Godey's Lady's Book And Magazine 1871-07: Vol 83 Iss 493

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GODEY’S Xady's Book and Magazine. VOLUME LXXXIIL—NO. 493. PHILADELPHIA, JULY, 1871. + Oe THE HEART OF JOHN STEWART. BY MARION HARLAND. THERE were no external marks of the hero about him who is the subject of this story of real life. He was tall, gaunt, and angular ; he stooped slightly ; his hair was iron-gray ; his features, never handsome, were grave to severity. ‘ Hard-featured,”’ people called him who had never seen the rare, sudden smile, that reminded those who remarked it of the break of the sunrise down and over the moun- tains. He was in his private office on a bright June morning, dressed in decent black, with a smooth white cravat tied after the fashion of forty years ago; the close-bodied dress coat he had never laid aside for the modern frock or sack, worn by his associates during business hours, buttoned about his spare waist, and showing his shoulder-blades sharply, as he bent over his desk, reading the letters brought by the early mail. The last opened was the longest, and bore the same signature as his own, with a “Jr.” aulded flourishingly in the college-boy’s boldest hand. The senior’s eyes lingered upon this as they had not upon the subject-matter of the epistle. “I suppose," he said, within himself, al- though his thin lips did not stir, ‘‘ I suppose that would have been the name of my son if I had ever had one.” He docketed the rest of the letters, sum- moned aclerk to receive them with his instruc- tions respecting the answers to be written, and, when again alone, sat in his revolving-chair, his head upon his hand, and eyes half-shut, his nephew’s letter lying open before him. His nephew and heir, so decreed the world, ever ready to interest itself in rich men’s affairs, and paid the boy due court accordingly. A nice enough boy, take him all-in-all; bright- faced and bright-tempered, who, as he had in- formed his uncle by mail, had taken the third honor in college, and was naturally desirous ing Commencement. John Stewart’s only and dead brother’s only child, whom he had main- tained since his father’s death, fifteen years back, although the widow had married a man in comfortable circumstances. The boy had behaved as well as could be expected from a lad “‘ with expectations ;’’ presuming less upon these than most persons of his age would have done ; deporting himself respectfully, but not servilely, to the rich bachelor, and never vex- ing his moral, respectable soul with pathetic petitions for means to pay debts of honor, or pleading the unavoidable expenses of college | life as a reason for the increase of the liberal allowance transmitted to him quarterly. It | was not anxiety about the John Stewart, Jr., | that was, which shaded the deep-set eyes with | a sadder seriousness, drew more tightly the crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes, the wider, longer furrows about the mouth. It was the thought of that other to whom the name should have belonged, the boy who had never been, the fine youth who should have penned that letter, or—for it did not seem to him that he could have suffered him out of his sight for long at a time—who should now be sitting opposite him, talking in the cheery, hearty way he liked to see in young men, al- though he had never had it himself; looking into his eyes with others as loving, and far more beautiful, dark gray, with long, black lashes, such as he used to meet so often at the church-door, when Ursula Force sang in the choir of the Presbyterian church at the other end of town. The church had been abandoned of its wor- shippers, and sold for a hat-factory twenty years since, and six years before that Ursula married the showy young clergyman, who turned all the girls’ heads, and made those of their elders shake in doubting reproof, during the winter the old pastor lay dying of con- sumption. Faithful shepherd to the last, he still kept watch and ward over his flock, al- though heart and flesh were faint. All that that his benefactor should attend the approach- VOL. LXXXIII.—3 concerned their welfare, temporal or spiritual,

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34 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. interested him, and John Stewart well under- stood the meaning of the long hand-pressure, the pitying look in the dim eyes, that were his salutation on the last night he sat up alone with him. He had taken his turn at watching, with half-a-dezen other young men in the church, for three months; learned many and lasting lessons from the lips which were so soon to be dumb. He,had forgotten none of them, but he remembered that latest interview as distinctly as if it had taken place but yester- day. Not a word was spoken by either, touch- ing the weight that was crushing the spirit of one, and sorely grieving that of the other, until the night was far spent. Then, the pastor laid his trembling hand upen that which had just held the cup to his lips. “My dear boy, Gop will help you bear it; I cannot. But I am praying for youall the time you are breasting the deep waters.”’ Ursula Force had been to him almost as a daughter, and he had cordially approved of her engagement with John Stewart. She could hardly have done better—popular beauty though she was—than to put her happiness in the keeping of one whose sound principles and strong sense were fast earning for him a name and a place in the community, whose heart the pastor knew to be true and pure as gold. The Reverend Norman Lansing had captivated her faney and flattered her vanity, but the old clergyman doubted his ability or disposition to make her as happy as the less demonstrative wooer would have done. **He loves himself too well,’’ he had said to his wife. ‘‘The girl has made a mistake—a sad, sad mistake !’’ He repeated this to John Stewart that night, in a sorrowful, absent-minded way, as if his eyes were peering down the vista of years to come. ‘She will live to repent it.”’ ‘*Heaven forbid !’’ was the hoarse rejoinder. He meant it then and always. Shehad flung him aside, and the memories of years of single- hearted devotion, with as little apparent com- punction as if she had been giving away a garment, useful once, but now out of fashion. The wrench had warped the man’s nature, but the grain was too noble to allow him to harbor a thought of spite or revenge. The thing con- secrated by his love was sacred for evermore. His only intimate friend—the one confidant of this and every trial from their school-days up to manhood—died the fellowing year, leav- ing a widow and an infant. John Stewart visited them, cared for them as if he had been in truth the lost husband’s brother, until the young woman, her weeds still fresh, begged him, amid tears and blushes, to ‘‘ discontinue his pointed attentions. They set people to talking, and—and—the truth was—she was engaged to marry Mr. Walsh, a very old friend, to whom she had been attached before her union with her lamented George, and he was | disposed to be jealous about Mr. Stewart’s visits., She was very grateful for all his good- ness. sinee dear George’s death. She didn’t know how she could have got along without his help—but people would talk !’’ ‘Jealous of me/’’ said John Stewart, widen- ing his sad eyes in blank amaze. ‘‘ Why, Mrs. Judson, you, your new lover, and ‘people’ generally, should know that the fact that you were once George’s wife would hedge you about from any thought or word of mine in- consistent with the respect I bear his memory. If he were living, you would not be more effectually protected from me.”’ But he obeyed her behest and “ people’s’”’ scruples. From that day to this he had avoided the society of ladies. ‘‘ Misogynist and mer- cantile machine,’’ sneered flippant girls, not yet sufficiently wérld-wise to see in his wealth an ample cloak for his austerity and indiffer- ence to their charms. They thought him ‘an odious bear’’ and ‘‘a wooden man,’’ and turned up their noses pertly at meeting him in the street. ‘‘A disappointed being who deserves a better fate,’’ and ‘‘Such a good chance thrown away,’’ sighed manceuvring matrons and pru- dent spinsters. He had never looked upon Ursula Lansing’s face, had not heard her name in a decade. He only knew that her husband was dead, and that she was childless. Like himself. No son of hers, bearing an- other man’s name, would ever strike him to the heart with her eyes. Was it the June sun- shine or the little glass of mignonette set in the window by the Scotch porter—whom the clerks deemed half-witted, yet dared not tease because Mr. Stewart protected him—that brought her so vividly before him this morning? It cer- tainly was not John Stewart, Jr.’s letter lying unanswered upon the desk at his elbow. By the way, it must be attended to. He shook himself as from sleep, and wrote to the lad less stiffly than was his custom, accepting his invitation for Commencement, and request- ing him to engage a comfortable room on the second floor, with a sunny front, in the best hotel in the college town, for his acecommoda- tion. He wrote again, two days in advance of his departure, to notify the junior by what train to expect him, and found him dutifully await- ing him at the depot. The second-floor room had a sunny front, but the windows opened upon a piazza, and the fastidious bachelor closed his blinds upon noticing this, the more quickly and securely for seeing the flutter of a silk dress at a neighboring door as he leaned out to undo the fastening that held open a shutter. The college-hall was thronged that night to hear the orations of the junior class. Mr. Stewart attended to please his nephew. He was the boy’s guest in some sense, and would sacrifice his personal ease for his gratification. From beginning to end of the exercises he sat aon ae an lCUlUvelClCUD

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THE HEART OF JOHN STEWART. 35 with outward decorum and inward tortures, as destitute of sympathy with the enthusiasm of the»students and the gay complaisance of the visitors as if he had been one of the moulded caryatides supporting the galleries on either hand of him. They were crowded with ladies —young, merry, fashionable, and intellectual— and a continua! battery of bright eyes was bent upon the very gray-haired nabob in the dress coat and prim cravat, sitting, immovable and unsmiling, in the centre aisle. But the most charming and the most watchful failed to de- tect a token of recognition of their existence. He was very callous or very shy, they decided, with various degrees of pique. Whoever would make beaux yeux at his fortune with any hope of success would have to select John, Jr., the presumptive legatee, as the means to an end. “A little tired with the journey and the speeches, and the music made my head ache,”’ confessed the uncle, politely suppressing a yawn, when John, Jr., had escorted him to his chamber. ‘And since there will be a good deal more of the same thing to-morrow, I must have a fair night’s rest. That will set me up all right. I won’t ask you in. It is late. Good-night! Thank you, but I seldom dream ; that is a youthful habit,”’ for the bey had wished him ‘sound slumbers and pleasant dreams !’’ The beams of the full moon streamed in be- tween the movable slats of the window-blinds. “‘T was sure I shut them up tight,’’ thought John Stewart, and, before striking a light, crossed the room to exclude the white rays. A waft of mignonette scent came to him from without. Some one was strolling up and down the piazza, singing very softly to herself an old-fashioned Scotch ballad, ‘‘ Ye banks and braes.”’ It was a rich, sweet voice, and the unseen occupant of the chamber stayed his hand that he might listen; his head bowed upon his chest, and eyes almost closed—his wonted attitude of reverie. Busy fingers, with talons of steel, seemed to tug and strain at his heart-strings, until he nearly swooned in the mingled anguish and pleasure of recollection. It was the song he used to love best, Ursula’s favorite, as they rambled in the great garden behind her father’s house, sauntering under the summer moon along the walk edged with mig- nonette. The mignonette that bloomed and blackened into dust in the last generation ; the garden now built up with tall brick stores. Yet, in the blinding spasm of memory, he be- lieved himself there still for one wild moment ; felt Ursula’s hand in his, her breath upon his cheek. When he could look up and command his thoughts, a shadow lay athwart the moonlit floor. A lady, dressed in white, with a black | lace shaw] thrown over her head and shoulders, leaned on the piazza-railing, and gazed upward at the moon. She stood there still, without change of posture or gaze, five minutes later, when the blinds were unclosed and John Stew- art stepped through the long French window. ** Ursula!’ A start of intensest surprise—a quick, im- petuous movement toward him with both hands outstretched in rapturous welcome—then, a recoil as abrupt, a burying Of the face in her hands as if overpowered by shame and tender- | ness—these told the whole story to the heart .that had ached ereptily for her for a quarter of a century. “Ursula!” The long-locked tide surging up | ina rush of passion, longing, and pity. “Dowe | not stand in heart where we did in the blessed olden time—the dear Jang syne when we loved | and trusted one another? Oh, my darling, I | have wanted you so long! so long! Come back to me!”’ | She made as though she would have fallen at his feet had he not upheld her. Her voice was tremulous with weeping. “Noble! faithful! Can you forgive?” was all he could distinguish of the incoherent murmur. “I forgave you always! I forget now,’ was * the answer. They talked together long and earnestly in the moonlight that mellowed the ravages of time in both. “‘T did not know why I was too restless to think of sleep to-night,”’ she said, clasping her hands upon his arm, in the well-remembered fashion that thrilled him through and through, raising the still lovely face and ever-matchless eyes to his view. ‘‘I could not divine what | impelled me to walk here when I believed everybody else on this side of the house had retired ; to muse of old times and lost. happi- ness, and renew the vain repentance that has been my hourly companion fom years. I did not dream you were so near me. I understand itallnow. O John, if I sinned against you, I also sacrified my own peace of mind! I have suffered ; I can never tell you how much.”’ *“ You never shall try to tell me—never, if I can help it, look back to the season we have passed apart from one another. We begin our new life—or join it on to the old so closely we shall never see the seam where it is welded— from this hour.” When John, Jr., called to breakfast with his uncle, he was directed to a private parlor he had not been instructed to engage. A hand- some woman, in a flowing muslin negligé and a | lace breakfast-cap, looking sweet and cool as a | micra phylia rose, in the shaded room, hot as | was the July morning, was pouring out the millionaire’s Souchong. John Stewart arose |} at his nephew’s entrance, and shook hands | with him, his face aglow with his rare smile. ‘‘Mrs. Lansing, allow me to present my | brother’s son, and my namesake. John, my | boy, this lady has promised to become your | aunt in season to listen to your graduation | speeeh.”’

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36 GODEY’'S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. She kept her word, but the ceremony was performed at the house of the officiating cler- gyman, and so quietly that not three persons in the crowd, packing every corner of the audi- ence-hall to overflowing that scorching day, suspected the relation just formed between the pretty widow, whose errand to the neighbor- hood was said by the gossips to be husband- catching, and the wealthy city merchant, who chanced to get a seat in the same pew with her. They did not speak or look at one another, it was remembered afterward, although both ap- peared to hearken with especial interest to poor, dazed John’s oration. Mr. and Mrs. Stewart were off upon their bridal tour before the story of their renewed courtship and hasty wedding took wind. The honeymoon was spent by the time they settled themselves in their city home. The whirlpool of gossip that had dashed and roared into stormy foam at every mention of their names, seethed itself into meek whispers at Mr. Stew- art’s reappearance in his accustomed haunts, dignified and quiet as ever; as circumspect in demeanor and formal in attire, as vigilant and energetic in business. The most forwardly- inquisitive of his acquaintances durst not ques- tion him as to the causes that led to his change of life. The least gallant declared that his wife’s face and manner were enough to turn the brain of a younger and more impressible man. That he had succumbed to their magic, was a proof that old Jack Stewart had yet a morsel of heart hid away somewhere in his | lean body ; a thing nobody would have credited without indisputable evidence. Mrs. Stewart was a remarkably well-pre- served woman. In reality, she was but six years younger than her husband. A stranger would have guessed sixteen, and then marvelled at her fresh complexion, dazzling teeth, and sparkling eyes, at her lively flow of society chitchat, and the girlish music of her laugh. Her beauty and health had been her only capi- tal all her life, and she had guarded both with serupulous care, religiously avoiding disquiet- ing cares and profound thought whenever she could. She came back to the city which was her girlhood’s home, without a visible blush over the fickleness and perfidy that had pre- ceded her departure from it as Norman Lan- sing’s hastily-wooed bride ; without a haunting memory; so far as lookers-on could discern, of the man who had lured her from her troth to her earlier lover, or regret that she had, in yielding to his suit, delayed her present good fortune. She had known privations as the spouse of an invalid clergyman—so ran the talk of the wiseacres—trials by poverty, and the peevish humors of an arbitrary, sick, and disappointed man. If she had ever laid these to heart, she hid their imprint successfully. She heartily enjoyed her altered position, the luxurious establishment of which she was mis- tress ; the large circle of appreciative admirers collected about her by her husband’s wealth ; was unaffectedly grateful to him to whom: she owed her prosperity. Thus much, Society saw. There could be no fault found with her demeanor to her mature bridegroom. It was respectful and affectionate, without being fool- ishly fond. She was watchful of his comfort, quick in recognition of his attentions and many excellent qualities, and had the good taste to refrain from all public allusions to the circumstances of their old-time intimacy and their reunion. What common sense and the innate delicacy for which he seldom received credit did for him in the regulation of his be- havior outside of his home, tact accomplished for her. Brilliant she had never been. The past had showed that she was neither deep- | hearted nor stable. She was handsomé and cunning, but never malicious or vicious—only thoroughly and altogether selfish in her amiable way. The world is full of such people—those for whom the law and the prophets hang upon the proposition that self-preservation is the first law of nature. Having taken the best imaginable care of themselves, they are then willing—rather desirous, in fact—that the rest of mankind should have a comfortable time. It is disagreeable to see suffering, and to listen to complaints. These are the women who spoil their children by indulgence, sooner than resist importunities and repress way wardness ; who dupe instead of disputing with their hus- bands ; whose god is their own ease, and whose watchword through life is, ‘‘ Anything for peace !’’—(to myself!)—the bracketed phrase being understood, not expressed. These are the women, too, for whose sweet sake men more often go mad, cut one another’s throats, and sacrifice their hopes for time and eternity —curse Gop, and die—than for a Lucretia, a Roland, a Sappho, or an Elizabeth Fry. This was the woman at whose shrine, broken and dusty, John Stewart had watched—a vestal— through the unlighted vigil of years; upon | whom he now lavished the wealth of heart and | purse without stint. ‘It is ever so nice to be adored! You can’t think!” lisped a pretty doll to me once, after describing the incident of her conquest of ome | of the noblest hearts that ever beat. | Ursula Stewart’s tact saved her from such spoken folly, but this was her idea, all the | same. | They had been married two months. No mortal ever knew how near to the widely- opened door of Paradise John Stewart had lived in those eight weeks ; how abundantly his early dreams and the oft and sternly repressed aspirations of riper manhood were fulfilled by them. ‘**T feel, half the time, like a dreaming man, who dreads the awakening,’’ he said, one autumn morning, as he toyed with his tea-cup faith into folde stoop none! the le was a “ec “ I ha to me woma ried y fast ai letters just tl Says ij Is long my ar

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to prolong the breakfast talk with his wife. “As the children say about holidays, when they have actually come, ‘It is too good to be true.’”’ “It is very naughty and unkind in you to hint at the possibility of an awakening,’’ re- torted his cés-a-cis, with a charming pout, belied by the tender smile in the moist eyes. “Unkind!’’ The word jarred upon his. ear. He arose, came around to her, and slipped his hand under her chin, brought the eyes he so tenderly loved to bear upon his. “I do not think I could ever be that to you, my darling. I know you could never deserve it.’’ “You do trust me a little—just a little, then ?” She shifted his hand to her lips, then rested her cheek, soft and rosy as a girl’s, within his palm for a moment. He felt the warmth of the caress long after it was removed. “If I did not, I should pray to die,’’ he said, strongly, almost fiercely. They had exchanged the parting salutation he never offered in the presence of a third per- son, and he was at the foot of the tall flight of marble steps which were the imposing entrance to his home, when her voice called him softly from the top. ** John, love !’’ He glanced back, and noted, for the thou- sandth time, how fair and winsome she was; how bewitching her smile; how like heaven her eyes. “John, dear,” bending forward with a mis- chievous laugh, and speaking almost in a whis- per, “please don’t wake up before you come back !”” He raised his hat in reply, as if he weuld have waved it in his triumphant security, but for the thought that others might see the ges- ture; the sudden illumination she knew how to kindle, flashing over his countenance—and was gone. John Stewart said a grave “‘Good-morning”’ to the clerks in the store and outer office; a kindly one to Seotch Jamie, who stood at the door of the inner, watching, with spaniel-like faithfulness, for his master’s approach ; passed into his private room, hung up his hat, and folded his gloves in his methodical way; stooped, for a long second, to the glass of mig- nonette in the window, and sat down to read the letters awaiting him. The first he opened was a bulky packet. ‘* Mr. JOHN STEWART’’ (it began, abruptly): “T have just returned to what was a dear home to me, from a visit to the far West, to find the woman I have courted for five years has mar- ried you for your money. She was engaged, fast and firm, to me, as you will see from the letters I send with this—the last one written just the day before her marriage to you. She says in that that she loves me, me only, and is longing for the day that will give her into my arms. She calls me her ‘darling hus- THE HEART OF JOHN STEWART. 37 band.’ And twenty-four hours afterward she sold herself to you. When you have read these letters, give them to her, and tell her to return mine; also the gifts I was constantly loading her with, like the blind fool I was. I don’t mean to be insulting to you, but a man in my position can’t pick his words. Iam more sorry than angry with you, for a woman who has fooled one man as she has me, will fool another, Very respectfully, Davip Guin.” Mrs. Stewart was stepping into her carriage for a round of morning calls when Scotch Jamie touched his hat to her and handed a parcel. Seeing her husband’s handwriting upon the cover, and suspecting one of the sur- prise-gifts he had a habit of bestowing upon her, she nodded graciously to the bearer, with a pleasant ‘‘ Thank you, Jamie!’ and bade the coachman ‘“ Drive on,’’ as she sank upon the yielding cushions. There were four seals upon the wrapping of the little bundle, stamped with John Stewart’s monogram, and she broke them smilingly. Twelve letters dropped out into her lap. She knew them at a glance, and, with a stifled cry of horror, clutched at a fresher, smoother envelope directed in Mr. Stewart’s hand to his wife. David Guild’s let- ter to him was folded up with a-note to her. ‘Ursula, I have not read these, although bidden to do so. They are yours, not mine. If what this man says is true, you should this hour be his wife, instead of in my home. If he has spoken falsehood, you may give me the letters to examine when I come in to dinner, and I will answer him as he deserves. If you were, indeed, engaged to him when you mar- ried me, I desire no further discussion of the subject with him, or with you, now or ever. Words could not repair the wrong I have done him, or the wrong you have done me. I still hope that you can deny his accusation ; shall trust you until I learn my error from your own lips. JOHN STEWART.”’ For one moment the fortunate mistress of the finest mansion and carriage in the city thought of throwing herself beneath the wheels that were bearing her down the paved streets. For five minutes she revolved seriously the feasibility of writing twelve other letters, in- nocent, friendly epistles, to be slipped into the envelopes directed to Mr. David Guild, the well-to-do land agent and speculator she had thought a very tolerable match until fate threw John Stewart at her feet. If she had been morally sure that her husband had spoken truth in asserting that he had not read the fatal—now abhorred—love-letters forwarded by the forsaken swain, she would have resorted to this subterfuge without a scruple. But it was difficult for a wily nature to comprehend an upright one. If John had suspected the contents of the packet, even partially, her stratagem would work out her more grievous discomfiture. “The straight path is always the safest,” she uttered, virtuously, and ordered the car- riage homeward.

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38 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. When there, she locked herself in her room and proceeded to business. The returned let- ters were burned; then she made up a bundle of Mr. David Guild’s presents, which were mostly flashy jewelry, unworthy of Mrs. Stew- art’s wearing, and sent it off to him with a curt note, stating that she “‘had destroyed all Ais notes and letters prior io her marriage to the man of her choice, the only one she had ever truly loved.”” She gave the meddler to understand, furthermore, that ‘‘ his impertinent and most dishonorable attempt to sow dissension between herself and her honored husband had been useless ; had only cemented the confidence between them. She forgave him freely, how- ever. She was too happy to cherish resentment against any living creature, least of all, one who had once professed to be her true friend. She was disappointed and grieved by his un- kindness, but she yet remained, with sincere wishes for his welfare and happiness, Aés friend, UrRsvuLa STEWART.” She was quite proud of the composition in reading it over. It was neat and magnani- mous, and could do no harm should the wretch choose to send it to John. He was a wretch— a base, malicious villain, to cause her so much annoyance when she was so comfortable; a jagged gravel-stone in her bed of roses. She had not believed there were such cruel, wicked people in the world. Of course, the affair would blow over, but there would be a scene— apologies, and making-up, and all that—with John, and the sooner it was gone through with, the better. She dressed herself in her most becoming attire, called up her best looks, and went down to meet him when she heard his latch-key in the front door; was close be- side him, while he hung his hat upon the rack, her lips held up for the usual welcome kiss. She did not receive it. Putting his hands be- hind him, he looked down steadfastly at her. **Where are the letters ?”’ **T have burned them, John.”’ *T understand.” He turned on his heel and walked into the library ; would have shut himself in, had she not followed. ‘What is it, Ursula?” he asked, as she cast herself upon his neck. “Don’t speak so coldly to me, John. You break my heart,’’ she sobbed. He stood like a statue, the dry, nervous fingers interlocked behind his back, his features hard, his eyelids drooping. “I was so poor! so lonely!’ she went on. ‘*He persecuted me with his attentions, and I thought you were lost to me forever.” “Tt was true, then, that when you married me, you were solemnly pledged to him?’’ he said, in a harsh voice, although his countenance did not change. **But I never loved him,’’ cried the wife, eagerly. ‘I knew that, all the while.” **The more shame to you, if that was so. I have heard enough.”’ He undid her arms, put them down to her side as if she had been a lay-figure, crossed the room, and picked up the evening paper. She understood, from that instant, that all efforts to bridge the guif would be fruitless, and ac- cepted the situation as she did all other inevi- table things, with philosophical grace. She would no sooner have tortured her temper and sensibilities by combating his fixed purpose than she would have bruised her soft hands and arms by beating against a stone wall. It is even a matter of doubt whether, as time wore on, she did not find their changed manner of life more te her taste than the former. She loved liberty and luxury, and both were hers. The allowance granted for her private wants was munificent, and she was not galled by the reflection that it was a stated sum paid at regu- lar periods, instead of the constant outfiow of a lover’s bounty. ‘‘ Mr. Stewart’’ had his apart- ments, and she hers. She liked society; he, solitude. She was fond of amusements and gayety ; he was wedded to his business. In short, he went his way, and left her to hers. She had found it ‘‘ nice’’ to be adored, but the present system had its advantages. It was not exactly a cross, when one had made up her mind to it, to be ever ready to receive and re- turn caresses and love-words, but it did cost her some thought; was not, at all seasons, equally convenient. If forced to frank confes- sion, she would have owned that she considered it sometimes a relief not to be called upon for demonstrations of affection. They were a bit of a bore when one was tired and dull, and, to tell the truth, a trifle absurd in people of their age. Courteous moderation was far more be- coming. That her husband suffered more than herself from the rupture, in aught save in wounded pride, did not occur to her as a sub- ject worthy of consideration. John was a sen- sible man, and should have known better than to imagine that a fine woman like herself could have lived a widow eight years without ad- mirers. He ought, if he could be persuaded to regard the matter in a proper light, to feel flat- tered, not incensed, that she threw the land speculator overboard for him. But men were apt to be jealous and unreasonable. She might thank her stars that there had been but one explosion. Some husbands would have growled about it incessantly. They walked on, then, in their diverging paths ; he growing daily more wealthy and more reserved, keener in driving equitable bar- gains, and ‘more reticent in all pertaining to his personal affairs—‘‘Freezing and drying up,”’ his acquaintances repeated concerning him so often it grew into a by-word ; she gained in popularity steadily, and lost none of her good looks with the revolving seasons that stole away the charms of many younger and more

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‘ , cal , Se Se Oe — oom it Y he OD THE HEART OF JOHN STEWART. 39 sensitive women, until, on the fifth anniversary of their wedding-day, she dropped dead before her toilet-glass while arranging her headdress for a dinner-party at the house of a friend. ‘‘ Disease of the heart,’’ reported the papers in their fulsome eulogies of the rich man’s beautiful wife, and they but followed the lead of the doctors who, had investigated the case. John Stewart may have doubted the correctness of the verdict, but he was taciturn in his dry- eyed mourning as he had been during his wife's lifetime. The ways of the household continued the same. A housekeeper managed the ser- vants, did the marketing, and looked after her employer’s linen. His valet, a gray-haired Scotchman, kept his apartments in order. He had no intimate associates, although he gave freely and cheerfully to public and private | newly-gotten substance for the erection of the charities. The needy never applied to him in vain, but he shunned verbai thanksgivings as he did women. Condolences and blandish- ments were alike ineffectual in drawing him from his citadel of dignified indifference to the sex who s9 pitied his loneliness and admired his fortune. ‘‘Freezing and drying up!’’ echoed and re- | | upon the breast of his old master. echoed his best friends (?). He settled John, Jr., in business, and, when he married, made | his wife a present of an elegant house. Upon the birth of John the third, he refused to attend the christening supper, but sent with his ‘ re- gret’”’ a cheque for a handsome amount, as a nest-egg for the boy’s fortune. Yet he never entered his nephew’s house or saw the child unless by accident. ‘He cares for nothing but money,” John complained to his spouse. She, justly indignant at the obstinacy that kept her and hers out of their own, rejoined : ‘* And means to live forever to enjoy it, I verily believe.” John Stewart was seventy-four years of age, when, slipping upon the upper step of the mar- ble flight leading up to his door, on a sleety night, he struck his head with such force against the lower that he was taken up for dead. He breathed his last ten hours later. He never spoke after the hurt was received ; only lay with closed eyes, the thin, gray hands folded upon the heart men said had frozen and dried up long, long ago, until death silenced the faint throbbing, and the John Stewart, Jrs., could come into their kingdom. His wili was the town-talk for the conven- tional nine days. He had forgotten nobody who had ever showed him a kindness, it seemed, or who could be said to have the remotest claim upon his regard and wealth. All his clerks, including Scotch Jamie, had large legacies ; the benevolent institutions of city and State were remembered, with dozens of his old pensioners, from whom, when he was alive, he would never hear a syllable of acknowledgment. Among | sum of ten thousand dollars. | . . . | the bequests which excited wondering comment were these two :— “To David Guild, of , five thousand dollars, in memory of an unintentional wrong once done him.’’ And ‘‘To James Stewart Judson, only child of my very dear friend, George Judson, the ” “Why, George Judson died forty odd years ago !’’ cried the few who recollected that such a man had lived. ‘‘Who would have thought of remembering him all this while, except an eccentric Scotchman like Jack Stewart, who | never parted with an idea when he had fairly | taken it up ?’’ He had left no directions concerning his own tombstone, and not one of the forty or fifty legatees felt himself called upon to give of his same. In the shadow of the stately shaft that | adorns his wife’s resting place is a sunken mound, unmarked and untended, save when | half-witted Jamie, now a white-haired man, | walks all the way from town on Sabbath after- | noons in the spring and summer to clip the tough grass and leave a bouquet of mignonette ‘He had aye a kind word for me,”’ says the silly old fellow, when rallied or questioned upon the subject of his devotion. ‘He had a wonderfu’ gude heart, had yon. The Lord He kenned, and the angels, and meself. I doot if any ither body did.”’ His is the spoken testimony upon this point. | I wish it were in my power (for this is biog- raphy, not fiction) to chronicle in a worthier manner, and upon a more enduring page, the history of the depth, the constancy, the stain- less truth, the passion, the patience, and the pain of THE HEART OF JOHN STEWART. — om THE WOODS. BY GEORGE C. FOLEY. I LovE the grand, old, darkened wood, Where silence reigns supreme ; I love to walk in solitude, Amid the shades to dream. T love to be alone with God, Among the forest kings: To tread the temple’s carpet sod, While the feathered choir sings. I love the deep and quiet gloom, The green, the arched nave, The pillars high, the leafy dome, The brooklet’s chrismal wave. T love the silent lesson taught Of worship, leal and true; The hymn of praise, that changeth not, The carol, ever new. I love this temple of the Lord, The ancient, mystie grove, Where Nature’s beok, that other Word, Reveals a God of love.

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40 GODEY’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. LOUIE’S PICNIC. BY 8. ANNIE FROST. ‘“*T wish you would stay another week, Louie. We have planned such a pleasant picnic for the Fourth. Won’t you stay over the Fourth of July?” “It is exactly on the Fourth of July that I must be at home, Amy.” “Oh, dear! I thought there was no such word as must in your vocabulary. I have often envied you your perfect freedom from control. Young, and rich, with an elderly lady for a companion who must do as you say, not con- trol you! You are to be envied.”’ ““Would you give your mother and father, Edgar, Will, and Blanche, and all your rela- tives, for my freedom, Amy? Stand all alone in the world, without a person living to whom you can say, ‘ Advise me, govern me ; I belong to you?’”’ “Well, no, not exactly. But, as you are alone, and can do just as you please, why will you not stay for our picnic?” “IT must go home to attend to a picnic of my own.” “You mean thing! A picnic at Mausley and I not invited!” “You would not come. I shall have two hundred guests, and probably not a dozen pairs of shoes amongst them.”’ **Oh, a charity feast! Do you know, Louie, it is a matter of comment in our set, the large sums you spend in charity? Father says it must take nearly half your income.’ “Just half. Not my half.” ““Not yours? What do you mean?” “Tt is a long story, and a sad one, Amy.” “T like long stories. Everybody is in bed but you and me, and it is too hot to sleep; tell me the story, Louie.”’ ** You never saw my sister Clarice ?”’ ‘‘No, but papa has spoken sometimes of her great beauty and her splendid voice. I thought she was dead?” “TI don’t know.” ‘Was she not older than you ?’’ “Ten years. Our mother and father died when I was but three years old, and Clarice and I were taken at once to grandfather’s. I had a nurse, of course, and she had a governess ; but, O Amy, I can never tell you what Clarice was to me! Sister, little mother, guide, com- panion, everything an elder, loving sister could be to a younger one. Even after she finished her education, and became a belle in society, she was never neglectful of Louie. We did not live in New York in those days, but in New Orleans. Grandfather was very fond of music, and fond of patronizing musicians; but, with all his love of the art, he looked upon profes sional performers as a distinct class. His con- sternation was very great, therefore, when Clarice fell in love with a tenor-singer in an Italian opera troupe, a gentleman in manners, of good birth, but a professional singer. Finding there was a really strong attachment, however, he consented to the marriage upon condition that Signor Buonotti left the stage. This was settled, and there was a brilliant wed- ding. Your father has told you of Clarice’'s voice. Child as I was, I can yet remember what a glorious voice it was. Nobody thought it strange, therefore, that my brother-in-law made a special point of cultivating it, and developing its full perfection. For two years nobody sus- pected his motive, and it came upon grand- father like a thunder-clap when he announced his intention of taking Clarice to Italy to finish her musical studies previous to making her ap- pearance as an opera-singer. “There were terrible scenes. Clarice, the gentlest and most submissive of wives, thought she must obey Paulo, and grandfather finally was obliged to yield, refusing even to see her face again if she once made a public appear- ance. They sailed for Europe, and we heard nothing more fora year. Grandfather would not allow me to write or receive letters, and it was through the papers that we learned that Clarice made her debit in Paris, and failed; tried again in London, and failed there. Ican easily understand how one so timid and shy would lose all voice and confidence before an audience. We knew no more. Grandfather never spoke of Clarice, and when he did, willed his entire large fortune to me. I was but seventeen, and could do nothing for four long years. As soon as I was free, I advertised both in America and Europe for Clarice. We had moved from New Orleans to Mausley six months before grandfather died, and, indeed, some of his physicians thought the northern winter caused his death. “No news of Clarice has ever reached me, but I take one-half my income every year, her half, to distribute in charity, and at Christmas and Fourth of July I have a festival for poor children. This one will be the sixth. In the winter, I hire a hall in the city, give them a dinner, and distribute clothing, blankets, orders for coal, and toys ; in the summer, the children come to Mausley ; it is only half an hour's ride on the cars from New York, and they get a good run in the free country air, a dinner and tea, flowers and fruit, and new sunbonnets and straw hats.” ‘But don’t they injure the grounds?” “Oh, yes! but the gardeners put that all right. My agent in New York attends to all the business for me; inviting my guests, char- tering the train, buying the provisions, and such details, and I see that all is right at Maus- ley. So, you see, I must go home on Monday, to be ready on Thursday.’’ “Tell me, Louie, who are invited. Sunday- school children ?”’ th liv in ¢ wide led | for | M and. look Loui eight on b the proce “ec I these “ N “e N “sé N of, w tells warn: hear : tunity ““ H sion ¢ “ I you s Mrs. ' As th for m: Ar

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LOUIE'S PICNIC. 41 ‘‘Some, but not all. Any child in the street who looks as if the country was an unknown Paradise, is invited to be at the depot at six o'clock on the morning of the Fourth, and is returned there at six in the evening.” “And you intend to have these festivals every year?” “If I do not find Clarice. It is her money, but only the interest. I have a deed of gift of the principal drawn up if she returns while I live.”’ ** May I go home with you on Monday?” ‘‘T would gladly have you; but the picnic?” ‘“‘T had rather attend yours.” “You will find me rather a preoccupied hostess, Amy, dear, for it keeps Mrs. Tyson and me busy tosuperintend the preparations for an early dinner, and a sort of afternoon feast of fruit, ice-creams, and cake, that answers for an early tea. Hams to boil, chickens to roast and dissect, pies to bake, vegetables to cook.’’ “* But can’t I help?” “Indeed you can. Even with all the extra help I hire, Mrs. Tyson and I find plenty to keep our hands busy.”’ “Then, I may go?” “‘T can’t tell how glad I shall be to have you, Amy.” ‘“*T’ll ask mother about it the first thing in the morning. You promised to come here again ?”’ The morning of the Fourth was all that could be desired by either Louie or her guests. The early morning sun, peeping upon the wide porch at Mausley, saw a group of three, dressed in cool, light muslins, their faces shaded by wide-brimmed hats, looking down the read that led to the little station where the train stopped for Mausley passengers. Mrs. Tyson, ‘kn elderly widow lady, friend and constant companion of the orphan heiress, looked quite as much pleased and excited as Louie and Amy, though the latter, being but eighteen, testified her impatience by balancing on her tiptoes, and occasionally running to the gate to see if there were any signs of the procession. ‘“‘Louie,”’ she said, returning from one of these excursions, “‘do you have an oration?” ‘Not one.” ‘No speeches or hymn-singing?”’ “No. Mr. Rynall, the gentleman I told you of, whe kindly acts in the city as my agent, tells the children how far they may ramble, warns them to come to the barn when they hear a horn, and I talk to them as I see oppor- tunity. That is all.” “Here they come! O Louie, what a proces- sion of ragamuffins !”’ “TI told you what to expect. Now, Amy, you stand by one of those baskets of buns, Mrs. Tyson will take another, and I the third. As they pass in the gate, give each child two, for many of them have had no breakfast.”’ A ragged set, indeed, it was that filed by the three ladies ; some dropping a courtesy or dip- ping a bow, some taking the buns in a sort of amazed silence, some saying “Thank ye, mum !’’ but all round-eyed and wondering what was to come next. It was not long before happy voices filled the air. A great meadow for a play-ground, and a pile of strong toys in one corner, was an unwonted treat. Hoops, grace sticks, balls, kites, in a profusion that the amazed little eyes had never feasted on such before out of a toy-shop window. The morning sped away. Some quarrelling, much profane language, some bruises, were in- evitable, but the majority were happy. Groups of little girls clustered together while Amy taught them the art of making daisy wreaths, dandelion chains, and cowslip balls. Others, shy and pleased, made bouquets of the field- flowers. Amy was everywhere. She taught them tag and Copenhagen, she made a class to learn how to play graces, she tossed the balls higher than the boys, and outran the girls on the gravel path with hoops. Dinner-time found the shy procession a noisy, romping, but generally good-natured, crowd, and the great barn, with its long, bountifully-spread table, was filled with hun- gry children. If “My eye!’’ “Oh, cricky!’’ “Goody!” and “I'll be blowed!”’ were not strictly elegant words, they were, at least, ex- pressions, and there was no reason to complain of lack of appetite. ““Louie,”” said Amy, coming to the busy hostess, after all seemed supplied for a time, ‘would you box my eyes if I told you there is a child here so like you she startled me?” “Where?” “On the steps. She is a little mite, about four years old, but wonderfully like you; she says her name is Louisa, too.” “O Amy!” “There, don’t faint! I thought of the same thing that has made you so white. Come and see the child.”’ She was still seated on the step at the great barn-door, eating cold chicken and bread and butter, when they came to her. Very plainly dressed, but with clean, whole garments, and at her throat a little ruffle fastened by a small coral pin. “Amy, see! I would know that pin any- where. It was our mother’s. I’ve found Clarice. Little one, tell me, where do you live?” The child only smiled and said: ‘ Louisa.” “Ts your name Louisa ?”’ She nodded again, but was joined at the mo- ment by a boy of eleven or twelve, a lad who ought to have been a model for Murillo—dark- skinned, dark-eyed, and Italian in face and feature. He smiled too, saying, in rather broken Eng- lish: ‘‘ Paulo and Louisa Buonotti, signorina. Only a few weeks in New York from Naples.”

