Godey's Lady's Book And Magazine 1872-03: Vol 84 Iss 501

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4 j GODEY’S Ladys Hook and AMlagazine, VOLUME LXXXIV.—NO. 501. PHILADELPHIA, MARCH, 1872. —————— ore STUMBLING-BLOCKS. BY MARION HARLAND. “THE essence of the matter, simmered down, is that those of us who are battling for equal rights—especially the right of suffrage— ure quarrelling with the Almighty because He did not make us men.”’ This was the paragraph Mrs. Letsome read aloud to her husband at the breakfast-table one frosty Tuesday morning in February. He lowered his Tribune to hear it. They took two daily papers. One was laid regularly by the coffee-urn, the other by Doctor Letsome’s plate. They skimmed some columns, and dipped into others, while they sipped their cof- fee, exchanging items of news freely, and dis- cussing the same with cheerful interest, the children lending intelligent heed. ‘The seene was a marked contrast tothe unsocial dulness characteristic of those family breakfasts where the puter familias is the only person to whom the morning dish of news is served. Mrs. Let- some had declared her intention of furnishing her three boys with a “‘daily’’ apiece so soon as they were old enough to appreciate the luxury. She had notions of her own—this lit- tle woman. That they were decided, no one who looked at her could doubt. Intelligence and resolve—a brave spirit and a hopeful— were stamped upon her features; spoke in the ring of her voice, her every gesture and motion. “Do you know, Andrew,”’’ she said, slowly and thoughtfully, ‘‘that the world is judging these would-be reformers pitilessly? I don’t think the majority of them have any quarrel with their Maker on the score spoken of here. A woman is reported to have said it. It sounds smart, but it is shallow, nevertheless. I be- lieve I know what the combatants for ‘ equal rights’ want. But it is not what they profess to desire.”’ “You said something to the same effect about ‘Gates Ajar,’ if I remember aright,”’ returned Doctcr Letsome, good-humoredly. “These muffins are very fine. You made them, didn’t you? I fancy I recognize your handiwork.”’ ‘Of course, Idid. It is Tuesday, you know. Don’t take that; it is cold as a stone.” She struck her bell to order a plate of hot ones; buttered one for her youngest child and another for herself before she returned to the question under discussion. **T said that I understood what the author meant to say and teach, and, having entered thus far into her purpose and caught her spirit, I could not join in the hue-and-cry of shocked theologians ; that I account her a true Israelite, although they may detect a suspicious accent in her ‘Shibboleth.’ As for this other matter, I have neither sympathy nor patience with a woman who would unsex herself. Why, I re- turn thanks daily—hourly—that I am not as men are—out-door laborers, upon whom de- volves all the rough and dirty work ; the mus- cles, as we are the nerves of the body social. The strongest-minded she of the advanee-guard of the reformers doesn’t really want to vote, and to wrest the sceptre of political power from the hand of man, any more than she wants to wear a beard and a stove-pipe hat, and to sing bass.”’ “They shouldn’t say so, then,”” the doctor rejoined, sententiously. ‘*Nor should a starving man, lost in the wil- derness, hanker after the raw fish he sees in the stream, and fancy that birds with the fea- thers on would be a delicious morsel. But he does, because he #s a-hungered. What these women want is a fair copartnership, and know- ing that it is their right, that the righteous Lord created man—male and female—they forget that in justly-ordered firms both partners do not attend to the same branch of the business. Else, where were the use of the two? I detest 229

