces of stiff net. The sewing-on of the lappets is covered with an ornament, consisting of five leaves; these leaves are made of stiff net, taken double, edged with wire, and covered with black bugles. The ornament is completed with longer and shorter loops of silk cord, ornamented with beads; in the centre sew on a large jet bead. Fig. 13—Dress for a little girl of white piqué, braided on the skirt and waist with fancy white braid. Fig. 14.—Dress for a little girl of white piqué, cut in points around the bottom, and trimmed with ruffi- ing, braid, and buttons; underskirt of blue silk, with plaited quilling on the bottom. Fig. 15.—Cover of muslin and strips of lace inser- tion. This cover is arranged on a green parasol; it consists of eight pieces of muslin, each eleven and one-fifth inches long, at the lower end nine and one- fifth inches wide, and pointed off towards the other end. The size of the cover depends, however, on that of the parasol. Sew the divisions together at the sides, sewing on along each seam a strip of lace insertion three-fifths of an inch wide, sewing on at the same time a plaited strip of muslin three-fifths of an inch wide, edged with lace two-fifths of an inch wide. In the middle of the cover, two of the strips of insertion must cross each other, while the other strips must oniy come as far as the first. Underneath the strips of insertion the muslin must be cut away. Then fasten a strip of insertion al? round, at a dis- tance of two-fifths of an inch from the lower edge, edged at the top by a plaited strip of muslin .three- fifths of an inch wide, and at the lower edge by a muslin flounce one and three-fifth inches wide ; both muslin flutings are edged with lace. On the top of the parasel fasten a bow of lace insertion, muslin, and lace. Fig. 16.—Ladies’ coiffure, arranged with plaits on each side and a roll through the centre. Short curls in front. Fig. 17.—Nightcap, made of fine cambric muslin. The front is a plain pointed headpiece, bordered in front with a box-plaited frill of embroidered muslin, having a back-stitched band of cambric down the centre. At the back there is a row of wide em- broidered insertion, with a frill round the point. The full crown.has a dra string. Fig. 18.—The material of chemise is fine long- cloth; the pointed piece in front is cambric muslin, tucked and trimmed with insertion and edging of Madeira embroidery. Fig. 19.—Suit for little boy of white cloth, braided en the fine

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| al ag eee el FASHIONS. 489 with black braid. White straw hat, trimmed with black velvet. Fig. 20.—Ladies’ corset made of fine Clotilde, and ornamented with fine stitching and embroidery. Fig. 21.—Fancy cape, made of white Frenck muslin, and trimmed with blue velvet and Valenciennes lace. COIFFURES FOR LITTLE GIRLS FROM SIX TO TEN YEARS OLD. (See Engravings, Page 418.) Figs. 1 and 5.—This style requires a parting down the middle, and also one from ear to ear. Let the back hair be waved and combed down; comb each side of the front hair up to the top of the head, and twist it round twice; then cross the two bands of hair, and tie them together with ribbon; comb out the ends quite smooth, and let them hang down; a velvet bow is worn on the top of the head. Fig. 2.—Divide the front hair down the middle, and plait each side in three ; tie these two plaits together with ribbon, and let them hang down over the back hair; bow of ribbon at the end of each plait. Figs. 3 and 4.—In this style the front hair is divided from the back by a parting across the head from ear to ear; comb the front hair back as far as the part- ing, then plait it in three, and fasten the ends to- gether with a bow of colored ribbon ; comb down the back hair, and let it hang in waves. Fig. 6.—For this style the hair should be all of one length, parted down the middle, and combed down straight at the back. Tie the hair all together about an inch and a half from the ends, with a ribbon long enough to go round the head and tie in a bow at the top. Turn the ends of the hair up underneath, and if it is very long, roll it round, and tie the ribbon at the top of the head; comb the hair smooth, and con- fine it under a fine silk net; a bow of black velvet hides the ribbon. CHITCHAT ON FASHIONS FOR MAY. As the season advances, each day new goods are opened for inspection. For suits, we will endeavor to describe some of the goods seen; no easy matter, when we glance at the bewildering mass before us of different fabrics and shades of it seems almost every known color, and unknown, for many of the shades are unknown, being new colors this spring. Among suit materials is a wiry cotton and wool mixture, called English mohair. It is seen in all the gray, brown, and écru shades, with old fashioned lilac, spring green, clear light blue, and bright rose-color. These goods are in a solid color, with an embossed stripe of white, gold, color, or gay Roman colors near each selvedge. These stripes form the trim- ming for the dress, and may be partly ravelled out to form a kind of crimped fringe. Next these are the grisaille serges, wool with silk face in all the grisaille shades, that can be formed by alternate bias twills of black and white. These clean lookiag grays are especially adapted for a neat ladylike looking suit. Besides these, all the stylish brown shades, cigar, chocolate, and nut brown, are shown in similar goods. One of the handsomest fabrics noted for suits, is otto- man velours, in many light and stylish colors for warmer weather. This velours, though not of heavy quality, has thick