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42 GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. “Where is your mother?’’ asked Louie, in Italian. The boy’s face brightened at once. ‘‘Mamma is in New York, sewing for money to go to New Orleans to find grandfather. We should have gone before, but it took all the money to get to New York after papa died.”’ Y “O Amy, I must go to her now! We can eatch the two o’clock train and return at four. ou will take my place here?” “Yes, yes! Go, dress at once, while I order the carriage to take you to the station.” “Paulo,” said Louie, drawing the boy into the house, ‘did you ever hear of your Aunt Louie ?”’ “Ah, yes! Mamma gave little sister her hame. “Tam your Aunt Louie.” **She is a little girl.’’ “She was, Paulo, when your mamma last saw her. Tell me your mamma's first name.’’ **Clarice.”’ “T knew it. We will go home now, Paulo, and bring mamma out here to live with me.” “Here! In this beautiful place! Oh, it will be like going to Italy !’’ “Shall we go now? Louie is good with the lady who was with me, and will not miss us until we are here again. Shall we find your mamma now ?”’ “Oh, come, come! Oh, signorina, will she die of joy? She has talked of you so much, and sometimes she says: ‘I should die of joy to see Louie.’ ”’ The boy’s confidence won, he told Louie, in his own musical Italian, a sad story of want and suffering, and even, his great black eyes flashing, the while, of cruelty from the disap- pointed father to the patient mother. They had lived in poverty’s hardest homes, till his mother, when left a widow, had sold clothing and some few paltry trinkets, and come home as a steerage passenger. Thinking her rela- tives still in New Orleans, she had intended to go there, if possible, as soon as she could by work or charity defray the expense. Louie’s tears flowed fast, but the boy was radiant with delight. It was in a very poor part of the town that Louie found herself after Paulo gave the ad- dress to the hack-driver, but the house was a small boarding-house, not a den of poverty, as she had feared. Her heart seemed to be suffo- cating her as Paulo opened a door, and she looked upon a lady in deep mourning, as un- like the gay young sister she remembered as possible. ‘Paulo, where is your sister?’’ she cried. ‘*At Aunt Louie’s. Oh, mamma, the kind lady that gave the party is Aunt Louie! She is here.” But Louie was sitting on the floor in the nar- row entry, crying like a baby. The lady in **Can you be little Louie?’’ she asked. **Clarice! Is it, indeed, Clarice ?’’ It was, indeed, Clarice. “*T little thought,’ she said, as they were speeding back to Mausley, ‘that when I let the children accompany my landlady’s little ones to a country visit for the day, where they were going. It was a hard struggle with my pride, for I understood it was a charity festival ; but they begged so hard, and my pride has had to give way to my poverty so often,’’ she added, sadly, ‘‘that once more seemed of little ac- count.”’ ‘Oh, think if you had gone to New Orleans !”’ “TI searcely know what I expected, Louie. I did not know our grandfather was dead, and I hoped he would do something for my chil- dren. With your love, I can face the future more bravely.” ‘* Here we are at home—my home and yours, Clarice,’’ and Louie, drawing her sister into the spacious drawing-room, told her of their grandfather’s will and her own deed of gift. Can I describe the end of the picnic? How the children were feasted, what treasures of clothing, toys, and flowers they took home, what promises of another holiday next year. You must imagine that, and little Louie’s de- light when she found the beautiful day was to be repeated for her, and that mamma and Paulo too were to live at Mausley. On a smaller scale, the festivals will be con- tinued, for Clarice highly approved of the pre- vious appropriation of her income, and intends to jein Louie in future festivals of the same character. le MISTY SUNBEAMS. BY L. 8S. CG. ALL along life’s weary highway Misty sunbeams fall ; Some unheeded, some forgotten, Though they speak to all. Rarely in unblemished splendor Doth a ray appear ; Each is draped in saddening vapor Ere it reaches here. Mists from sere hearts’ barren fen-lands, Dews from vyales of grief, Hopes deferred, and dark misgivings, Shroud the bright relief. Nothing in our life is perfect— Gall-embittered sweets, Blighted rose, and rusted anchor, Every pilgrim meets. Shattered vows of self and others, Lust-dimmed prayers for strength ; Little evils, oft recurring, Shade trees grow at length. Then, among the leaves and branches, Worldly spiders spin Endless webs, yet through the meshes mourning bent over her. Mist-robed beams steal in. at the which aftery enoug! front, behind inches

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of dle- » to ulo on- ore- nds ame LADIES’ BATHING DRESSES. 43 LADIES’ BATHING DRESSES. GREAT reforms have been made within the last few years in the bathing dresses worn by ladies. Great reform was needed—for the pre- servation of modesty as well as of health and comfort. The long, loose gown, formerly worn, was apt to dab wet and flabby against the bather as she left the water, and cause a chill. Swimming in such a garment was very nearly something miraculous. Even in dip ping in and out of the water, it would cling round the legs and impede freedom of motion. The very greatest objection of all was, that oc- casionally the air filled it, or the wind caught it, as the bather rose above the surface of the waves, and bore it up above the crest of the water like a balloon. The dress now in vogue amongst ladies, becoming more general every season, and which, we hope, will soon be uni- versal, is of French origin. A row of buildings on the shore serves bathers to undress and dress. From these they run across the sands to the water. Perhaps it is to this circumstance that the pretty and mo- dest dresses now in vogue owed their origin. Te swimmers such clothing is indispensable. The bathing garments consist of a pair of trow- sers and a blouse belted at the waist with or without sleeves. There are a good many dif- ferent ways and fashions for making these, Some are very plain, some piquant. A lady, not young, or ill-shaped, should choose a plain garment; as also will those of retiring dispo- sition and delicate sentiment. A very stout woman, on the wrong side of forty, attired as a jaunty young sailor, would be ludicrous. Equally absurd would a tall, angular, very thin lady seem in like adornments. But young and pretty girls may be allowed to give some scope to the lightness of their hearts, which will express itself in fanciful costume. There is no reason why bathing garments should not be made with taste and some ornament; but by ladies of good character, what is remarka)le and “loud” will be decidedly avoided. They will not desire to call any particular attention to themselves in the water by conspicuousness, though they may naturally and properly desire not to look unsightly objects, but rather pleas- ing ones, to their companions, or to anyone who inadvertently sees them, in addition to secur- ing their own comfort and protection. The French bathing dress is cut like a boy’s tunic or larger. ~The pattern of a boy’s brown Holland pinafore enlarged will prove a good guide. Fig. 1 shows the shape. It is cut open at the throat, sits plain on the shoulders, from which it is sloped straight away ; the armholes afterwards are hollowed out. It should be long enough to reach the knees, when finished, in front, and two, or even three, inches longer behind. The sleeves are from two to three inches deep. The waistband is made of the material doubled, and hooks over the blouse, reducing all the figure. Down the front there is a two-inch wide hem on one side only ; the other is simply bound with braid. Large but Fig. 1. -_ KS SS WWE tons fasten it down the front. Before cutting the front out, pin a fold down the centre of four inches wide. This allows sufficient for the two-inch hém to be made, and to lap over under-side. The trowsers can be cut from any Fig. 3. _ pattern of white ones that fit (see Fig. 2.) They are joined behind, turning in an inch at one side and a little way up in front. An inch wide false hem is put on the rest of the front, and sloped away to the join. This will be ob- | served in Fig. 3. It buttons an inch over the inner-side, which is the one that has an inch turned in. Stitch this across a little below tke join, and cut off the superfluous turning at the

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44 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. back. Plait the trowsers into an easy waist- band two inches wide, double. Do not make them fuller than is absolutely necessary, for the less material used the better; the more there is employed, the heavier fhe gown will be when saturated with water. The serge used should be of avery light finemake. The French are partial to black suits. Many of these are Sas ~ —Z = ~ ~ = c> Fig. 2. ae 8 Fig. 7. trimmed with cross-cut bands of tartan, wide on the skirt, and narrow on the body, sleeves, and trowsers. A pretty variety of patterns is made by rounding off the corners of the skirt of the blouse at the dotted lines in Fig. 1, mak- ing the round come to a marked point where the side seams meet. A costume will take about five yards. A width is required to cut each leg, and a width each for the front and back of the blouse. The sleeves, bands, etc., can be cut out of the pieces. Bathing caps are made of oiled silk, covered with colored chenille nets. Join the skirt to the band of the body. The sleeves may be mere epaulettes, deep under the arm, and scalloped quite away t® the top; or square, short sleeves, or long ones. Long sleeves are of the coat shape, with very open cuffs. The band is made of the material, and hooks on. It should be quite loose, to allow perfect freedom of action to the bather or swimmer. ‘The natural movements of the body in the water are far more graceful than the wholly imaginary excellence of a braced-in waist, the artificial smallness of which is as strikingly marked and ugly, as rouge cheeks compared to the real bloom of health and beauty. The trowsers should be cut from the pattern of a boy’s Knickerbockers, if the lady making them has got a suitable pattern. Of Fig. 5. Fig. 6. course, they must be considerably larger than a boy’s, and half as wide again at the upper part. Plait them into a band. They are en- tirely joined. Put them on first, then the blouse, and lastly the band. Colored flannel] is a good material for bathing gowns, but'serge is better, and also dearer— perhaps not dearer in the end, because wider. It can now be purchased in every color, such as gray, lavender, light-blue, Magenta, green, white, etc. Nothing is more suitable than a dark blue. This may be trimmed with scarlet military braid, without being femarkably con- spicuous. A date brown is not a bad color for bathing dresses, and may be trimmed with white braid. White, trimmed with blue, is pretty, but a little conspicuous, unless at a bathing-place where such gay articles are com- monly worn. Fig. 7 is a dress of dark blue serge, trimmed with a broad scarlet military braid between two narrow ones. It opens on the cross down for The befo. land. ing ¢ with Slipp and j

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; } r 4 eT n- he ng Tr. ch n, let n- ‘or ith .& ed en wn the front, and fastens with long hooks and eyes. There is . rosette of braid on the shoul- der. The trimming is carried round the skirt. The waistband of serge has a row of wide braid in the centre, and a rosette. There are no sleeves ; the arms are trimmed round with a ruche of scarlet braid. The neck is cut square just round the throat, and ruched. The trowsers open above the ankle with a curve, and braided. The hair is brushed off the face and tied back with a ribbon. A brown serge costume may be made with a two-inch wide outside hem all down the dress, very neatly trimmed each side with half-inch wide white military braid. There are two plain rows also on each side of this. Round the neck are points piped with white and rising from a band of white braid. There are short square leaves, waved at the edge, and bound with white braid. The edge of the blouse is also waved and bound. The trowsers are cut open outside at the ankle, waved and bound round. A rosette fastens the waistband. Fig. 6 is a dress for a child. A couple of plain breadths are joined, the shoulders sloped, the top hollowed at the neck a little, and plaited in a band, which is afterwards covered by a ruche. A waistband of the material is hooked over it, to keep it to the figure. The sleeves are little puffs, edged with a ruche. The trowsers may be cut by any drawers the child wears, and left untrimmed. Children should be supplied with gowns, and many who now refuse to go in the water, would then gladly do so. The child’s gown may be filled up with a plain piece to the throat, if desired. Fig. 8is a purple gown. It is nearly close round the throat, and is trimmed down the front and skirt with four or five inches of a woollen material, striped purple and white, and cut on the cross, to make a slanting orna- ment. This looks well with short or with long sleeves and cuffs ornamented. The lower part of the trousers is also bound with trimming. A plain costume, with one row of broad braid all round, looks neat. The neck is square, edged with a ruche of scarlet braid round it. Fig. 5 is a very stylish costume in the sailor- fashion, fit for a swimming dress. It is of blue, trimmed with white. Materials of mixed wool and cotton are unfit for the sea, because they pucker in water. The serge or flannel used should be shrunk before cutting it out. Linen and brown Hol- land, which some persons recommend for bath- ing costumes, are not desirable ; they are much too chilly. Sandals are greatly worn by bathers, espe- cially on stony coasts. There is also another useful invention. It is a loose boot, of colored felted flannel, of a medieval cut, like Fig. 4, with a double sole of the same, and easily Slipped on or off. It can be had in any color, and is very inexpensive. POETRY. 45 Long hair may be left floating, tied back by a ribbon, as it looks prettiest, but is inconve- nient (see Fig. 5). Or it may be twisted into a coil on the crown of the head, and secured by a hair-pin each way ; or placed in an oil-skin cap, edged with scarlet. On re-entering the bath-house, after a sea- bath, the dress worn in the water should be immediately thrown aside, to avoid a chill. She should then rub herself well in every limb till the skin glows and becomes dry. A loose, coarse flannel is the best for this. However, still better by far is a towel made of house- flannel. Its powers of friction, and thereby exciting a healthy and agreeable glow, are greater than those of any better looking sort. MOTHER'S BALM. To her who never failed me, these lines are affectionately dedicated. BY MAGGIE LUTE SULLIVAN BURKE. Nieut is around me, and gloom, at my heart, Welcomes its kinship in fancies that start Ghostlike, ’mid silence, and darkness, and pain, Haunting the soul like a prayer said in vain: Soul, oh, so sick of the thankless tasks done! Weary, so weary of toils but begun! Hurt and alone, there’s no gentle touch near, Soothing the pain whose best boon is a tear. Hark! ’mid the soft, choral voices of night, Breathes a low symphony full of delight, Nearer and nearer, till tones, loved of yore, Call back my spirit to childhood once more ; Lo! ‘neath their magic night’s shades roll away, Brightly uncouching a beautiful day ;— Day long, long backward, begemming a June, When to joy’s measure my heart sang in tune; When I, a child, in a garden at play, Chased the bright butterfly hours of the day, Culling the flowers, and watching the spring, Sudden and noisy, of grasshopper’s wing ; Ah, still I see, ‘neath the summer-tide sun, Gleam the white gravel that beckoned me on In my vain quest for the gems of romance, Waiting, Aladdin-like, genii of chance. White as those pebbles two chubby hands shone In and out, hov’ring above each bright stone, Where in the suplight their diamond-like gleam Shimmered, prophetic, the truth of my dream ; Snatching the sparkle, nor heeding to choose, Found I, no diamond, but only a bruise: Then dearest mother, while yet the tears feil, Kissed it, so softly, and lo, it was well! Mother! O mother! a wound pains to-night— Pain that is turning these brown tresses white ; Cold in thy coffin those lips, with their balm Frozen upon them in death’s icy calm, Lie, with their power of pain-healing o'er ; Deaf is thine ear to my call evermore: Yet, wert thou here, mother dear! with thine art, Could thy kiss heal ite—The pain ’s in my heart. To endeavor to work upon the vulgar with fine sense is like attempting to hew blocks with a razor.—Pope.

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areas ea GODEY’S LADY’S BUOK AND MAGAZINE. NAMING THE BABY. BY ROSE GAINBS. Ir was our first baby, and he was a boy. Reader, have you ever experienced the trying ordeal of naming the baby? This is a mind- perplexing, soul-harrowing subject; it is one of the most momentous eras of our lives. It almost equals, if it does not exceed, the trials of courtship and the agony of love-letters. As I told you before, our baby is a boy ; but, like Miss Betsey Trotwood, we had a “pre- sentiment that it must be a gir],’’ and, like her, before “the moment of this girl’s birth,’’ her name had been decided upon ; but when poor **Mr. Chillip laid his head a little more on one side,”’ and, in answer to the inquiry, ‘‘ How is she?’’ told us, It’s a boy,”” we took the mat- ter more quietly than Miss Betsey, as, from force of circumstances, we were obliged to do, and dismissed the matter of a name entirely from our mind—at least, for a little while. But, as we regained strength and vigor, ever and anon the question arose: ‘‘ What shall we name the baby?” Now, it certainly would have been wise, and saved a vast amount of thinking, if we had bestowed upon him, this wonderful son, the honored names of his worthy grandsires, Ebenezer David ; but, while we duly reverenced ‘the late departed,” we could not in our hearte bestow such fearful names upon our beautiful boy. Then, there was his father’s name, John, the best name of the best man in the whole world. John wouldn’t be John with any other name—dear old John! Yet weasked ourselves the question: ‘“‘Can we, on this new edition, so carefully revised, and so beautifully bound, bestow simply John? Isn’t Virgil much more beautiful, much more classic?” So we pondered the matter o’er and o’er, meantime bestowing all manner of pet names uponour boy. Time passed ; weeks glided into months, and yet our baby had no name. One evening, as I was sitting writing, and John holding the baby (you know I am in favor of the sixteenth amendment), I was aroused from my busy thoughts by John asking me, “‘ What are you writing about, Susie?” ‘Men, and their old fogy notions,” I laugh- ingly replied. Thinking I had vanquished him, and being anxious to finish a little writing before I should be obliged to take the baby, I cuntinued, when again I was aroused by John’s saying :— “*Susie, this baby must havea name. Nearly siz months old, and no name yet; indeed, he must be named.” Now, that was the subject that always ex- cited my liveliest interest. I quickly laid down my pen, drew my chair up to John’s, took baby on my lap, lest John would let him slip into the grate, and put on nty thinking cap, saying in my own mind: “ Yes, young gentle- man, this night your name shall be decided on.” “Well, John, dear, what shall we name him?” I eagerly asked. “ Any thing you please. Suit yourself and it will be certain to please me.”’ “Then, let us name him Victor,’’ I said. “T think that is pretty, don’t you?’’ “Well, Susie, I don’t altogether like that. It always sounds to me so far-fetched.” To which, baby seemed to agree, by one of his pe- culiar coos, “‘ but suit yourself though.” I then said: “John, you propose a name.” “Oh, no, Susie, I want you to be pleased. You know, it is of small importance anyhow. ‘What’s ina name?’ But you little women at- tach a great deal of importance to such things, so I would not for all the world have you give him a name to suit my fancy, for, indeed, I | have none.” For a few moments we were silent, consider- ing the vexed question of a name, the baby laughing and crowing as if he thought it was the easiest matter in the world to find for him a name. Suddenly I felt inspired, and joyfully said :-— “John, let us name him Leonard! Now that is a pretty name. Why not?” for I saw before I had fairly spoken the words, that it did not meet with his favor. ‘Don’t you remember, Susie, I have so often told you of Leonard Grey, who was in our regiment, the greatest coward and scamp in existence? He always ran at the sound of a gun, and, finally, deserted the army and left the country, after stealing all he could lay his hands on, including my watch and ring. He would even steal the sick soldiers’ rations and sell them to the sutler. You wouldn’t want your baby to have that name, now would you, Susie?” “John, you’re the queerest creature I ever saw; here, take the baby and give him a name,” I replied, as I put the baby in his arms, and arose to my feet, for my feathers were a little ruffled by that time. “You say, ‘Suit yourself in a name,’” I continued, “and yet, to every name I propose, there is some objec- tion! I’ll never, never propose another as long as I live! You can just name him Moses and be done with it. Just suit yourself, John. Anything will please me.” “© Susie,” said dear, patient John, “never mind! Don’t take it soto heart. It is not a killing matter if we don’t name the baby to- night. I am sure you will be able to decide on a name which will suit’you in every way before very long, and I want you to please yourself.” “Indeed, it is already decided on,”’ I replied. «Give Moses to me; he is sleepy. I’m sure if Moses és ‘far-fetched,’ he didn’t steal, did he?” “© Susie, little mother,” said John, laugh- ingly, ‘you had better go and hide Moses in bi of ha it do ha th ok fai As! in Ip ob. wh is | ma nal We Say sha if h bal up, futi wol V fini: his and nan the I sini] touc ‘it wi men had der]: “ . suite nam cour: busir and 1 all hi

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en ur in fa eft his He ind ant ou, ver a a ms, ea Suit yet, jec- ses yhn. ever ot a y to e on ‘fore elf.” lied. re if he?” ugh- es in THE BUTTERFLIES OF THE WORLD. AT the bulrushes, until he can become a leader in the house of Jones !’’ But it will never do, I thought, as I saw John putting on his, coat to go out, to let this matter drop now. Why not have it settled at once? And, as he came and leaned over my chair to kiss baby and me before going out, I brightened up my face with a smile, and, hold- ing baby up to be kissed, I said :— ‘‘ John, darling, let us name the baby Paul, will you? I rather like that.” ‘“‘What! Changed so quickly from the old dispensation to the new, Susie? A long leap from Moses to Paul, isn’t it?’’ ‘Shall we?” I again asked. ‘Susie, love, I do want you to suit yourself, but I don’t like that name. My father has so often told me that when he was a little boy he had a friend who’’— “Well, never mind, John, you needn’t tell me. I will adhere to the old name. Moses, kiss papa good-by.”” And, as John closed the door behind him, I burst into a fit of hysterics, half-laughing, half-crying, until baby took up the strain, which ended on his part in a regular, old-fashioned ery; but, as it was all my own fault, I quieted him patiently until he fell asleep, when I laid him in his crib, and reflected in this wise: “‘John says name baby anything I please, but, to every name that I propose, he objects. He wo’n’t propose one himself, so what am I toco? Now, I don’t believe John is any more fond of flattery than any other man, but I do wonder, if I should propose to name the baby John, what he would say? Wouldn’t I be better satisfied? And, as he says, ‘What’s in a name?’ At all events, I shall make up my mind to be contented with it if he is, for what matter is it either way? Yes, baby boy,’’ I said, as I carefully covered him up, “‘rest quietly in-your sleep. Let not your future name distress you as it has your un- worthy parents.”’ When John came home that night, and had finished reading his paper, I seated myself on his lap, took his face between both my hands, and, turning his head towards the crib, I said :-— “‘There lies John, Jr. I think his father’s name is the best one that can be bestowed upon the boy.”’ I just wish, reader, you could have seen the sinile that irradiated his features. I saw I had touched the right chord, and I wondered why ‘it was that men are so much fonder of compli- ments than women. But didn’t he think he had concealed his vanity nicely, when he ten- derly kissed me, and said ? :— “Well, Susie, I am really glad you have suited yourself. You know I told you that any name that pleased you would suit me. Of course, when he is grown, I shall want him in business with me. It will be Jones & Son, and then, when I drop off, the business will be all his, aud will it not be an advantage for him to have the same old name—John Jones, Jr.? Yes, that is best. O Susie, you have a wise little head. I knew I could trust you to select a name for our handsome boy! John Jones, Jr.! Yes,’’ thoughtfully, ‘‘that does sound well, doesn’t it now? Wait until I take a look at the young scion of a noble house.” As he bent over the crib to look at “‘ John Jones, Vol. II.,”’ I really thought he looked six inches taller than ever he did before. And so we called his name John. John, Sr., says J named him, but I know, deep down in my own heart, that I didn’t. I often want to tell him, but I don’t do it, that I might have commenced with Adam, and gone straight through the Bible, stopping at every name, without a ray of success, until I came to John. But I am altogether pleased, and, if he only makes as good a man as his father notwithstanding his vanity, I shall be satisfied. ——— > THE BUTTERFLIES OF THE WORLD. Ir may seem a somewhat cynical thing to say, but it is nevertheless a sober fact, that sensible people, going about in the world with their eyes open, do come to wonder what can be the raison a’ étre of a large number of their fellow-creatures. Nature is, it is true, careful of the type, but prodigal of the individual ; and really there seems to exist numerous speci- mens of the genus homo, both male and female, about whom one most decidedly wonders what object their existence is intended to fulfil. We do not speak of those who seem to have outlived the uses of life, who have reached the years when their existence is but grief and labor, and to whom the “grasshopper is a burden.”” These may have already fulfilled noble ends, and their life, now wearisome to themselves, may yet b> very precious to many, for whom existence would have a dreary blank if the place at the chimney corner were no longer filled by a dear and venerated form. Nor have we any intention of referring to the noble army of “The holy ones and weakly, Who the cross of suffering bear.” Some of those for whom life is one continuous pain afford such an example of patience, and are so full of all goodness, that they are of those of whom it is said :— “They also serve who only stand and wait.” We refer to no such sacred and tender sub- jects as these upon which we have lightly touched, but to specimens of human beings who are to be met with every day in the street, in railways, at all places of public resort. We must confess that the majority of the persons whom we intend to designate are young—a fault which is daily mending, and at the same time a characteristic which, as it departs from them, may, perhaps, allow it to become clear

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i, 48 GODEY’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. that they have some object in the world, and that they are of value to others than them- selves. We farther venture to observe that the majority of the young persons about whom we are in this difficulty are male creatures— not boys, but in the early young-man condi- tion, when the faults and peculiarities of the not-long-emancipated schoolboy still appear, while the helpfulness of the man is yet unde- veloped. One main feature which distinguishes such young persons is the vapidity of their conver- sation, when one chances to overhear it; and another is their close and devoted attention to costume. Their talk, such as it is, is garnished with the slang of the class to which they be- long, and they affect a satiety with regard to the affairs of life which they cannot possibly feel, and a delight when ‘‘time is killed,’’ as they say, which affords matter of amusement to busy people, for whom the days are all too short. ‘‘ There is nothing to be done in the morning,” we overheard one of these astonish- ing young men say recently, in commending his friend for having “‘ killed a morning’’ by doing some piece of routine. ‘Nothing to be done!’ when in the world there is so much to be accomplished, and for the young men them- selves, evidently so very much. What did they conceive, we could not help thinking, was their raison @’ étre? Having turned over the matter mentally, and considered a large number of specimens of the class daily presented to our view, we have come to the conclusion that, socially, they must be the butterflies of the world. They aim, at least, at being so; for, as a rule, their apparel is gorgeous. It must be this class which gives the chief support and countenance to the manufacture of fashion plates ; and it is certainly this which buys the gorgeous neck- ties and the marvellous shirts and trowsers which are displayed in the shop windows to wondering eyes. Like the butterflies, too, these wonderful beings appear to be careless as to who admires their grandeur, and to love splendor of appearance for its own sake. They seek no admiration ; if it is given to them, they are not affected by it; they seem to consider that, having made themselves beautiful, they have done all that can be expected of them. We wonder what is the outcome of these beings. Do they ever grow up enough to fill responsible positions in society ? ode THE SEA. BY A. L. C. THERE cometh a sound from over sea, Borne on the wind and rain; A sound of wild, free minstrelsy, The rich chords change unceasingly A sweeping dirge-like strain. Its sclemn grandeur fills the soul With a sense of awe and wonder, . As billow o’er billow their whole lengths roll, Like prairie steeds beyond control, And the heavens peal their thunder. Wind and waves, and heavy rain, Are telling the ocean’s sorrow ; To-night, with moans of bitter pain, The story is chanted again and again; Sunshine will hide it to-morrow. To-night a hundred voices tell That sorrow is o’er the ocean; To-morrow ‘tis only the waters swell, Long, tearless sobs it cannot quell, That will speak of its heart’s emotion. To me the sound has nought of pain, Though I know old ocean’s sorrow ; Its tale is that of the autumn leaf That whispers, in falling, life is brief, Boast not thyself of to-morrow. For the present time is the only one, If well the time we're spending ; The Father will pardon the errors done, For the sake of our Saviour, His Holy Son, And brighten the journey’s ending. Old ocean grieves for the hapless ones Whose bones ‘neath her waters bleaching, Who heeded never the many tones, For them the night wind sadly moans, Life’s purest lessons teaching. For the inward life is a burning fire, Like those ‘neath earth’s surface glowing ; Or the under currents dark and deep, That ever in silence onward sweep, Of the mighty river’s flowing. Sometimes the chords are soft and low, Of peace and gladness telling ; Soft as the wind-harp’s murmuring flow, Breathing lightly to and fro, The restless spirit quelling. Whispering though the heart be sad, And harsh the fetters wearing, There cometh a morning, brightly glad, For those who darkness deep have had, Earth’s heavy burdens bearing. For those who ever, onward stiil, The narrow way are treading, Trying their mission to fulfil, And do their loving Father’s will, In blessings round them spreading. Darkness covers the weary earth, Rest for the weary bringing— Rest—and they fully know its worth Who live a life of utter derth ; But ocean keeps on singing. I love to hear the changing strain, When all but myself are sleeping, For it seemed as if old ocean and I Together our watch were keeping, 4 When sleep has closed each weary eye. But not alone, for one I love, In thought by my side reclining, Lists as the sounding numbers move, And afar through the realms of thought we rove, And a light in her eyes is shining. The light is one I know and love, The tight of the spirits’ fire, That burns when the heart’s best feelings move, And, in looking on to the land above, Our aims grow purer, higher. oper som: Salis othe that the p and 1 had ¢ plain in th phrex Gord Burn: “and I was

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ove, ove, PRINCE CHARLIE AND PRINVE JOHN. 49 PRINCE CHARLIE AND PRINCE JOHN. BY ANNE HARTLEY LEIGH. “* Where shall we land you, sweet ?’ ‘Land me,’ she says, * where love Throws but one shaft, one dove, One heart, one hand.’ ‘A shore like that, my dear, Lies where no man will steer, No maiden land.’” WE were sitting—Mabel Lorrimer and I—on the western piazza at Mrs. Singleton’s, when the expressman drove up witha package, which proved to be for me. ‘““What is it? Where did it come from? Who sent it? Did you know it was coming? Do you recognize the writing ?’’ asked Mabel, in a breath. ; *‘Gently,”’ I said, laughing. ‘‘I know no more about it than you do. But we will open it,’ which we did, and drew from the case a handsome, richly-framed engraving of Prince Charlie. [had seen it before. During my stayin New York, I had, through Mr. Gordon, become ac- quainted with an ancient couple, country- people of ours, but as unlike the traditional Seot as possible. Mr. and Mrs. Macalister were in easy cireumstances and childless. Their house in Eightieth Street was a minia- ture Mars Hill, where they and their friends spent their time in hearing or telling some new thing. Phrenology was their pet hobby. The chance visitor would be astounded by a length- ened stare, and the comment from Mrs. Macal- ister: ‘‘ Perceptive faculties no’ sae bad, intel- lectual nane to boast of ;’’ or, ‘‘ Reverence sadly wantin’, man; I wunner, now, an’ ye be nae a swearer!’’ Without any ailment, they had been patients at a water-cure, where Mr. Macalister learned to cure a cold in the head by sitting solemnly for half a day with his nose in a teacup of water, and where both had been taught that their peculiar organizations required a perpetual diet of crackers and apple- sauce. They had attended various “circles,”’ too, and consulted divers mediums; but were “ No’ just Speeritualists yet, ye ken, but aye open to conviction.’’ In religion they were something between Unitarians and Univer- salists, and, but for their real affection for each other, would, I doubt not, have been Mormons. Well, it was at the house in Eightieth Street that I had seen the Prince Charlie. In one of the pauses between the dropping of one theory, and the taking up of another, Mrs. Macalister had conceived the idea of beautifying her very plain parlor, which, at that time, boasted little in the way of adornment, save the well-known phrenological bust, and had commissioned Mr. Gordon to buy her “some picters.”” “Get a Burns, uv coorse,” her direction had been, “and dinna forget a ‘bonnie Prince Charlie.’ ”’ I was just leaving her house one evening when VOL, LXXXIII.—4 the latter arrived. I remember how we gath- ered round it in the hall, admiring, and how Mr. Gordon, taking off his hat, sang :— “*T took my bonnet aff my head, For weel I loved Prince Charlie.’ ”’ The rest we learned from Mr. Gordon’s let- ter. At a time when the most prudent were tempted to speculate, it was not strange that sanguine Mr. Macalister should have-gelden dreams. He had risked a little, then more, then all his moderate capital, and lost. From that time, though Mr. Gordon’s help was forth- coming at once, Mrs. Macalister’s health failed, though to the last she complained of nothing but ‘‘low speerets.’’ I love to remember her last message to me: “Tell the lassie my heart had aye a warm spot for her, and I think, maybe, she was richt after a’. I’m fain my- sel’ to mind the prayer I learned at my mi- ther’s knee. A’ thae things’’ (referring to her theories) ‘‘is but havers when ye come to dee.”’ This was how I got the Prince Charlie. Miss Lorrimer was an admirer of Charlotte Bronté, and, referring to a favorite passage in *‘ Villette,’’ she demanded, when I had fin- ished : ‘‘ ‘Hist ca la tout?’”’ ‘What do you mean ?” I asked. ‘‘T mean that you have not read me all the letter.’’ I gave up the letter, as I gave upeverything, to Mabel Lorrimer, and she read aloud in her softest of voices :-— **But for the Prince Charlie and our kind old friend, I should never have ventured to disobey your commands, and write at all. But now that I am writing, do not think me presumptuous if I beg you to review your de- cision made in New York. I do not ask this hopefully, yet I ask it frankly ; and do me the justice to believe that, if I did not feel I could make you happy, I would not ask it at all. Our country, our habits, our tastes the same ; my income ample, my love for P bon devoted— it seems impossible that it should be otherwise. You will say you do not love me. At least, you love no other, and, once mine, I feel that I could make you love me. **Do you remember your words: ‘If we can- not be friends, friends only, let me drop out of your life?’ Dear friend, ’tis not so easy, and I would not if Icould. We meet comparatively few of our class in this country, and I have never met anyone like you. The first time you ever spoke to me you seemed to satisfy a great need, and I determined to win you if I could. You say ‘There are many fairer’—’tis true—‘and many better.’ 1 do not know, I think not. But what does it all matter, seein I feel in the depths of my heart there is no one I can love like you?’ ‘Why,’ exclaimed Mabel, enthusiastically, ‘‘your hero reminds me of Jean Paul. It is the very prettiest love-letter I ever read, and I mean to keep it always.”’ I faintly asserted my claim, but Mabel put the letter in her pocket. **Don’t let us talk about it to-night, dear, but come down after dinner to-morrow, and

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50 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. we can have a long afternoon together,” and she kissed me and was gone. : Four years before my story opens, I had left an Edinburgh boarding-school, on the death of my brother, to join a relative in Halifax, in whose house I was to live “as a sister.” I was young then, scarcely sixteen, and had never had a sister; so I could not guess how much labor, how little love, fell to a sister’s lot—to mine, at least. How I pined and fretted in the house of bondage, and vainly wished I had stayed at school forever, like the parlor- boarder whom we dubbed “ Everlasting !’’ How I planned all sorts of Quixotic undertak- ings, and set my heart above all on teaching, for which I had no reasonable excuse, having an income small, but sufficient. Fortunately, deliverance came. Mrs. Hartley, the lady in whose charge I had come from Scotland, wrote to my relatives, inviting me to visit her in New York, and would take nodenial. It was at her house I met John Gordon. What had passed between us, his letter tells. Mrs. Hartley’s heart was set on our marrying, and she seemed thunderstruck on hearing that I objected. “O child, child!’ she said, “‘here is a way out of all your perplexities. John Gordon is rich, handsome, a sort of literary lion, and has, I believe, the temper of an angel.” I believed so, too. “Then why in the world do you hesitate?” Simply that I did not love him. But Mrs. Hartley pooh-poohed such a reason. ‘*Of course, your head is filled with school- girl trash, and you expect love to seize you like a frenzy. If you do not love him, at least you like him very much, and that is more than you do anyone else.”’ Which was true. But the liking, I believed, was something in which my heart had no con- cern. It was the yielding of a nervous, restless temperament to one that you felt possessed perfect strength and perfect rest. Proud, Mrs. Hartley and her friends thought John Gordon, and commonly called him “Prince John.” But I felt intuitively that it was no pride, but the ealm of one who had attained “Rest in a happy place, and quiet seat Above the thunder.” And yet i found that out of this calm came much to puzzle and startle. One evening, on my return from Eightieth Street, I was ex- pressing my indignation at Mrs. Macalister for persisting in viewing the story of Jonah as an allegory. I became quite excited over it. Mr. Gordon laughed lightly. ‘‘So you be- lieve the whale story ?’’ he asked, looking into my eyes, not with scorn or ridicule, but with the half pleasure, half amusement one might feel on encountering in this advanced stage of the world a child who yet believed in Santa Claus. ““T am Scotch,” I said, sententiously. ‘Of course, I believe, and not figuratively, but literally and truly, that Jonah swallowed the whale!” Alas! in my haste I had reversed the position. Mr. Gordon laughed heartily. ‘‘Were I called upon to decide between the Bible version and yours, I should certainly adopt the latter as the most tenable. But, seriously, Miss Douglas, why should Mrs. Macalister’s ideas be less devout than yours? You read the parables of Christ with as much reverence as his personal history.’’ “Oh, that’s a different thing !’’ I answered. “The parables are given as parables, the his- tory of Jonah as ahistory. My great objection is that if you begin by rejecting a little, you may end by rejecting all. I should not won- der if Mrs. Macalister ends in Spiritualism, and that is too dreadful to think of.” A look of troubled surprise came into Mr. Gordon's eyes, but his mouth was s2t more firmly. ‘Do you think so?’’ he asked, after a moment’s pause. ‘‘But what if wiser than I, wiser than you, think otherwise ?” Nothing daunted, I went on: “I have heard Spiritualists divided into three classes: First, knaves, who would be respected as good jug- lers, would they but confess their jugglery ; second, fools, who, if not imposed on by Spiritualism, would be imposed on by some- thing else; and, third, those who are neither knaves nor fools, who are wiser than I cer- tainly, wiser than you it may be, but who would never be taken in by the cant of mysti- cism there is about it, unless, in spite of their wisdom, they had some lurking weakness you or I would be ashamed to confess—uniless, in- deed,’”’ I added, with mock deference, ‘‘ Mr. Gordon is a Spiritualist himself.’’ ““Mr. Gordon is,’’ he said, quietly, and there was a long pause. A pause which I would not have broken for the world. This was the man who had raised his head above the weaknesses of earth, only to be lured and bound by the spirits of the air. Mr. Gordon spoke at last, and spoke long and earnestly ; not so much, I think, to make me believe as to show what good reason he had for believing. He told of secrets supernaturally revealed, of supernatural sights and sounds. All which would seem ridiculous to the reader, were I to enter into particulars; but, told by such a man as John Gordon, carried awe to my heart. “But what makes your eyes so large?” he asked, breaking off suddenly. “Terror, I suppose,”’ I replied, calmly. “I should not be surprised if you asked what made my hair stand on end. But, remember this: I might see what you have seen, and I would know it an illusion ; I might hear what you have heard, and I would think it a cheat ; I might die of terror, but I could never be & believer.” on Pee 4 re

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a@aqr Pea acme se & 4 I at il hat at; p & e PRINCE CHARLIE AND PRINCE JOHN. 51 ‘You are a brave girl, Miss Gordon,’’ he said, rising to take leave. ‘‘I am sorry the subject was ever mentioned, but, having been mentioned, I could not avoid saying what I have said. Heaven knows I don’t want to make you a ‘believer.’ Keep you your Scottish Bible and your Scottish faith, and Heaven keep you.” And, with rather a sad smile, he was gone. “A brave girl, indeed!’ The spiri¢é might be willing, but the flesh was weak. For nights I could not close my eyes. And though I never even fancied I heard an unnatural sound, or saw an unnatural sight, my nerves were terribly strained, and at times it seemed as if I would go mad. At length I was really ill. Mrs. Hartley’s doctor shook his head gravely, and advised my wintering in the South. I would not laugh at such advice, for was it not “a way out of all my perplexities?” as Mrs. Hartley had said, meaning by perplexities, my return to Halifax. Soa month later I was in Chester, S. C., with Mrs. Hartley’s sister, Mrs. Singleton. At Mrs. Singleton’s I met Mabel Lorrimer. She was a ward of Mrs. Singleton, but lived with a maiden aunt in the house that had been her father’s. Young, beautiful, wealthy, well- born—she was surely made, I thought, to “ Feed on the roses, And lie in the lilies of life.” But, no, there was a curl on the shapely lip, a restlessness in the deep blue eye that spoke of a heart unsatisfied. Mabel Lorrimer was proud, toe proud ; so, though admired by all, and en- vied by many, she had few who really loved her. I believe in mental magnetism, if I do not in Spiritualism ; and the first time I ever saw Ma- bel, I felt—not, indeed, that I did love her, but that I could love her devotedly. I think her very pride attracted me. To see the haughty eyes grow tender ; the proud mouth soften; to know the heart that scorned the rest of the world beat faster for me, would be happiness indeed. I felt like a lover, not a friend. Yet, while I could have fallen on my knees and kissed the hem of her garment, I sat, showing no more emotion than a graven image, dis- coursing calmly of the last new book, or the latest fashion. And yet it may have been that gradually my heart spoke in my eyes, and hers interpreted. At any rate, there came a day when all disguise was over, and the beautiful woman held me close in her arms, and kissed me again and¥again. After that, we were all in all to each other. The strong-minded may laugh at woman’s love for woman, but as for me, I have not known, I shall not know, any- thing like it. One feature in the case I had kept from Ma- bel Lorrimer—the Spiritualism, the very thing that made a change in my feelings impossible. For my reserve on this point I had various reasons. I knew Miss Lorrimer’s contempt for anything of the kind, and how impossible it would be for her to understand the pecuii- arity—weakness, if you will—that made Mr. Gordon liable to that against which many worse men might have been proof. I had, too, a nervous dread of recurring to the horrors of that time in New York. And, more than all, I longed to know that my friend loved me weil enough to feel jealous of my marrying any- body. What a transition from the black, dreary- looking street, with a cold, gray-sky overhead, to the crimson lights of the Lorrimer library. I was not very well when I entered, and it was not two minutes before my wrappings were removed, and myself ensconced among the vel- vet cushions of the great English sofa. ‘‘Not at home to any one,”’ said Mabel to the servant, as he closed the door. Then to me, as she seated herself on a footstool beside me: * And now, Scotland, itis Prince Charlie versus Prince John, for if you take Prince John, I shall certainly take the Prince Charlie.” How I drew her on, as I imagined, to think I did care for Mr. Gordon, denying it as one who would not teil the truth, yet could not hide it. Then Mabel Lorrimer rose from beside me, and, seating herself at the piano, touched the instrument with a master hand. And I lay in the heavily curtained room, the fire-light flick- ering among the shadows, the music oppress- ing me with mingled longing, and passion, and pain, till, able to bear no more, I sobbed rather than spoke her name. Ina moment she was kneeling beside me, my arms round her neck, my burning kisses on her lips, while I vowed incoherently that I loved no one in the world but her. And Mabel said, with a quietness that surprised me: ‘‘I knew it all the while, dear, but I was afraid you did not know it yourself.”’ So it was settled about Prince John. But the next day I sent the Prince Charlie to Ma- bel, and was left without a prince at all. And yet, I cannot tell why, I delayed replying to John Gordon’s letter. On the outskirts of the town, and near Mrs. Singleton’s, was a large property belonging to the Lorrimer estate, where, now that it was spring, Mabel and I often walked. Rambling there one beautiful afternoon, we came upon a tiny spring, gushing from the side of a grassy slope. Mabel became enthusiastic about it. “TI will have it walled in, and a cross placed on it, and you shall choose an inscription, and we will dream it the cross and well of Sybil Grey.”” And, kneeling in the shade, with her hat thrown back, she lifted the water in her hands to her mouth, repeating :— “ Drink, weary pilgrim, drink, and pray For the kind soul of Sybil Grey, Who built this cross and well.”

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diinatinnnnnlelattiisin ag} Misa.» 52 GODEY’S LADY’S BUOK AND MAGAZINE. A shadow fell on the grass, and, looking up, | I saw John Gordon. Without a shade of em- barrassment, he came forward. “You are not a very good correspondent, Miss Douglas, and I have come for my answer myself.”” How it came about, I cannot tell, but in a short time we three were seated on the slope, Mabel and Mr. Gordon talking as easily as though they had known each other all their lives. Wespent such an hour as it rests me to recall. The noises of the city that lay beneath us, softened into a faint hum; the river, full and calm ; the hills beyond, hazy and blue ; the presence of Mabel, whom I adored, the old feeling of rest that stole upon me unaware— all these combined to make on me an inefface- able impression. It was Youth on the Mount of Transfiguration. Ah, could we but have built the three tabernacles and abode there for- ever! When we parted that night, Mr. Gordon said :-— “IT don’t ask you for your answer now. I want to spend a few days here and be happy.” As the days passed on, and I saw how genial was Mr. Gorden’s manner towards Miss Lorri- mer, I could not help remarking on it. It was one evening after we had left my friend at her home. ‘“*T have known her before,’’ said Mr. Gor- don. Then, in reply to my look of amazement : ‘Have you never been conscious, in becoming acquainted with a person, that it is not the first time you have met? that in some other world or stage of existence you have known each other, and that, in reality, you are resuming, not commencing, an intercourse?’’ Mr. Gor- don’s eyes had the far-off look they sometimes wore. “T have heard of such a feeling,’ I said; ‘possibly may even have experienced it. But I know it to be an illusion, founded on a resem- blance of situation or sentiment te something we have either actually experienced or dreamed. ““Who shall say,”’ he asked, dreamily, “ what is illusory, and what is real?’ And, falling into a profound reverie, he spoke no more till we reached Mrs. Singleton’s, and then only to bid me absently good-night. This conversation more than troubled me. Strange ideas might be expected from a Spirit- ualist, but this seemed less a phase of Spiritual- ism than a betrayal of the mental weakness | that had made him liable to such belief. I meant to tell Mabel Lorrimer, but put it off from day to day, for the same reason that I had been silent before. The time for my return to New York ap- proached only too rapidly. Each day I grew more nervous that Mr. Gordon did not mention the subject that had brought him to Chester. I wanted it laid to rest forever, and dreaded that he should propose going with me. But the days passed on, and nothing was said. My last night in Chester came ; Mabel Lorri- | mer was with me. She had seated herself in a large easy-chair, and drawn me down close be- side her. “Come, Scotland,’ she said, ‘‘and let me confess you; it will be the iast time for many |} aday. No, you need not speak; I can read al! I want to read in your eyes.’’ She read me | through and through. What matter since she | could but learn how much I loved her—her and | no other? Then she spoke: “ ‘Behold an Is- | raelite indeed, in whom is no guile!’ Let me | read your fortune, dear. You will develop into the noble woman that Mr. Gordon prophe- | sies, without changing your heart, which is | that of a pure and innocent child. Had I | known you sooner, I might have been a better /and a happier woman. Yet, as Seaforth said , to David, ‘think of me at my best.’ ”’ I would have spoken, but she put her hand | on my lips, and hastily kissed me good-night. I kept back the tears till I judged by her regu- | lar breathing she would not be disturbed, and | then sobbed myself tosleep. When, next day, , | bade John Gordon good-bye, he spoke and | looked unfeigned regret. But of love he seemed | as utterly unconscious as though he had just landed from some far-off star. Mabel Lorrimer was a regular correspondent, yet her letters did not satisfy me ; perhaps, be- | cause, while she wrote well and wittily—only | too wittily—of others, she said little of herself. | Once Mr. Singleton paid us an unexpected | visit. Naturally enough, he spoke often of Mr. Gordon. Mrs. Hartley and her husband were loud in his praises. I kept to myself what puzzled me. Perhaps the reader expects what is coming ; assuredly I did not. I had been about two months in New York, when I received a pack- | age from Chester. Accompanying it, was the | following note :— ‘Tt cannot be selfish, dear Scotland, to fake what you would rot have, and I divide with you, you see; I intended you should have di- vided with me. ref, dear, I send you the Prince Charlie, because I have taken the Prince John. Thine, none the less, MABEL GoRDON. “P.S. It was a whim of Prince John’s that you should know nothing till it was over, but | you shall know all when I see you. We shall be in New York nearly as soon as this, en route for Europe.” The room grew dark as I read., I was tossed about in a tempest of passion which, hitherto, I had not known I possessed. Then despair took possession of me. One idea alone was clear to my mind—to get away from New York before they came ; anywhere, and with 6r with- out areason. I went to Mrs. Hartley and put the letter in her hand. She was shocked at the look on my face; and, when she had read, I i i ae

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e i- 1e at ll ite 10, air rk knew she thought I loved John Gordon. I did not care what she thought. “If you don’t want me to go mad,” I cried, “ you will take me away.”’ Which she did, leaving I know not what message. But never shall I forget her ceaseless kindness through the long dreary time till I was brought back from despair to resignation, if not hope; and could once more pray from the depths of my heart that she, my darling, ight be very, very happy. A prayer which I breathed with strong misgivings. A year before, I would have thought John Gor- don worthy’even of Mabel. Nor did I know him less worthy now; only a mystery encom- passed him—his belief, the strange thoughts he had expressed, his own sudden reserve, and the reserve he had imposed upon Mabel. He seemed “not of our order.” Mr. Hartley was one of a whist-club of eight that met twice a week at the houses of the dif- ferent members. A few evenings after our return, it was at our house. Generally, Mrs. Hartley and myself were present in the par- lors for an hour or two, working and entertain- ing each other while the gentlemen played. Mr. Hope—Mr. Gordon’s cousin—and Mr. Darrell, were the first arrivals. ‘* By the by, Miss Douglas,’’ said Mr. Dar- rell, in the course of conversation, ‘“ you did not see your friend Prince John.”’ Mrs. Hartley came to the rescue. “ Miss Douglas’s absence was doubly unfortunate, as the princess is a friend of hers.” “Tndeed!” said Mr. Hope. ‘“ Then if I can take any message, I shall be glad todoso. I sail for Europe on Saturday.’’ “Ts that not rather a sudden movement?’’ inquired Mrs. Hartley. Mr. Darrell broke intoaloud laugh. ‘ Well, that is rich! You know Hope always did play grandfather to the prince, but to think of taking the princess in hand—proud as Lucifer, too, my boy, and has a dangerous look in her magnificent eyes—that is too good.”’ “Did you ever hear,’’ asked Mr. de Selding, a gentleman lately from the West Indies, who had meanwhile joined our circle, “did you ever hear that there is insanity in Mr. Gordon’s family? What could the young lady’s father be thinking of, or has she a father?” Mr. Hope said, gravely: ‘“‘ You will never lack news in Gotham, Mr. de Selding; but to hear is one thing—pardon me—to repeat, an- other. Mr. Gordon is my cousin.’’ Mr. de Selding retreated in some confusion to the card-tables, and Mr. Darrell followed. Walter Hope turned to me :— “Can you see me to-morrow evening, Miss Douglas, or Saturday morning? Which will be the more convenient ?”’ ‘* Kither,’’ I replied, mechanically. I sat there like a statue, and answered almost without volition. I had reached such a crisis PRINCE CHARLIE AND PRINCE JOHN. 53 of feeling that I did not grow faint or utter an exclamation, but I felt as if my very heart had turned to stone. On Friday evening Walter Hope was shown into the library, where I awaited him. ‘Miss Douglas,”’ he said, as he took a chair beside me, “‘my poor cousin used to say you were a brave girl, and now I want you to prove it. Mrs. Hartley tried to dissuade me from speaking to you, when I told her last night what Iam now going to tell you, but I felt, after what you had heard, that it would be better.”’ ** Much better.’’ “You love Mrs. Gordon ?’’ How strangely the name sounded! ‘I would give my life for her,’’ I said. ‘* And I mine for John.’’ Walter Hope con- tinued after a moment, in which he seemed struggling with painful emotions: ‘ The first I recollect of my cousin is as a child at my father’s house, where he had been brought as a baby. Our mothers were sisters. John’s father had died suddenly of some disease then epidemic, and his mother had not long survived her husband. John was what is called a pecu- liar child. I remember no time when he did not seem as far above those of his own age as since his manhood he has seemed, to me, at least, above his felow-men. I never saw him lose his temper; I never saw him vexed. At schoel, college, our friendship was proverbial. We travelled together on leaving college. But here the difference in our prospects became apparent. I, though an only child, was to set- tle down in my father’s counting-house ; John had a fine property in the most beautiful part of the highlands. About John and his pros- pects, however, my father and mother were strangely reticent ; and my mother, as the time of his majority approached, seemed oppressed with sadness. She had always loved him pas- sionately, and I attributed her sadness to the thought of separation. “The week before John was of age, my father went to Scotland, and in a few days the rest of us, with quite a party, followed. And, truly, in external circumstances as in mind and heart, my cousin seemed a man to be envied. So I told him one day, as, after a morning's shooting, we lunched on the moors. ““* Yes,’ he said, with a sigh, ‘I know no finer property of its size. But I could never breathe freely here. I mean to sell it and buy a place in America.’ “*In America !’ I exclaimed, thunderstruck, while Constant of the dragoons sneered :— ““*Ts liberty, then, something more than a name, that a Gordon becomes democratic, and exchanges a paradise like this for Western prairie or timber land ?’ ‘“** Liberty,’ said John, ‘has nothing to do with it. But I believe that a person, like a plant, may be transplanted with advantage. .

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od i fr | 54 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. Europe is too old. It is net only that we tread the same soil, breathe the same air, think the same thoughts, and cultivate the same habits as our fathers ; but we inherit with the paternal acres certain mental influences, and are subject to certain spells, as the vulgar say, till, like Tennyson's prince, we scarcely know the sha- dow from the substance, and, “* While we walk and talk as heretofore, We seem to move among a world of ghosts, And feel ourselves the shadow of a dream.’ “Just then came up the gamekeeper and boys, and nothing more was said on the sub- ject. But I repeated the conversation to my mother, and, after a long interview with my father, I was taken into their confidence. What you heard from Mr. de Selding, Miss Douglas, was no idle or malicious rumor, though how it reached New York I have not the faintest idea. Neither had we then any means of knowing what had given rise to such a train of thought in John. When he came to our house in England, no old servant, not even his nurse, came with him. He had never been | in Scotland till the time of which I speak, and he had never met with anyone, so far as we knew, who could tell him the history of his house. ‘““My father opposed the American project ; my mother approved, and, when my father hinted at the separation, said, through her tears, ‘O William, if I could only know that Flora’s son would live and die like other men, I would be satisfied never to look on his face again !’ **So, when John broached his plan, my father offered no opposition. Only it was settled that for the time, at least, the property should be rented, not sold, and that I should accompany my cousin, and spend a year or two in the American branch of our house. “Since coming here, John has thrown him- self with alacrity into whatever might engage his mind, and always with success. He specu- lated, and whatever he touched turned into gold. He wrote, and the most critical of critics admired. But he is incapable of continued effort. The worst that could happen is this marriage. I am persuaded, from a thousand circumstances, that John knew the fatal secret, even that his great uncle is still alive in a mad- house ; yet, though the most unselfish of men, he has joined a young and beautiful woman’s fate with his. Then his own silence in regard to his intentions, leaving me to learn from a mutual acquaintance his presence in New York, and that only an hour or two before the steamer sailed; his imposing silence on his wife; his return to Scotland, to that fatal place even—O Miss Douglas, I dread the very worst!’ “*But he probably yielded to Mabel’s wishes,”’ Isaid. ‘I know her passionate desire to visit Scotland.” “True, but why? Because he thinks love has so weaknened the spell that henceforth it /can have no power over him. Miss Douglas, | you have not seen himas Ihave. Appalled as | I was at the marriage, I went at once to his ‘hotel, congratulated him warmly, rallied him on his silence, and begged him to remain ten days, as I should then be going over myself. But, no. Mabel wished to be in Scotland, to see the lakes, and mountains, and moors, and to Scotland he would go without delay. Then I begged him to take his bride to my mother’s, pleading her old love for him. But it was of no use; they were going directly to Invermark. All I could do was to write to my mother, and follow as soon as possible. He was as one in- toxicated. Do you think it possible that the old calm, once lost, can ever be regained? I fear the excitement will increase till beyond control. At any rate, my work is done in America. John Gordon is my charge—sacredly given by my mother, and sacredly accepted. Whatever one man may do for another, I will | do for him.”’ | So allwas explained. It comforted me, even | then, to think that John Gordon was what I | had first thought him, and that the powers of | the air, however they might vex his noble | mind, could have no power over his soul. But | Mabel? My God! my God! Could any suf- | fering be greater than mine, as I wrote to her that night, forcing myself to refer to the happy | past, expressing love that should not convey a thought of pity, breathing calm while my heart and brain were on fire? Walter Hope went, and I envied him. How easy it seemed to go and act, how hard to wait and pray! A letter from Mabel, which I took up with dread, and laid aside with a sigh of relief :— My Dear, DEAR ScoTLAND: When we reached here, I could have knelt down, like the beautiful Magdalen of France, and kissed the sod of my husband’s land. You remember, in the happy days at dear old Chester, my close questioning about Scot- land, and your vague answers, and how, one day, I told zs I received but one idea from you—that all was dark purple, blue, or dark lue-purple? I understand it now. I under- aan that one brought up here might be com- ratively unobservant of the minutize that interest strangers ; and yet, at the ends of the earth, and forgetting everything else, would remember evermore “The fine glooms On the rare blue hills.” On our voyage I had made John describe it all so often that I knew every step of the way ; the banks where early primroses grow thicke the knolls where violets linger last. We thatched cottages, and saw yellow-haired, bare- footed children, sitting out on the heather, eat- ing porridge with horn spoons. And as for ruins and legends—O Marion, you know my weakness! Every foot of ground has its story ; it is, indeed, the Scotland of my dreams. _ But, oh, the evening, or, rather, the gloamin’, a. om we eeletees ot ee sk , iw mi he In ye: fey the tur Th me eitl an cha ally tho the don Onc rupi crin his | “ Mh) kno had

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ry; PRINCE CHARLIE AND PRINVE JOHN. 55 that sweet season which we in America do not know! The first evening I came, I wandered out on the terrace, which commands a view of the lake. The sun had gone down behind the Ben, and sky and water were slowly darken- ing. Out from the shore three fishing-boats lay motionless, the nets slowly rising and fall- ing. The hills were drawing around them the deep, right royal purple that you love. And, ust as l was recalling the closing passage in ** What Will He Do with It?’’ (you remember : ‘‘ And the lake is smooth as glass,’’ etc.), and wishing for Fairthorn and his flute, there stole from where the shadows were deepest the sweetest music I had ever heard, not the flute, but the violin, which the master in ‘Charles Anchester”’ says is violet, and therefore the right music for a Scottish twilight. And, under the enchantment of the hour, I felt my old, proud self departing, and a tenderer self tak- ing my place. So that the musician, stealing noiselessly oo me, found me quietly shedding tears—most happy tears, he knew, as he drew down my hands, and looked into my eyes. Another month here, and we set out for the continent. Then home again, and then, dear, dear Scotland, we—the prince and I—look to have you here, to be our own little sister al- ways. That was all. No word of not meeting me in New York, by which I knew she still could read my heart; no knowledge of what might be, for which I thanked God. For a moment the vision of their happiness rose before me too vividly, too painfully, and bitterly I recalled | the refrain of the ballad Mabel used to sing :— “There ’s nae room for twa, ye ken, There's nae room for twa; In wedded life, in wedded love, There’s nae room for twa.” Then, shocked at my own feelings, I com- mended both to God, and tried to purify my heart from every selfish thought. A year passed away, and they were again at Invermark; but, long before the end of the year, Mabel’s letters had grown shorter and fewer. Walter Hope wrote regularly, but there ‘was little satisfactory to tell. It had turned out with Mr. Gordon as he predicted. The excitement had increased, until a stranger meeting him would have supposed he was either frequently intoxicated, or the slave of an ungovernable temper. On Mabel, too, a change hadecome. The proud look had gradu- ally changed to one of unutterable sadness, though the latter she tried hard to hide. Whe- ther she had any idea of the cause of Mr. Gor- don’s excitability, Walter Hope could not guess. Once or twice in company Mr. Gordon had ab- ruptly stopped speaking; his face had flushed crimson, then grown deadly pale, and, putting his hand to his head, he had left the room. “A slight vertigo,” Mabel had explained. “Mr. Gordon is subject to such attacks.”’ And so days and weeks passed on, I never knowing what an hour would bring forth. It had been long before settled that I was not to | return to Halifax, and Mrs. Hartley’s house was still my home. At last I wrote to Mrs. Hope :— ‘“‘T am alone in the world; I can go where I will. If the time ever comes when I can be useful to Mabel, let me know.’’ And Mrs. Hope replied: ‘Since you are so good, dear child, come at once, and be our welcome guest till you can go to Invermark.”’ When I reached Birkenhead, the Hopes were already in Scotland, and thither, with a trusty servant, I followed immediately. As I stepped from the train, an elderly gentleman advanced to meet me, and cordially took my hand. It was Mr. Hope, Walter’s father. He led me to a carriage. Invermark was several hours’ drive from the station. “‘T scarcely dare ask,’’ I said. A look of pain passed over his face. ‘My dear young friend, you must prepare for the worst.”’ “The worst!’ But in how many ways the worst mightcome! A silent prayer for strength, and then, ‘‘ Tell me all,’’ I said. I put together here what Mr. Hope told me and what I afterwards learned, that the reader may have the particulars in order. Since the return from the continent, the Hopes had never been invited to Invermark. Now and then Walter would run down for a few days; but his presence seemed only to in- crease his cousin’s irritability, so that lately his visits had been discontinued altogether. They had, however, taken the doctor, a skil- ful and trustworthy man, into their confidence. Doctor Bell wrote to Mr. Hope, after closely observing Mr. Gordon, as follows :— “*T apprehend not only that Mr. Gordon may be violent, but that he is, and that the parox- ysms which, with the cunning peculiar to his situation, he controls through the day, break out at night, when he is alone with his wife. There are vague rumors amongst the servants of angry words, and worse than words, heard in the old Hall at dead of night. I feel it my duty to speak to Mrs. Gordon.”’ But to speak to Mrs. Gordon was not so easy. One day, when the doctor knew Mr. Gordon was absent, he rode over, and attempted to broach the subject. ‘““My dear lady,’’ he began, “you know I would say nothing to distress you’’— ‘* My dear friend, [ know you will say nothing to distress me. By the way, doctor, you have not seen my new pets.’’ Stepping to the win- dow, she showed a cage in which were two love-birds. ‘‘When one dies, the other dies ; and when one is taken away, both die. Do you think I would separate them ?’’ This was on the eve of the birth of their child, The doctor turned away with a sigh, and telegraphed for the Hopes to come imme- diately. Next morning they were at Inver- mark.

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FI 56 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. A day or two passed very pleasantly, so that all but Walter were inclined to think the doc- tor had rather exaggerated the case. On the third night, Mrs. Hope had a headache, and retired early; Mabel followed; and the four gentlemen, for Doctor Bell was staying then at the Hall, spent an unusually agreeable evening. When Mr. Hope went to his room, his wife was asleep, and he sat up late in the dressing- room, reading. He had probably been there an hour, when he heard a strange voice in the hall, and, going to the door, he opened it and looked out. John Gordon was pacing the hall, his face deadly white, his eyes glowing, his right arm raised, his hands clenched, hissing through closed teeth :— “* Now could I drink hot blood, And do such bitter business as the day Would quake to look on!” As Mr. Hope’s door opened, Mabel came down the hall. *‘Dear John,” she cried, in a voice that tried to be gay, “‘your Thespian tastes are alarm- ing Uncle Hope.” Mr. Gordon started, as if awakening from some hideous dream. “JT do believe,’ continued Mabel, with a smile which her eyes contradicted, ‘‘that John walks in his sleep. Good-night, dear uncle! You shall not be disturbed again, I promise you,” and, taking her husband’s arm, they went off together. Mr. Hope re-entered his room, sorely puz- zled, most thankful to find his wife still asleep. **T know not what to think of it,” he said to himself. ‘Could the doctor have been right, after all?’’ He did not undress, and it was some time before he even lay down. He was just falling into an uneasy sleep, when roused by a loud knocking at the door. “For God’s sake, sir, come!’’ cried Walter. Mr. Hope sprang out of bed, and followed his son to the door of Mabel’s room, where Doctor Bell was before them. The servants were gathering, too. Before they reached it, they heard Mr. Gordon’s voice, loud and hoarse, and the dull thud of heavy blows falling on some unresisting object. ‘* Open the door !”’ cried Mr. Hope. No answer, but they could hear Mabel’s sweet voice expostulating, and for a moment the blows ceased, then began again. Walter threw himself against the door. ‘*Open the door, Mabel, or I break it in!’’ The bolt was withdrawn, and there stood John Gordon, foaming at the mouth. He was secured with difficulty. Mabel sank into a chair, heart-broken that the revelation had come at last. They bore her husband away. ‘To the cot- tage !’’ ordered the doctor. ‘It will be best for both.’’ The cottage had been built to gratify a whim of Mabel’s. There she had planned she and John, when tired of the Hall, would play “ wife Joan and good man Robyn.” On his way there, Mr. Gordon’s struggles ceased, and Walter Hope, bending over him, saw with horror blood gushing from his mouth. They carried him in and laid him on the bed, and, when the hemorrhage ceased, the doctor administered an opiate. In that awful night, Mabel’s child was born, a shadow of an infant, that uttered but one feeble wail, and then was silent forever. And John was rapidly failing. **When I left,’’ concluded Mr. Hope, ‘‘it was without knowing if I should see him alive again ; but we all felt that some one must come to pre- pare you, and I could best be spared.” Oh, that weary, weary drive! Sometimes, overcome by fatigue and sorrowful thought, I fell asleep, to wake with a start, and wonder if we should never, never get there. It was night as we drove in at the gates, an autumn night, with its sweet air and moon of gold. The car- riage stopped, and Walter Hope got in. “‘Have you left John?” his father asked, in surprise. Alas! John needed him no more. Even as Walter spoke, a sudden turn brought us in view of the cottage. I put my hand in Walter’s. there.”’ They would have had me wait, but I could not. I went as one in a dream, and yet I re- member everything: the noise of our feet on the gravel, the silence as we stepped on the grass, the honeysuckle thet half covered the window, the tall clock, the corner cupboard with its display of china, the soft drugget spread on the sanded floor. But then I was conscious of nothing but that John Gordon lay there dead, his face bearing no trace of all he had passed through, but radiant with more than the old look of rest, the peace that passeth understanding. “He left a message for you,” said, Walter, coming to my side, and speaking low. ‘That if anything in the past had puzzled you, you would understand it now, and forgive it.” I could not say for tears that there was no- thing to forgive, but I knelt by the bed, and thanked God for the sleep He giveth to his beloved. Across the lawn, in at a massive door, through dimly-lighted galleries, till, at the door of Mabel’s dressing-room, Walter left me with his mother. **You must rest, dear child,’’ she said, as she took me in her arms. “ All this will be too much for you.”’ I shook my head. “I cannot rest. Take me to Mabel.” The bedroom door moved noiselessly back. Doctor Bell and a doctor from Edinburgh were standing near the bed. They made way for me, “Take me

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T, at ou 10- nd nis or, he me as ike ck. ere for POETRY. 57 ———— Let me pass over the meeting which it breaks my heart torecall. Mabel desired that I should be left alone with her. The doctor from Edin- burgh, a pompous man, took me aside to warn me against exciting the patient, but Doctor Bell whispered as the other went out : “‘ Satisfy her in her own way; that is the only chance now.”’ Then I was alone with the woman I adored. And beside her the last touch of selfish sorrow died out. What was I that my grief should have place in such a scene as this? “Your dear eyes are still the same,”’ she said. “You will tell me the truth about John.” **T have just left him.” ‘Ts he dying?” I shook my head. “Is he dead?’”’ Then, seeing that I hesi- tated: ‘‘ You need not fear to tell me; indeed, it will be better.”’ ** He is dead.”’ ‘*Oh, thank God! thank God! He will not have to live without me.”’ She lay silent for some minutes. Then, call- ing Mrs. Hope, she forced me away to take some refreshment; rest, I could not. When I returned, she drew down her aunt and kissed her, ‘I have a fancy for being alone with Scotland to-night,’’ she said. When Mrs. Hope had gone, she spoke of old days and old friends in Chester, and of her wishes and hopes for me. ‘* Remember al- ways,’’ she said, ‘“‘that there is nothing to re- gret. Had I known it all a thousand times, I should have married John.’’ Then she ex- pressed a wish to sleep. I smoothed the pil- lows, drew the curtains, and sat down to watch. “Don’t call the others,’’ she said, “and don’t leave me.”’ I kissed her for answer, and, like a tired but happy child, she closed her eyes and seemed to sleep. By and by Mrs. Hope came in, and af- terwards the nurse and doctors. When they learned that she still slept, “It may be the means of restoring her,’’ began the Edinburgh doctor. But Doctor Bell walked up to the bed and drew the curtain. ‘It has restored her,” he said, ‘‘to her husband.”’ All this is too recent for any other changes. But sometimes I have dreams. And in my dreams I see young Walter Hope taking a fair bride to Invermark ; I see the bright faces and hear the merry laughter that shall exorcise the shadow from the Hall; and, softened by years, the story I have told shall fade into a sweet, sad legend, to be told by Christmas fires, till, caught up by some listening stranger, it shall be given to the world by abler pen than mine. I see myself, with Mrs. Hartley still, letting the days glide on, gaining new friends, I trust, and, oh! not losing the old. But I dream of no husband, no lover. I cannot blot out the past. Regret, indeed, has lost its bitterness ; but love, though not so passionate, is none the less. Ne THE RAINBOW. BY EMMA NASH. UP in the heavens, far and blue, God set his promise, bright and true, That this fair earth no more should be Destroyed by hungry waters; He Painted with His holy fingers, A Rainbow! See, how it lingers On the purple clouds! and how fair It makes the heavens with its glare— With outstretched arm it grasps the sky, And decorates its canopy With arches painted soft and bright In purple, blue, and yellow light! ’Tis token of a promise true, Set in a coloring of blue; A sign from God—a smile of love, That from the ark no more the dove Shall wander, pitiful and worn, Without a resting-place or home. A bridge of beauty spans the sky, And angels walk its arches high; Oh, vision, that a little while Gilds up the heavens with a smile, Then fades away in soft azure, And leaves the sky of brighter hue; That cheers the heart of man with joy, That seems a pretty painted toy To laughing child! Fair, bright Rainbow, Oh, how I love to gaze at you, And mount on wings of fancy high, To where you bind the purple sky With bands of many-colored light, To link the day with coming night! a ALICE CARY. THE lyre is hushed, the melody is stilled, That soothed us in this weary world of care; No more to hear those low, sweet notes that thrilled Our souls with happiness unasked for here. Happy are those who saw her, day by day, Moving so sweetly in her life along; Showing unto men's sight life’s noblest way, In the sweet strains of her own silvery song. When April comes upon us with its showers, When spring puts on its radiant coat of green, When all the air is music, and the flowers Are thickly covering all the earth, I ween Then shall we miss her; never any more Will the sweet singing fall upon our ears, But the sweet memory of songs sung before Will fresher grow, as come the future years. Let not our tears fall for the fallen one, Let not our hearts be filled with bitter grief, For brightly shines the crown that she has won: Her death has brought her from her pain—relief. ——__—_.. Se@— A CONTEMPT of the sacred rite of marriage not only endangers the morality of the indi- vidual, but strikes at the very foundation of social order and domestic happiness.

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es = - wed ee sae 58 GODEY’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. THE BOOKS WE READ. BY L. BR. FEWELL. Kip reader, do not imagine from the head- ing of this article that it is a learned essay on literature, and, therefore, necessarily dull and prosy. It is simply a kindly talk about the peculiarities of some old friends, and the pleasant hours spent in their society. As such, I hope it will prove as interesting as a milk and water love story, for I take it for granted that friend Godey has not been laboring so many years for the benefit of the women of America without teaching some of them to hunger and thirst after some more substantial food for the mind than these silly and often unnatural fictions can afford. And so to my subject. In spite of the outery against them from the pulpit, and the frequent repetition of the well- worn words of Solomon, ‘‘ My son, be admon- ished ; of making books there is no end, and much study is a weariness to the flesh,’’ novels continue to pour from the press, and form the principal reading of all classes, their study being a very delightful weariness, to which the flesh seems ever willing to submit itself. These books, though generally classed under the generic name of Novel, naturally resolve themselves into different classes, as the several species under one genus, viz: The [fistorical, the Humorous, the Domestic, the Doctrinal, the Sensational, and the Serial or Periodical. For the first, no better field could be found than that of American history ; and yet, strange to say, no field is less worked, there not being a single standard historical novel of American birth, unless we except Cooper’s ; and as these, with the exception of “The Spy,’’ deal alto- gether with Indian life and warfare, they can- not come strictly under this head. In ‘“‘ The Spy,”’ though in the opinion of many his poorest book, he has clearly demonstrated the absorb- ing interest such a theme may furnish. One other writer, James Heath, a Virginian, met with considerable success with a two-volume novel called “Edge Hill,”” which depicted some of the early days of the Revolution, but this book has passed away with the day and generation that gave it birth, and probably the only copy now in existence is an odd volume belonging to the writer, kept asarelic. The reasons why this fertile field has been so little explored are twofold. The events either of the past or present century of American his- tory are too new and fresh in the mind for us to meet them on the printed page with any de- gree of pleasure. They need the softening, subduing effect of time, the mellow haze that robes the distant with its tender grace, to make them acceptable to the public. Thus, with ‘Surry of Eagles’ Nest’’ and ‘“‘ Mohun,” the portray the events of the past war in a novel form, we appreciate the author’s style, we lin- ger over the tender love passages, but when we reach the pages devoted to the war inci- dents, if reading to one’s self, the leaves are turned quickly with only a cursory glance at their contents; if reading aloud, some. voice stifled by tears soon cries: ‘“‘Do not read any more of that ; it is so true ; it is like tearing old wounds afresh.”’ Another reason for the paucity of such novels may be found in the amount of labor requisite for the preparation of such a work. To write it well, the author must not only thoroughly understand the events he would describe, but be so familiar with the localities of his story that he could make a sketch of them at the time of action, and give their history for fifty years previous. If he cannot, he will be almost certain to have the discrepancies between his statement and the truth pointed out by even the illiterate, familiar from childhood with the localities described. The author of ‘‘Surry of Eagles’ Nest’’ commits this blunder in making the old Stone House on the battle-field of Ma- nassas the property and residence, for an in- definite period, of Mr. Carlton, a.. English gentleman of property; and, fifteen years be- fore the war, the spot where Mordaunt and his bride, the peerless Frances Carlton, erected their household altar ; and afterwards the scene of Fenwick’s machinations, when he came, like the serpent of old, to destroy their earthly paradise. The house in question is compara- tively a new building, having been erected within the recollection of the writer, who went to school, when a child, near Groveton, imme- diately on the battle-field ; and both it and the log-cabin which preceded it, on the same site, have always been kept as a wagon stand, or low house of entertainment, for wagoners ply- ing their vocation on the turnpike between Alexandria and Warrenton. It has always been occupied by the same family, people rather lower in the seale of society than even the usual tenants of such places, and as little resembling the characters described as it is possible to imagine them. It must then be the task of a successful His- torical novelist to make his descriptions of real places so broad that they may be applicable to any spot having the same general outline, or to work them up with such pre-Raphaelite mi- nuteness that not a single incongruous object may break the harmony of his picture. Sir Walter Scott is said not only to have taken notes of the pecuiiar features of the landscape which he designed to make the scene of a story, but even of the very herbs and grasses, giving as a reason that nature never reproduced or exactly repeated herself. Our authors mist imitate his care if they would aspire to his success. two principal books that have endeavored to American novels of an historical character, st Sit di: fai Sa ho sul the nat ma tru day sha hon hi and Am ther in la cans but | the . first the « will ¢ langi * Aut With er’s Scene and, | tribut Ward, extray laughs Spellin Ever mit to Class a

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- Tea ee” a at BaPaP ES e- the ite, or ly- een ays yple ven ittle t is His- real le to e, or > mi bject Sir aken scape story, iving mist o his acter; THE BOOKS WE READ. 59 being nen tnventus est, we are obliged to fall back for our reading under this head to those of Sir Walter Scott and Miss Muhlbach, and in these works the principle that “distance lends enchantment” comes broadly into view. How delicately the bloody and terrible scenes of war are toned down and made to harmonize with the rich and vivid hues of Scott’s master- pieces! Who thinks of bloodshed and death while reading of the gallant jousts and brave tournaments of Ivanhoe, or of the unsettled and dangerous condition of society that pro- duced the originals of fierce Dick Hatteraick, weird Meg Merrilles, false Conrad of Montser- rat, wild Die Vernon, cruel Varney, and war- like Helen? Ah, how the wondrous power of the Great Unknown has thrown a romantic interest even around the profligacy and corrup- tion of the Pretender and his followers, tili the straitest-laced Presbyterian will, unconsciously, wish for the success of the king’s party! So we forget, amid the brilliant and shifting scenes drawn by Miss Muhlbach, the want and misery caused by the wars of Frederick the Great, while he himself is changed from the sternest of military despots, whose ruling pas- sion is ambition, to a warm-hearted, kindly- disposed man, whose treatment of even his own family is th> effect of fortuitous circumstances. Such being the softening effect of time, we may hope that when another century has shed its subduing influences over the events of this, the chroniclers may forget the party feuds, fa- natical prejudices, and petty intrigues that now mar its great events, and present them in their true magnitude to the reading public of that day, which, seeing only through a glass dimly, shall pardon errors, and give honor to whom honor is due. > In the second place come Humorous novels, and in this department, too, the range of purely American literature is quite limited still, though there have been additions enough to the stock in late years to silence the slander that Ameri- cans were not only incapable of writing humor, but of appreciating it when written. Among the American humorists, Irving deserves the first place, for there are humorous passages in the ‘‘ Knickerbocker’ and ‘‘Sketch Book’’ that will compare favorably with any in the English language. After him come Holmes, with his “ Autocrat of the Breakfast-table ;’ Baldwin, with his “‘Flush Times of Alabama ;’”’ Hoop- er’s “Simon Suggs ;’’ Longstreet’s ‘‘Georgia Scenes’’ and “ Adventures of Major Jones ;’” and, bringing up the rear, a host of minor con- tributors to floating fun, headed by Artemus Ward, Bill Arp, and Josh Billings, with their extravagant humor, which would be just as laughable without their nondescript style of spelling. Even in the face of this list, we have to sub- mit to the fact that Americans are not as a it in others, is fully shown by the growing favor with which Dickens’ works are meeting from all classes, and the aptness which they show in recognizing similar traits in the charac- ters of those around them to his pen and ink portraits. ‘*‘Here is a Mrs. Gummidge, with ‘things always going contrary.’”’ “He re- minds me of Sloppy, with his many angles.’’ ‘* Yonder is Mr. Micawber, ‘ waiting for some- thing to turn up.’”’ Such are the frequent remarks of all acquainted with his novels, but often they add: ‘‘ Dickens must live among strange people, if all his characters are drawn from originals.”’ They forget that Dickens but seizes upon one peculiarity, and makes that synonymous with his character, without paying any atten- tion to the other traits that modify owr opinion of those around us, whose peculiarities we notice. Just as we, if called upon to give a description of an acquaintance, would mention the mest striking peculiarities first, though we might feel obliged to add other traits Of charac- ter to render the representation accurate, and keep off the suspicion of being ill-natured. From this necessity authors are exempt, and for this reason Dickens’ characters are so strongly marked as to appear caricatures ; but if the originals could be presented to the reader, it is doubtful whether they would appear any more eccentric than those we meet every day. Still, however one-sided a critical survey may consider them, they are, to all readers, living, breathing realities, and, as such, keenly en- joyed, from Pickwick, Mr. Wellerzand Sami- vel, to the fragmentary characters of the Mys- tery of Edwin Drood ; and though their author now sleeps his last, long sleep, his memory will continue to live green, fresh, and radiant in the hearts of millions, and his name be a house- hold word wherever the English language is not an unmeaning sound. If, as some contend, satire be closely akin to wit and humor, we must not omit the mention of Thackeray’s works under this head, for, certainly, no author of modern times has ever wielded such a keen, sarcastic pen, or ever more coolly dragged to iight the ridiculous foibles, subtle evasions, mean peccadilloes, and hidden vices of poor human nature. Grateful as the intellectual portion of our nature may be for the giant intellect and deep insight into human nature that have given us such books as ‘‘Vanity Fair,’’ ‘‘Pendennis,’’ and ‘‘ The New- comes,’’ we are doubtful if any one ever rose from their perusal with any other feeling, or moral emotion heightened. Are we better men and women for the reading? ‘‘ We are no worse,’’ says one, “‘for being made to look upon the evil which we know exists.’’ My friend, you may be aware your brother is suf- fering with a dreadful tumor, but would you think it kind of his physician to force you con- class a witty people; but that they appreciate stantly to look at the diseased part, and insist