ottoman cords or reps crossing it, and is as glossy and well finished as Irish poplin. It is not reversible. The stylish shades are granite, écru, pale ashes of rose, chocolate, golden, and cigar brown, and the green tinged gray called absinthe. The Japanese silks spoken of in our last are seen in a great variety of styles. Wedo not recommend them; but for the benefit of our readers who admire them we mention the styles seen. The lowest priced are solid grounds, in the usual gray and brown shades, also lighter shades, such as écru and green. Another style, imitating the real silks worn in sum- mer, has white ground with double stripe of high color. These are suitable for house dresses and children’s suits. Pin-headed checks of every color with white are seen, larger shepherd’s check, in white and black blocks, the broken plaids, and mixed gray of brown Chinées are the styles most worn. The cool and serviceable pongees of last year are brought out again without any change in appearance. Pattern dresses for the house are shown in empress cloth of light quality and color, two shades of color ineach suit. For instance, all of the dress skirt visi- ble is covered with three scant flounces of light Ha- vanna-brown, while the long overdressis of a darker brown. Many overdresses and upper skirts have buttons or bows down the front, a fashion that will prevail more as the season advances. In commoner goods in light woolen stuffs, solid colors prevail. though a few pencil stripes are seen. Twilled goods, cotton warp with wool filling, are brought out in the Frou Frou buff, brown, and turtle-dove gray tints for street suits, and in pale green and blue for house dresses. A far handsomer fabric than these is called crape poplin, a silk and wool goods slightly repped, yet crinkled like crape. This appears to be service- able, will make very dressy costumes, and is produced in exquisite colors. he 2 mixtures of black and white, producing grisaille effects, and broken plaids of white and black in leno and goat’s hair are worn. In wash goods, small figures, very fine stripes, and broken plaids are the styles presented, and though these may seem but a repetition of old designs, there are some novel pat- terns among them. A pretty effect is given to Eng- lish prints with clear white grounds, by having alter- nating stripes of two shades of one color, either blue, brown, or lavender. Dots, diamonds, blocks, and vines are all shades of one color on purest white. The pretty watered designs, and the harlequin stripes of several contrasting colors are repeated from last season. Colored grounds, gray, brown, or buff, with watered figures, and the clear, bright purple grounds, called double purple, are seen in plain goods. Black and white checkered figures, white stripes, harebells, and sprays of flowers are on the clean cool purple ground. As buff and gray linens have come to be regarded necessary for a summer wardrobe, designers offer a change from the solid colors so long worn. White or black stripes are shown on buff, dove-gray, and brown grounds. The success of these is doubtful, as former attempts to make figured linens popular have failed. These are, however, more tasteful and neat than any of previous seasons. The material is the sheer wiry linen known last yearaslinen lawn. The pretty lawns and muslins have fine diagonal stripes, like twilled goods. These are colored grounds with bias stripes of white, and white grounds with colored stripes. Many of these have a narrow border near each selvedge, that may be used for trimming. Among the new dresses which have been made of wash goods, we have seen some beautiful costumes made in print, pigué, and satteen, which are really charming. The colors are chiefly plain soft shades, and are trimmed with ruffies, frills, and flounces of the same material, edged with a brilliant contrasting color which, being ingrained, will wash with the dress. Green is used for trimming buff and écru dresses, blue and green on white, black on white and on buff. But it is needless to enumerate the endless variety of colors and contrasts, for persons can exer-

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490 GODEY’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. cise their own taste an’? judgment in the selection. The white piqué dresses trimmed with a color are really lovely and very becoming. A brunette should choose white, trimmed with rose-color; buff is very becoming to dark girls, with bright colors. Blonde beauties may wear rose-coler, but blue or green brings out their “best points,” as artisis say. A bow of ribbon should match the color of the trim- ming for the hair; or what is better for morning wear is a bow of the same material as the trimming. Par example, a soft fawn-colored washing satteen, trimmed with green, and a Louis XV. bow of green trimming as coiffure. It looks well, washes with the dress, and looks new and fresh each time it is returned from the laundress, Plain black grenadines will be as popular as last season; black grenadines, with tiny colored stripes, gold, blue, purple, green, or white, and figured and dotted grenadines are also revived. For the benefit ef our Southern readers, and others who prepare their wardrobe before the season, we give some hints in making a grenadine suit that forms so valua- ble a part of a summer outfit. The Polonaise and single skirt will be the model for such suits, and we remark, in passing, that the neck and sleeve linings of thin dresses should not be cut out. That fashion has become obsolete here, and looks vulgar, espe- cially on the street. A black