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mas. as: pois oe 60 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. that you forget all his kindly deeds and gener- ous acts, because he is not as robust and healthy as yourself? Is it not better for our own hap- piness, as well as more in accordance with Divine teachings, to let that charity which “thinketh no evil, and is kind,” drop its friendly veil over the faults and foibles that we cannot remedy, and, while not ignoring the works of this master mind, which no longer brightens our world, reserve them fer some after-dinner hour, or lazy evening, when, in dreamy comfort, we may enjoy their quaint humor, without imbibing their bitter and jaun- diced views of life and mankind? No such precaution, however, is necessary in the perusal of the standard Domestic novel. Who does not rise softer and purer from wor- ship at the household altars reared by Marion Harland, or stronger to endure and dare after tracing the strange but heroie characters of Miss Evans, the last great leaders of the mighty throng who find in the domestic life of Ame- rica wide fields for their genius, and exert an influence greater than any other class of writers ? Few novelists have enjoyed greater popu- larity with all classes than Marion Harland. In the South, at least, her books are household names, rarely uttered save in tones of admira- tion, not only for the truthfulness of her por- traitures of Southern, and especially Virginian, domestic life, but for the lessons of truth and purity inculeated on every page, awakening us to self-examination, and a desire to lead better and hholier lives. That her true forte lay in the delineation of domestic life in the Old Dominion is proved by the immense success that has attended the publication of her writings in this particular field. Virginians feel and acknowledge the debt of gratitude they owe her for the graphic and delightful way in which she has so often sketched the vie intime of their domestic and social circle. Severe and numerous as have been the criti- cisms on Miss Evans’, or, as we must now learn to say, Mrs. Wilson’s, works, very few will deny her genius of the first order, or a mind far in advance of the standard for womanly intellect, even in these days of strong-minded women clamoring for social, intellectual, and political equality. That she wields, and will continue to wield, a powerful and wholesome influence over her sisters of the pen cannot be doubted, even if she does sometimes disfigure her pages with such overstrained sentences as this: “Perish the microcosm in the limitless macrocosm, and sink the feeble, earthly segre- gate in the boundless, rushing, choral aggre- gation.” Most persons begin the perusal of Miss Evans’ works with minds already prejudiced, and eyes so widely open to note the faults, that the prolonged stare is apt to make mountains out of molehills. Many of the allusions which they pronounce “incomprehensible erudition” are really drawn from the Bible, that grand old classic which ought to be familiar with every reader. For the others, if her readers would take the trouble to search out what is obscure, they would find every reference to beautifully illustrate the point under consideration. The great fault, I think, in Miss Evans’ books is that she draws her characters, not from the great world of living, breathing humanity around her, but from the glowing depths of her own vivid imagination ; therefore they are crude oddities, who may act well their parts in the pages of a novel, but would cut a sorry figure if introduced into a world of realities. Her femirine characters, in all save one of her books, are types of the same idea, under dif- ferent names; women of gigantic minds and most delicate sensibilities, who will harangue on any occasion at the greatest length, without any heed to time or circumstances. Her heroes are creatures of cultivated intellects, skeptical views, and strong, imperfectly curbed passions, that would make them highwaymen, if their position by birth did not make them gentlemen. It is doubtful whether in the re- fined and cultivated seciety in which Miss Evans moves she ever met any man approach- ing in character St. Elmo ; and, I am sure, she would stare with amazement at any young lady that on any occasion would make a speech of half the length she made Edna utter at a din- ner party. If Miss Evans would study society more and books less, learn to make her characters flesh and blood realities instead of demi-goddesses and semi-devils, and remember the unities of time,and place, she might rise to a position never occupied by a woman before, and throw all contemporaries into the deepest shadow. But this station she will probably never now attain,especially if she is happily married, for, as a wife and mother, her true aim lies in pro- moting the domestic happiness of those around her. I wish that space permitted me to talk of all our dear domestic friends, many of whom have sent their messages over distant seas to cheer our hours of pain and loneliness, teaching us to fight our life battles bravely, to aid the weak, pity the erring, and fulfi] our duty in whatever state of life God may have called us. Every true-hearted woman who loves genuine and ennobling reading must read with pleasure the name of Miss Muloch on the title-page of a’ new book. Who of us have not lingered with delight over the pages of the monthly that bears us such stories as “‘The Woman’s Kingdom” and “A Brave Lady?” Which of us does not know numberless such selfish, ignoble women as Letitia, and, once and awhile, such con- stant, gentle, loving creatures as Edna, Anne Valery, and Christian Grey? So good and womanly are all her heroines, that we think Oli life Wi boo poe Mr hos fail yon and N boo! the nati wer note Com “A Ears the ] the Van of D socie the 1 very Strict Tread the di must secur Just 1 with talent or, as sion ; before or clo:

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she dy of in- und esh ses . of jon row ow. 10W for, pro- und all ave 1eeT r us the y in | us. nine sure of a’ with ears om not men con- nne and hink

that Miss Muloch’s forte lies in the delineation of feminine character, till we recall such men as John Halifax, Max Urquhart, and Doctor Grey, characters so good, brave, true, and vivid as to be, indeed, word-paintings of what men ought to be. Searcely inferior to these works are those of Miss Yonge. First, ‘‘ Heartease,’’ in which the reader so deeply sympathizes with Violet in her efforts to win the hearts of her boy-hus- band’s stern relatives; then ‘‘The Heir of Redclyffe,’’ the perusal of which is a pleasure yet in store for the writer ; and ‘‘ Daisy Chain,’’ which, though occupying two volumes, we could wish yet longer, so deeply interested are we in its dear, pleasant home pictures. Espe- cially do you love Ethel, with her Cockmoor schemes, a character so nobie that you feel as if you could not forgive the author for not making her happy at the close, instead of let- ting her sorrows and lonely life haunt the reader for hours after the book is closed, like those of some dear personal friend. While I pause with pen suspended, question- ing as to whom I shall next introduce, there THE BOOKS WHE READ. / 61

| characters, the principal of which is generally | a beautiful young woman, either married or single. If married, as ‘‘Grace Truman,’ her husband and his relatives are of a different | faith and order, and she sets herself to work to proselyte them, holding forth, both in and out | of season, with such fiuency and readiness on / all points as to prove that she has made po- _lemics her study from her earliest infancy, and | gained more knowledge than most men who 'have spent their lives in a search for truth. | The persecutions she suffers from her hus- | band’s family and friends are the grains of | salt which season the mixture for the general | reader; and she, of course, in the end, wins them over to her way of thinking, and induces | them to unite with the denomination which she | represents. If unmarried, as in ‘‘ Theodosia | Ernest,” she, after being raised in one faith, | suddenly becomes convinced of the error of | her ways. In spite of the entreaties of her family, she persists in following the new faith ; | parts with her lover on the same question, | he failing to be convinced by the arguments | which she, too, advocates in a masterly man- | | rushes upon me such an array of names—Miss»| ner through two large volumes ; and the story Oliphant, with her pleasant stories of Scottish | ends with happiness toall concerned. <A proof life; Mrs. Grey, with her exciting ‘‘Gambler’s | that the doctrinal novel fails in its object,

Wife ;’’ Grace Aguilar, with her well-known books, which some one has termed ‘‘ prose poems ;’’ Holme Lee’s sweet ‘‘ Kathie Brand ;’’ Mrs. Gaskell’s thrilling ‘‘ Mary Barton,’’ and hosts of others—so numerous that one would | fail to find words of welcome for them all, be- yond a simple, heartfelt God bless you, one and all! Next in order comes the Doctrinal novel, books written for the purpose of promulgating the peculiar tenets of some particular denomi- nation. In former days, such religious works were published under names that at once de- noted their character, such as ‘‘Crumbs of Comfort for the Children of the Covenant,”’ “A Reaping-Hook, Well Tempered, for the Ears of the Coming Crop,’’ “‘ A Shot Aimed at the Devil’s Headquarters through the Tube of the Cannon of the Covenant,” ‘‘Salvation’s Vantage Ground,”’ and ‘“‘ The Sixpennyworth of Divine Spirit.” But the conventions, Bible societies, or learned theologians, who now have the management of such publications, know very well that books bearing such titles, and strictly religious in contents, would remain un- read. upon the bookseller’s shelves, and that the doctrinal points which they wish to enforce must be presented in some attractive form to Secure the attention of the reading public. Just now the novel is the most attractive form with all classes; they therefore select some talented writer of their belief. He reads up, or, as collegians say, “‘crams,’’ for the occa- sion; writes out the points he wishes to set before the public, whether they may be baptism | which is proselytism, is found in the fact that | very few readers can repeat a single argument | advanced, though they may remember distinctly _ the thread of the story. Under the head of Sensational novel, the list is so long as to be almost appalling, ranging, | as it does in this country, from Mrs. Stowe to the “Dime Novels,’’ and in England from Wilkie Collins to ‘‘ Railroad Novels.’’ In the sensational school, Mrs. Southworth also must take a prominent place. Few will deny her genius for dramatic effects, and the gorgeous colors and rapidly shifting scenes of many of her works fit them more for the stage than for the domestic circle. With the young, who like excitement, her books are always popular ; and many of us can yet recall the delight with which we once read Capitola’s ingenious efforts to foil Black Donald in ‘‘ The Hidden Hand,” and the hearty laughs with which we greeted Jac- quelina’s mental ejaculation of “Verjuice, verdegris, and vinegar !”’ as she puckered up her rosy lips to kiss the old nun in “ Miriam the Avenger.” The author of ‘‘ Elia” said: “‘I can read any- thing which I call a book, but there are books which are no books.” Under this definition comes so large a proportion of the sensational writing of American birth, that one ought to be pardoned for not dipping deeply into the monstrous pitch-kettle, whose lightest touch defiles, to find the few grains of sterling metal that may be hid therein. What may be the use of this conglomeration of filth and impurity is “ Beyond, short-sighted man, thy darkened ken,”

or close communion. He then selects a set of | and so we will let it rest.

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62 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. Wilkie Collins, with his weird ‘“‘ Woman in White,” facetious Count Foscos, scheming Silas Wreggs, and irrepressible Miss Gwilts ; Miss Braddon, with her deified duality of fasci- ‘are best known to the readers of the present day through the pages of the quarterlies and | monthlies. Even Bulwer, whose name was ‘‘a nating men with two wives, and wives with | two husbands; Eugene Sue and Alexander Dumas, with their impossible villains and in- famous scenes, are the authors of the English sensational school with which the American people are most familiar, and I am sure that most of them will echo the wish expressed by a writer in the Saturday Review, that “injured | wives and glorified governesses may soon take the wind out of the sails of the glorified adulter- esses and murderesses in which these authors seem to delight.” It seems almost sacrilege to place Currer Bell among sensation writers, yet where else can we place “ Jane Eyre?” And even the interest- ing “Shirley” centres upon disturbances among the weavers of England. There is something particularly touching in the life of the Bronte sisters; their isolation in that gloomy old stone manse, high up among purple moors; their quiet twilight talks over their writings, as they promenaded the long, fire-lighted parlor, each the critic of the other’s work, show how strong their affection, and how closely they clung to whatever of brightness belonged to that period of their lives. How soon it faded into @ darkness that was appalling, as Char- lotte watched the fierce grapplings of Emily with the fell destroyer, and the gentle fading away of Annie, with nothing to distract her attention save the insane ravings of a brother, threatening the life of his father amidst the paroxysms of delirium tremens! Surely, few elements of the sensational were wanting there, and it is not wonderful that we find some of them reflected in her works; but the deifica- tion of villainy, which would prove her kinship to the authors of the sensational school which have been already mentioned, is entirely lack- ing ; and it is not surprising that Miss Bronte was shocked by the remark of a lady friend in London, after the publication of “‘ Jane Eyre,” that they must both plead guilty to the charge of having written naughty books. Jane Eyre’s character is purity itself, and even Rochester was more “sinned against than sinning,” and it must be a vicious mind, indeed, that can find any element of depravity in the parting scene between them, in which Jane, without one sin- gle sustaining power, save her own innate sense of right, withstood the greatest of temptations, hushed the pleadings of her own heart, cast be- hind her everything that made life desirable, and went forth to brave destitution and, per- haps, death. Could anyone write a more signal triumph for virtue, or cast a stronger ballot in favor of morality? Surely not. Last, but not by any means least, come Periodical or Serial novels, for many of the ablest authors, both of England and America, magic spell’ to our parents, who was indeed a cosmographer, equally at home amid the gay circles of English society and the classic walks of Rome and Pompeii, is best known to us through ‘“‘ My Novel,” published as a serial in Harper’s Magazine. Even Thackeray and Dickens, those master minds, have not dis- dained this method of publication, and almost all their later works have come to us first un- der the form of serials in some magazine ; and it is to periodicals that we must now look to gain information upon many important sub- jects, as well as the cream of light literature. Young writers have always particularly af- fected this style of composition, because they are less difficult to write than any others, the intervention of a month between the chapters allowing of many discrepancies in plots, which would be instantly detected in a connected reading. But that very few have risen to emi- nence in the art, is proved by most of our magazines continuing to publish Hnglish stories 6f this character. While bigoted and egotistic, as Americans are generally considered, they eannot help feeling the inferiority of native productions. Why is this? We have genius, refinement, culture; what is to prevent our rising to the front rank of literature? Nothing but a want of care both in editors and contribu- tors. Washington Irving, Edgar A. Poe, Na- thaniel Hawthorne, Alice B. Haven, Marion Harland, were all magazine writers, yet their contributions stand in the front rank of Ameri- ean literature, and will compare favorably with contemporary English productions. ‘‘ What man has done, man can do again,”’ and if edi- tors will only set their standard high, and pay well when it is reached, contributors will write up to it, and our magazines will no longer be crowded with the trashy, false, and unnatural stories which now make their perusal indeed a waste of time. Especially are these remarks applicable to the writers of the South, who are just beginning to have a voice in the literature of the land. Be not content merely to equal English writers, but surpass them, as far as the natural gifts of your country surpass theirs. In the language of one of our own writers, “Let Excelsior be our motto, and let our standard never be lowered to cater to the false and vitiated taste of the sensational and depraved. Let purity and refinement, truth and sense, principle and Godliness, stand side by side with talent and interest, as the test by which all articles must be impartially and strictly judged. Thus, and thus only, can we hope fér success in laying 4 pure and strong foundation, upon which future generations may erect a national literature for our beloved South, second to none in worth, | purity, refinement, and brilliancy.”’ past walks einths blossc “c Yo “ Ve name | fi Ye who iti Ye: tones - see 4 I was Prese me! [ were my are will; many st

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s of age aste rity and and aust and ng 4 nture » for orth, ROUGH PATHS. 63 ROUGH PATHS. BY O. D. OnE of the sweetest, freshest of May morn- ings. Through the crystalline air every leaf seemed defined in the pale green woods, stretch- ing seaward from the mountain. Up the gleam- ing bay swept the white sails, wafted with balmy briskness on the breeze. The very smoke seemed to dance joyously up from the cottage trees ; coils of bubbling springs burst up through the green sward, studded with vio- lets and white clover; while from bough to hough darted the happy songsters. They seemed echoing the glad Te Deum in our hearts, ‘‘ All the earth doth worship Thee, the Father Everlasting.’’ What intense, unspeak- able joy it seemed to be to live! One could almost wish to set up his tabernacle here, un- mindful of a future state; and, yet, if things seen could fill us with such ecstasy, with what longing expectation should we look forward to the possession of that heavenly inheritance ; to those joys that eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive. These joys are transitory and uncertain, sure to be swept away by the rude hand of time; those changeless and un- fading. By some subtile intuition, I read similar thoughts in the quiet face of one sitting by my side. It was a face sobered by suffering, sha- dowed by graves, wearing the restful look of one who knows the future can hold no new pangs, and that the journey*nust end at last. Surprised by my long scrutiny, the tender, earnest eyes sought mine, and, if my heart looked out, they showed it full of respectful sympathy. A faint smile appeared to thank me, then the long lashes weighed down the waxen lids again. The road wound round the mountain base, past unassuming farm-houses, with garden walks bordered with sweet jonquils and hya- einths, and orchards thick with clustering blossoms. ‘Your home lies here, Miss Lucy?” “Yes, but why do you call me Lucy? My name is Lois.”’ “You remind me of Wordsworth’s Lucy, who *‘ Dwelt in quiet, untrod ways! Beside the springs of Dove.’” “Yes,” a touch of; bitterness in the low tones :— ““* A maid whom there was few to praise, And very few to love.’”’ I was silent, slightly vexed. Presently she said, penitently: ‘Forgive me! I know you did not mean that. You were my brother's friend, and, I am sure, you are willing to be mine ; but, young as I am, so many storms have beaten on my head, that my nature is warped and soured.’”’ She looked like it, with the sensitive lines about the mouth, the tearful, beseeching eyes. I was not used to talking to women. For seven years I had lived the life of a savage; what should I say to comfort and not wound? A stanza of the Dean of Canterbury’s came to mind :— ***He holds me when the billows smite ; I shall not fall. If sharp, ‘tis short; if long, ’tis light— He tempers all.’ ”’ Then we were silent, until we jolted over the proverbially crooked, stony Southern lane to her father’s door. He met us, white-haired, and bent, and urbane, the father of Marcus France, my friend, whose grave I had left, hidden from dogs and bears under a pile of stones, near one of the many canons of Colo- rado. The remembrance of this made our meeting constrained and sad. Mrs. France, the second wife, was what Mare had described her—a namby-pamby girl-woman, one of the kind who never are women, who carry their ignorances and petty failings through life, uncorrected by its sharp experiences. She made some silly, shallow remark when I delivered the Sharp’s rifle, travelling-bag, and watch, and crisp, shining, auburn lock—last words there were none. We had been surprised in “carel”’ by the Indians. He had often talked to me of his sister Lois ; her uncongenial surroundings and faithful, true little heart. How he had offered to gratify her aspirations by sending her to school, or making a home for her himself, where she could pursue her studies, and be free from the selfish tyranny that had driven him away; but she refused to leave her old father to the careless mercies of her young stepmother. For myself, in the two weeks the old man insisted on my staying, I found that Lois, though the guiding star of the large family, yet was the servant of all. Striving, some- times fruitlessly, against the slatternly habits of Mrs. France ; taking sole care of her four brothers’ wardrobes; the click, click of her sewing machine sounding far into the night ; up by light, bringing order out of confusion and dirt ; coming flushed and appetiteless to the breakfast-table, bringing flowers, and toast, and delicious waffles; hiding, with a smile, weary sighs, as the long days rolled their mul- titudes of duties of hearing lessons, mending and knitting, and minding the twins, and sew- ing balls and dolls. I had never heard of work until, sitting day after day in the long, low parlor her deft fingers rendered cool and inviting, I watched the tread- mill of hard, exhausting labor this young girl trod, this girl who, beside her beautiful eyes, was far from prepossessing; neither witty, graceful, nor accomplished ; like the hundred

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64 GODEY’'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.

and one women you meet every day, with pale, uninteresting faces, and voices of mediocre flexi- bility. That she lived another life than the bustling, drudging one apparent, a careless ob- server would not have imagined. I read it in the hungry, wistful look of the brown eyes, as they chanced to light on a rare blossom, or when, with clasped hands, she watched the shifting opal and purple and crimson clouds, as the sun flashed through the “Golden Gate”’ of the far West. To me she was a revelation. I was not a Calaban. Ten years before, when my cheek was unbronzed, my locks untouched, gushing misses had crowned my tawny ringlets with myrtle, and called me Adonis, Apollo, and I had laid the flattering unction to my soul, and pictured my ideal woman—beautiful, gracious, and tender—a Venus or a Hebe, at whose feet I would lay my proud attainments, my untar- nished name. Sharp adversities, crushing af- flictions, and a fair, false face had changed my views and ways of life, and driven me, hateful and hating, into the wilderness. Time assuages the keenest pain. I had be- gun to long for educated companionship, when I met Marcus France, the surveyor. Intelli- gent, clear-headed, fervently pious, a man well calculated to settle and fix a vasciliating though not hardened heart. We never parted until the earth closed between us. My best friend! In character Lois was his fac-simile, and I loved her, and knew, moreover, that she had made duty the ruling star of her life, and, though in the same constellation she should find, had found, every discomfort, she was not one lightly to turn back, having once put her hands to the plough. And so I sneered at my folly ; called her dumpy, insignificant, an enthusiast ; and grew miserable, watching the restless little figure, waiting for the speech of the eloquent eyes; picturing a green-bowered Western home, bright with music, and flowers, and loy- ing smiles. It was not altogether a selfish love. She craved all beautiful sights and sounds. I could make her life a fairy land compared with what it now was. She had toiled for others so long, it was but meet she should have some recompense. So I argued to myself, and repeated my arguments to her the last day of my stay, when I was sur- prised into a declaration by her bursting into tears at a cruel unmerited reproach uttered by her stepmother as she flaunted out of the room. Giving me the poor consolation of acknow- ledging my love returned, she was flint against leaving “father and the boys. How could they do without me? Dear father! whv was father and mother both for so many years to his troublesome girl ?’’ ‘*‘ But vou are killing yourself.” little smile, lifting the wet, wan face from the table. Now, I would like to tell how, by some im- possible possibility, after a few years of patient waiting, Lois and I were rewarded, and lived happy ever after. Hear the sequel, oh, mur- murers and complainers, living in your Shel- tered homes, with time to gratify every idle fancy. I went back to my traps, and books, and “dugout.” Four years from then I again sought the farm, to find Lois thinner and paler, if possible, but cheerful and patient. A stroke of paralysis had rendered Mr. France a feeble imbecile, who cried piteously when he saw me to know “ whether I wanted to take his Lois out to bury under that stone heap by her bro- ther.” Five years more of wandering, and an un- controllable desire led me again to her home. A desolate air about the house chilled me; no autumn flowers bloomed in the disorderly gar- den; the lattice-work about the porch hung loose and weather-beaten. One of the younger Franees swung on the gate. I asked for his sister Lois. An incredulous stare, and “‘ Lor! don’t you know that mother, and father, and sis Lois are all gone?”’ “Gone where?” ““Why, dead ! We were all took down with the typhus two years ago. Motherand father died almost together, and the five that were down were getting better when sis Lois was taken. The doctor told Rer she had the fever, and would die if she did not give up. She knew that, but how could she stop? At last I was holding up the cellar door for her one day, when, as she came up the ladder, she kind of reeled, and fell back dead.”’ I leaned on my horse’s neck as the youngster, with earnest face, poured forth the recital. “On a ladder!” I turned sick at the thought. No time to die, even. *‘Won’t you come in; you look pale? Bro’ Joe’s married. We all live with him here. Come on in.” “No; where is your sister buried?” ‘‘Under that fir-tree yonder. She planted it.” Bro’ Joe, with more than characteristic thoughtfulness, had placed a simple cross at the head, and on it her name and “He giveth His beloved sleep.”

> HE that has no friend and no enemy is one of the vulgar, and without talents, power, or energy.— Lavater. As good almost kill a man as a good book. A good book is the precious life-blood of 4 master-spirit, embalmed and treasured up on

“<Tf sharp, ’tis short,’ you know,’ with a

purpose to a life beyond life.— Milton.

thin] her | nothi ever my ¥ Th led it inmat Rayn ments patier heard claim it W is the “ Al VE

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THAT HATEFUL COLOR. THAT HATEFUL COLOR. BY INO CHURCHILL. *Twas a pleasant occasion, that party at Mrs. Nickerson’s, at the budding spring-time, and the beauty and happiness within seemed but a reflection of the life and joy without. The flitting swallow told of spring’s renewing no more surely than did the rippling laughter from that youthful throng bespeak heart-sun- shine and life music. It was no pretentious mansion where the young people of the village were assembled, but a long, low-roofed house, with a piazza running round it, not so much, it seemed, to give character to the building as to support the luxuriant honeysuckles that twined in and out among the climbing rose-bushes, and brushed their spicy petals lovingly against the newly opening leaves. The rooms were cheerful and spacious, though somewhat old-fashioned and low-ceil- inged, and the hanging lamps festooned with fragrant wreaths of hyacinths and lilies of the valley, exhaled odors as sweet and grateful as ever did perfumed taper breathing from antique carved flower. The host and hostess were cheerful, middle- aged people, with no children, but so fond of young society that they took advantage of every lull in the social whirl to give one of their pleasant informal parties, and their invi- tations were always received with joyful antici- pations. This particular evening had been devoted almost entirely to dancing, but the tripping feet had grown somewhat weary, and the parties had separated into small groups, and wandered up and down the rooms, or chatted in quiet corners. Libbie Seeley’s cavalier for the hour had thrown a shawl about her, and begged her to take a stroll on the piazza and gather some flowers. Wise fellow, he meant, and she knew it, to say, in flowing language, and sweet, in- sinuating tones, that her presence to him was the breath of the flower, and the light of her eye the sunshine upon it. She accepted his offered arm, rather glad of an opportunity to think over some sweet hopes that had entered her heart. She knew her escort’s words meant nothing ; not one of the girls believed he would ever ask the honest question: ‘“ Will you be my wife?’’ They had paused by an open window that led into the parlors, but were hidden from the inmates by the flowing curtains; and Henry Raymond’s voice grew low in pathetic senti- mentality, and Libbie, half laughing, half im- patient, was about to turn away, when she heard Sarah Wheaton's astonished voice ex- claim :— “Why, Mr. Wadsworth, not like yellow! It is the color of gold and of sunshine!” **And of light, itself,’ said Ruth Lovell. VOL. LXXXIII.—5 65 ‘‘Beg your pardon, Miss Ruth, but light is white.”’ ‘ ‘* Well, I don’t care,”’ said Ruth. ‘Our at- mosphere must be very sallow, then, for it he- comes yellow enough before we get any of it. If I were Della, I wouid plant a row of sun- flowers all around the garden, and have you grow so like their honest upturned faces, not afraid to absorb all the cheerful sunshine they can get. Now, I dare say, you would never have a buttereup held under your chin, lest the bright reflection might stay there.” They all laughed at this, and Wadsworth said :-— ‘*You are merciless, Miss Ruth. You do not give me a chance to defend my opinion.” *] don’t mean to, till you get the benefit of mine. Suppose all the bright color should be stricken out of the world, how dull everything would be! Did you ever look at a landscape through a blue medium? Ugh! I did once, and I experience a slight shiver every time I think of it.” And she shrugged her pretty shoulders, in token of disgust. ‘“‘He likes yellow curls floating over his shoulder,”’ said his cousin, Della Clemment, mischievously. Libbie shrank back a little at this. She knew Della meant her, for her hair was yellow; golden, she liked to call it; and she had prome- naded with Mr. Wadsworth in the early part of the evening. He was quite tall, and she knew her hair did float back over his arm, and she thought he liked it, too, for his manner had grown tender, and he had danced with her many times, and asked permission to accom- pany her home. Her companion was absorbed in his own eloquence, and she leaned forward to catch Wadsworth’s answer, and the flitting rose-tinge on her cheek grew toa steady, burn- ing red, as she heard him say :— “You jest on serious subjects, Della. I ex- pect you will ask me next if I like the color of the stars, or the streets of the golden city. I have no objection to nature’s coloring,” he - continued. ‘‘ You pounced upon my opinion so vehemently, you gave me no time to explain what I meant by my assertion. I certainly do not like yellow in contact with a lady’s cheek, or, in fact, in any article of her dress, it ts so trying to the complexion that no lady of good taste will wear it. I never saw but one lady who did not look like a fright in it.” “‘Pray, who was she?’ said Della; ‘‘you were in duty bound to fall in love with her for being beautiful enough to render becoming an unbecoming color.” “Tt was Miss Harding, of St. Louis, a -per- fect brunette, with a clear olive complexion, yet a skin so delicate that the bloom in wher cheek was plainly visible, not common ina real brunette.” * But,’ said Ruth,.“‘ when we approach jshe

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ee ET ae or eee nn ee 66 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. sere and yellow leaf of life, we may wear it, may we not?” . *“*No, wear brown then, a golden brown, if you will, if so be, in your heart ; youth’s flower and sunshine are merged to yellow, ripened fruitage.’’ Libbie dared listen to no more, but said to Mr. Raymond she was growing chilly ; he led her around by the back entrance to the music- room. The few who were assembled there begged her for a song, and she, willing to have Raymond suppose she had heard his vapid nothings, sang, in a sweet, plaintive voice: “Call me pet names, darling; call me a flower !’’ ‘And like a flower she looks,’’ thought Wadsworth, who had been attracted to the room by the song. And perhaps she did. She was exceedingly fair, with the faintest tinge of red in her cheek ; a delicate, well-formed nose ; and eyes so blue they were almost violet. She was dressed in a pale blue silk, with lace decora- tions; her yellow curls, just frizzy enough to be carelessly pretty, and show they were of nature’s twining, looped back from her brow with apple-blossoms, that Wadsworth- only wished were thistles, to catch Raymond’s im- pertinent beard, that had approached in such aggravating proximity to her sunny head. William Wadsworth had proven quite an acquisition to Bloomdale society. He had been there but two months, but, as Della Clem- ment’s cousin, he had the entrée of every home circle. He was the only child of Mrs. Clem- ment’s dead sister, and had spent most of his life in his western home, but had now come east with a considerable capital, and formed a very promising business connection with a large firm in the city, only three miles distant from our village. He boarded with his aunt, as companion and protector, she being a widow, and her son, an artist of some note, being on a tour of the States, preparatory for a trip to Europe in the fall, soon after Della’s contem- ’ plated marriage. Della had told all the girls confidentially that her cousin was not engaged, and had never been in love. “Only think of it!’ said she ; “and twenty-six, too!” And it is not to be wondered at if there was some fluttering of hearts when the handsome stranger made his appearance among them. A week or so after Mrs. Nickerson’s party there was to be a concert in the city, that promised to be of the highest order, and every Bloomdale girl was on tiptoe to attend. Mr. Wadsworth had invited Libbie Lesley, and she could not find it in her heart to refuse. She meant to look charmingly, too ; she had ordered from the city a white chip hat, to be trimmed with blue ribbons and daisies ; and the concert hour was growing nigh, and the hat had not been sent home. **What shall I do?’ she said to her sister Caroline. ‘‘ My velvet hat will look shabby, because out of season, and Mr. Wadsworth is so fastidious in matters of dress, and he will be here in ten minutes. There is his ring now, I do believe! Oh, dear, what a hard-hearted creature that Madame Flummery must be!’ At this moment the maid handed the bandbox into the room. ‘Oh, I beg her ten thousand pardons !”’ she joyously exclaimed, and she laid out her pearl-colored gloves and embroidered handkerchief with a sense of relief. Mr. Wadsworth’s card was soon sent up, and Libbie uttered a ery of dismay, as Cad held up a pretty chip hat, gorgeously trimmed with an unmistakably yellow ribbon. The messenger was gone, and Libbie could have cried with vexation. “The abominable thing!’ said she, giving the crown a spiteful punch, which did not alter the color, only marred the shape. “Put it on,”’ said Cad, not at all discomfited. ‘** Perhaps it is his favorite color.” Libbie knew better, but gave no sign, as she tied the broad brilliant strings in a flaunting bow under her chin, and fitted on a pair of straw-colored gloves. “Cad, how do I look?” “Like a squaw,” said the uncompromising Cad. “ Why don’t you say like an Indian princess? I wish I had a saffron-colored shawl and a bou- quet of dandelions. I'll stay at home!’’ she said, giving the unlucky strings a sudden twitch. "No, you won't,” said Cad. “Go down now ; he will get impatient ; and don’t you ex- plain a word about it. You never looked so homely in your life, but be just as agreeable as possible. It is a pity if the color of ~our hat is going to affect his opinion of you. When I have beaux, they shall like me for my own charming self, not because a particular dress happens te become me.” Cad was fifteen, and had not a very clear idea of the ‘‘ men sect” in general. Libbie did go down, and the surprised and somewhat annoyed look on the gentleman’s face, as his eye rested on her, decided her course ; she would take Cad’s advice. Mr. Wadsworth did not again in the whole evening lose controbof his expression, and he could not have been more kind and attentive if she had worn the blue ribbons and daisies. The drive had been so pleasant, the music was so entrancing, that Libbie found it easy to make herself irresistible, and, when her cavalier held her yellow-gloved hand a moment at part- ing, she felt that she certainly had not lost favor in his eyes. “Della,” said her cousin, next morning, “did you tell Miss Seeley what I said about colors the other morning ?”’ ‘“No,” said Della. garden

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THAT HATEFUL COLOR. 67 “Did she ever wear that hateful color be- fore?” “No,” said Della; ‘but it is very fashion- able now, yeu know.” ‘* Will youask Miss Wheaton and Miss Lovell if they mentioned our conversation to her, and please do it in a way that will not involve me? That’s a good cousin. I am very anxious to know.”’ * All right,” said Della. ‘‘She must have overheard me,”’ said Wads- worth, as his cousin told him at night that the girls had not spoken of his antipathy to yellow. “IT don’t believe they will tell her, Will. They are only too glad to have her wear it if you do not like it. You know you are quite a handsome man, cousin, and I suppose the girls would not object to adding you to their list of conquered.”’ ** Miss Seeley does not seem inclined to make any sacrifices to bring about so lofty a result,”’ said Wadsworth, half-ashamed of his interest in the matter of a mere girl’s preference. “‘Now, seriously, Will, I think it was all accident that Libbie wore the color. As for hearing the conversation, it was impossible, as she was quite in another part of the house, flirting with Hen Raymond.” “Ts she a coquette, think you, Della?” ‘“‘No, indeed! She is true as truth itself. Woe be to him who trifles with her.” **But you said she was flirting.’’ ‘Oh! Patience Prim herself would flirt with Hen. Heis so anxious to make himself ridicu- lous, one cannot resist the inclination to help him.” Libbie Seeley was bent on being fashionable, it seemed, for she purchased a buff muslin, and trimmed her white morning dress with bands of straw color, and, when madame sent down the lovely, daisy-decked hat, with her profuse French apologies for the mistake she had made, Libbie had the courage to request that she might keep the one she had, as she had already worn and slightly dent it. She wore the color on every occasion—at picnics, croquet parties, and even Fourth of July, when all the girls were dressed in a pretty uniform of red, white, and blue. One morning Wadsworth was walking around the verdant village streets, and, pass- ing Mr. Seeley’s house, saw Sam, his son of about seventeen, hanging over the garden fence in quite a disconsolate way. ‘* What is the matter, Sam?’ he said. “You look as though you had lost-all your friends.” “Don’t know how soon I shall,” replied Sam, lugubriously. The truth was, Sam had been quite delinquent in an important business matter, which, as his father’s head clerk, he should have attended to. He had received a severe reprimand from his father, and declared he would go to sea, so he was swinging on the garden gate, half-wishing it was the yard-arm. ** None of your family ill, 1 hope?’ inquired Wadsworth. ‘* All well enough, but Libbie.”’ “‘What is the matter with her?” asked our hero, hastily. “Got the yellow fever,’’ replied Sam, senten- tiously. “In this climate?’ gasped Wadsworth, his cheek blanching. ‘‘Perhaps I can be of some assistance. I know something of the malady. I will offer my services.” “‘Tt’s catching,’’ called Sam, as Wadsworth sprang up the steps and pulled the bell. Sam looked on without a smile. His temperament was very mercurial. He was always either up or down; and, when he felt happy, he had no patience with anyone for being sad, and, when he was sad, he wished everybody in the very depths of wretchedness. It happened that Libbie was standing by the low window that opened upon the veranda ; and, noticing the rapid movements and evident excitement of the gentleman’s manner, she stepped out, and, laying her hand on his arm, asked if anything had happened to his aunt or cousin, he looked so very pale. The sudden revulsion of feeling at'seeing the object of his solicitude well and blooming be- fore him caused him to lean heavily against the door for a moment and close his eyes, and, when he opened them again, Libbie could not at all understand the relieved and joyous look in his eyes, contrasted with the expression of pain about his mouth. **What is the matter?’? she asked again, anxiously. “Nothing, nothing, I assure you,” glancing at her bright buff cambric dress. “I have been made the subject of a practical joke. I ought to have been quick-witted enough to have understood it. It was witty, but I hope the perpetrator will never experience the pain itcausedme. Do you feel well enough to take a drive with me this morning, Miss Seeley?” ““Why, I never was better in my life, thank you,” and she tripped away to don a suitable carriage dress, while Wadsworth went for his pretty phaeton. Well, time went on, and one by one the happy days dropped from summer’s rosy fin- gers, and the cooler September breezes per- meated the heated atmosphere, and wafted away the languor that had oppressed us with its cloud-like, intangible influence, and Bloomdale was its busy, bustling self again. The fall campaign of gayety was to commence with al party at our wealthy lawyer’s, given to intro- duce his young daughter into society. It pro- mised to be a gay affair, and great and numer- ous were the preparations. Mr. Wadsworth had already engaged Libbie’s company, but he called that morning to ask the color of her dress, if he might be allowed to send flowers | for her hair.

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eee A A para 68 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. She smilingly assented, and told him her | dress was a deep orange tinge, of thin mate- rial, and deautiful, she assured him. He could not help laughing; the thing was growing spicy. The box came to Libbie’s room while she was dressing. How lovely the flowers were—so fine, and feathery, and fra- grant, and something new to Libbie! In her great admiration, she forgot that their vivid searlet hue would ill accord with the color of her dress. She laughed merrily ; he had out- generaled her, after all. ‘What shall I do about it, Cad?” **Could not possibly do without the flowers, I suppose ?” said Cad. “Why, no. He asked the privilege of send- ing them; it would hardly do to slight them.’’ ** You must wear white, then,’’ said Cad. “T think that is just what he desires, and I | am not inclined to indulge him. I will wear | the violet grenadine I wore to Hattie’s wed- | ding; it will be charming over white, with these searlet flowers. Do run and get it, Cad. | I have only an hour to make the change.” “Oh, I have an idea!” said Cad, as she | Well for us, if they cheat us not, to think they | never move at all. Libbie Seeley, always a favorite, was the ac- knowledged belle of the evening. The peculiar effectjof her dress and its adornings heightened her blonde beauty to ethereal loveliness. She floated through the brilliant rooms like a thing of air, so light of heart, so bewilderingly happy, that the glow and sunshine of her manner seemed a halo of light around her, attracting all within the radiant circle. It was not the inspiration of joy and music alone that gave her mere animal spirits, but the overflow of a heart that was beginning to realize its own capacity for bliss. She could not help remembering, even in the mazy dance, and the witiy conversations, the flush of admiration and pleasure that mounted even to Mr. Wadsworth’s brow, as he met her at the dressing-room door to lead her to the parlors, and the tender, searching glance that tried to read her soul. Nor could she quite forget the momentary pressure of her hand as he laid it within his arm. What wonder, then, if, floating on through this enchanted dream- brought the dress. ‘I'll get some white ver- | land, her brow took on the glorious shining benas. Put on your dress while I am gone,”’ and away she darted. enfranchised spirits wear? It was late in the evening, when, from very She was soon back in her sister’s room, her | weariness, Libbie declined to join the dance, busy fingers weaving the red and white blos- | soms together. ‘“‘ Now, Libbie,’’ said she, “I will loop up your dress with these, and with this wreath I will bind back your bonny curls.”’ **How lovely, Cad! You were born an artist. But they will droop and wither before the evening is half over, and I shall look like a water-nymph with sea-weeds in her hair.’’ Wadsworth led her into the library, where a few quiet people were turning over the en- gravings. She paused beside a table, and began looking at the pictures, conscious that she was being studied-more closely than the engravings were. **Do you know how beautiful you are?’ he said, at last. ‘Surely, floral offering never “Sure enough,” said Cad. ‘I'll wind the | received more gracious acceptance than you stems over with wet worsted, and ther cover them with a piece of that new kid glove I split open last night, because my hand Was too large for it. Nothing lost in this establishment, and I am not sure but it will be an improvement on the French tubes.” “‘Oh, you are a jewel, Cad! How perfectly lovely!’ she involuntarily exclaimed, as she glanced at her finished toilet in the mirror. ‘‘Now, Cad, dear, throw that light shawl about me, so as to entirely conceal my dress,”’ said Libbie, as word was brought up that Mr. Wadsworth awaited her pleasure. The party was a brilliant affair. Nothing that taste could devise or wealth purchase was lacking to make the scene one of enchantment. The entrancing music, the quivering light, the perfumed air, the fairy forms, seemed to min- gle together in one harmonious whole. No jar of discontent, no breath of sorrow, cast a sha- dow there. When we are joyous and happy, how very bright this world does seem; and, when we are bereaved and sorrowful, how we chide ourselves, and censure others, for ever being gay! The wheels of life turn easily | have given mine. I thank you most heartily | for your kindness.”’ “Perhaps [ ought to thank you,’’ she replied, with a smile and a blush, ‘‘ for their bestowal, but your gift changed the whole plan of my toilet. I must either give up my dress, or dis- card the flowers, and’’— She hesitated, and stopped. She had acknowledged in words that she had sacrificed her taste in dress to his | wishes, and was overcome with confusion. * And so,”’ he said, ‘‘ you improvised a dress from an opal changing cloud, and looped it up with sapphire?” “‘ Not exactly,’’ she said, regaining her co™- posure, “‘ but I will not deny that it was made when I revolved as a satellite of less degree around a shining centre.” “J don’t understand,” said Wadsworth, laughing. ‘Then, perhaps you would not rank me as a star of the fourth magnitude in the galaxy of beauty, but [held that position nevertheless, at cousin Hattie’s wedding, and this was the dress assigned me. It was worn over pink silk, and the effect was quite marvellous.”’ when naught but flowers obstruct the way. “T have not a doubt of that. So you were —_—, . oo ones und sen Mis ligh and han can clea ther “ that for 1 was muc! possi his ¢ was | “cc ] what “cc I his pi the v from might read. tures

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~ THAT HATEFUL COLOR. 69 fourth bridesmaid, and dressed as sort of a gradation, or connecting link between the gor- geous outside world and the white-robed inner circle? A very pretty idea. Your own, Miss Libbie?”’ ‘No, it was Hattie’s; but I am not to be cheated out of wearing my gay robe next week to Della’s wedding. I shall ask some one to send me flowers who better understands the | harmony of colors.” She repented the words the moment they were spoken, and yet she felt she had main- tained her dignity in saying them. She had not thought he would take her so much in ear- nest as he seemed to, for the sparkle faded out of his eye, and his mouth grew grave in its expression. She stood embarrassed and per- plexed, while he silently regarded her for a moment, then seemed absorbed in the picture he held. When he raised his eyes again, how- ever, he seemed to have forgotten the subject of their conversation, and said, in his own pleasant tones :— “T was thinking, Miss Libbie, of a dear friend of mine in St. Louis, an amateur artist, a person of wealth and refinement, yet one whom I never could exactly understand. He would spend months in elaborating some beau- tiful painting to the most exquisite finish, till it was a perfect gem of art, and every line and shade of coloring was in itself almost an em- bossed thought ; then he would call me to his studio, and while I was gazing in rapture at the beautiful work, he would seize the wet brush and dash it out. I never could exactly understand why he should call to life such beautiful images, then, with his own hand, send them back to chaos. It is a great gift, Miss Libbie, to be able to awaken visions of light and beauty where they bave not existed, and it makes one sad to think that if that same hand chooses to blot them out, no other hand can reproduce them.’’ His eye was calm and clear as it met hers, yet she could not but think there was a double meaning in his words. “You seem to intimate, Mr. Wadsworth, that your friend painted his pictures merely for the pleasure of destroying them. If that was so, he was selfish, and loved not art so much for its own sake, as for the power he possessed in it. I think you have failed to read his character aright, though you say that he was dear to you.”’ “Read it for me, then, Miss Libbie, from what I have told you.” “‘] think, then,’’ she said, ‘‘ that your friend possessed a highly sensitive organization ; that his pictures were the creations of his own brain, the very outflowing of his soul; and he shrank from exposing them to the public gaze, as we might shrink from having our most delicate, sacred feelings carelessly, perhaps scornfully, read. I doubt not but that he had many pic- tures that even your eye never rested upon, in | the contemplation of which, his own nature | grew deep and strong, as thottgh feeding upon | itself. I think I could comprehend such a na- | ture, though I might not be able to imitate it. Your friend might be a martyr, but not, per- haps, a hero.” | Thesweet seriousness of her manner became | her exceedingly, and Wadsworth’s thanks were /no less emphatic because quietly expressed. | Perhaps they were rather a grave-looking pair for a scene of mirth, and Ruth Lovell, who, | with Della, had entered the room, drew her | roguish face down to most comical length, and | said: “Amen! Sister Clemment, will you | make a few remarks?” Then, changing her | mood, she asked Wadsworth whether he was dictating his last will and testament, or popping the question. ‘Not so fast, Miss Ruth, if you please,’’ he said. “Tam half inclined to make you pay a penalty for your roguishness.’’ “‘Sauciness you mean, only your gentlemanly lips refuse to say so,” said Ruth, her own red mouth pouting in most tempting defiance. “You are my captive, whether you will or no,” he said. Putting her hand within one arm, and offering the other to Libbie, he led them back to the dancers. The party soon broke up, and Wadsworth, affectionately gallant, yet grave and quiet, ac- companied Libbie to her home. What a happy time it had been to her! Per- | haps she did not feel so buoyantly gay as in | the early part of the evening, but, as the rose- bud, grown used to the soft flutter of its own unfolding, holds, in deep and quiet joy, the dew-drop to its blushing heart, so she laid her- self down to rest that night, with her white hands folded over her breast, as if to shut in the electric drop that had the power to trans- mute her very soul to fragrance. The morning light kissed open her eyelids none too soon. She was not one of those lan- guid maidens who must sleep half the day to make up for one evening’s amusement. She performed her light duties with a song on her lips and a thrill at her heart. She had not ac- knowledged to herself in words that she loved William Wadsworth, but such a thought really nestled like a brooding bird in the depths of her heart, and woke its dreams to melody. The morning and afternoon passed, and evening was fast darkening into night, yet he had not come, as he was wont, to inquire after her health ; and another day drew its languid hours away, and still he did not come. Sunday followed, damp and drizzly, precluding all hope of her seeing him at church. Still, she felt certain that the quiet Sabbath evening would find him with her as usual. But he did not come. Cad and Sam held secret council together as to what might be the reason. Cad declared it was a downright shame that he should stay

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A ay i eres ra cperaee 10 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. away long enough to make Libbie uneasy. Sam said she didJook rather d/ue, for one who tried to be so yellow. But Will was a capital fellow, and he must be sick, or out of town ; he had not seen anything of him since that kick-down at Squire Thompson's. But Cad did not believe it. He would have told Libbie if he was going away, and she guessed he was not sick either—he was too tall and strong to get sick ina minute. But they wisely awaited the turn of affairs, loving their gentle sister too well to tease her about it. Ruth, Sarah, and Hen Raymond spent Mon- day evening with Libbie. They chatted of the prospective wedding, and teasingly told her not to trust Will too long out of her sight. .By what she gathered, he certainly was not sick, and he could not be away, as Della had set her heart on his being her groomsman, the sister of her husband elect acting as bridesmaid. Poor Libbie! She sought her bed that night sick at heart, and woke weary and unrefreshed. What was it to her that her friend’s wedding- day dawned so brightly, when her own life was under a shadow? “ The very jirst,” she thought to herself. “I have always been so happy. Weak, vain, and foolish girl, to believe so surely that he loved me, as to jeopardize my peace of mind. But then he could not have been trifling with me. He is too noble for that. Perhaps I offended him. His manner certainly changed. Or perhaps he thought me indelicate and bold, when I replied to the real meaning that under- lay his question in regard to his friend’s cha- racter.”’ She had some misgivings about wearing her gay dress, but she was not deficient in womanly pride, and, when Sam came down to the draw- ing-room, he found her all ready. “Why, Lib,”’ he said, ‘‘you look first-rate ! “Those blue cobwebs you have hung about your shoulders and waist rather take the edge off of your yallar frock, and make your neck look as white as pearl-powder. Have not got any on it, have you?’’ and he drew the tip of his finger daintily across her white throat. ‘‘ You ought to have a bouquet. I’ll run over to Plant’s, and get you one.” “No, no, Sam, I do not wish any. I would rather not,’’ said Libbie. “But you shall,” persisted Sam. ‘‘ Who ever went to a wedding without flowers?” Cad slyly shook her head at him, so he said: “‘ You shall have roses in your cheeks, then,”’ and he gave her six kisses on each cheek, that were decidedly more deep than delicate. “Take care, Sam,’’ said Cad; “‘they will be blisters instead of roses.” While the assembled company were waiting the appearance of the bridal party, Libbie looked around the beautiful rooms, and won- dered if Della loved this man of her choice well enough to be willing to leave her luxurious home, and go away with him. “ Yes, yes,” she thought. ‘‘One would be willing to leave father, and mother, and all.’’ Her musings were interrupted by the coming of the bride. How fair and sweet she was! How noble and manly one form looked in his © bridal toilet! How grave, and earnest, and al- most prayerful the expression of his face be- came as the ceremony proceeded ! The service was over, and Libbie found her- self, almost before she knew it, led,up to congratulate the bride. As she passed to make way for others who were pressing up, Mr. Wadsworth took her hand a moment in his warm, strong clasp, but she dared not meet the eye that had such power to command her. She did not want for partners or admiration, although the vivacious little bridesmaid, with her dancing black eyes, seemed to be the cyno- sure. She knew very well that etiquette would not excuse Mr. Wadsworth from his attend- ance on her, yet every now and then a jealous pang shot through her heart as she heard his low, clear laugh, and quick reply in sparkling repartee. After supper, she slipped away to the dress- ing-room, and from thence to the conservatory. There was not much to be seen there, she knew, only the green, feathery mosses, and the few foreign plants that shrank at the cool breath of a September night. But it was clean, quiet, and calm, and the light was subdued and pleasant. There was no fear of interrup- tion. The guests were either dancing or wan- dering about the brilliantly-lighted grounds. She could see them through the windows, a liv- ing panorama, flitting and changing like forms in a fairy scene. She moved out of sight, to- ward the fountain, and leaned her arm upon the marble urn hung down with ivy and myrtle. The goldfishes glided up to receive their wonted repast, but darted, startled, away again as two salt drops fell into the pure, fresh water. The lilies bowed their white heads, and talked softly together, and the water-sprite threw up the ball in merry, mocking glee. She looked down at her gay dress. How she hated the gorgeous thing that so belied her taste for ail that was modest and sweet—a poppy in a gar- den of lilies, an oriole among wrens! She was so absorbed in her own thoughts that she did not hear the footfall near her, as Mr. Wadsworth approached, and was not aware of his presence until he said, in deep, musical tones: “Alone and sad?’”’ And, seeing that her lip quivered as she essayed to speak, he went on :— “‘Tt seems long since I have seen you. The morning after the party I was summoned to Bvffalo, whither I went immediately that 1 might be back to-night. I returned only in time to prepare myself for the wedding. I see you wear no flowers to-night. May I place these in your hair? I think they will be in harmony with your dress.” at ag: lea ma bes lon her the and bos SI said witt pret cam: cr alon: “cc 7 “WI to ta! Lit Sam until So, slowl behin: not to He ment | drew | over h “ Be “Wi him an wide o; all be « Lib wo

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SO aS .—( eS ee SE SS - She saw that they were orange-flowers, and blushed scariet; but she said nothing, and, he twined them among her curls with a caressing touch. ““Why do you wear this color so much, may Iask?”’ ‘*Perhaps because its cheerfulness is emble- matic of my bright and happy life. I was just thinking, if any new fibre was woven into the texture of my life, it must necessarily be of a darker shade.”’ “Can you not imagine, then, one of deeper, warmer, richer hue, that might intensify rather than sadden?’”’ She trembled visibly, and he put his arm about her and bent over her. “ May my life be that other thread that shall intermesh itself with yours until death do part? | I love you. Will you make my heart your home-nest ?’’ She drew nearer to him with a nestling mo- tion, and he wound his arms about her and kissed her brow with solemn tenderness. ‘*Will you let me take you in new,”’ he said, at last, ‘‘and show them how happy I am?’ “T eannot,’’ she said, covering her face again. ‘‘Your duties are not over. Please leave me here awhile.”’ ‘*What! my little yellow-bird afraid of its mate? I see, I see,’’ he said, as she looked beseechingly at him. ‘‘ But I will get released long enough to see you home.’’ And he led her to the rustic seat, and left her there beside the fountain, whose silvery jets shot up straight and clear, like the new spring of joy in her bosom. She soon went in search of her brother, and said to him: ‘‘ Sam, don’t you want to go home with some pretty girl to-night?”’ ‘“Humph!” said Sam. “I guess all the pretty girls will go home with the fellows they came with.” **Then, brother, would you mind going home alone?” “Yes, I should,” said Sam, decidedly. *‘What’s the matter, Lib? Do you want him to take you home ?”’ Libbie gave him a confused littie nod, and Sam said: ‘All right, but I’m going to stay until it’s out.”’ So, when the party was out, Sam walked slowly home, and, unlocking the door, stood behind the pillar, waiting for his sister—‘‘So not to wake up the household twice,’’ he said. He heard the carriage approach, and in a mo- ment they came up the steps; and Wadsworth drew Libbie to his heart again, and whispered over her :— “Beloved, my beloved !”” ** Whew !”’ said Sam, as his sister rushed past him and up to her room, leaving the street door wide open. ‘It is well I waited, or we should all be carried off by thieves and robbers, for all Lib would know or care.” | PONDROUS PAPERS, 71 Libbie, who sat in her chamber, with her burning cheeks hid in her hands, heard Sam call out, in a stage whisper, through the key- hole of Cad’s door :— ‘“‘T say, Cad, are you asleep?” ‘**No,’’ said Cad, with a suspicious yawn. “Well, he’s surrendered to the yellow flag.’’ “Who?” ‘Will Wadsworth. You see, Lib came to me just before the, party broke up, her eyes run- ning over with light, and wanted to know if I would not be delighted to come home alone. So I came and waited for her behind a post. Josephus, how he did hug her!’’ “Who, Josephus ?’’ ‘No; Will. I tell you it makes a fellow feel like a streak of lightning. I say, Cad.’ ‘* What?’ ‘Come out here and let me hug you.”’ “T won’t. Hug the banister,’’ said Cad. The next night, when Wadsworth came, and before them all drew Libbie fondly to his side, and asked her father to give her to him, Sam threw up his cap, and said :— **Libbie’s wedding dress should be woven from the brightest sunbeams that ever shot athwart this earth.” When they were alone together, and Libbie’s lover put on her finger the engagement ring, 2 topaz encircled with diamonds, she told him the secret history of ‘‘that hateful color.”’ toa > PONDROUS PAPERS—NO. 6. ‘Wry, it’s jest a little birdsnest of a town,”’ says I, as we caught site of Soquel through the trees. There it lay in its little valley, the green hills and stout oaks guardin’ it, and the mornin’ sunlight makin’ it lovely to the eye. ‘* Yes, it is too much of a birdsnest, if birds- nests are dusty little holes,’’ answered Mr. Sunbrite. ‘It gets too dusty in the summer time ; it lies solow. I think they might have picked out a better place for their town. It looks well from here though. But now we must find a spare oak-tree to camp under.”’ Pretty soon we found a nice little spot in site of the ocean, a grassy place, shady and retired enough. ‘So that ev’rybody shouldn’t stare us right in ¢he face,’’ Bell said. It was so new to me to see the great waves rollin’ up on the sand. How the water leaped, and shook itself, and fell shiverin’ into white foam! And what a mighty voice it had! We had heard the noise of its roarin’ three or four miles back among the hills. When things was a little settled as to our camp, and we was a-waitin’ for them all to git ready to go down to the beach, Mr. Pondrous and I took a walk by ourselves to view the vilage. Ev’rything was quiet, except a passle of children playin’ before a nice-lookin’ schoo!- house. A few men were about the stores, but

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72 GODEY’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE,

there was no rush and hurry of business along the streets. There were home-like front yards and gardens about the houses, there were home- like, broad-faced sunflowers lookin’ over one garden fence, and I really felt like goin’ in and sayin’ “‘ Howdy do?” to ’em, they made me think of so many things that happened when I was a girl. At one house I was sure I heard a piano, though I had never heard but one or | a! two in my life. Take it all in all, I thought Soquel was a nice little town, notwithstandin’ what Mr. Sunbrite said of it. Following the road from the vilage towards the beach, we found some more splendid oak-trees, with the light green moss swingin’ from their branches. John wondered how it could grow there in such lengths. So I told him a fairy story of how the sea-fairies used to come up from the sea of moonlight nights, and take possession of the whole country ; hang up their green lace man- tles on the trees while they was havin’ their dance. But one night (after gold was dis- covered), they were surprised by a party of Yankees, who had strayed out here prospect- ing; and, when the light of their bonfires flashed up, the fairies all run down to the sea, | a leavin’ their mantles on the branches, so there they ’ve been swingin’ ever since. John said he was sure I was growin’ young again, for I hadn't told him a fairy story before since I come to Californy. folks are too homesick when they first come | I out to think of stories ; they don’t grow in their hearts at first. We stopped over a week in our camp, and I got so I wasn’t much afraid of the waves when ' they broke over me, specially as I took care not to go out far, and always had a rope to hold holt of. The girls and boys run barefoot into the foam, and Bell was always tryin’ to seare me by goin’ faf out. I thought she got frightened herself once or twice, though she wouldn’t own it. Sometimes parties from Santa Cruz or Soquel would come down there and go out huntin’ shells and seaweed, jest as Ellen and Bell did. I didn’t s’pose I could be so pleased as I was when I found a lot of pretty shells. I thought I should have quite a museum when I got home. One day, when we went down for our usual day’s sport, we saw three carriages near by, and the party that came in them were havin’ a jolly time with the waves. There was half- a-dozen children barefoot, with their pants rolled up. How they shouted and laughed, ‘specially when a gentleman with a white beard run with ’em, caught ’em up, and held ’em up, swingin’ ’em into bigger waves than they dared to meet alone. Then a kind-voiced lady said: ‘Don’t frighten them, doctor.’’ “Oh! they don’t mind it,” he said. And, indeed, they didn’t seem to. They all seemed to be havin’ a good time, t

and bimeby they got some baskets from their buggies, and, layin’ a cloth on the ground, they spread out their picnic dinner. The next day the whole town had a picnic up on the regular picnic grounds, which a gen- tleman had fitted up and set apart for all such out-door jubilees. As Mr. Sunbrite and the girls were somewhat acquainted in Soquel, we 1 got invitations to attend. We found Picnic Hill the prettiest spot in all the regin round about. Why, it was a real little woods up there, the first tiny forest I’d been in since I come to Californy. There was a lemonade and loger beer stand right in a big hollow tree, and a little further on was a dancin’ pavillion, shaped some like a Chinee pagoda, as I see a picture of it in my geogerphy when I was young, only the pavillion was ever so much larger than a pagoda, ’cording to my judgment. There were plenty of rustic tables round under the trees, which the ladies were loadin’ with things to eat. And, as I followed Beli down the hill a little ways, we come to a long, deep trench dug in the ground, and in it they had had a hot fire, and were now roastin’ **barbacue,”’ Bell called it, but it looked to me more like a beef critter. Well, we had a pleasant time as ever was that day, and so we did all the week. One day Mr. Sunbrite harnessed up and took us up to I think somehow | Santa Cruz City, which is a real pleasant place, should think. Some of the streets had trees on each side. On Orchard Street they were fruit trees. I see two places where I thought I should like tolive. After we had rode round he town some, Mrs. Sunbrite proposed that we should go over to Springvale Farm, and see her friends, Mr. and Mrs. Mountain. We all liked the idea, and so were soon on the way. I was delighted with the scenery, the moun- tains, and trees ; and, when we reached a piece of road where the woods come up close on each side of it, and brooks were sparklin’ and gurglin’ in the shady hollows, I thought it was about perfect, and this bit of road was on Springvale Farm. We went on towards the house by a broad field ; and then how tall the trees were, and there were elder bushes, and wildbrier roses, and fern. Oh, my dears! they told me stories of old apple-parin’ and spellin’ schoo] times as powerful as Mr. Sunbrite’s, but ina gentle voice that I did not try to interrupt. For didn’t I put wildbrier rosebuds in my hair on my wedding night, and didn’t John and I walk through feathery ferns when we went to our first little home in the woods the next day’? Yes, that was our weddin’ tower, walkin’ ‘cross lots from my father’s house to ours. Mrs. Mountain gave us the kindest welcome, and Mr. Mountain took us over his farm—that is, a part of it, for it was too big to see it all in one day. The once famous Santa Cruz ruins were not very far from the house, and are & grate curiosity, even though they did not prove

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PONDROUS PAPERS.

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to be an ai*hent palace or castle, as the dis- coverer s’posed they was at first. I liked Springvale so well that I count my visit to Mr. and Mrs. Mountain one of the chief pleasures of our trip. We didn’t stay long at Mr. Sunbrites after we left Soquel. We went back to San Fran- cisco for our team, and, in due course of time, we stopped once more at the hotel in Stockton, and I saw my dear little Miss Spencer again, and she actually seemed glad to see me; even her friend Miss Carrie Skinner gave me a fash’nable smile, and two fingers to shake. “Oh, we’re going to the Big Trees and Yo Semite with you, Carrie and I are,” said Miss Spencer. ‘‘We’re going to start in three days, and I was hoping you'd get back in time to start with us. I expect it will take about all the money I earned last year, but then I can earn more if I am not sick. “If you are sick, I’ll take you home with me and take care of you, my dear,’’ says I, when we got alone together. “*Will you? Now that is good and comfort- able to have such a promise. I do mean to come and see you some time, for I think you

are my friend jest as trusty and true as my | | Spencer. own mother would be, so I want to talk to you about something. There is a gentleman here who says he remembers my father and mother ; he has told me all about my old home; says he remembers me, and came here on purpose to get acquainted with me. Now I don’t remem- ber him, can’t even recall his name, and I feel as though [I would not be got acquainted with. But he is one of the party to the Big Trees; Uncle and Aunty Richome are going, and they like him. He will be with them so much, I am just going to keep with you all the time I can after we get there.”’ “I shall be proper glad to have your com- pany, but isn’t he good?” “‘Yes, I can’t help believing that he’s better than most men, but that is no reason—well, it may be a reason, yet I don’t wish to get ac- quainted with him.’’ Jest then, Miss Skinner come back to inquire if her shignon was perfect, and says she: “Which will look best to wear this evenin’ ; my pollynay or pompydoor waist, or lace fitchen ? Your aunt wants us all to come to her sittin’- room this evenin’ to discuss about our comin’ jont, I suppose.’’ “Very well, Carrie, Mrs. Pondrous and I will be down soon.’’ ““Why, you didn’t tell her what to wear,” says I, as she went off again. ‘*Oh, she don’t care to have me! It’s her way to ask though. Folks must have some- thing to talk about, you know.” ‘* Will he be there this evenin’?”’ “T suppose so; his name is Delesther. Now, don’t you think I would remember such an odd

name if ever I had heard it before? But come, let us go down.” When we went into the room, she introduced me as her ’special friend; but I didn’t notice any face or any name but Mr. Delesther’s. The welcoming look that came into his eyes at site of Miss Spencer, made me understand why he wished to get acquainted with her. Ihad took my knittin’ work down with me, so first I knew, everybody was a lookin’ at me and sayin’: “Why, we have never seen any- body knit in Californy before. How odd!” “Tam glad to see her knit. It calls up gen- tle mem’ries,’’ said Mr. Delesther. “I can just remember my mother knitting me a red and white stocking; I could not have been more than three years old then. I have got it yet,’’ he added, more softly to me, “for she died before it was finished.”’ ‘Oh, dear! it’s such old-fashioned work!” simpered Miss Skinner, not hearing his last remark. “I should think you’d a good deal rather tat, Mrs. Pondrous.’’ “Tf you mean tattle, I don’t do that, never did, and never shall,”’ ‘‘No, no, she means to make tattin’, as she is doin’ now with that little shuttle,’’ said Miss “Oh, I beg your pardon! I never seen any before, nor heard of it either. It’s pretty, though.”’ After a while they all got to talkin’ about goin’ to Yo Semite, and how many crackers | and sardines they had better take, whether to take sugar, tea, and coffee, or not, and whether they could git such things at the Big Trees Hotel, where we were goin’ to stop a week or two. These things was settled some how, and we started when the given day come round. In the big wagon was Mr. and Mrs. Richome, Miss Spencer, Miss Skinner, Mr. Lamoree, and Mr. Delesther ; there was four in another team, but I don’t remember much about them. The first day, we passed Copperopolis, and it was a lonesome place, all goin’ to rack, jest as Plumbolt did. There had been a big fire there, and ev’rybody had moved off that could move after that, and those that were left, wanted to go. There was a nice meetin’ house, but no congregation, and I am afraid there never will be. Still, Californy is a new coun- try, and Copperopolis may come up again, ’specially if they should happen to find new mines anywhere near. We stayed the first night at Murphey’s Camp, where they have a nice hotel, and a brisk little town, I should judge, from what I could see. JANE PONDROUS.

— >< Ir every man would reform himself, the world’s reformation would be accomplished, and philosophers would be needless.

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A ee, Br ete. DP ESE ee ne — nenlnantamne: — Teak palate avn x eee 74 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. WORK DEPARTMENT. CHILDREN’S CLOTHING. CLOTHING FOR GIRLS EIGHT TO TEN YEARS 0 AGE. DreEssEs.—Fig. 1 is a pretty design for a frock for a little girl from eight to ten years of age ; it is made with a princess tunic. At the present moment it is the fashion to wear dresses composed of two or three shades of the same color. We will suppose Fig. 1 to be a spring or summer frock, made of two shades of green llama—an inexpensive but ladylike material, and very suitable for children. This material used to be known by the name of mousseline-de- *Fig. 1. laine. The skirt and body are of very light, rich green, known to artists as emerald green. Make the skirt in the way already described in the account of clothing for a girl of eight years, making it long enough for the child, and wide in proportion. The width of a child’s skirt does not increase equally with its length. A hem six or seven inches deep is made on the right side. This cannot be done with part of the skirt turned up; it must be a false hem, each piece cut to follow the slope of the gore of each breadth, in the way indicated by a dotted line in breadth Bin Fig. , which illus- trates the tunic. Join the breadths of the hem ; run it on the wrong side to the bottom of the skirt; turn it over; turn in an inch at the top and tack it down; then run on a white passementerie trimming half an inch from the upper edge. To make a hem six inches wide, the false piece must be cut eight inches deep. For the body, make a plain Garibaldi. Direc- | girl have already been given. Trim it down ry | the front each side of a fold in which the but- tons are inserted, and lay a row of trimming Fig. 2. Gd ek ed ed el ee on the neck-band. Make coat sleeves, with false cuffs, after the manner of the false hem ; sew these on also with white passementeriz, Fig. 3. and place a row round each arm-hole. Next cut the tunic out of a rich deep green. Figs. 2, 3, and 4 illustrate the way this tunic is cut; Fig. 4. Ais the front breadth ; B the one next it; the back breadth may be plain, and c the one next it. If the skirt is not full enough with these tions for forming this article of clothing for a i) 2 abe ee, eS ‘In m th e) sh sti mi ou po shi up as the vel Sat. wit wit is | but nit chit A mer be n of y the rate! then lops up, a way cut. pulli agair tong ribbo asa ti the n mente the us be ric est sh skirt ; with ; hem, : is eve walkii trimm Straig] Fig. silk lla Skirt ;

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xt ‘S. it; the 1ext 1ese WORK DEPARTMENT. 75 breadths and the two breadths on the other side corresponding with B and C, but, of course, reversed, let in one or more gores each side, cut to points without any body between B and c. The straight sides of all the gored breadths are tothe front. Join A and B together, the whole length of the body ad sides. Join c to B the same way. Cut the back breadth each side like B, Fig. 3, in the body; but, instead of goring the skirt part, leave the material cut straight off each side of the waist, and plait or gather it. When the breadths are all joined, proceed to mitre the skirt, taking care a mitre comes in the centre of the front breadth, and mitres end exactly at each side of the front breadth, as shown in Fig. 1. The easiest way is to have a stiff card well cut out in very deep, exact mitres ; place it on the material, and draw the outline with a white chalk pencil, as far as possible at a time. Cut out the mitres, as shown in D, Fig. 4. Then draw straight lines up from them, favoring the slope of the skirt, as shown in A. When these are exact, cut them. Bind them all round the edge with a very narrow, but stout sarcenet ribbon, with a satin edge of the same color as the tunic, or with braid. They will never sit well bound with a common ribbon. One side of the front is left open all down, bound with ribbon, and buttoned over with white buttons. In every mitre there are three buttons. The ordinary | china buttons are used for this purpose. A loose out-door paletot, the shape and di- mensions of which will shortly be given, should be made of the light green llama. Cuta lining of white cambric musiin. Run the seams of the llama and the seams of the lining sepa- rately. Put the right sides together and tack | them. With a blue chalk pencil mark the scal- lops on the lining at the lower edge, and lines up, as in the skirt. Run these all round a little way in, and then cut them as the tunic was cut. Undo the tacking and turn the jacket, pulling out all the points. Tack it together again on the right side, and bind the mitred tongues as the skirt was bound, carrying the ribbon up the fronts. Sew on white buttons as a trimming, and to fasten the jacket. Round the neck and sleeves put a row of white passe- menterte. The paletot is otherwise finished in the usual way. The hat worn with this should be rice-straw, trimmed with green, of the dark- est shade. For warm summer days, make the skirt and Garibaldi of plain jacquenet muslin, with a row or two of green ribbon over the hem, and wear the green tunic over it. Blue is even prettier than green with white. The walking paletot may be made of white muslin, trimmed with a row or two of colored ribbon Straight round. Fig. 5 is pretty, in velvet, velveteen, plain silk llama, Cashmere, or muslin. It is a plain skirt and a plain square body, with puffed | sleeves. In all but muslin, it is simply trimmed above the hem of the skirt, round the neck, the waist, and the sleeve bands, with real or imita- tion Cluny insertion, an inch or an inch and a half wide ; in white muslin, Valenciennes in- sertion, or muslin embroidery, is first mounted on colored muslin. The inch-wide striped Fig. 5. muslin is useful for this. Cut it apart in | lengths in the centre of the white stripes ; turn in the white, and use it asa ribbon. This is well run to the dress, and the insertion very neatly run down at both edges-over it. If proper care is taken by the laundress, it will wash entire. The sash is short, and should be worn behind. It may be made of muslin edged with trimming, or of colored ribbon. A ribbon bow on each shoulder is a pleasing addition to a young child’s toilet. Another design for a child’s dress is intended to be made in white alpaca. The Vandyked piece is of blue washing silk (foulard), piped along the Vandykes and top with blue satin. It is lined with soft Victoria. A blue satin piping is placed just below the hem of the dress. The cuffs are trimmed like the skirt, but not so deep. A narrow row of points of blue inclose the throat. The sash is made of the foulard, piped with satin, and lined. There are four bows, a buckle, and two pointed ends. The band is lined with buckram, to stiffen it sufficiently. The out-door jacket is made to fit. This is also trimmed round with the blue Vandyke, and up the front the Vandyke turned outwards ; a Vandyked blue collar is added. There are no sleeves, but the armholes are piped and trimmed with narrow blue Van- dykes. The sash is worn over the jacket. This design, made in buff alpaca, trimmed with brown or violet, is very pretty. Fig. 6 is another design. The tunic is sepa-

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ee eee 4 Sate 76 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. rate from the corset, and joined at the waist. The underbody is white muslin, drawn round the throat, with small bishop sleeves. The petticoat is of light silk, small-plaited all one way. It is false, and joined to the skirt above the scallops, which are bound with satin. Or the petticoat may be of white muslin, hand- somely embroidered. Another way of making this dress is with a llama or Cashmere plaid false skirt, and a Hama or Cashmere body in place of a muslin one. Fig. 7 is an illustration of two ways of mak- ing a child’s frock. First, let it be of black and white small check. Trim the skirt above the hem with a plain row of black ribbon vel- vet, and above that a row put on instead of the flounce, and at the head of it two or three rows plain or the Greek pattern, here shown. Cut the body square, and trim round with the Greek pattern. Trim the band also, and fasten it with a rosette. Make short puffed sleeves. Secondly, make it of plain camlet. Put a flounce, plaited one way at the base; then a row of black braid as a heading ; run rows of braid on the belt and cuffs. Let the body be high and plain, and the sleeves coat-shaped. But, if preferred, the flounce and the Greek pattern may both be used. Buff llama or Cash- mere, trimmed with black velvet, is very effec- tive. The rosette of the band should be at the back. Fig. 8 is a ball dress for a little girl. This is a very stylish toilet. First, a plain frock and low body are made of plain sky-blue silk, and there are four rows of Valenciennes lace round Fig. 8 . O35 ROP F RRR ee Niavavseanscsvware si 0 DAA ¥, p. 4 f the top. The tunic is of tulle. Cut a founda- tion in imitation Brussels net. To do this, cut a front breadth, like a, Fig. 2, and a breadth for each side, like B, Fig. 3; a second breadth each side, like c, Fig. 4; and a back breadth, like a, Fig. 2. Try these on, and make any needful alterations. Join these breadths. Fold in half, and fold again and again, to mark the sections for the puffs of tulle. A join must not come right in front. There are two ways of putting on the tulle. Measure it half as long again as the net foundation, and every drawing half as wide again as the sections on the net. Then run every drawing with a long thread. Pin the top and bottom of each to the net foundation, and pin them at intervals to the marks of the net. Then draw up the thread. Run the tulle tothe net. This, all but a band, completes the skirt. The other way is to cut every section of the tulle separately, half as long again as the foundation and half as wide again. Run each side and put each on sepa@- rately. A trimming, such as the ready-made satin pipings, must then be put down over each seam. White satin, or the color of the slip, . this size: Piping ec the ball thirty sk long, eae

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can be used. Cover the corset the same way, but separately. Make full sleeves of the tulle. There is a blue band, and a short sash, and cluster of bows behind, and bows at the backs of the shoulders. The shoes should be of blue kid, with heels, and large clusters of bows on them. This dress is also very pretty, and less expensive, made of blue Japanese silk and white tarlatane. A foulard skirt, made this way, and a white jacquenet Garibaldi, form a pretty summer dress. > __—_ WHITE COTTON TASSELS FOR CUR- TAINS, ETC. Fic. 1.—The two nobs at the upper part of this tassel are made of balls of cotton of two sizes, wound and worked over with fine twisted Fig. 1. WORK DEPARTMENT. 77 made into a crochet chain, which should not be carried quite to the end, either above or below. Tie the upper ends of the thread tightly together, and over this work in qochet with four threads of knitting cotton as follows: Make a chain of four stitches, and jein it round, 2 chain, 1 treble, 6 times ; then tie into the 2 chain skeins of 4 threads five inches long, dou- ble, and cross them as shown in illustration. Now draw the upper ends of the tassel with the cord through the 2 cotton balls, and make a rosette of 4 rows of crochet scallops as fol- lows: 1st row. Work a chain of 5 stitches, join it intoa circle. 2d. 1 double, 11 chain, 9 times. 3d, 1 double, 7 chain, 9 times. 4th. 1 double, 5 chain, 9 times. Sew the cord into a loop, and crochet round it, fastening the rosette just below the loop. piping cord, leaving the hole in the centre of the ball open. The Jower part consists of thirty skeins of knitting cotton, six inches long, each skein containing three threads, Fig. 2.—This tassel is also made of white cotton and fine cord. The rings in the upper part of the tassel are made by winding some coarse cotton over an inch mesh, then drawing

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Oar oe gee me — a eee 78 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. the mesh out, and overcasting the ring wtth | gray leather at the back. Put a ring, wound coarse cotton, and over this with fine cord, the lower part can easily be copied from illustration. ~ —_— ~>em - WATCH-POCKET IN THE SHAPE OF A BEETLE. TxHIs watch-pocket, in the shape of a beetle, is first cut in card-board ; the wings are first covered with gray cloth, then with three layers of light gray crape, and on this fourfold ma- terial work with blue netting silk, the design shown in illustration, in long stitches, and overcast round the edges, and fastening at the same time a row of steel beads threaded on fine wire. Cover the end of the piece of card in- tended to represent the head with brown vel- vet, turning the edges of the velvet over the edge of the card, and stitching it firmly down, sewing on two black eut beads for the eyes. Then cover the other end of the card with a layer of wadding and blue velvet, fastening the edges down at the back of the card with gum. Join the wings to the body, so that the | left wing lies partly over the right. Now cover the space between the head and the wings with brown velvet, previously ornamented with gold beads and gold thread, and after- | wards sew on the gold cord as shown in illus- tration. For each of the six legs, take two pieces of black covered Wire, and wind first over each separately, then over both together, a thread of thick black silk. Bend the wires to the desired shape, and sew them to a piece of card cut the same shape as the body, but without the head. Sew this second piece of card to the back of the body, leaving the legs | between the two cards, and gum a piece of round with blue silk, at the top, and the watch- pocket is completed. —_——-ao-ea——___—_ PORTFOLIO FOR MANUSCRIPTS, DRAWINGS, ETC. APPLIQUE AND EMBROIDERY. (See Engravings, front of Book.) THE entire cover is shown in a reduced size in Fig. 1. The medallion corners and sprays are given in the full size, in Figs. 2, 3, 4, and 5. For the entire medallion, Fig. 4, the ground- work, is of fine black cloth. The body of the | bird is of rich crimson cloth or velvet, fastened | down with button-hole stitch of the same color. | The stitches on the back and wings are blue, _ green, and gold, so as to make the plumage of the richest possible colors. The silk used isa fine purse silk. The bough under the bird should be of brown cloth, fastened down and shaded with brown silk. The ivy leaves are green cloth, fastened with green stitches. The blossoms are one piece of searlet cloth, worked down with brown stitehes. The tendrils are all of green silk. At the top, bottom, and sides, are little bunches of forget-me-nots. The flowers are in two shades of blue cloth or | velvet, with green leaves and buds ; the flowers are fastened down with blue silk, and the cen- tre eye is yellow. The groundwork of the border and corners are in their natural colors. The applique parts | are either in velvet or cloth. Patterns must be | taken of the applique portions of all the parts, and they must be very carefully cut, and fixed to the ground with gum, which must not be is white cloth. The flowers worked upon it - p' th m th pl bli co en va rec m¢ ho rea sh we ful M purs butt T con: gold-er seven other j side ba hore f each o With a. mented The ed card-bo; and abo

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WORK DEPARTMENT. 79 put on in sufficient quantities to wet through | gether at the cross sides, and the corners are the fabric, but merely to unite it to the ground. | formed by bending back the card-board, as re- The border must be first fixed upon the covers, | quired ; the card-board bottom is cut according and the centre medallion is fitted on to it, | to the shape, and joinedin; the white silk meeting the forget-me-not sprays, as shown in _ lining is lightly wadded, and quilted in squares. the design. A little fancy border must be The outer covering is left to taste ; tatting, gui- placed over both (see Fig. 1); this may be of _ pure netting, or Irish lace would be very pretty black velvet, button-holed down with gold- | evercolored silk, ora cross-stitch pattern would colored silk. The outer edge is of black velvet, | Jook equally well. Our model has a crochet embroidered with bright oriental colors. A | covering of green silk cordon, with little thick variety of suitable designs will be found in | crochet patterns of black and white silk worked recent numbers. The portfolio should be | in. The basket is finished off at the edge with mounted by a bookbinder. Ladies desirous, | gteensilk cord, and suspended by cords fastened however, of making it up for themselves, might ; t0 the frame like a hammock. The tassels are readily do so over stout millboard. The lining | of green silk, bound underneath, as shown with should be of tammy. Ladies are frequently | black and white silk. asking for suitable presents for gentlemen, and ~~ we are quite sure this would not fail to be use- / >AME ful ain aeceptable to them. ORNAMENTAL penn FOR A MATCH- oe (See Engraving, Page 80.) Materials.—Small barrel with tassels of earved TRINKET-BASKET, WITH CROCHET. | wood, gold thread, gilt beads, canvas, and silk for Materials—Cane sticks; green, black, and white | the centre. purse silk; a small piece of white silk; eight yellow Tuis framed match-stand is very elegant; a button pins, similar frame for a cigar case or watch-stand THE frame of this little ornamental basket | is generally worked tocorrespond. The centre consists Of soaked brown cane sticks, with | of the frame is worked in a fancy stitch over rr. ie, of 3a rd nd ire he ed ire nd ts. or gold-colored buttons at the ends. Two bars, canvas, with light green floss silk (or any other ers seven and a quarter inches long, cross each | color to m&tch with the wood) ; the small bar- en- other in the upper middle ; the two adjoining | rel into which the matches are to be placed is side bars are four inches long. Tomake them fastened with gold thread on the centre ; then ers nore firm, they are notched where they cross | fasten the oak tassels, and work the stems in 1 it each other, and then firmly bound together | gilt beads sewn on the canvas. When the arts with a dark silk thread, and afterwards orna- | work is finished, line it with card-board and be mented with silk thread, according to design. silk, or glazed calico; hide the seam under a rts, The edge of the basket consists of a strip of | green silk and gold cord, and fasten a circle of xed card-board, an inch and three-quarters high, earved wood at the top, by means of which it , be and about ten or twelve inches long, sewn to- | is hung on the wall.