grenadine costume lately seen, had a skirt of walking length of black silk, without a covering of grenadine, but trimmed above the knee. Around the bottom are two side plaited ruffles of grenadine, straight, and eritpping inches wide when hemmed. Above, and ove ng these, is a wide bias gathered flounce, over which is draped a loose chain of puffs, and the final heading is two erect plaitings, each an inch wide. The Polo- naise of grenadine is long enough to reach to this trimming. It is tight-fitting, being lined with strong black silk, and shaped by darts and side bodies. The unlined skirt of the Polonaise is in one piece with the waist, but has added fullness behind. It hangs plainly in the back, but is caught up high at the sides. A side plaiting four inches wide, with an inch plaited heading is the trimming. The sleeves are Duchesse- shaped coat sleeves, with an opening up the outer seam tothe elbow. A plaiting surrounds the wrist and extends up the opening, while inside is a rnffied fall of black lace. The neck has also a plaiting and lace. Long looped bows of black gros grain doubled, and two inches wide when sewed together, are placed on the hips and on the back of the waist. Striped silks are being made up into house dresses tor afternoon wear. From sixteen to twenty yards are required for a plain demi train, and a postilion basque ; from twenty-five to thirty-five yards for a short skirt, trained overskirt, and postilion. A single skirt is all that is necessary for the house. For a lady of medium height, the train should be about fifty-five inches long, gored in front and sides, full behind, about four and a half yards wide, and lined stripe. . The edge of the skirt may be scalicped an’ bound with silk, but it is not necessary to trim it, as same as the old fashioned Canton crape shawls, and the lining is the thinnest silk, either lavender, salmon, or pale blue. The paletdt falls in with the line of the figure, being sloped in the single seam that passes down the centre of the back. A funnel-shaped fold in the Watteau fashion begins at the neck behind, and widens below, where the garment is curved open to the waist. The sleeves are plain Oriental, wide and flowing. The neck is finished with a standing frill of black lace, vad the trimming is very rich braiding of black soutache in a rose vine pattern; the edge finished by two kinds of fringe, a crimped fringe being laid over straight sewing silk fringe. The braiding is three inches wide, and the fringe four inches. These crepe paletdts will be cooler than those of gros grain for summer wear, and can be made of the Canton crape shawls that are now out of style. These shawls dye black, and ashes of roses shades very well. This shape paletdts will also be made of silk, trimmed with lace and gimp, and of material of suit. Straw bonnets are greatly worn; fine English dun- stables, smooth Milan braids, chip, English pearl braid, with pointed edges, and the coarse looking, but stylish rough and ready straws constitute the variety. The gypsy, cottage, and empire shapes with crown, short-eared head piece, and tiny curtain are the new styles. The brim of the gypsy is shaped in a variety of ways. A pretty style has the brim rolled up all around, and slightly pointed over the ears; another has a border of twisted braid around it; still another is plain and straight in the front, with a deep fluted back ; while a fourth is scalloped around the edge. The cottage shape, a medium bonnet for old ladies, frames the face closely, and almost meets under the chin. Light Milans are colored in the pale leather color, tan, and other brown shades, and in every tint of gray to match the spring costumes. Two shades of one color of narrow gros grain ribbon is used for trimming. Many round hats partake so largely of gypsy shape that they can hardly be called hats, while others retain some features of last sea- son’s styles, such as half high sloping crowns and rolled brims. The turban reappears, with round crown, and broad, straight brim rolled closely against the crown. For school girls, is a hat called the Galatea, an ample sailor shape of rough and ready straw. Shade hats for country wear are in great variety. One of the prettiest, called the gypsy queen, has the broad brim indented sharply above the ears, and is to be held on by a ribbon passed over the crown and tied under the chin. The St. Leon is a graceful garden hat. The crown is half high and square; the brim is two inches wide and slightly fluted. Infants’ hats of fine Milan, and the soft but frail split straw are turbans, with concave brims, for boys, and fancifully indented gypsies for girls. White, buff, and gray piqués are used for children’s dresses. For boys too young to wear pantaloons there are the kilt skirts spoken of last month ; they are now being made of piqué, to be buttoned on shirt waists of white linen or muslin. The kilt plaits, from the belt to the edge of the skirt, are laid deeply all around except in front, where it is left plain for a space two finger lengths broad. Perpendicular rows of braid extend from the belt half-way down the front. The edge of the skirt is simply hemmed. The belt has two rows of braid. Kilt skirts are not sewed up, but are merely lapped under in front, and held by two rosettes on the right side of the skirt. A little dress for girls has a Gabrielle front, while the back is cut off at the waist, and a full skirt like a Polonaise is added. A round talma is worn in the street with this, and gives the effect of a walking dress. FASHION.

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