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oe a gh OI i MIE Il ae en ey ag seg es 80 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. HANDLE OF A RIDING-WHIP. (BEAD MOSAIC.) Fic. 1 shows the handle of a riding-whip, which is covered with beads, sewn on so as to form a mosaic pattern. Wind some thick LL according to the shape of the same. Under- neath the heading, as well as at the beginning of the thicker part of the whip, work three rounds with steel beads, which imitate steel circles. Fig, 2—Detail of Riding- witip, mua ! Ornamental Frame for a Watch-Stand, ROSETTE FOR SATIN SLIPPERS. white knitting cotton round the upper end of a riding-whip, about six and two-fifth inches. The head of the whip is obtained by winding the cotton round it a greater number of times. When the handle has the shape seen on Fig. 2, begin to cover it in the following manner : Thread five crystal beads on cotton, and join them into a circle; then work in rounds the well-known bead mosaic, increasing sufficiently so as to form a flat cirele, which must corre- spond in size to the upper surface of the head of the whip ; then continue to work on without increasing. The cap thus obtained is pushed on the head of the handle; then continue to work on over the whip, increasing or decreasing, RosErre of lace an inch wide, with bows of | white satin ribbon between the bows. hr om pw trimm Silk, b rial m points vo

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WORK DEPARTMENT. 81 BABY’S BERCEAUNETTE. by the illustration Fig. 2; the berceaunette is then placed in the centre, and the cover fixed to it at the long sides, so as to fall over on each side and border the berceaunette ; the rounded THE chief feature of this graceful berceau- nette is the handsome carved stand, to which the berceaunette itself is sung like a hammock Fig. 1.—Frame of. Berceaunette. by thick blue silk cords and gilt chains (illus- | lappets thus formed on either side are lined trations Figs. land 2). As this frame (Fig.1) | with muslin or lawn, and trimmed with an is entirely concealed by the trimming, there- | embroidered vandyke border. A white muslin fore a basket may be used, if preferred. The | curtain, simply scalloped (or trimmed with an \\ " \\ . Fig. 2—Berceaunette Complete. trimming consists of a square of blue quilted ; embroidered border to match the berceaunette), silk, but, of course, any other color and mate- | and blue silk cords and tassels, complete our rial may be employed—of which square two | model. points are rounded off in the manner shown VOL. LXXXIII.—6

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< et ° eset ery ™ =m niga: 82 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.

Receipts, Ete. PRESERVING. A FEW GENERAL RULES AND DIRECTIONS FOR PRE- SERVING, 1. Let everything used for the purpose be deli- eately clean and dry ; bottles especially so. 2. Never place a preserving-pan jlat upon the fire, as this will render the preserve liable to burn to, as it is called; that is to say, to adhere closely to the metal, and then to burn; it should rest always on a trevet, or on the lowered bar of the kitchen range. 3. After the sugar is added to them, stir the pre- serves gently at first, and more quickly towards the end, without quitting them until they are done; this precaution will always prevent the chance of their being spoiled. 4. All preserves should be perfectly cleared from the scum as it rises. 5. Fruit which is to be preserved in syrup must first be blanched or boiled gently, until it is sufficiently softened to absorb the sugar; and a thin syrup must be poured on it at first, or it will shrivel, Instead of remaining plump, and becoming clear. Thus, if its weight of sugar is to be allowed, and boiled to a syrup with a pint ef water to the pound, only half the weight must be taken at first, and this must not be boiled with the water more than fifteen or twenty minutes at the commencement of the process ; a part of the remaining sugar must be added every time the syrup is reboiled, unless it should be otherwise directed in the receipt. 6. To preserve both the true flavor and the color of fruit in jams and jellies, boil them rapidly until they are wel reduced, before the sugar is added, and quickly afterwards, but do not allow them to become so much thickened that the sugar will not dissolve in them easily, and throw up its scum. In some sea- sons the juice is so much richer than in others, that this effect takes place almost before one is aware of it; but the drop which adheres to the skimmer, when it is held up, will show the state it has reached. 7. Never use tin, iron, or pewter spoons or skim- mers for preserves, as they will convert the eolor of red fruit into a dingy purple, and impart, besides, a very unpleasant flavor. 8 When cheap jams or jellies are required, make them at once with loaf-sugar, but use that which is well refined always, for preserves in general; it is a false economy to purehase an inferior kind, as there is great waste from it in the quantity of scum which it throws up. 9. Pans of copper or bell-metal are the proper uten- sils for preserving fruit; when used, they must be scoured bright with sand. Tinned pans turn and destroy the color of the fruit that is put into them. There is now a new sort of stewpan made of iron coated with earthenware, which is very nice for pre- serving. To Clarify Sugar.—Take the finest kind, break it into large lumps, and put it into a preserving-pan. If for syrup, add a pint of cold water to each pound ; if for candying, a couple of wineglassfuls to the pound will be sufficient. Beat the white of an egg, add it to the water, mix it well, and pour it over the

begins to boil, throwin a little cold water, which should be kept back for the purpose; boil till the scum rises, draw it off the fire, and skim it as before; repeat this till quite clear; it is then fitfor use. It is by long boiling that the different degrees are ac- quired, which the confectioner requires. Black Currant Jam.—To every pound of fruit, weighed before being stripped from the stalks, allow three-quarters of a pound of loaf-sugar, one gill of water. Let the fruit be very ripe. Strip it from the stalks, and put it in a preserving-pan, with a gill of water to each pound of fruit; boil these together for ten minutes; then add the sugar, and boil the jam again for thirty minutes, reckoning from the time when the jam simmers equally all over, or longer, should it not appear to set nicely when a little is poured on toa plate. Keep stirring it to prevent it from burning, carefully remove all the scum, and, when done, pour it into pots. Let it cool, cover the top of the jam with oiled paper, and the top of the jars with a piece of tissue-paper, brushed over on both sides with the white of an egg; this, when cold, forms a hard, stiff cover, and perfectly excludes the air. Great attention must be paid to the stirring of | this jam, as it is very liable to burn, on account of the thickness of the juice. Red Currant Jam.—To every pound of fruit allow three-quarters of a pound of loaf-sugar. Let the fruit be gathered on a fine day; weigh it, and then strip the currants from the stalks; put them into a preserving-pan with sugar in the above proportion ; stir them, and boil them for about three-quarters of an hour. Carefully remove the scum as it rises. Put the jam into pots, and, when cold, cover with oiled papers; over these put a piece of tissue-paper, brushed over on both sides with the white of an egg; press the paper round the top of the pot, and, when dry, the covering will be quite hard and air-tight. Gooseberry Jam.—To every pound of fruit allow three-quarters of a pound of loaf-sugar, currant-juice. Select red gooseberries; have them gathered in dry weather, when quite ripe, without being too soft. Weigh them; with a pair of scissors cut off the tops and tails, and to every six pounds of fruit have ready half a pint of red currant-juice, drawn as for jelly. Put the gooseberries and currant-juice into a pre- serving-pan ; let them boil tolerably quickly, keeping them well stirred; when they begin to break, add to them the sugar, and keep simmering until the jam becomes firm, carefully skimming and stirring it, that it does not burn at the bottom. It should be boiled rather a long time, or it will not keep. Put it into pots (not too large); let it be perfectly cold; then cover the pots down with oiled and egged papers. Preserved Greengages in Syrup.—To every pound of fruit allow one pound of loaf-sugar, half a pint of water. Boil the sugar and water together for about ten minutes; divide the greengages, take out the stones, put the fruit into the syrup, and let it simmer gently until nearly tender. Take it off the fire, put it into a large pan, and, the next day, boil it up again for about ten minutes. with the kernels from the stones, which saould be blanched. Put the fruit carefully into jars, pour over it the syrup, and, when cold, cover down, so that the air is quite excluded. Let the syrup be well skimmed both the first and second day of boiling, otherwise it will not be clear. To Preserve Morello Cherries.—To every pound of

sugar ; one egg is enough for twelve pounds of sugar, if it is fine, or two if it is coarse. When the sugar is nearly melted, stir it well, and put it over a gentle fire ; do not stir it after the scum begins to rise; let it boil five minutes, then take it off the fire, let it stand a minute or two, then take the scum carefully off ; put the pan again on the fire, and when the syrup cherries allow one pound and a quarter of sugar, one gill of water. Select ripe cherries; pick off the stalks, and reject all that have any blemishes. Boil | the sugar and water together for five minutes, put in the cherries, and boil them for ten minutes, re- | moving the scum as it rises. Then turn the fruit,

cis th as are cre I bot loa! ere Hay som the : ling port the t bott] melt Gre gathe water about drain pan, vy a litth with t fire fo remair water, to whi Piece o with a: which Shaki thicken Bake of a size and sery Potato is

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1g to m it, be t it ld; Ts. ind t of out the mer put gain the ruit yhen ded. and par. d of gar, f the Boll put h, re- ruit, etc., into a pan, and let it remain until the next day, when boil it all again for another ten minutes, and, if necessary, skim well. Put the cherries into small pots; pour over them the syrup, and, when cold, cover down with oiled papers, and the tops of the jars with tissue-paper, brushed over on both sides with the white of an egg, and keep in a dry place. Raspberry Jam.—To every pound of raspberries allow one pound of sugar, a quarter of a pint of red currant-juice. Let the fruit for this preserve be gathered in fine weather, and used as soon after it is picked as possible. Take off the stalks, put the raspberries into a preserving-pan, break them well with a wooden spoon, and let them boil for a quarter of an hour, keeping them well stirred. Thenadd the | eurrant-juice and sugar, and boil again for half an hour. Skim the jam well after the sugar is added, or the preserve will not be clear. The addition of the currant-juice is a very great improvement to this preserve, as it gives it a piquant taste, which the flavor of the raspberry seems to require. To Preserve Strawberries Whole.—To every pound of fruit allow one pound and a half of good loaf- sugar, one pint of red currant-juice. Choose the strawberries not too ripe, of a fine large sort and of a good color. Pick off the stalks, lay the strawberries in a dish, and sprinkle over them half the quantity of sugar, which must be finely pounded. Shake the dish gently, that the sugar may be equally dis- tributed, and touch the under side of the fruit, and let it remain for one day. Then have ready some | ecurrant-juice; boil it with the remainder of the sugar until it forms a thin syrup, and in this simmer the strawberries and sugar, until the whole is suffi- ciently jellied. Great care must be taken not to stir the fruit roughly, as it should be preserved as whole as possible. Strawberries prepared in this manner are very good served in glasses, and mixed with thin cream. Preserved Strawberries in Wine.—To every quart bottle allow a quarter of a pound of finely-pounded loaf-sugar, sherry or Madeira. Let the fruit be gath- ered in fine weather, and used as soon as picked. Have ready some perfectly dry glass bottles and some nice soft corks or bungs. Pick the stalks from the strawberries, drop them into the bottles, sprink- ling amongst them pounded sugar in the above pro- portion, and, when the fruit reaches to the neck of | the bottle, fill up with sherry or Madeira. Cork the bottles down with new corks, and dip them into melted resin. MISCELLANEOUS COOKING. Green Peas 2 la Fran¢aise.—Shell sufficient fresh- gathered peas to fill two quarts; put them into cold water, with three ounces of butter, and stir them about until they are well covered with the butter; drain them in a colander, and put them in a stew- pan, with the parsley and onions; dredge over them a little flour, stir the peas well, and moisten them with boiling water; boil them quickly over a large fire for twenty minutes, or until there is no liquor remaining. Dip a small lump of sugar into some water, that it may soon melt; put it with the peas, to which add half a teaspoonful of salt. Take a piece of butter the size of a walnut, work it together with a teaspoonful of flour, and add this to the peas, which should be boiling when it is put in. Keep shaking the stewpan, and, when the peas are nicely thickened, dress them high in the dish, and serve. Baked Potatoes.—Choose large potatoes, as much of a size as possible; wash them in lukewarm water, and scrub them well, for the browned skin of a baked potato is by many persons considered the better part RECEIPTS. 83 | of it. Put them into a moderate oven, and bake | them for ahout two hours, turning them three or four times whilst they are cooking. Serve them ina | napkin immediately they are done, as, if kept a long time in the oven, they have a shrivelled appearance. Potatoes may also be roasted before the fire, but, when thus cooked, they must be done very slowly. Do not forget to send to table with them a piece of cold butter. Baked Tomatoes.—Take off the stalks from the tomatoes; cut them into thick slices, and put them into a deep baking-dish ; add a plentiful seasoning of pepper, and salt, and butter; cover the whole with | bread-crums ; drop over these a little clarified butter ; bake in a moderate oven from twenty minutes to half | an hour, and serve very hot. This vegetable, dressed as above, is an exceedingly nice accompaniment to all kinds of roast meat. The tomatoes, instead of being cut in slices, may be baked whole; but they will take rather longer time to cook. Roast Leg of Lamb.—Place the joint a good dis- tance from the wire at first, and baste well the whole time it iscooking. When nearly done, drawit nearer the fire to acquire a nice brown color. Sprinkle a | little fine salt over the meat, empty the dripping-pan | of its contents; pour in a little boiling water, and |} strain this over the meat. Serve with mint sauce | anda fresh salad, and for vegetables send peas, spi- | nach, or cauliflowers to table with it. To Prepare Hung Beef.—This is preserved by salt- ing and drying, either with or without smoke. Hang up the beef three or four days, till it becomes tender, | but take care it does not begin to spoil; then salt it in the usual way, either by dry-salting or by brine, with bay salt, brown sugar, saltpetre, and a little | pepper and allspice; afterwards roll it tight in a | cloth, and hang it up in a warm, but not hot, place, for a fortnight or more, till it is sufficiently hard. If required to have a little of the smoky flavor, it may be hung for some time in a chimney corner, or smoked in any other way ; it will keep a long time. Miroton of Beef.—A few slices of cold roast beef, three ounces of butter, salt and pepper to taste, three onions, half a pint of gravy. Slice the onions, and put them into a frying-pan with the cold beef and butter; place it over the fire, and keep turning and stirring the ingredients to prevent them burning. | When of a pale brown, add the gravy and seasoning: | let it simmer for a few minutes, and serve very hot. | This dish is excellent and economical. Beef Rolls.—The remains of cold roast or boiled beef, seasoning to taste of salt, pepper, and minced herbs; puff paste. Mince the beef tolerably fine with a small amount of its own fat; add a seasoning of pepper, salt, and chopped herbs; put the whole into a roll of puff paste, and bake for half an hour, or rather longer, should the roll be very large. Beef patties may be made of cold meat, by mincing and seasoning beef as directed above, and baking in a rich puff paste in patty-tins. HOW TO TREAT THE HAIR. BY DR. SCOFFERN. BEYOND combing and brushing, what are the best expedients for hair-cleaning? In man there is no- thing so good as soap and water lather, but the plan cannot be recommended for ladies. The alkali of soap is not congenial to the gloss and beauty of human hair; moreover, to some extent, alkaline can- tact affects the coloring matter, and changes its tint. Men are above or beside these considerations, but they should be taken heed of by ladies. Glycerine ; and lime-juice, so called, is not glycerine and lime- | juice at all. It is merely scented oil and lime-water.

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re = 84 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. Glycerine and rose-water is much better. The ad- vantage of glycerine is that it imparts to the hair a soft, silky brilliancy, the so-called brilliantine, in point of fact, which gentlemen—vain young ones— use for their whiskers and moustaches, is only gly- cerine scented. For bandoline, nothing is better— perhaps nothing so good—as a very small fragment of gum-tragacanth dissolved in water, and perfumed. The fragment must be very small, otherwise the so- lution will turn the accroche-ceur into a veritable horn, as uncomfortable to wear as ungraceful to look at. People who use pomades should be very careful that they do not apply injurious coloring matter to the hair. The fashion these some years past has come in use of using yellow or straw.colored pomades. They are elegant to look at, and so long as the yellow tint is imparted by palm oil, as it should bé, they are, sanitarily considered, unobjectionable. I fear, however, that in many instances the peculiar tint of yellow, so much desiderated, is given by in- corporation with some injurious metallic compound. Roseate pomades are never, on account of their coloring matter, objectionable, the tint being always imparted by alkanet root, which is wholly innocuous. in respect to the oleaginous composition of pomades, that varies greatly. Spermaceti and almost any ani- mal oil or fat—except mutton fat—may be employed in their composition. I believe the very best olea- ginous hair application consists of a mixture of castor oil and alcoho! ; two parts by measure of the former to one of the latter, the whole perfumed according to taste. The circumstance should here be mentioned that castor oil is the only oil admitting of this treat- ment; if, for example, it were attempted to combine olive oil with alcohol, the operator would soon find that he had taken trouble in vain. Between the two no union would ensue ; and the same remark applies to every oil, with the exception of castor oil. The hair of human beings, as well as of animals, holds sulphur in its composition, and retains this element obstinately. Thus, if a scrap of flannel a thousand times, or even ten thousand times, washed, be taken and analyzed for sulphur, this element will invariably be found. As will be seen hereafter, the theory of the action of a certain class of hair dyes turns upon this sulphurous presence. It is a property of sulphur—and more especially of a certain sulphur containing gas—to turn several metallic combinations black. Lead is one of the metals in this category, and accordingly lead has formed the basis of more than one hair dye. Bismuth is another of these metals, and silver another; the blackening function of silver salts, however, when used as hair dyes, is not wholly referable to this sulphurous reaction. BRINE FOR PICKLING MEAT OR FISH. By reason of no defined system being generally known for ascertaining the intensity of brine, meat is occasionally spoilt, as it will become tainted in parts if the brine is not sufficiently strong to meet the temperature of the weather; the other extreme, of salting meat in very strong brine, is equally objec- tionable, as it renders the exterior of the meat disa- greeably salt and hard, while the interior is next to fresh, the flesh remaining soft and unset. Much per- plexity, too, is often felt by the housewife to decide whether the meat is sufficiently salted, as the time required for salting will depend on che intensity of the brine. This, too, may be saved by observing the simple yet scientific method which we shall prescribe: In temperate weather, brine should be composed of about twenty-four parts of salt to seventy-six parts of water, its specific gravity being to that of water as ten ounces of water, salt your brine until the same bottle holds eleven ounces and three-quarters. In very hot weather, the brine should be stronger— twenty-eight parts of salt to seventy-two parts of water. MISCELLANEOUS. Unfailing Yeast.—Boil two ounces of the best hops in four quarts of water for half an hour, strain it, and let it cool down to new-milk warmth; then put in a quarter of a pound of salt, and half a pound of moist sugar; beat up one pound of fine flour with some of the liquor, and mix all well together. This should be done on Monday. On Wednesday add three pounds of potatoes, boiled and mashed; let it stand till Thursday, then strain, and bottle it for use, but do not cork it till the yeast has done work- ing. It must be stirred frequently while making, and kept near the fire. Before using, shake the bot- tle well. It will keep in a cool place for two months, and is best at last. The bread made with this yeast requires a longer time to rise in the sponge and in the dough than when common yeast is used, and is best baked in tins. To Pot Butter.—If butter be well made, that is, well squeezed or washed of its buttermilk, it may be potted after mixing with it a small quantity of salt, or, if it be preferred, a small quantity of lump sugar. The sugar tends to keep butter from turning rancid quite as well as salt; and the one, after a certain quantity, is neither wholesome nor agreeable, while the other, up toa certain quantity, is both. Layer upon layer may be added, but care must be taken not to touch the previous layer with the hand. In- deed, butter which is required to keep, should be worked throughout with wooden “pads,” or “ pat- ters” (whence a “ pat” of butter). Why Unripe Fruit should not be Eaten without being previously Cooked.—Fruit that is in an unripe condition may be compared to “bad water, laden with organic matters in a state of change.”” When such fruit is eaten, a species of fermentation is set up, which tends to injure the health. This result may, however, be prevented by previously exposing the fruit to the action of heat. This precaution is more especially to be adopted with fruit like the melon, which contains such large quantities—ninety- six per cent.—of water. Westphalia Pickle.—To one gallon of soft water, put two ounces of bay-salt, two pounds of common salt, two ounces of saltpetre, and a handful of bay- leaves, chopped small; boil and skim it, and pour it over the meat. Pickle for Tongues.—Water and porter, each one quart; saltpetre, four ounces; bay-salt, two pounds; common salt, two pounds. Simmer together and skim, and pour it hot over the tongues, which have been rubbed four days with sugar, salt, and saltpetre. The tongues having lain in the pickle for eight days, will be fit for use. Hamburgh Pickle.—Water that has been boiled, one gallon; common salt, one pound; coarse sugar, one pound and a half; saltpetre, two ounces; vine- gar, half a pint. Simmer the above, and pour it over the meat, which will be ready for smoking in three weeks. To Restore Fading Flowers.—Should the flowers be much withered, and beyond the efficacy of cold water readily to restore, plunge their stocks about an inch deep into scalding water, and by the time the water becomes cold, the flowers will be restored and fresh. Cut off the ends of the stocks which have been softened by the scalding water, and restore the 1180 to 1000. Thus, by taking a bottle that will hold flowers to the vases in cold water. wo no) M con of « trar war slay on, tom: with hap] It is tere insta area least. mise) nity.’ It i Prine tour, aries

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rs ld EDITORS’ TABLE. 85 Editors’ Cable, A SOCIETY WITHOUT WOMEN. IN a work recently published, the “ Journal of a Visit to Egypt, Constantinople, the Crimea, Greece, etc., in the Suite of the Prince and Princess of Wales,” by the Hon. Mrs. William Grey, we find some curious particulars, showing the ferment which intercourse with the West is at last producing in Oriental ideas, especially in regard to the social po- sition and education of women. On one occasion the travellers dined with the Sultan, at one of his palaces. The dinner, though good, and served in the European style, was, as an entertainment, rather a dull affair, at which we cannot be surprised, when we learn that this was the first time the Sultan had ever sat down to dinner with ladies, or that any of his own ministers, except the Grand Vizier, had ever been known to sit down in his presence. “‘ We were twenty-four at table,” continues the narrator, * but twelve of the party were Turks, and looked so frightened and astonished that nobody ventured to speak a word.” After this striking experience of Oriental society in its transition state, Mrs. Grey could not have been much surprised at the revelations subsequently made to her of the state of feeling which exists among the members of that society, men as wellas women. At a breakfast party given by the Grand Vizier, she was seated next to a Turkish minister, whom she had known when he was attached to the Ottoman Embassy in Paris. He spoke good French, and soon commenced a conversation, in which he expressed his sentiments with great freedom. “He began to speak of their Turkish customs,” says Mrs. Grey, *“‘and asked me how I liked the dresses of their na- tive women. I told him that I admired them very much, and thought them most picturesque and be- coming. ‘But if you had to wear them,’ he said, *you would not think so. Our ladies are the most unhappy beings in the world ; always shut up, always kept away from all civilization; and this,’ he added, ‘is, to my mind, the curse of the country. We are all unhappy, for how can we be happy with a wife who is the most ignorant creature possible? who takes absolutely no interest in anything that passes in the world? who can comprehend nothing, and who has no instruction of any sort whatever?’ ”’ Mrs. Grey observed that the wives seemed quite mander of the Faithful” to dine, like a Christian king or president, in the company of ladies and of his own ministers, is no small achievement in the way of breaking down the barriers of ancient preju- dices and absolute power. Of course, it was the presence of the princess and the ladies who accom- panied her which accomplished this result. Visible facts are the strongest of arguments, and the mere appearance of educated and refined women, re- spected and consulted as equals by their husbands and friends, was enough to bring about this sur- prising innovation in the social usages of the Ottoman court, which may léad to very important reforms. A HUNDRED YEARS SINCE. No man in modern times has better deserved the title of an apostle than David Zeisberger, the Mora- vian missionary, whose biography has lately been published.* For more than sixty years—from 1745 to his death, 1808—he devoted himself to the conversion and civilization of the Indian tribes, with a constancy, endurance, and success which, as his biographer re- marks, find their only parallel in the lives of some of the Jesuit fathers of the seventeenth century. Indeed, none of those zealous men, nor yet the justly cele- brated John Eliot, of New England, approached him in the variety and, in a certain sense, the greatness of his works. He surpassed Eliot as a linguist; for, besides learning to speak fluently several Indian lan- guages, he reduced two of them to writing, prepared grammars and vocabularies of them both, and trans- lated into one of them (the Delaware) many religious works. His achievements of that practical order, which men are apt to regard as the best of missionary success, were unrivalled. He founded no less than thirteen towns of civilized Indians. These Christian communities, as his biographer remarks, “ were the wonder of all who saw them, whether white men or natives; and they seem ever to us, who can only read of them, miracles of energy and faith. A hunter and a warrior, the Indian was constrained to give up his wild habits and cruel ways; to quench all the in- stincts of his savage nature; to change most of the | customs of his race; to acknowledge woman as his contented with their position, and not to be desirous | of changing it; but he assured her that, on the con- trary, they nearly all pined for freedom, and only wanted opportunity to come out and threw off their slavery at once. “How can you expect,” he went on, “ that a country should be happy with such cus- toms? What can be more unnatural than a society without ladies? And they, again, cannot but be un- happy, never to see anybody but their own family. It is a wretched destiny for us,” he added, with bit- ter earnestness. “In other countries—with you, for equal; to perform the labor himself which for gene- rations had been put upon her; to lay aside his plumes, paint, and traditional ornaments of every kind ; to assume the dress which white men wore ; to plough, and plant, and reap, like any farmer; to rove no longer through the wilderness at pleasure, | building lodges here and there; but to remain with instance—there is heaven on earth, while here we | are always unhappy. Let us hope that we shall, at least, have heaven in another world, and that our miserable destiny will not accompany us into eter- nity.” It is evident from this volume that the Prince and aries of civilization. To have caused the “Com- his family in one town; and, above all, to submit to municipal enactments, which were, of necessity, so stringent that nothing could be more galling to the pride of American aborigines.” The great wave of European colonization has swept away most of these communities. Yet, though dis- placed, they have not been destroyed. The civilized tribes in New York, in Canada, in Michigan, and in Wisconsin, and the thriving Indian confederacy in | the South-West, have received the remnants of those communities, and are indebted to them for much of the improvement which their present condition dis- Princess Tales. while intendi sasure | ..” The Life and Times of David Zeisberger, the rincess of Wales, while intending a mere pleasure | Western Pioneer and A tour, were acting unconsciously the part of mission- | postie of the Indians.”” By Edmund de Schweinitz. Philadelphia, Lippincott | & Co. 1879.

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ceenhainetneteeeraneenediiiaate a ato ASR nt a Nees eT = SA aE Da. ae a 86 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. plays. A debt of gratitude is also due to Zeisberger, as his biographer remarks, for what he did in pre- paring the way for the settlement of the West. Wherever he founded a town of civilized natives, a fealing favorable to the white colonists, as the friends of Christian Indians, was diffused among the nearer tribes. The country was thus opened to European settlers, and hostilities between the two races were prevented, except during the periods of the French “and Revolutionary wars, when the Indians were en- ticed or compelled by the opposing parties to take sides in the conflict. The peace which, prior to the Revolution, usually prevailed on the Western fron- tier, between the British colonists and the Indians, with all its beneficial results to both races, was due chiefly to the efforts of Zeisberger and his colleagues. Such a man is justly entitled to rank, with Las Casas, Marquette, Eliot, and Oberlin, among the illustrious benefactors of their kind, whose names are an honor to humanity. It is deserving of notice that the most important of Zeisberger’s works were undertaken just a century ago, a period to which our thoughts naturally revert, at the time when our country is about to complete the first hundred years of its national existence. It was in April, 1770, that he set out with a party of converts, in fifteen canoes, to descend the Alleghany River, and found a new town (to which he gave the name of Friedensstadt, or the City of Peace) on the western border of Pennsylvania. They halted fora time at a place where now a populous city spreads far and wide, but where then only the frontier post of “Fort Pitt” existed. This was the first time, we are told, that a company of Protestant converts had ever been seen at that post. “Traders and the garrison thronged the camp, and beheld, with astonishment, the problem solved, that savages can be changed into consistent Christians.” Leaving the site of the future Pittsburg behind them, they proceeded down the Ohio to the confluence of the Beaver. “This region, which now teems with the traffic of the Ohio and Pennsylvania Railroad, aud of the Beaver and Erie Canal, and is enlivened by a cluster of four towns, was then a ‘ieep solitude. Not a wigwam, even of a native, could be seen, only the ruins of Sakunk, an Indian village, abandoned long ago. They steered up the Beaver, and beyond its rapids came to the first town since leaving the fort. It was inhabited, strange to say, by a community of wo- men, all single, and all pledged never to marry!” Nothing more is told us about this singular ¢om- munity of dusky vestals or Amazons, nor is the slightest hint given anywhere in the volume either of its origin or its fate. It was, perhaps, not a per- manent town, but merely a temporary settlement of Indian women, engaged in some religious ceremony, and pledged “never to marry” while the solemnity lasted—the “never” having about the same force which it ordinarily has in similar declarations of young damsels (and, indeed, of young bachelors also) of the Caucasian race. From the “City of Peace” Zeisberger proceeded, in 1771, to the Tusca- rawas Valley, in what is now the State of Ohio. In the whole region which now constitutes that great State, with its population of nearly three millions, there was not then one white settler. Zeisberger was pleased with the beauty of the country, and at- tracted by the opportunity of founding a mission in the chief seat of the Lenni Lenape, or Delaware Indians. Accordingly, in the following year, he led forth another band of converts to the charming valley of the Tusearawas River; and there, near a large spring, which gushed forth at the base of a high bluff, and’ fed a lake nearly a mile long, he estab- | settlement, to which he gave the name of Schonbrunn or Beautiful Spring. The valley in which it was situated is, at the present day, one of the fairest re- gions of the West, “ blooming like the rose, with its farms, its rich meadows, and gorgeous orchards.” A century ago, although a wilderness, it was no less a land of plenty to its swarthy inhabitants. ‘The forests were generous to their children. They gave them the elm-bark to make canoes, the rind of the birch for medicine, and every variety of game for their food. The soil was even more liberal. It pro- duced strawberries, blackberries, raspberries, goose- berries, black currants, and cranberries; nourished the plum, the cherry, the papaw, and the crab-tree ; and yielded wild potatoes, parsnips, and beans. Nor was the river chary of its gifts, but teemed with fish of unusual size and excellent flavor.” The settlement grew so rapidly that in a short time another colony was formed near it. The fame of these native towns spread throughout the West. Visitors of both races came from great distances to see them. The chapel at Schénbrunn, which could hoid four hundred persons, was often too small to accommodate the worshippers. One of the most striking features of these settlements was that “ they were centres of agriculture, and not a collection of hunting-lodges. The chase was by no means aban- doned, but it had become a secondary object. To raise grain, cattle, and poultry formed the principal employment of the converts. Their plantations covered hundreds of acres along the rich bottoms of the valley; herds, more numerous than the West had ever seen, roamed through the forests, or were pas- tured in their meadows; while few farmyards of Pennsylvania had fowls in greater variety.” When these settlements were at the height of their prosperity, the Revolutionary war broke out, and, between the contending forces, these feeble Indian communities were broken up and swept utterly away. Yet, as has been already remarked, they cannot be deemed failures. They accomplished two great objects. They proved that Indians were capa- ble of civilization, and they were the pioneers of agriculture in one of the greatest and most pro- ductive States of the Union. When the citizens of Ohio join in celebrating the centenary of our national existence, they should not forget the debt which they owe to the Moravian missionaries. The name of Marquette is still honored on the shores of Lake Superior; and that of Zeisberger deserves an equal remembrance in the fruitful valleys which he first opened to the transforming light of the gospel and the wonder-working touch of the plough just a hun- dred years ago. THE RAIN. Ou the rain, the crystal rain! How it spatters, how it clatters on the pane! How it dashes on the glass! How it lingers its gemmed fingers on the grass! Oh the rain, the gentle rain! How it dances, how it glances on the pane! How it kisses the sweet rose! How it lulls you, how it soothes you to repose! Oh the rain, the rain, the merry rain! Hear it rattle, hear it prattle to the pane, How it pelters yon poor old man! How it drops, and without stops, on all it can! Oh the rain, the naughty rain! See how it spies with diamond eyes through the pane, As if sighing to come in, As if spying e’en as lying were no sin. EMMA Nasi. lished his favorite and, for a time, most prosperous pain viouw A wi unm. the n Th calles chara are of come every many pupils which soul © than y liberty liberty ugly, a Selves | Sea Is] Buta n ridicule the sub: believe

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PAINTING AS A PROFESSION FOR WOMEN. WE noticed last month a book by the painter Ham- erton, called “Thoughts about Art,” and promised our readers some extracts from it. It is, in many respects, a work of great practical value. Not only does it give general directions for buying our pic- tures, furnishing our parlors, and many such trans- actions which every man and woman of independent fortune must frequently undertake, but it enters into the details of painting, displays the difficulties of the art, and the resources at the painter’s command. Now many women are taking up Art, not only as a pleasant occupation to fill their leisure, but as the work of their lives, upon which they are to depend for their maintenance and their position. It is well, therefore, that they should clearly understand how onerous a labor they take upon themselves, and against what disqualifications they must contend. Leaving out of the question portraits and historical paintings, with which women seldom meddle, the profession is divided into landscape artists and | , sens ; government with America, as it will no doubt learn painters of genre. Now within the last twenty years there has come a great change upon the spirit of landscape painting. Natural scenes and objects used to be regarded almost entirely as adjuncts to human- ity. A mountain, a troubled sea, a cloudy or a glow- ing sky, made a pretty background to the figures in which the spectator’s interest was concentrated. Hence, nine-tenths of the study given to a picture went to the drawing of the human form, the fall of draperies, or the contrasts of furniture, while Nature was shufiled off with a conventional representation that bore slight resemblance to the original. But now artists love and paint Nature for her own sake. Men like Turner and Gainsborough spend their lives im studying landscape, and dash in their figures, when they introduce any, with a careless brush. To this change of temper corresponds a change of method. Instead of painting entirely in a studio, a landscape artist spends half the year out of doors, among the Highlands of Scotland or of Norway, un- der the burning suns of Palestine, or upon the blue waters of the Mediterranean. He lives in his painting- tent or hut, through whose windows he can observe a thousand delicate effects of light and color when the storm is at its height, or when his thermometer marks 120° under the rays of a vertical sun. It is not one or two who do this, but all the fraternity; and it seems evident that no high rank in landscape painting can ever be attained without it. It is ob- viously impossible for a woman to lead such a life. A wife might **camp out” with her husband, but the | unmarried must remain faithful to the studio and the model. Thus women are practically limited to what is called genre—pictures where the costume of the characters and the furniture which surrounds them are of the first importance. Small historical pictures come under this class: “still-life” of all sorts, and every scene whose interest is concentrated upon the many-colored life of Man. But the author gives his pupils one caution: “ Let them choose always that which appeals to the sense of beauty, which is the soul ef art. Men and women are more wonderful than mountains, but men and women have a fatal liberty which mountains have not. They have the liberty of spoiling themselves, of making themselves ugly, and mean, and ridiculous. They tattoo them- selves in South Sea Islands; what they doin North Sea Islands it is more prudent not to particularize. But a mountain cannot dress in bad taste, cannot be ridiculous, cannot degrade itself by vice. * * * Note the subjects which great artists choose and avoid, and EDITORS’ TABLE. 87 they paint men, they go back to some age of costume and dignity, or else to some golden time of early poetry, when the primitive human creature fought and loved under the bright sky of the world’s youth. Or, if it is contemporary life which they choose, they choose it as humble as possible, to get down below the strata which vulgarity permeates. A noble artist will gladly paint a peasant driving a yoke of oxen, but not a commercial traveller in his gig.’”’ Our limits forbid us to quote more ; but to all of our read- ers who are looking forward toa painter's life, as well as to those now actively engaged in it, we heartily recommend Mr. Hamerton’s genial and able work. NOTES AND NOTICES. THE news from China is unexpected and unpleas- ant to all whe wish to see the gradual enfranchise- ment and civilization of heathen women. The extract which we publish below indicates a purpose directly contrary to the treaty obligations of the Chinese if it drive out our missionaries :— “SHANGHAI, April 12, ria London, April 26.—Ad- vices from Pekin state that the Imperial Government has made a demand upon the foreign ambassadors that the schools for the education of females be abolished ; that teaching to the male subjects of the Empire of all doctrines opposed to those of Confucius be forbidden; that missionaries shall be considered Chinese subjects; and that no women will be per- mitted access to the Empire in that capacity. The ambassadors were also notified that the attendance of women upon religious services is one occasion of the recent massacres of foreigners, and that, though these events cannot but be deplored by the Imperial Government, compensation for their commission is absolutely refused.” Here is an amusing exhibition of the nation’s ex- travagance, and the relative shares of men and of women. We may fairly say, however, that of the articles in the second column, a larger [proportion are really useful than of those in the first. A writer | shows the relative proportion of the masculine and feminine interest in the tariff by the following ex- hibit of the duties on imports consumed especially by the two sexes. Thus, of the duties paid in 1869, there were paid for:— POOR MAN. LOVELY WOMAN. CRO ina ks $1,237,556 97 | Ribbons ..... $2,249,799 58 Brandy, wine 5,111,862 80 | Silk dresses . 5,951,993 68 Playing cards 5,162 30 | Fancy fans .. 71,820 35 Liquors ..... 104,488 12} Chignon hair 128,680 20 Fusel oil ..... 10,310 09 | Beads ...... 96,216 50 Billiard chalk 309 50] Lily white .. 69,026 00 Total .... $6,469,609 69 Total .... $8,579,536 23 Tuvs said Voltaire about marriage: “The more married men you have, the fewer crimes there will be. Marriage renders a man more virtuous and more wise. An unmarried man is but half of a per- fect being, and it requires the other half to make things right ; and it cannot be expected that in this imperfect state he can keep the straight path of rectitude any more than a boat with one oar, or a bird with one wing, can keep a straight course.” To CORRESPONDENTS.—The following articles are accepted: “Vain Longings’—“To Sunrise’—‘ To Sunset’’—“ Rose Leaves, No. 4’°°—** Olden Memories” —*“*To Clara” and “ Unrest.” The following are declined: “ Woman's Intuition” —‘ Margaret the Magnificent’’—‘ Cloud and Sun’’— “Curtains’’—‘* Across the Way’’—“ Helen Grantley’s: believe that their instinct leads them rightly. If | Flirtation at Lake George” and “ Thoughts.”

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ea id Ne we © — wn nang so no oe eta Lie a ee ee PS 33 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. Health Department. BY DR. CHARLES P. UHLE. SALT RHEUM—ITS TREATMENT. Tus disease, as we have stated, is hardly a disease of itself, but rather a nickname or term applied to certain diseases that appear upon the skin, and take on a stubborn and refractory form. We mentioned eczema, psoriasis, and lichen as probably known more frequently under this name than any other of the affections of the skin, and, in giving the treat- ment, therefore, of “ salt rheum,” we must embody the treatment of these. We can give no more than the general outline, and, even in doing this, we meet obstacles on every side. Cutaneous diseases invariably present themselves under a great many different aspects for treatment. First we have the acute and chronic form, and then their nature as they appear in infancy, manhood, and old age, and again as they occur in the different temperaments, the different idiosyncrasies and dia- theses, the different conditions of vigor and debility of the constitution. These diversities in the degree of the affection and in the power of the individual necessarily constitute so many grounds of modifica- tion, both of the material and strength of the treat- ment which should be applied. Then we have again other sources of modifications, as the season of the year in which they occur, and the lecality, as upon the scalp, the hands, the face, the limbs, etc. etc., which, of course, demand special attention in their successful management. The treatment of all skin diseases, however, naturally divides itself into two forms, constitutional and local, and in all of the de- grees of acute or chronic we shall have to consider these two parts of our treatment. “These two divisions of the subject,” says Doctor Wood, “are the medical and surgical practice of the healing art, and so nicely are they balanced in the treatment of these diseases, that-it becomes difficult to Lf which is the more important; the constitu- tional treatment is greatly assisted by local atten- tion, and the local treatment would be almost useless without constitutionalaid. The etiology of affections of the skin naturally lead towards the employment of the former as the most reliable. This regards these affections as issuing directly from an unhealthy condition of the blood, and that they are blood dis- eases, and not local or skin diseases, the disease of the skin being a mere sgn or tell-tale of the dis- erder that exists in the blood. If this be the case, then, truly, the constitutional is the one from which the most benefit may be obtained; but the local, it seems to us, is just as reliable, and just as much ealled for as the former.” There is one thing, however, always to be made note of in the management of affections of the skin: their effect is always more or less obvious upon the general condition of the patient. The complexion is muddy, yellowish, and discolored; the eye is dull; the tongue broad, pale, and indented by the teeth; the muscles soft and flabby; the heart weak, and easily excited to palpitation; the bowels relaxed or confined, and a general feeling of languor and disin- clination to exertion pervades the whole body. He eats, sleeps, and drinks, but does it all imperfectly. ‘He is like a steam-engine,”’ as beautifully expressed by Doctor Wilson, “acting when the fire is lighted and steam up, but terribly in need of new sockets, new bolts, and an abundance of oil to rub off the rust and ease his movements. In these symptoms,” to quote further from Doctor Wilson, “‘ we see the operation of a mal-assimilation, which must, before long, lead to the destruction of the patient, unless pre- sentiy arrested.” kn afew words, there is amal-diges- tion, mal-conversion, and a mal-appropriation of the food taken to sustain life; and the blood recraited from this unhealtby source becomes loaded with mor- bid products, in the shape of salts, coloring principle, and fluids. If we follow this impure fluid through its course, we shall find the organs which it supplies injured in their physical state, and weakened in their functions. The muscular system becomes soft and feeble, the heart participates, and the foundation is laid for disease of this organ, with all its painful train of consequences. The brain and nervous sys- tem suffer also, and the brain, irrigated with muddy blood, develops none but muddy ideas. The intel- lectuality of the man is deranged, his mind depressed, and a state bordering on suicide at hand. Skin dis- eases may be a trifling affection in themselves, mal- assimilation may be but a small matter when considered apart; but, when these conditions are viewed in relation to their consequences, they may be ranked among the most serious of the body in firmities of man. In the treatment of these diseases, therefore, the principle is, as we can infer from their cause and nature, to subdue the excitement and irri- tation in the system, and to neutralize and eliminate the morbid materials. In the chronic forms, and in the chronic stages of the acute forms, all this must be done, and, at the same time, the powers of the system must be kept up—in other words, conjoin with an antiphlogistic, neutralizing, and eliminating plan, an invigorating and tonic treatment. Sometimes we meet with in- stances of depression of the animal powers from sim- pie accumulation of morbid humors, in which case simple elimination by purgative medicine strength- ens the entire frame, and that which might be pre- sumed to lower actually heightens the power of the patient. At other times, and more frequently, we are early made aware that the disease is one which, in popular language, is ascribed to “poverty of blood,” and our tonic system must begin from the commencement of the treatment. To eliminate, the remedies are purgatives, and in the use of these we must endeavor to imitate the operations of nature, which always works with gen- tle means. The compound cathartic pilis, of the drug stores, taken in doses of from two to four, ac- cording to the constitution of the patient, answer an excellent purpose. In certain constitutions a pill of aloes, with a bitter extract, as gentian, seems to act better than anything else. The best time for the ex- hibition of the compound cathartic pill is just before meals, and for the aloetic pill at bedtime. They should be continued throughout the cure, unless contra-indicated by an unpleasant effect upon the patient. Epsom salts seems to agree well with some individuals, when everything else produces discom- fort. To restore power is an indication which must be attempted concurrently with elimination. While the latter carries off the morbid humors, the former is intended to give tone to the assimilative organ. The old material of the organism is to be carried away, while new and sounder material is to be added in its place. The remedies indicated here are tonic medi- cines, as quinine, quinine and iron, gentian, or gentian and potass, nitro-muriatic acid, etc. ete. Arsenic is also here a valuable medicine, and may be combined as follows with excellent results :— R Quinine, 30 grains. Extract Nux Vomica, 4 do. Arsenic, 3 do. Extract Gentian, g. 8. to make pills. Mix thoroughly, and make 30 pills, two to be taken daily. As to loeal application, the very best that can be Fr TI Life. merj to th it w: strik: the a daug of sla Fro TRI the G A ston of rob in the worth Hoy of“ w a mild are as quieter

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made use of is the oxide of zinc ointment (benzoated) of the drug stores. This should be applied every night, by gently smearing the parts with the finger, so as to introduce it into all the cracks and hollows that may be present, and to insinuate it as much as possible into any crusts that may have formed upon the surface. If secretions are poured out, the erup- tion may be wiped, not washed, and a fresh applica- tion of the ointment made. There are a host of other remedies, both external and internal, that are said to be used with very good success in the treatment of this disease, but there is no occasion ‘of mentioning them here. Whatever remedy is used, however, it must be borne in mind that, in the chronic cases, it is only by extreme per- severance and prompt attention that any good will accrue. Sometimes months pass without any ap- parent steps towards a cure, and then all at once the affection takes a change for the better, and gets well in a few weeks. Diet has a material influence over the continuation of the disease, and especial care should be given to it. Doctor Wilson has drawn up some bits of advice in this respect, and we will present them complete :— “The diet most suitable for cutaneous diseases, and especially those of a chronic kind, is a nutritive animal diet, moderate in quantity, but sufficient for comfort as well as mere necessity. A judicious blending of animal and vegetable food for breakfast —namely, meal, ham, bacon, eggs, butter, and bread, with tea, or cocoa made from the nibs, not exceeding a single breakfast cup, and abstinence from sugar. Coffee is more heating than tea, and a check to the active operations of nutrition, and, therefore, not so good. For the mid-day meal, meat, vegetables, and a moderate amount of sherry and water. Malt liquor is objectionable, for the amount of sugar it contains. Puddings and tarts are prohibited, with the exception of plain suet pudding; the whole family of light puddings is indigestible and detest- able. For the third meal of the day, the second may be repeated; the fluid taken with the meal being like that of the previous meal, or simply tea without sugar. Pickles should not be used in any shape; they are very difficult of digestion, and only tend to disarrange the stomach. Potatoes also should be taken only in moderation.” Literary Aotices. From Lrpprncortt & Co., Philadelphia :— THE HOLCOMBS. A Story of Virginia Home Life. By Mary Tucker Magill. A novel of medium merit, in which the writer has endeavored to present to the world a faithful picture of a Virginia home as it was before “the late war.” There is nothing strikingly original about its plot, as it narrates chiefly the antagonisms between a step-mother and a step- daughter; while its secondary purpose is a defence of slavery as it formerly existed. From PETERSON & BrotuErs, Philadelphia :— TRIED FOR HER LIFE. A Sequel to “Cruel as the Grave.” By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth. A story of wonderful adventures, mysterious events, of robbers and rescues, of storms and floods; all told in the highly-wrought style for which Mrs. South- worth is so famous. . HOW HE DID IT. By Miss Eliza Dupuy, author of “ Why Did He Marry Her?” etc. Miss Dupuy is a milder edition of Mrs. Southworth. Her stories are as wonderful and as improbable, but told in a quieter and less impassioned manner. LITERARY NOTICES. The scene of | 89 this story is laid in Virginia, and it dates back twenty-five years. TWENTY YEARS AFTER. Second Series of “The Three Guardsmen.” By Alexander Dumas. BRAGELONNE, the Son of Athos. Third Series of ** The Three Guardsmen.” By Alexander Dumas. KNIGHT OF GWYNNE. A Novel. By Charles Lever. TOM BURKE “OF OURS.” A Novel. ByCharles Lever. VALENTINE VOX, the Ventriloquist. With His Life and Adventures. By Henry Cockton, author of “Sylvester Sound, the Somnambulist,” ete. From J. P. SKELLY & Co., Philadelphia :— HELEN FREEMAN; or, the Right Path. By L. A. F. A story of a religious character, intended for the use of Sunday Schools. From Henry C. LEA, Philadelphia :— THE AMERICAN JOURNAL OF THE MBDICAL SCIENCES. Edited by Isaac Hays, M.D. Assisted by I. Minis Hays, M.D. April, 1871. From Harper & BRoTHERS, New York, through CLAXTON, REMSEN, & HAFFELFINGER, and LIPPIN- cotTt & Co., Philadelphia :— MOTHERLESS; or, A Parisian Family. From the French of Madame Guizot de Witt. By the au- thor of “John Halifax, Gentleman.” For Girls in their Teens. With Illustrations. We are frequently led to infer, from the class of French novels usually selected for rendition into English, that French litera- ture is of a character so questionable as to render it unfit for general or family reading. That this in- ference is incorrect is demonstrated by occasional translations of works which will compare favorably with the best and purest English and American literature. Miss Muloch, herself one of the highest- toned of English writers, is eminently qualified to glean the pure wheat from the chaff of foreign litera- ture. ‘ Motherless” is a beautiful story, charmingly written, and one that will delight and profit every young girl to read. THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY. A Novel. By the author of “John Halifax, Gentleman,” ete. This is a new edition of one of Miss Muloch’s earlier works, but one creditable equally with her later ones to her genius and her heart. HEAT. By Jacob Abbott, author of “ Abbott’s Illustrated Histories,” ete. Lawrence and his Cousin John make a trip across the Atlantic on board the steamer Scotia; and, during their voyage, they ob- tain a vast deal of information on various subjects, but principally in relation to heat. The book, being in narrative form, makes it more attractive to its young readers. NOTES, EXPLANATORY AND PRACTICAL, ON THE EPISTLE TO THE ROMANS. Designed for Bible Classes and Sunday Schools. By Albert Barnes, author of ‘“‘ Notes on the Psalms,” ete. The com- mentator says: ‘The hope has been cherished that this epistle might be introduced to this portion of the youth of the churches (the members of the Sab- bath Schools and Bible Classes), and thus be made to imbue their minds with correct views of the great doctrines of the Christian Revelation.” A SMALLER SCRIPTURE HISTORY. In Three Parts: Old Testament History, Connection of Old and New Testaments, New Testament History to A. D.70. Edited by William Smith, D.C. L., LL. D. This work is designed to supply a condensed manual of Scripture history for school and family use. It is meant to be used with, and not in place of, the Bible.

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ee! ‘ iluiubeeenentnenentineasiaceenaeameeeeee ee en” aed — teers ae = 90 GODEY'’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. THE MONARCH OF MINCING-LANE. A Novel. By William Black, author of “In Silk Attire,” ete. An interesting and well-written, but somewhat im- probable, novel. Its characters are well drawn and judiciously contrasted. DIARY OF THE BESIEGED RESIDENT IN PARIS. Reprinted from the London Daily News, with Several New Letters and Preface. This book is in the form of letters written in Paris during the siege, and forwarded by “ balloon post.” The object of the writer has been to present a practical rather than a sentimental view of events, and to recount things as they were, not as he wished them to be, or as the Parisians wished them to appear. FENTON’S QUEST. A Novel. By M. E. Braddon, author of “Aurora Floyd,” ete. A story with the average amount of sensation, mystery, and crime which characterize Miss Braddon’s productions. A LIFE’S ASSIZE. A Novel. By Mrs. J. H. Rid- dell, author of “ Phemie Kellar,” ete. Mrs. Riddell holds a fair place among English novelists, and her stories are always readable. From D. Appleton & Co., New York, through Lipprncort & Co., Philadelphia :— ON THE GENESIS OF SPECIES. By St. George Mivart, F.R.S. The author of this work maintains a position in relation to the origin of species antago- nistic to the Darwinian theory. theory carefully and with apparent fairness, admits what there is good in it, and points out its inconsis- tencies and weak points. The volume is an exceed- ingly interesting one to all who wish te be well informed in this branch of science. THE DAISY CHAIN; or, Aspirations. A Family Chronicle.. By author of “The Heir of Redclyffe,” ete. In two volumes. A standard English novel, a new edition of which we ure glad to see, for the benefit of a generation which has arisen since it was first printed. MUSINGS OVER THE “CHRISTIAN YEAR” and “LYRA INNOCENTIUM.” ByCharlotte Mary Yonge. Together with a few Gleanings of Recollec- | tions of the Rev. John Keble, gathered by several friends. ToChristians generally, and to members of the Episcopal church especially, this book will be found acceptable. The first chapter, “‘Gleanings from Thirty Years’ Intercourse with the late Rev. John Keble,” is especially interesting. GABRIELLE ANDRE. An Historical Novel. By S. Baring Gould, M. A., avthor of “ Curious Myths of the Middle Ages,” etc. The author declares his ob- ject in writing this story to be to illustrate the cur- rents of feelings in the State and Church of France in 1789. His moral, if he has any, is this: “In times when the relations between Church and State are precarious, coercive measures are certain to force on a rupture.” The scene of the story is laid in Nor- mandy, and one of the prominent characters, Thomas Lindet, was a real person, a parish priest_of Bernay. From CARLETON, New York, through CLAXTON, REMSEN, & HAFFELFINGER, Philadelphia :— WHAT I KNOW OF FARMING. A Series of Brief and Plain Expositions of Practical Agriculture as an Art Based upon Science. By Horace Greeley. This book, about which we have heard so much, is published at last. Horace Greeley is probably the best ridiculed man in the country in regard to his knowledge of agriculture ; but, while he confesses to but a meagre knowledge of that science, he yet says many sound and practical things in relation to the subject. The moral of the whole book may be safely set down as this: That any man who is content to He reviews that | | put his best efforts, means, time, and thoughts upon his farm, and is not in too great haste to get rich, is ultimately sure of success. A LOST LIFE. A Novel. By Emily H. Moore. (“* Mignonette.”] A lively, spirited American novel, bringing the smile to the lip and the tear to the eye by turns, From Ropert CARTER & BROTHER, New York, through MARTIEN, Philadelphia:— ASHCLIFFE HALL. By Emily Sarah Holt. Ash- cliffe Hall is a story whose plot is laid in the times of the Protestant succession. It is written after the manner of the Schénberg-Cotta Family, and its ob- ject is to present religious teaching indirectly in the form of a story. Much of the effect of such a work must depend on its verisimilitude, and we deprecate the introduction of modern slang into a story of the reign of Queen Anne. TRUE TO HIS FLAG. This little volume con- cludes a series of stories illustrating the Beatitudes. Frank Seaton, the hero, goes through great troubles from his conscientious refusal to obey his father’s command. The book is well written, but we think that such stories are apt to impair the obedience and confidence of children in their parents, and thus to do more harm than good. THREE LITTLE SISTERS. By Emma Marshall. The story of three orphans who were saved from growing up wild and untaught by the influence and control of their mother’s cousin. The book is easy, natural, and bright, and among the many well-meant but unfortunate volumes with which children are deluged, we are always glad to find one that we can heartily commend. AGATE STORIES. By the author of “ The Basket of Flowers.” THE LESTRANGE FAMILY. By Margaret E. Wilmer. These books are well bound and printed, like all Messrs. Carter’s publications. The house has reached a high standard of typographical elegance. DORA’S MOTTO. By Joanna H. Mathews. Miss Mathews has wou for herself an enviable reputation. A child’s book from her pen is sure to be simple, interesting, well expressed, and suggestive. Our | own experience of the eagerness with which children read her writings leads us to hope that she will con- tinue for many years her labor of love. From CHARLES SCRIBNER & Co., New York, through Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia :— THE WONDERSOF THE HEAVENS. By Camille Flammarian. From the French by Mrs. Norman Lockyer. An exceedingly interesting book, treating of astronomy in a popular and comprehensive man- ner. Like all the volumes in the “ Library of Won- ders,”’ it is handsomely illustrated. From THE NATIONAL TEMPERANCE SOCIETY AND PUBLICATION Hovusg, New York :— THE EVIL BEAST. A Sermon by Rev. T. De Witt Talmage, Brooklyn Tabernacle. THE GOOD SAMARITAN. A Sermon by Rev. J. Dunn, Beach Street Presbyterian Church, Boston, Mass. From Woop & HoLBRooK, New York, through CLAXTON, REMSEN, & HAFFELFINGER, Philadel- phia:— MINNESOTA—Jts Character and Climate. By Ledyard Bill, author of “A Winter in Florida,” ete. This volume conveys to the reader a clear and ac- curate knowledge of the climate, resources, and Br M: He Th the an sib wo P Poe lic ¢ Mo thre sele writ Har othe page DI Cler finel; and ¢ Gh Schw Borg Fro Phila TH: Town of abs from t most ] Fror LipprIn ONE France Story, | reader From SPOF ments } bers of mimes, chemist things ¢ and con From PANY, Si WOM. tical, an éases an Robert ] thor of become ; duty esp househol their rep for the u be found

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sy c- ad general appearance and characteristics of Minnesota, a State concerning which we have had heretofore comparatively little information. The author, in the course of the volume, briefly refers to California, Florida, the Adirondacks, and other resorts favor- able to invalids, and gives hints to tourists and emi- grants. From Ler & SHEPARD, Boston, through TURNER & BROTHERS, and PorTER & CoaTEs, Philadelphia :— THE CAUSATION, COURSE, AND TREAT- MENT OF REFLEX INSANITY IN WOMEN. By Horatio Robinson Storer, M. D., LL. B., of Boston. This book, while it presents no special attraction to the general reader, will be found of great interest and value to the medical practitioner, and may pos- sibly work a revolution in the treatment of insane women. PUBLIC AND PARLOR READINGS; Prose and Poetry, for the use of Reading Clubs, and for Pub- lic and Social Entertainment. Edited by Lewis B. Monroe. Thisisa handsomely bound volume of over three hundred pages, containing a vast number of selections of a humorous character from the best writers of the age. Trowbridge, Mark Twain, Bret Harte, Saxe, Henry Ward Beecher, Dickens, and other well known writers, are represented in its | pages. DESK AND DEBIT; or, The Catastrophes of a Clerk. By Oliver Optic. A handsomely bound and finely illustrated volume belonging to the “ Upward and Onward Series.” GUILT AND INNOCENCE. By Marie Sophie Schwartz. Translated from the Swedish by Selma Borg and Marie A. Brown. From Lorre, Boston, through W. S. TURNER, Philadelphia :— THE MILLS OF TUXBURY. By Virginia F. Townsend, author of “* The Hollands,” ete. A story of absorbing interest, bordering on the sensational, from the pen of one of the most graceful as well as most popular of American writers. From HENRY H. and T. W. CarTER, Boston, through LipPINcoTT & Co., Philadelphia :— ONE YEAR; or, A Story of Three Homes. By Frances Mary Peard. This is a French-English story, which deserves well at the hands of American readers. From ApAms & Co., Boston. SPORTS AND GAMES. A Magazine of Amuse- ments for all Seasons. We have received six num- bers of this publication. It contains plays, panto- mimes, charades, tricks, wonders in science and chemistry, puzzles, etec.; in fact, a mutititude of things caiculated to interest and amuse young folks, and contribute to an evening’s entertainment. From SOUTHWESTERN BOOK AND PUBLISHING CoM- PANY, St. Louis:— WOMAN HER OWN DOCTOR. A Plain, Prac- tical, and easily understood Treatise upon the Dis- éases and Derangements peculiar to Women. By tobert B. McNary, M. D., of Holden, Mo. The au- thor of this work believes that medicine should become a popular science, and that it is a woman’s duty especially, as the guardian of the health of her household, to familiarize herself with diseases and their remedies. This volume is written especially for the use of women, and, if carefully studied, will be found of exceeding value. GODEHY’S ARM-VHAIR. 91 REVIEWS, PAMPHLETS, ETC. From THE LEONARD SCOTT PUBLICATION COMPANY, New York :— THE BRITISH QUARTERLY REVIEW. Janu- ary and April, 1871. The North British is defunct, and Leonard Scott & Co. propose to give their read- ers in its stead the magazine whose first two numbers are before us. The standard of its articles is high, and, though not so purely literary as its predecessor, it will no doubt approach it in ability. It is Noncon- formist and Liberal. THE NEW ENGLANDER. April, 1871. From ProF. JouN M. Leavitt, Editor :— THE AMERICAN QUARTERLY CHURCH RE- VIEW. April, 1871. This excellent Review comes to us with its usual array of standard articles. The paper upon Michael Faraday is extremely able and interesting. THE AMERICAN JOURNAL OF INSANITY. April, 1871. This interesting Review contains two papers of great importance, ‘The Dependence of Insanity on Physical Diseases,” by the editor, Dr. John P. Gray; and “ Moral Mania,” by Mr. J. B. Browne. As a repertory of facts and speculations upon insanity and its cure, it is valuable, not only to the medical profession, but to the general reader. We have received No. 9 of ZELL’s PopuLaR Ency- | CLOPEDIA, from Which we see that the work is pro- gressing prosperously. Mr. Zell and Mr. Colange have our best wishes for the success of their great enterprise. Goden S Arm-Chair, JULY, 1871. FORTY-SECOND YEAR. OvurR ENGRAVINGS.—" The Music Lesson” is the title of the steel plate. The fashion-plate contains every variety of dresses, colored in a good style. An un- usual number of designs are to be found on the ex- tension sheet; and we also give an extra number of designs for fancy work, among which will be found in the front of the book five designs for making up and ornamenting a portfolio cover, for manuscripts, drawings, etc.; a page of children’s fashions; an alphabet for marking, ete. We expect to hear that the slipper pattern we have presented our lady friends with this month has be- come the popular slipper among the gentlemen. Nothing has been brought out before to equal this. The design is not a wood engraving. It has been constructed entirely of type. Ovr LITERATURE.—We do not think that we have issued a number for some time that will compare with this one in regard to the story matter. “The Heart of John Stewart,” “ Prince Charlie and Prince John,” and “That Hateful Color,” are stories of great depth. Marion Harland, Ino Churchill, Anne Hartley Leigh, and Miss Frost are a host that seldom appear in a single number of a magazine. The arti- cle on “The Books We Read” has been written by one who evidently is conversant with the literature of the country, and it will be found of interest and instruction to all who read it. A CORRESPONDENT wishes some one to furnish a receipt for making German coffee cake ; also, direc- tions how to use sugar of lead in washing bright colored calicoes.

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92 GODEY'S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.

PusLic LEDGER.—It is difficult to overstate the appreciation with which this journal is regarded in our community. Accurate and diversified informa- tion, local and general, domestic and foreign ; tem- perate and thoughtful counsels on the vital questions of the day; the genial inculcation of the duties we owe one to another as good citizens; the absence in its columns of anything which would bring a blush to the cheek of the most fastidious member of the domestic circle—all these, and many other character- istics of an excellent family newspaper, are patent to the most casual inspection. The uniformly healthy moral power which the Ledger exercises over the minds of its readers is not one of the least of its claims to our regard; and when we bear in mind its vast circulation, we may form an approximate con- ception of the range of its influence. Care, skill, and judgment are exhibited in every department of it. The “ make up” of the paper, especially the arrange- ment of its multitudinous advertisements for conve- nience of reference, is mechanically almost without fault. In the personal supervision of this family journal, its kind-hearted and gentlemanly publisher regards no labor as too exacting; and it must be a source of just pride to him that he has succeeded in making the Ledger one of the most high-toned and influential organs in the land. REGISTERED LETTERS AGAIN:— “Stealing money out of a registered letter. Before Commissioner Betts, the United States vs. John C. Berthoff. The defendant, who had been a clerk at Station L, Post-Office, Harlem, was arrested by Deputy Marshal Kehoe, on the complaint of M. Gay- lor, special agent of the Post-Office, on a charge of stealing ten dollars out of a registered letter. He was held in the sum of $7,500 to appear for examina- tion on Friday next.” There is no doubt but that the idea of robbing the mail was suggested to Berthoff by seeing this regis- tered letter, which he knew contained money. We consider it an outrage and a sin that the Post-Office Department should thus encourage its clerks to steal by constantly putting before them these temptations. For a lady to let her jewelry lie about is wrong, for it might induce a servant, otherwise honest, to steal, by placing this temptation in her way. The reformed drunkard can get along very well if liquor is kept out of his sight. We wish the department would take this thing into consideration. Most of the money lost by publishers is through registered let- ters. So far from this being any safety, it is twice the risk to send money in a registered letter. Geta Post-Office order ; that is the best plan. “THE vestry of Christ Church, Fifth Avenue, have just voted $12,000 for music there for the ensuing year. This is said to be the largest appropriation for a like purpose ever made by an Episcopal Church in this city. It provides for a double quartette in the gallery, and a choir of thirty male voices in the chancel.” With the $12,000 a neat little chapel might be erected each year, into which poor people would not be afraid to venture. They certainly would find no seat in this place. We donot intend to be irreverent, but we think it should read, instead of “God isin His Holy Temple,” ‘God is in His Music Hall.” The following looks like an operatic notice :— “Bedford Avenue Methodist Episcopal Church, Brooklyn. It is understood that Miss Butman, the soprano, is engaged and will make her first appear- ance in the choir next Sabbath.” neti Would anyone beHeve this of the primitive Metho- dists ? “Do you like codfish-balls, Mr. Wiggins?” “I really don’t know, miss ; I can’t recollect ever attend- ing one,” replied Mr. W., hesitatingly.

HOLLOWAY’s Musical MONTRLY for July contains a variety of voice and piano music, suited to the wants of all classes of players and singers. This number begins the half-yearly volume, and is a good starting point for new subscriptions. Every pianist and vocalist should subscribe for this favorite old periodical. Terms $ perannum. Single numbers, 40 cents. Last three numbers as samples for $1. Special Premiums.—We offer to every new sub- scriber received during this month, a copy of Hunten’s Piano Instructor, a $2 book, and the best instruction book ever written. Twenty-four cents in stamps must be sent for postage on this premium. Or, if preferred, we will send $1 worth of new sheet music from the following list :— New Sheet Music.—Gilt Edge Polka, Lily Leaf Polka Schottische, Starry Night Galop, Ingleside Mazourka, Unadilla Island Waltz, and Winter Green Polka Mazourka are very popular, easy pieces for teaching purposes, and for pupils in their second quarter; 20 cents each. Phantom Bells at Sea is a beautiful new duet for female voices, 35. Handsome Davie Browne is a capital semi-comic song, 35. For Ever and For Ever, new edition of this beautiful song by Converse, handsomely illustrated, 40 cents. Address all orders for the Monthly, or music, to J. Starr Holloway, Publisher, Box Post-Office, Phila. Gopgy’s Lapy’s Boox.—The last number of this most beautiful and fascinating monthly has been re- ceived. Every number that we receive makes us like the work better, and, just as true as Godey is a household word, we would not do without his maga- zine for more than twice the cost. Its steel engrav- ings and fashion-plates are gotten up in the highest style of the art, and-are well worth a sight at any time. It is only three dollars a year, and is cheap at that.—Banner, Mount Vernon, O. Bootn, of New York, the actor, does not like ad- verse criticism. Some critic in New York did not like his performance of Cardinal Richelieu, and said so. He was refused admittance in the theatre with a purchased ticket. Booth has a certain popularity with young ladies; and, when they go, the men must follow, and thus fills his theatre. We have never heard an old playgoer—one who knows what acting is—give him credit for any great talent. He is a fair actor, dresses well, and mounts his plays ad- mirably. WE commence, with this number, our forty-second year as publisher of the Lapy’s Book. Starting out, as we do, with a brilliant number, we know we will retain all our old friends, and make many new ones, as it is a well-known fact that we never go back- wards. GopEy’s LapyY’s Book, oneof the first iadies’ maga- zines published in this country, has never faltered in its march of improvement and interest. Wherever it is taken, it is valued as highly as a woman does a new silk dress. It gives all the latest fashion-plates, embroidery patterns, domestic receipts, and a large quantity of general reading, especially entertaining to the ladies. The Lapy’s K cannot be properly estimated by those who have never taken it. Its fashion-plates and embroidery patterns. by creating a taste for the beautiful, ennoble the mind and cha- racter, and by teaching the art of making and orna- menting womanly apparel, at the same time saves many dollars that otherwise would go to the dress- maker. Women will be largely the gainers by takiug GopEyY’s Lapy’s Boox.—Timzz, St. Cloud, Minn. Tr is a curious fact that most of the great musical composers have been childless. Handel, Haydn, Beethoven, Corelli, Pergolesi, Rossini, Spontini, Auber, Wagner, and Schumann, are among the instances. to, gil col is; tio: leq the tro alo are me} Not eacl leas lous Ye LAD scril in o plea: pure TH by M “ whic! innu send you s want anyh< have the sa expre: script it into certai Inainil appea publie the ma OuR how mi: Sold, bi sale of mand s the Am them a they ar cents fo THER! in the * “It is th saw. It had oce1 of the at CHARL collectior best colle of this cit

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t d st Tr ig d- nd ut, es, ck- ga- Lin ver sa tes, irge ing erly Its ting cha- rma- aves ciug sical yan, tini, the *“ Mors than fifteen hundred English Established Church clergymen have signed a paper, addressed to the Archbishop of Canterbury, expressing their dis- approval of the admission of a Unitarian minister— one of the Bible revisers—to the communion at West- minster Abbey.” Have our so-called religious people gone crazy? Is there no charity, brotherly feeling, or any good understanding about them? Look at the above. Look at the Methodists fighting over their book con- cern, and ostracising croquet. Look at the English church ina turmoil because the Queen’s daughter was married during Lent. In our own neighborhood they have a minister liked very much, but he will bow his head in reading the creed. This is objected to, and is a cause of complaint; the minister won't give it up, so perhaps he is as much to blame as the congregation. In another church in this city there is a fight between the clergyman and the congrega- tion, because the former chooses to dress like a har- lequin, and the congregation don’t likeit. In another there is a fight among the members to obtain con- trol of the church affairs. You are helping matters along finely, gentlemen, but do you not see that you are playing into your adversary’s hand? Do these men love one another? Do they love their enemies? Not a bit of it. They would come to blows and smite each other most willingly. There are on hand at least a dozen more quarrels of just the same ridicu- lous kinds. ‘ TEXAS. Your magazine is appropriately named, GODEY’s Lapy’s Book. This is the third year I have sub- scribed for it, and I can truly say that its reception in our little family is a part of life’s joys. Many pleasant remembrances are associated with your pure Book. Mrs. L. F. Tue following article is from a work upon copyright by Mr. Copinger, Barrister at Law, London:— “Here, again, are some very curious legal facts which may be commended to the attention of that innumerable class of persons, men and women, who send manuscripts to the editors of periodicals. If you send an article to an editor, implying that you want him to publish it, neither you, the author, nor anybody else, can publish it from any copy you may have retained of the manuscript, whatever may be the said editor’s decision. Unless there has been an express previous stipulation to return you the manu- script if not made use of, the editor is entitled to put it into the fire and give you nothingin return. Toa certain extent, you have still a locus penitentie re- inaining. If your heart fails you before your paper Sppense in print, you may interfere and stop the publication altogether, though you cannot get back the manuscript itself.” Our NEEDLES.—We tried to make an estimate of how many millions of these favorite needles we have sold, but could not compass it. We commenced the sale of these needles many years ago, and the de- mand still continues. They are the best needles in the American market, and those who have ever used them always apply again. The manner in which they are put up is also a recommendation. Forty cents for one hundred. THERE is 2 paper printed in the Cherokee Nation in the “native dialect.” An Arkansas editor says: “It is the worst specimen of pickled tongue we ever saw. It looks as though a nitro-glycerine explosion had occurred in a type-foundry.” Did the author af the above ever see a Welsh paper? CHARLES SUMNER, it is said, has one of the finest collections of engravings in this country. But the best collection is the property of James L. Claghorn, of this city. GODEY’S ARM-CHAIR. 93 MORE TYPOGRAPHICAL ERRORS :— A Plymouth paper the other day ventured on the extremely rude and certainly unfounded statement that Mr. Grant Duff, M. P., was “empty-headed.” The next day the editor explained that the objection- able phrase was due to a typographical error. What he had written was that Mr. Grant Duff was “curly- headéd,”’ which, no doubt, renders the statement one degree less offensively personal Talking of typographical errors reminds me of astory of a para- graph which, when written, recorded that a railway train had run over a cow, and cut it into halves. The printer substituted a “c” for an “h,” and there- by made the railway train cut the cow into “ calves.” The Lumpkin Telegraph appeals to its “ fiends,” instead of its “ friends,” for items of interest, etc. Jenkins has much to contend with. In describing a recent ball at Columbia, S. C., he attempted to speak of Mrs. T. H. as “exceedingly pees n long train and short sleeves ;” but the demoniacal printers made him mention “ Mr. T. H. exceedingly lovely on a fast train in his shirt sleeves.” In a brief temperance article, the other day, the Toledo (Ohio) Blade attempted to say something about “the chief point in the battle,” but the per- verse types got it “the chief pint in the bottle.” An exchange states that the poor young Queen of Spain is dying of the millinery (meaning military) fever. The editor evidently is not skilled in Mantuan medicine, or he would know that the millinery fever never proves fatal to women. _ The night editor of a daily paper wrote this head- line to one of his cable dispatches: ‘* The British lion shaking his mane.”’ He was unable toeat his break- fast next morning, when he found the printer's ver- sion of the matter stared him in the face thus: ‘* The British lion skating in Maine.” An advertisement was lately sent to the office of the Clereland Herald, in which the words, “The Christian’s Dream: no Cross, no Crown,” occurred. The compositor made it read: “The Christian's Dream: no Cows, no Cream.” BANKRUPT.—From Auction, a large lot of Ladies’ Solid Gold, Hunting Case Watches, full jewelled, de- tached leyer movements, $24 each, usual price $40. More expensive Ladies’ Hunting Watches, and ele- gant Chains from Auction, at proportionate prices. Goods sent C. O. D., privilege to examine. F. J. NASH, removed to 712 Broadway, N. Y., May Ist. “ Worthy the fyllest confidence.”—Christian Advo- cate, N. Y. “* All that Mr. Nash says may be relied upon.”—Christian at Work. “ We have the utmost confidence in the above goods.”"—Liberal Christian. “Certainly cheap and the quality reliable.”—Cris- tian Intelligencer. * A SOIREE was given to some three hundred chil- dren in Kineardineshire the other day. The young- sters, tickled by the remarks of a genial old fellow who a knew how to win their attention, laughed exuberantly, whereat the minister presiding rose to order to state that *There would be no laughter in heaven,’ and that, ‘therefore, laughter was incon- sistent with religion.’ Odd, if this be so, that the human animal should be the only one endowed with the faculty of Mughter, and the only one that knows anything about religion. But then I suppose this lovable parson must be a relic of the Stone Age. Bless him! may he never be troubled with anything more disagreeable than the merry laugh of children. The above is another specimen of the intolerance of the age. What would they have us do—croquet, and dancing, and laughter cut off ? AN exchange says :— “The latest style at a dinner party is to have a fan placed at each lady’s plate, on which is printed the ill of fare, and on the side of which is a small look- ing-glass, so that she is able to survey herself and keep cool.” The very latest is to have a patent masticator at your side, by which the victuals are prepared for the mouth, and requires very little personal exertion.

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eS am et ay 94 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. THE London Queen is publishing the expenses of many persons upon the subject of cheap house- keeping. We have seen several statements that have surprised us. Here is a family of eight persons, with many visitors—and of respectability we have reason to suppose—having three meals a day, living upon eleven hundred and six dollars a year. We do not see any mention of servants’ wages :— “ECONOMICAL HOUSEKEEPING.—Perhaps the fol- lowing particulars on the subject may prove useful to your correspondents. We are in family (includ- ing two servants) four adults and four children. We live in the county of Surrey, twenty miles from town; we have constantly visitors stay ng with us, and we keep a liberal table. We do not indulge in late dinners, but all dine early, having a meat tea at 7 P.M. The servants fare precisely as ourselves. Washing is put out, except some smallitems. Asa rule, meat is one penny per pound dearer than in London, other things about the same rate as in town. Three years’ experience :— Per month. her’s bill, poultry, and fish ............. £510 0 Bute DOE WRG ale SUE 0 We 6 Sedble cB Svs océsccseccccees Grocer and oilman (includes butter, bacon fresh pork, eggs for cooking, candles, and parafin for AMPS) .........sscccceccceccces 10 0 Tea, from Co-operative Stores ............... 016 0 Baker, for bread and flour ................+. 100 Washing (including servants’) .............. 220 Comla, 156 GON, BE BER*... ccccccccccccccccccccce 110 0 Fe Os MEE on cnccdesicccccccccccpeccccs 100 1712 0 Twelve MARERS 2... ccccscvecscvse 201 4 «0 Vegetables and fruit ............eeeeeceeeees 2 0 0 £221 4 0 AN ambitious glazier in New York has spent three months trying to get a contract to put one pane of glass in the new court-house. He says if he could get such a contract “on the usual terms,” it would make him independently rich. The man who painted the lightning-rod has erected a brown stone mansion on the profits of the job. Tue painful ingenuity of those who fabricate false news for the purpose of hanging bad jokes thereon was outdone many years ago by an Oxford dignitary, Doctor Barton, the warden of Merton, who gave a dinner one day, and invited Mr. Rook of his own col- lege, r. Crow of New College, Mr. Woodcock cf Christ Church, and Mr. Partridge of Brazennose who, according to express invitation, were punctual at five o'clock. ‘“* Well, gentlemen,” said the doctor, “T think I have got all the birds of the air, but we must wait a little for one bird more.”’ In order to t in this stupendous joke, Mr. Birdmore had been nvited for half an hour later than the others. WE copy the following from the Evening Bulletin, and ask particular attention to the conclusion of the article :— “Gail Hamilton makes an admirable argument Sm this point in her “‘ Woman’s Wrongs,” showing that, while woman has the same essential right to vote that man has, the exercise of the right would, at the very best, only double each man’s vote, and so have no important effect upon general results; while, at anything below the best, it would throw 4 fresh een ne: a of ignorance, prejudice, and vice into he scale of national affairs; for the simple reason that womanly instinct would keep from the polls the very class of intelligent, refined, educated, virtuous, good women, whose voices, speaking through the medium of the ballot-box, would be of real value and aid to the corresponding classes among the honest and true men of the country.” A Boston paper mentions an individual there who clasps his hands so fervently in prayer that he can't get them open when the contribution box is passed round, Very often the case; or, perhaps, he don’t AGE OF THE TOWER.—Even as to length of days, the Tower has no rival amon laces and prisons; its origin, like that of the Iliad, that of the ome, that of the Newton Stone, being lost in the nebulous ages, long before our definite history took shape. Old writers date it from the days of Cesar; a legend taken up by Shakspeare and the poets, in favor of which the name of Casar‘s tower remains in popular , use to this very day. A Roman wall can even yet be traced near some parts of the ditch. The Tower is mentioned in the Saxon Chronicle, in a way not in- compatible with the fact of a Saxon stronghold hav- ing stood upon this spot. The buildings as we have them now in block and plan were commenced by William the Conqueror ; and the series of apartments in Cesar’s tower—hall, —- council-chamber, chapel—were built in the early Norman reigns, and used as a royal residence by the Norman kings. What can Europe show to compare against such a tale? Set against the Tower of London—with its eight hundred years of historic life, its nineteen hun- dred years of traditional fame—all other palaces and prisons appear like things of an hour. The oldest bit of palace in rE that of the west front of the Burg in Vienna, is 0 the time of Henry the Third. The Kremlin in Moscow, the Doge’s Palazzo in Ven- ice, are of the fourteenth century. The Seraglio in Stamboul was built by Mohammed the Second. The oldest part of the Vatican was commenced by Bor- gia, whose name it bears. The old Louvre was com- menced in the reign of Henry the Eighth; the Tuile- ries, in that of Elizabeth. In the time of the Civil War Versailles was yet a swamp. Sans Souci and the Escorial belong to the eighteenth century. The Serail of Jerusalem is a Turkish edifice. The palaces of Athens, of Cairo, of Tebran, are all of modern date. Neither can the prisons which remain in fact as well as in history and drama—with the one excep- tion of St. Angelo in Rome—compare against the Tower. The Bastileis —_— the Bargelio has become a@ museum ; the Piombi are remoyed from the Doge's roof. Vincennes, Spandau, Spielberg, Magdeburg, are all modern in comparison with a jail from which Ralph Flambard escaped so long ago asthe year 1100, the date of the first Crusade.—From “ Her Majesty’s Tower,” by Hepworth Dixon. OnE stormy, blustering night in January a verdant couple presented themselves at the residence of a certain Norfolk clergyman, requesting to be married. After the ceremony was performed, the happy groom, ketbook in hand, asked: *“‘ Wall, squire, what’s pay?” The astonished and expectant reverend modestly replied that he never named his price for any such service, but accepted whatever anyone was pleased to give him. The money was returned to the capacious pocket with a grin and a bow. “ Wall, I’m obleeged to ye, I declare; Ill do as much for ou some time.” “ Yes,’’ chimed in the oe ride, with an astonishing courtesy, “much oblige to ye,asfur asI*mconsarned. If it hadn’ta-stormed, we should have gone to Dedham.” TEXAS. I HAVE been taking your magazine now for two years, and I want to write to you to show may appre- ciation of it. I think Gopgy’s is decidedly the best monthly papiehee, and I would not do without it for a great deal. I think every woman in the United States, of taste and refinement, ought to take it, to show their gratitude to one who has done so much for them. B. T. Our opinions agree precisely with the above.—EbD. L. B. In New York it is rather dangerous for a young lady to invite half a dozeu friends to spend the even- ing with her, for ten to one the society papers will describe it asa grand reception, and then what a row with the uninvited! Why do people patronize these abominable papers? Tt is said that the reason why the Russian Govern- ment is so slow in availing itself of the advantages of the electric telegraph is that they object to one of the important preliminary arrangements, namely— want one hand to know what the other does. the elevation of the Peles. of cc noble arres is the oe A Clint Bow | called £1 for hours fare a him ti letter. there. man h Opera the sun ing uiri Ccovere;

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re- est for ted ung ven- will at a nize yern- tages ne of 1ely— THE Blue Blood of England that cannot mix with the common herd :— The pictorial papers have all contained a portrait of the Duke of Hamilton, the leader of the conser- vatives in the House of Lords—a fine-looking man it represents. His title is the Right Honorable Charles Gordon Lennox, Duke of Richmond, Duke d’Au- bigny in the old kingdom of France, and seven other titles. He is descended from Louise de Queronaille, the notorious Duchess of Portsmouth, and Duchesse ad’ Aubigny in her native country, the mistress of Charles IL. of England, and yet this is the first blood of England, the descendant of a courtesan. Here is another of the same family :— “The second Duke of Richmond, who was nd- son of Charles IL, married Lady Sarah Cadogan, daughter of Marlborough’s favorite neral. The union was a bargain to cancel a gambling debt be- tween the parents, and the young Lord March was brought from college, and the lady from the nursery, for the ceremony.” A couple married to cancel a gambling debt! Two beautiful Blue Bloods. Now for No. 4:— ““A penny post was set up in London by an wu holsterer named Murray, in 1683, and succeeded well, James IL. was accustomed to grant pensions out of the postal revenues, one of which he gave to the Duchess of Cleveland, a former mistress of Charles II., who received in this way £4700 a year; this pen- sion is still paid to the Duke of Grafton, her heir—so strong is precedent in England.” This is another instance of one of the Blue Bloods of England, receiving even at this late day a pension of $23,500, procured by the infamy of his ances- tress. One would naturally suppose that a high- minded man would hesitate to receive money thus procured, but it seems not. In the celebrated Yelverton case, the noble colonel pleaded that the woman he had married in Scotland and Lreland, but not married according to the laws of England, had not “ Blue Blood” in her veins. He, the scoundrel, we suppose, had. Gainsborough, the celebrated artist, painted a picture called “‘ The Blue Boy.”’ The subject is the son of an ironmonger. Here is a criticism upon it: “‘If looks tell tales, and bearing goes for aught,’ we should ignore the iron- monger, and declare Blue Blood ran in his veins.” The eomment upon this is, that an ironmonger’s son, even in a picture, cannot look like the son of a Blue Blood. What a mockery is this! Lord Courtenay was elected to parliament in 1868, and was missing, and afterwards it was ascertained he was a bank- rupt. An ancestor of his fled from England for a serious crime, and lived for some time at Harlem, N. ¥. He never returned to England. Hesucceeded to the title of Earl of Devon, and died in Paris. He, of course, had Blue Blood in his veins. Another noble lord, since dead—Lord Arthur Clinton—was arrested for cheating a cabman out of his fare. Here is the account from a London paper :— “A ‘NOBLE’ BILKER OF CABMEN.—Lord Arthur Clinton was summoned by a cabman to appear at Bow Street, on Tuesday, but when his name was called there was no response. The cabman claimed £1 for driving his lordship about for upwards of six hours on Saturday week. The cabman took up his fare at the Opera Hotel, Bow Street, and on leaving him there at night was sent to Long's Hotel with a letter addressed to a gentleman alleged to be staying there. The cabman was informed that the gentle- man had gone abroad; and, when he returned to the Opera Hotel to get his money, he was told that Lord Arthur had also gone, and since that time he had been unable to find him. The summoning officer stated that the summons was left with the barmaid of the Opera Hotel, who stated that Lord Arthur Cliaton was staying there, and that he should have the summons when he oame in. Mr. Vaughn directed inquiries to be made, and added that if it was dis- covered that the summons was delivered to Lord GODEY’S ARM-CHAIR. 95 Arthur a warrant should be granted for his appre- hension.” WAITING FOR BREAKFAST.—A correspondent in Paris describes an extraordinary scene of which he was a witness during the distribution of food to the inhabitants :— * [ had heard, on the occasion of my previous visit tothe Rue des Petits Péres—the scene of Mr. Moore’s distribution—that the applicants took up their posi- tions over pigne in a queue, so as to be among the first served in the morning; and, determined to verify the fact, I accompanied a friend at midnight to the locality in question. Passing through streets still dark and silent in Paris at this hour, we reached the Bourse, and already the hum—one might almost say the subdued roar—of thousands of voices struck the ear. In a moment we came upon the outskirts of what was apparently a mighty crowd, though it was too dark to see much until we found ourselves actually in the midst of a dense mass of women and children, heaped upon one another in amicable con- fusion, and extending down the street as far as the eye could penetrate its gloom. Not that it was alto- ether dark, for numbers of candles flitted through he crowd, or formed the centre of groups of squat- ting or dozing figures. The scene was so unexpected and unique that for a moment it was difficult to realize that here were at least ten thousand human beings who were deliberately bivouacking in the streets of the most beautiful and luxurious capital in Europe for the sole object of being the first to receive some bread and cheese in the morning. I asked one of the women when she expected to arrive at the door of the warehouse, where she would re- ceive her portion. ‘The day after to-morrow morn- ing, monsieur,’ she replied, as calmly as if she was talking of a journey to St. Petersburg. ‘ What! are you prepared to pass two successive nights in the streets?’ Lasked. * Why not?’ she said; ‘all the oth- ers do it.’ ‘Do you think what you receive at last will be worth waiting for forty-eight hours?’ ‘I don’t mind waiting any more than my neighbors for what those good Americans send us; they tell me it is well worth while, and be assured, monsieur, we shall never forget the generosity which has given us food when we wanted it so much.’’ SomEBopy in New York asserts that admission fees are to be charged at fashionable weddings here- after. Imagine big fence-posters: “Grandest Nup- tial of the Season. The lovely —— to the manly —. Several novelties never before presented. New mu- sic, new dresses, new properties. Tickets, $1; re- served seats, middle aisle, 50 cents extra. N. B. All persons occupying reserved seats are assured that their full names will be mentioned in the papers.” Ata dinner given tothe Turkish Ambassador in London, the presiding officer gave as a toast: “ The Sublime Porte and the Turkish Ambassador!’ The waiters understood it a supply of port for the Turk- ish Ambassador, and he was well supplied. “TRIBUTE TO ART.—Mlle. Christine Nilsson ap- peared in Nashville on Wednesday night before a thirty-four hundred dollar house. After the per- formance she was serenaded by the band of the Six- teenth United States Infantry, and a grand review of the troops was given yesterday in honor of the Swedish nightingale.” We do not consider the above a tribute to art; we think it a result of good management. We should like to know how many troops passed in that grand review. Eleven hundred and thirty-three dollars is the average in this case foreach song. Pretty good pay; but, fortunately for the manager, all that class of people which we forbear to designate are not dead yet. A SMART GIRL, WORTHY OF BosTon.—A little Bos- ton girl assured her mother, the other day, that she had found out where they made horses—‘ She had seen a man in a shop just finishing one of them, for he was nailing on his last foot.”

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ae, Nay emia alo ses ine haa = a 2 Se es we nr eepeeomemmmerton 96 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. A MODEL RESIDENCE. Drawn expressly for Godey’s Lady's Book, by Isaac H. Hosss & Son, Architects, 809 and 811 Chestnut Strect, formerly 436 Walnut Street, Philadelphia. > == THE above residence is about being built for Mr. y John Bowers, of New Castle, Pennsylvania. It con- tains many interesting features, and was prepared | for an elevated position. The roof is of the Mansard | pattern, adjusted perspectively to the elevation where it is to stand. Great economy has been used | in the design, and the whole building is ornamental. lts plain surfaces are made to give to the beholder zreat beauty, every size having been strictly calcu- ated by the Ovo law of architectural proportion. The musical ratioes are perfectly adhered to, varied by perspective position, which ever and anon pleases those beholding the structure. FIRST STORY. The beauty of design in architecture must be resi- dent in the shapes, sizes, and general position in whieh the details may be placed. The doors and a CAUASOUE BA EST PWD. « = windows must be of proper width and height, and ali openings, sizes of cornice, brackets to support them, ete., are the forces that must govern all good architecture. All others are unworthy of the times in which we live. This building is being built of brick, and painted, and will cost, nicely finished, about $8000, with all modern conveniences. First Story.—A vestibule, 7 feet 6 inches by 6 feet; B hall, 7 feet 6 inches wide ; C parlor, 23 feet 6 inches by 18 feet; D library, 15 by 21 feet ; E sitting-room, 15 by 15 feet; F re gry 14 feet by 23 feet 9 inches; G kitchen, 14 feet by 15 feet 9 inches; H ~antry, un- der stairway; I china closet; K porch. SECOND STORY. Second Story.—L chamber, 9 feet 3 inches by 2 feet: M chamber, 17 feet by 23 feet 6 inches ; N cham- ber, 15 by 21 feet; O chamber, 15 by 15 feet; P bath- room, 5 by 8 feet; Q chamber, 14 feet by 23 feet 9 inches; R servant's room, 12 feet 9 inches by 8 feet 9 inches; S hall; T store closet; U balcony. subur and is 1,806 f “m the a . Inez in the v«

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Dy YR am- bath- a eet 9 FASHIONS. 97 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. GopgEy. The rates for postal money orders as established by law are as follows:— “The postal money order system established by law provides that no money order shall be issued for any sum less than $1 nor more than $50. All persons who receive money orders are required to pay there- for. the following charges or fees, viz: For an order for $I or for any larger sum, but not exceeding $20, the sum of 10 cents shall be charged and exacted by the postmaster giving such order; for an order of $20 and up to $30, the charge will be 15 cents; more than $30 and up to $40, the charge shall be 20 cents; over $10 and up to $50, the charge shall be 25 cents.”’ “Do you think that raw oysters are healthy?” asked a lady of her physician. “ Yes,” he replied ; ‘I never saeg one to complain of being out of health in my life.” Paris retained much of its gayety during even the worst hours of the siege. The Guo published, among other things, a restaurant advertisement, as follows :— ** Wine at ten sous the litre, et eau-dessus’—(trans- latable either ‘and at higher rates’ or ‘with water on it.’) *** Rosse-heef—(translatable either ‘roast beef’ or ‘old horse beef.’) “+ Rat-cqout de mouton’—(translatable either ‘ mut- ton ragout’ or ‘rat with a mutton flavor.’)”’ A GENTLEMEN upon being asked by a friend for the loan of a dollar, briskly replied: “* With pleasure ;” but added, immediately, to his impecunious friend's disgust: ** Dear me, how unfortunate! I’ve only one lending dollar, and it’s out.” PHILADELPHIA AGENCY. Appress “Fashion Editress, care L. A. Godey, Philadelphia.” Mrs. Hale is not the Fashion Edi- tress. No order attended to unless the cash accompa- nies it. All persons requiring answers by mail must send a post-office stamp; and for all articles that are to be sent by mail, stamps must be sent to pay return postage. Be particular, when writing, to mention the town, county, and State you reside in. Nothing can be made out of post-marks. 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. G. W. H.—Sent articles by express May 10th. Mrs. J. J. C.—Sent pattern 12th. Mrs. N. H. B.—Sent pattern 12th. Mrs. R. P. K.—Sent pattern 12th. Mrs. M. G. F.—Sent pattern 12th. Mrs. N. G.—Sent pattern 12th. Miss E. 8.—Sent pattern 12th. Miss V. F.—Sent lead comb 12th. L. B.—Sent lead comb 12th. Miss A. K.—Sent lead comb 12th. Miss J. 8. McL.—Sent lead comb 12th. E. D.—Sent lead comb 16th. Mrs. W. S. S-—Sent lead comb 16th. E. C. D., East Bridgewater, Mass.—No stamps. Send two. Miss Bessie.—The evening of October 31st is Hal- loween. Ignorant.—How can we tell you what to say? Dif- ferent circumstances miy govern different cases. We can tell you what not to say: Don't wish them many happy returns. Artesian.—The artesian well of Grenelle, in the suburbs of Paris, is one of the most noted of its kind, and is one of the deepest in the worid. The depth is 1,806 feet. Emma.—The flowers should not be watered when the sun is on them. _ Inez.—You had better consult a doctor. Eruption in the face is a very unfortunate disease for a lady: VOL. LXXXIII.—7 and if proper remedies are not taken in time, it is likely to be mee 4 Mabel Moore.—I. It is better to decide for yourself, as universal treatment cannot be useful. 2 White veils keep the face from tanning better than colored ones, but green are decidedly best forthe eyes. 3. It is not possible to say. A Subscriber.—Excessive perspiration in the hands, or any other part of the body, asa rule, arises from weakness. Seek the advice of a doctor, and do not take tonics hap-hazard. May D.—Leghorn hats are the most difficult of all to clean, and only very experienced cleaners can un- dertake to do them well. They require blocks to dry upon, therefore you could not possibly clean one yourself from directions. M. P.—Cold water is not good for washing flannels ; it shrinks and thickens them very much. Flannel, before it is made up, should be put into warm water, left to lay in it for about an hour, and then hung up to dry. It will not shrink much afterwards. For washing, a large handful of powdered borax is re- quired for about ten gallons of water; soap should also be used. The water should be as hot as you can bear your hands in, and it should be well blued. Flannel, if not very dirty, may be washed in one water; if dirty, two waters, made up in the same way. Flannel should not be allowed to remain long in the water, but should be rubbed through as speedily as possible, well shaken, and hung to dry quickly. a should not be rinsed in clear water like nen. Unloved.—We can offer you no better advice than to be as patient as possible, and no doubt you will find some one who will permanently appreciate you. Nellie.—1. Third finger, right hand. 2 Always a bride's cake. Lewellyn Park.—You have noticed very few of the styings and doings of the little ones in our columns for this reason: Most of the so-called sayings of the little ones are simply blasphemy. Your own commu- nication uses the name of God in too familiar a way. Jane.— Decidedly the most profitable business, opera singing; but we must say that such notices as the following are to be taken with many grains of allowance: ** Minnie Hauck has been presented by the Imperial family of Austria with a set of diamond jewelry valued at $10,000.""_ In the first place, no such present may have been made. It may be only an advertising dodge of the Impresario to whom this young lady may be farmed to. Secondly, always cut off the last 0. Emperors are not so lavish with their | diamonds as these hucksters of opera singers wouid lead us to believe. Fashions. NOTICE TO LADY SUBSCRIBERS. Having had frequent applications for the purchase of jewelry, millinery, etc., by ladies living at a dis- tance, the Hditress of the Fashion Department will hereafter execute commissions for any who may de- sire it, with the charge of a small percentage for the time and research required. Spring and autumn bonnets, materials for dresses, jewelry, envelopes, hair-work, worsteds, children’s wirdrobes, mauntii- las, and mantelets will be chosen with a view to eco- nomy as well as taste; and boxes or packages for- warded by express to any part of the country. For the last, distinct directions must be given. Orders, yy ye by checks for the proposed expenditure, to be addressed to the eare of L. A. Godey, Esq. No order will be attended to unless the money is first received. Neither the Editor nor the Publisher will be accountable for losses that may occur in re- mitting. Instructions to be as minute as possible, accompa- nied by a note of the height, complexion, and general style of the person, on which much depends in choice. ‘When goods are ordered, the fashions that prevail here govern the purchase; therefore, no articies will be taken back. hen the goods are sent, the trans- action must be considered final. The publisher of the Lapy’s Book has no interest in this department, and knows nothing of the trans- actions; and whether the person sending the order is or is not a subscriber to the Lapy’s Book, the | Fashion Editor does not know.

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—_ yee er - 98 GODEY’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. DESCRIPTION OF STEEL FASHION-PLATE. | Fig. 1.—White muslin costume; the underskirt is trimmed with six rutiies, an alternate white and pale green lawn; the upper skirt is edged with a narrow quilling, and faced with green. Plaited corsage; open sleeves, trimmed to correspond. Lace bows and ends on back of corsage. White chip hat, trimmed with white feather and green ribbon. Fig. 2.—House dress of silver-gray silk, with an underskirt of lilac silk ; the upper skirt is looped up to show the underskirt, forming puffs, divided by bands, finished with rosettes at the sides. Corsage, cut heart-shaped, trimmed with folds of the same; flowing sleeves, with puffs at the top. Fig. 3—Walking dress of cuir-colored grenadine, made with two skirts; the lower one trimmed with four ruffles and narrow silk pipings; the upper skirt with fringe, ruffie, and pipings. Black guipure lace sacque. White chip bonnet, trimmed with cuir- colored crape de Chiné and ribbon. White silk parasol, with black lace insertion trimming it. Fig. 4.—Evening dress of pink silk, with plain cor- sage and coat sleeves; overdress of black-figured lace, cut in the Watteau style in the back, cut square in the throat, back and front, and trimmed all around with a broad black lace and narrow pink velvet. Fig. 5.—Dinner dress of white French muslin, made with two skirts; the lower one trimmed with three ruffies of muslin, bound with blue silk ; the overskirt trimmed with two narrower ones to correspond. Plain corsage, trimmed with blue silk and white | lace; sleeves trimmed with ruffles and silk to cor- respond. Vig. 6.—Dress for little girl of six years; the under- skirt is of pink silk, trimmed with one ruffle, headed by a puff; the overskirt, waist, and sleeves are of white muslin, trimmed with pink silk and ribbon. White muslin hat, trimmed with Valenciennes lace and pink ribbon. CHILDREN’S FASHIONS. (See Engravrings, Page 32.) Fig. 1.—Walking dress for girl of twelve years, made of percale ; the lower one of striped blue and white, with three bands of blue stamped on it; the upper skirt and basque waist of plain blue, trimmed with bands of the material. White straw hat, trimmed with blue ribbon and feathers. Fig. 2.—Dress for little girl of three years, of white piqué, made with two skirts, trimmed with plain muslin ruffles, plaited. Plain waist, trimmed square. Fig. 3.—Suit for boy of ten years, of Nankeen- colored cassimere, made with an open jacket and white Marseilles vest underneath. Fig. 4.—Dress for girl of eight years, made of blue silk; the skirt trimmed with one ruffle; the waist made basque, trimmed with a quilling of the same, and a vest underneath of white piqué. White chip hat, trimmed with white and blue. Fig, i—Sujt for boy of six years, of buff linen, made with a jacket and pants coming to the knee. DESCRIPTION OF EXTENSION SHEET. FIRST SIDE. Fig. 1.—Dress of lilac silk, trimmed with puffings of a darker shade; overskirt trimmed with a fringe and bands of silk, knotted in the back. Basque waist, with illusion at the throat, trimmed to cor- respond. Fig. 2.—White muslin dress for seaside wear, made sage cut heart-shaped; open sleeves. White muslin hat, trimmed with flowers and lace veil. Fig. 3.—Robe dress of lilac lawn, with a pattern of lace stamped on it; the lower skirt is trimmed with one ruffle, with a band above it; the upper skirt the same. Plain corsage, heart-shaped; open sleeves. White chip hat, trimmed with lilac velvet and feather. Fig. 4.—Black grenadine suit, made with two skirts: the lower one trimmed with a plaiting of the same and bands of silk : the upper one to correspond. Plain corsage; open sleeves. Black lace bonnet, trimmed with green flowers and black ribbon. Fig. 5.—Zecru-colored silk dress, made with one skirt, trimmed with three ruffles in the back, and two in front, headed by black velvet, which also ex- tends up the sides, finished with bows. Coat waist, trimmed to correspond, with black lace shawl draped to form anoverskirt. Leghorn hat, trimmed with black velvet and écru-colored feathers and flowers. Fig. 6.—Half-open sleeve, with ruffle, trimmed with ruche, bows extend up the back and on the inside of | sleeve. Fig. 7.—Open sleeve, trimmed with silk, plaited on one side, and put on in scallops. Fig. 8.—Half-open sleeve, trimmed with ruches. Fig. 9.—Black lace bonnet, trimmed with green ribbon, feathers, flowers, and black lace. Fig. 10.—Hat of white chip, trimmed with black velvet, pink ribbon, flowers, and white feathers. Fig. 11.—White satin slipper, with satin bows. This is always the most elegant chaussure, but some- times shoes are worn the same color as the dress. The rosettes are worn very long this season, and sewed on so as to reach considerably beyond the front of the shoe or slipper. Fig. 12.—Rosette of white silk, ravelled out at the edge, and arranged in box-plaits, with a rosebud and leaves in the centre. Fig. 13.—Rosette of goffered white satin, edged with lace; in the centre a white satin bow, with a spray of small flowers. SECOND SIDE. Figs. 1 and 2—Front and back view of robe de neglige, with Marie Antoinette fichu. This morning dress, which is in the Princess robe form, is the new- est style of morning dress. It forms a train at the back, and is shortened in front to show a handsome white petticoat. The model from which our engrav- ing was taken was of gray silk, bordered with ruches of gray sarcenet ribbon. The fichu, of the same ma- terial as the dress, is lined with sarcenet. Fig. 3—Low tunic bodice, to wear over a white muslin dress, or merely an underskirt, as fancy dic- tates. Made of blue silk, trimmed with plaited frills of white muslin, bands and bows of blue velvet and lace edging. Fig. 4.—The President mantle for an elderly lady. The material is black faille, and the trimmings are tassel-fringe and black silk braid. The form is a loose long paletét, pointed back and front, and has wide pointed sleeves ; the ornamentation at the back simulates a hood. Fig. 5.—Gentleman’s shirt, the bosom made of fine puffs of linen cambric ; they can be divided by bands of insertion or linen. Fig. 6.—New style of hairdressing. This style re- quires a youthful face. The back hair is tied and curled ; the ringlets fall low over the shoulders. The front hair is combed over two frizettes, which are pinned underneath the curls, and form a double coronet over the forehead. A bow decorates the with two skirts; the lower one trimmed with ruffles, headed by a broad Valenciennes lace; the upper skirt is trimmed with two rows of lace. Cor- centre of the coroneis. Fig. 7.—Muslin canezou with basques. This cane- 2? ©. & oe o@ a tr er pl, fo) po are pie ela. tin; plai sevi Posi gula the sew) corr buck the t Totl shoul and « hem « width finger which theref Withor terial ; Scarlet flounce inside the cut Figs, £entlen WE wi tions ab Our fa: Nearly ¢ ladies, basques, years old Many mo basque bs

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ite ic- ilis ind dy. are is a has yack fine Ands and The are buble 5 the FASHIONS. 99 zou is to be worn over a light silk or satin dress with a low bodice; and our model has bagjues at the back as well asinfront. It is made of white muslin, and trimmed with white Bruges lace and insertion ; the latter is lined with satin ribbon that matches the color of the dress upon which this canezou is worn. Fig. 8.—Sunshade, of unbleached linen, trimmed with strips and a Vandyked edging of red linen, and with a flounce edged with red, arranged in small box-plaits. Red cords and tassels. Bamboo handle. Fig. 9.—Bretelles and band of violet satin. These bretelles or braces are intended to be worn over a low bodice. They are made of sat'n, laid in very small plaits, and mounted on stiff nit; at each edge there is a rouleau of satin. They aze bordered with white blonde, having narrower black blonde above. The waistband corresponds, and fastens with a satin rosette. Fig. 10.—Low pointed bodice for evening wear, trimmed with silk plaited and lace. Fig. 11.—Black silk casaque for an elderly lady. Rich black faille is the material used for this casaque, and the trimmings are frills of the same, and rich passementerie and tassels. The tablier in front is square, and the basques fasten with gimp ornaments down the centre. The bodice fastens straight down the front, and is trimmed squarely as at the back. Fig. 12.—Basque sash, to be made of black silk, trimmed with fringe, or of the material of dress. Figs. 13 and 14.—This is one of the most useful crinolines that has come under our notice, as, by sim- ply changing the flounce, it can be made available for either a costume or an evening toilette. The portion given comprises the upper part, and there are five pieces which represent one-half of it. These pieces are front, back, two pieces for fastening the elastic straps to, and the band. They may be dis- tinguished thus: The front has one notch, and ‘is plain; the back (which is to be joined to it) has seven pricked horizontal lines; these indicate the position of the steels; the smaller of the two trian- gular pieces is joined to the top by the one notch, the larger by two notches. Elastic straps are to be sewn to each of these pieces, and they fasten to the corresponding straps on the other side with sliding buckles. The belt is made with drawing strings at the back, plain in front, and fastening with a button. To the pattern a flounce is to be added. This flounce should measure four yards fourteen inches in width, and eighteen inches in depth, terminating with a hem of five inches. It is gathered into a band the width of the skirt, and has buttonholes about a | finger apart, the buttons being sewn on the line which marks the second steel. This flounce can therefore be taken off and washed when requisite, without the upper part coming to pieces. The ma- terial of the model petticoat is white brilliante, but scarlet camlet for the upper part and a white starched flounce for the lower also would answer. Both an inside and outside view are given. We can furnish the cut paper pattern for making this. Figs. 15 and 16.—Fashionable-shaped collars for gentlemen. CHITCHAT ON FASHIONS FOR JULY. WE will endeavor to give a few hints and sugges- tions about children’s fashions. ‘ Our fashions, given from month to month, show how nearly children’s fashions resemble those worn by ladies. There are the invariable double skirts, basques, and flounces, and many little girls only five years old wear collars and cuffs like their mammas. Many mothers make an opening down the centre of | basque backs, and button thein behind, as they think | dresses open in front too old-looking for young chil- dren. As children do not wear much tournure, plain basques are prettier for them than those made with full postillion plaits. The proper length of dresses for girls from three to five years old is three or four inches above the gaiter top, and gradually getting longer, until girls of ten or twelve show but an inch of their stockings, while misses of fifteen wear their skirts to reach the instep. The pantalets of smallest children are not visible. For suits for girls for coo! days during the summer in country or watering places, summer Cashmere, in shepherd’s check and in broken plaids of a color with white, is soft, light, and all wool; it answers for kilt suits for boys’ as well as for girls’ costumes. Glossy English mohairsare seen in all colors. They can be easily cleaned by the scourer when soiled, and make a pretty, dressy suit. These, with the light summer serges, are the goods most worn for ordinary occasions. For dressy occasions, the low-priced striped silks are made with two skirts and a basque, trimmed with many pinked ruffles. White continues as popular for small children as well as for misses and young ladies. The style for French muslin may be simply tucks and puffs of the muslin, or they may be made very elaborate with lace insertion, embroi- dery, and Valenciennes lace; in the latter case, they are usually worn over colored silk er lawn under- dresses. A very pretty and not very elaborate dress for a miss of fifteen is made of French muslin, with full, high-necked corsage. The yokeand coat sleeves are made of puffs of muslin, separated by rows of Valen- ciennes insertion. The lower skirt has four narrow ruffles, gathered, overlapping, and edged with Valen- ciennes half an inch wide ; the upper skirt is trimmed with puffs, insertion, and ruffles, and has bretelles of lace. Many ladies are using the patent Valenciennes lace, some of which can hardly be told from the real, and the cost is not over one-half of the other. It washes nicely, and, for children’s clothing, and white dresses, and overskirts, answers admirably. The latest novelty for young ladies and misses is bretelles, with a postillion basque, made of Swiss muslin, embroidery, and Valenciennes, to wear with Swiss or French muslin upper skirts over colored silk dresses. The bretelles are wide on the shoulders, sloping narrower towards the waist, are crossed in front like a fichu, and are finished behind with a pretty square postillion basque. Light lavender- colored silks are trimmed with embroidered or plain Swiss ruffies ; and a muslin Polonaise, trimmed with ruffles, completes a costume for a watering place. The hat and parasol should be of silk, covered with muslin. For infants’ robes, high neck and long sleeves still continue popular. The robe is one yard long and two yards wide ; the skirt straight, and gathered into a yoke of insertion and puffs. More elaborate dresses are trimmed robe fashion across the front, and re- quire to be sloped or gored. New summer cloaks for infants are large double capes of French Nainsook, trimmed with a fluted or plaited frill, edged with narrow Valenciennes (patent lace), and headed by two rows of Valenciennes insertion, separated by a row of Hamburg work. Piqué cloaks are a long talma, embroidered or braided on the material, or else the two kinds of work combined. Imported bibs are of soft white muslin, slightly wadded and quilted, shaped with armholes, and merely edged with a nar- row work around the edge, or embroidered with a pattern or the word “ Baby” in the centre. The first short clothes are invariably white, have hich yokes and long sleeves, with the full skirt and body in one, worn with or without a sash. Long J

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ert eee Pr acreage ues — EP econ ts ua a. ed on a: perenne poe 100 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. robes are often cut down to make these dresses. | nomer to connect poetry with rare old point lace, Piqué dresses are also worn. They are usually trimmed with needlework. They are generally made very large, so they can be worn unti! the child is two or three years old. Walking coats, long-sleeved sacques, with drawing-strings about the waist, and a large cape, are made of piqué for street wear; they are braided or embroidered, the edge being scalloped or finished with a lace. Cottage bonnets of Valen- ciennes lace and medallions of needlework are pre- seribed for dressy occasions. Fine corded piqué bonnets, with soft crowns and pretty coronet fronts, prettily embroidered or braided, are neat and ser- viceable. For girls from three to six years old, elegant gypsy bonnets of real Valenciennes lace are seen; they are trimmed with white ostrich tips, forget-me-nots, and loops and strings of gros grain ribbon. For small boys, who do not wear the kilt suit, gored piqué skirts are worn, belted to a linen habit shirt, and | worn beneath a slashed jacket; they are trimmed with embroidery or braiding. Soft-crowned hats, with the brim turned up all around, are worn by boys of thisage. Jackets, with vests and knee pan- taloons, are the suits for boys too short for long pantaloons. Gathered Knickerbocker pants are still worn, but with less fulness than formerly. Sailor suits of Mazarine blue flannel are again worn by boys of five or seven years; these are nice for cool morn- ings in the country. White twilled flannel suits are worn, and, according to our taste, are extremely pretty. All kinds of plain and striped linens are worn for boys’ suits, and white wash goods of all descriptions. Hats for girls are of white or colored straw, with rolling brim, turned up broadly back and front. They are trimmed with silk puffings or gauze ruches, which may be dotted with white daisies, with large yellow centres. Sailor hats are of white straw. Muslin hats, of white, buff, blue, green, and lilac, are worn by children and ladies. They are made of thin muslin, puffed over reeds, and trimmed with muslin ruches. Short hair is out of fashion for children. All girls let it grow, and wear it flowing in careless waves that have been crimped, or else in two long braids, fastened with ribbon, plaited in with the lower part of the braid, and tied in a bow with ends. A pretty hat for ladies for summer country visit- ing, is dented at the sides 2 Ja Watteau. A white organdy plaiting, edged with Valenciennes, is laid under the brim. A wreath of blue daisies is around the crown. A Marie Stuart coiffure of organdy and lace, with rows of narrow black velvet ribbon above the lace, is laid on the crown, the point in front, and long scarfs of the same hang at the side. Blue gros grain ribbon bow on top of the crown, with ends behind; an elastic under the chatelaine for fastening. For the seaside and country resorts, are broad-brimmed Maud Muller hats, the brim having three pipings of black velvet; dark-blue or brown scarfs around the crown, with blackberries, white flowers, and green-leaved sprays intermingled. Richly embroidered handkerchiefs are exhibited among the novelties. In these costly trifles, the French embroidery, which is of the finest descrip- tion, extends around the handkerchief. New speci- mens in costly lace are displayed to admiring eyes. A very pretty style has a two-inch hem, with a band of Valenciennes lace insertion inside the hem, and a medallion of Valenciennes in each of the corners. Large initial letters are needleworked on muslin, and sold, to be transferred to handkerchief corners, for marking them in an ornamental way. The lace fever is contagious as it is expensive, yet proves a revival of refinement in taste. It is no mis- such as becgnes heirlooms in old families, ofttimes the sole fortune of the child descending from an im- poverished house, who grows pale and fragile as the cobweb threads in her delicate fingers, and, it may be, blind over the fabrication. Such is the rage for lace, that grave and reverend grandmothers disdain caps, and wear only point lace crown pieces the size of a tea-plate, or in oval shapes, perhaps with a Marie Antoinette point. Old ladies in the country, order- ing their caps from town, are désolie at the frivolity of earth, upon being told they must take to a chignon and crips, or go capless. Neckties are made of soft twilled India silk, cut bias, and hemmed on the edges; the ends can be trimmed with fringe or merely hemmed. The deli- cate fisherman’s green and palest blue are worn by blondes, pale rose and Frou Frou buff by brunettes. Striped silk ties, half-inch stripes of a color alter- nating with white, are new this season. Straight ties have knotted fringe at the ends, and are ravelled on the sides. The sailor knot is almost universally worn, bows being the unfashionable exception. Any becoming color of silk, edged with narrow Valen- ciennes edging, makes a pretty tie to wear with black grenadine or silk dresses. There is nothing new exhibited in grenadine suits; as before stated, they should be made over silk; but those who cannot afford silk, use alpaca, or farmers’ satin, and sometimes soft, thick cambric, that has not gloss enough to betray it. Silk lining is only used for the waist, but few persons wear drilling with it; they get a better silk and use it alone. Indeed, silk linings for corsages are rapidly gaining favor, and are not considered extravagant, as they wear well, set smoothly to the figure, and are far pleasanter to wear than twilled muslin or linen. Many ruffles merely hemmed, with a fold of gros grain laid in the hem, or else edged with lace, are the fashionable trimmings. A costume lately seen was made of silk and grena- dine, and so arranged as to make two different cos- tumes. The underskirt is of black silk, trimmed with a ruffle of silk and narrow plaiting of grena- dine; the upper skirt was entirely of grenadine, trimmed with a narrow plaiting of grenadine, made very long in the back, and looped over a black silk sash, which was fastened half-way down the skirt. A jacket of black silk, with a sleeveless jacket of grenadine over it. For afternoon drives, and cool days in the country, are jackets of scarlet, blue, or black ‘cashmere, trimmed with a border of medallions of silk, richly wrought in colors, and edged with fringe. A novelty is pale cuir and buff cloths, the color of écru linen, made in most graceful paletdts, and braided with cord of a darker shade, in simple but close pattern. These are delicate enough to be worn with the stylish buff pongee costumes prepared for the watering places. Pale gray, pearl, and fawn-colored jackets are also seen in very thin summer cloths. Velvet encircling the neck is now quite obsolete. In its place we find the gold necklace, with its lock- ets, crosses, or enamelled pendants. The necklace is broad and massive, according to the wealth of the owner, of the dead yellow gold; some of these are models in artistic designs. Roman and Etruscan gold are very fashionable. Also lockets merely for ornament, without opening, are made of pale gold, set in bars of turquoise, with a full set of jewelry to match, and nothing can be found more becoming to a blonde beauty. Jet sets are very much worn, very beautifully and elaborately carved ; they consist of necklace, ear-rings, pin, and bracelets. FASHION.

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SILK SACQUES FOR LADIES, Fig. 1.—Sacque of gros grain silk, open at each seam, and trimmed with narrow silk braid, ribbon bows, and fringe. Fig. 2.—Gros grain basque, for a lady in mourning, trimmed with a fold of the same and silk buttons on the back, and sleeves which are open. 3.—Basque of gros grain silk, with open sleeves, trimmed with a handsome gimp around the edge below the silk, and three rows above it. 121 Fig. 3. 2 @o VOL.

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Jo flenorg of fist dati {ashman, The Broken Lily. SONG AND CHORUS. Words by M. W. H. Melody by “LITTLE MAUD.” Published by permission of J. STARR HOLLOWAY, 811 Spring Garden St., Philada. 1.When the golden hours were sweet, When the Spring and Summer meet, And the lilies blossom’d white, Then our 2.When the lilies bloom again, By the willow in the glen, And the daisies gem the sod, We shall ; tt darling allthe day, Likea broken li-ly lay, Andour eyes grew dim atthe sicht. think of one whose feet Press the blossoms pure and sweet On the far, green hills of God. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by J. STARR HOLLOWAY, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

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THE BROKEN LILY. CHORUS. Soprano. NN —+ AYN. i. oa 4 + ~ sae — =e i—_~@ 1. So like a li-ly rare, So fra-gile and so fair, And dear-est to the an - gels of all; For we 2. And often in our dreams, We hear the flow of streams, That murmur through a valiey ie rest, And our ral ALTo. y- _— ea GNIS = a s aT ss s a 1. So like a li-ly rare, So fra-gile and so fair, And dear-est to the an - gels of all; For we 2. And often in our dreams, We hear the flow of streams, That murmur through a valley of rest, And our Bass, heard the angels say, “ Let us bear the child away Where the cold, sharp frosts nev-er fall * darling’s happy song Floats the shining clouds along, From the pearl-wall’d home of the blest. wr 4 a 2 is — ; - =. a is o—o--s omen » 7 - | ons i = if. r os TT heard the angels say, “Let us bear the child away Where the cold, sharp frosts nev-er fall.” darling’s i song Floats the shining clouds along, From the pearl-wall’ d home of the blest. === = asia 222.0 225 SS FES = opeinel = a = same — it

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EMBROIDERED INSERTION FOR MUSLIN BODICES, ETC. Worked on fine lawn or cambric; the sheli pattern is worked in satin stich, and buttonhole stitch. __ Oo en ORNAMENTAL BRACKET. NSS SN SS 3 WSS SSaes SSR wes S. Made of carved wood, lined through with Java canvass, which extends beyond the edge and is embroidered. 124 Su th th 0" un fo. elt res ne re] T) of the the pel yo yo tor cal yes So] wh wa alte the the ago tha the the! up) tha sill;