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230 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. cant of whatever kind, particularly when it is men,’ this is the testimony of empuoyers, ‘as worn threadbare by much handling in season and out ef season, yet it must be confessed that the question has net been satisfactorily answered: ‘Who will rock the cradle and get dinner when the rule, net the exception, is for women to have business-offices and workshops, and go to Legislature and Congress?’ Men cannot bear and nurse children, nor can they keep house and darn stockings, without sacri- ficing their manhood. Upon this all areagreed. The very lady-lecturers who claim the right to shoulder the motley populace at the polls, and to harangue from the hustings, are most severe in their reprobation of the pretty little man who vends ribbons and laces, and who, in puf- fing the ladies’ cloaks he has for sale, shows their becomingness and style by trying them upon his own shoulders. It is a bad rule that won’t work both ways. I don’t suppose Saul would have managed David's sling with better effect than the stripling would have used the Benjamite’s armor. Certainly it was not by the sling in Saul’s hand that Israel was to tri- umph. Since there are dozens of things we can do well, which men cannot do at all, we should be magnanimous enough to confess that we can never be adepts in two or three branches plements the other.’’ ‘Hear! hear!” said the husband, in subdued applause. ‘‘ My dear, your observations, if not quite original, are well put, and quite to my taste.”’ Mrs. Letsome laughed a little with her lips, but the deep gray eyes were serious, even troubled. ‘*For all that, the great mass of women have not their rights. Some part of the machinery which was intended by the Maker to work smoothly as forcibly is so much out of order that the jar is felt throughout society and the world. Knowing and feeling this, certain in- dependent thinkers among us jump at the con- clusion that nothing less than the dethrone- ment of the nominal] lords of creation will set things straight. ‘Since,’ say they, ‘we are badly paid for woman’s work, which we under- stand and are surely competent to perform, let us insist upon doing men’s work of which we are wholly ignorant. Since they, after ages of study and practice, so frequently fail in it, it is but reasonable to suppose that novices, with wind and tide against them, in the shape of early training, popular prejudices, and physical disabilities, will excel in the undertaking.’ Very illogical and very ridiculous, you say. But, Andrew, in my heart I feel that we haven’t a fair chance in life. We are capable of more and better things. I am not talking now of the frivolous and idle, but of those whom con- science and circumstances combine in urging to work. ‘Women would command higher wages were they as thorough in their work as painstaking and reliable.’ But whatever busi- ness they engage in is, with ninety-nine out of every ltundred, but a temporary expedient | whereby they would earn their livelihood until | they marry. That is the goal of their lives. | A man studies book-keeping as the art he is to practise all his life, wedded or single ; a woman, | because she can get good pay for this sort of drudgery, and, by the purchase of handsome | clothing, accelerate the march of the day of | deliverance from desk and ledger. The hat- | ter’s apprentice knows, if he is a shrewd lad, | that he is laying the foundation of wealth and | position by acquiring skill in his trade. The | milliner’s girl hopes that every bonnet she trims, after work hours, for herself, may be | the means of freeing her from the necessity of ever trimming another for a customer. (My _love let me fill your cup. No more steak, thank you!) Now,” emphatically, ‘‘if my idea of a copartnership was fairly carried out; if the woman, in mastering the art of book-keep- ing, is nerved and steadied by the thought that, in the event of her marriage, her profi- ciency can be made a source of profit to herself and husband, will serve the interests of the | firm, if only by saving the expense of one hired in which they achieve success. One sex sup- accountant; if the young milliner, after her union to the industrious mechanic or clerk, shall contribute to the common fund such earn- ings as she can gather from even the occasional exercise of her skill; if the dressmaker shall not be ashamed to “‘take in’’ as much sewing as she can find time to doin the intervals of domestic duties ; don’t you see how quickly the whole face of society would be altered ?”’ “The good barque Utopia will encounter ter- rifie head-winds,’’ the doctor remarked, shak- ing his head. “Of course, because pride, and flesh, and caste are against her. Women, who have taught school for years prior to their wedding- day, become within a few seasons so delicate or ignorant that they must entrust their chil- dren, while mere babies, to other instructors. Seamstresses almost ignore the use of the needle, and the expert saleswoman in a fancy store retires to dignity and the small rear-par- lor the day after her marriage with one who was her fellow-clerk, but has just gone into business for himself. Upon my word, one would suppose the married state to be in- cipient idiocy, incapacitating one from all offices, save those of kitchen and nursery.”’ “T ean certify that it has not impaired the wits of one woman, at least,” interpolated Doctor Letsome, with the look of intense amusement no one else so often brought to his grave face as did his spirited consort. “You may laugh, but I tell you there is radical injustice to both sexes in this time- honored principle that the man should be bread-winner and the woman but the bread- eate the and boai othe stiti labe mak mou for Smi neig neig stru hon of t nab for bee par’ age han of a mol das “ee ivel on | ene litt! ban to a sur tres tha tow epil wil Do T ean her bes wit not ant litt est yo str

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=. FF eater. I grant—and I love to hold as true— the doctrine that every wife, who is also mether and housekeeper, earns her own living—her board and clothes. But how long would any other partnership be considered a paying in- stitution where this unequal proportion of labor and responsibility existed? I would make it as creditable for Mrs. Smith to earn money with her own hands and head as it is for her to spend the money earned by Mr. Smith. The penny she turns by making her neighbor's hat or dress, or by teaching her neighbor's child his alphabet, while she in- structs her own little ones, should be not only honest but honorable. And if, in the course of time, Mr. Smith takes his place among the nabobs of the land, his wife, having learned for herself, step by step, how his wealth has been acquired, shall continue to act as advisory partner; be the efficient and intelligent man- ager of the large sums which pass through her hands for personal and family expenses, instead of a greedy spendthrift, wild with lust for dia- STUMBLING-BLOCKS. 231 they knew how sweet to a woman is the con- sciousness that she has been a help instead of a burden, they would cease to instruct her in the fusty, one-sided creed that her glory is her dependence. If I were a man, I would be ashamed to love, much less choose as the mo- ther of my children, one of the limp, clinging | things that always remind me of a bit of soaked gelatine.” Doctor Letsome echoed her merry laugh as he stooped to kiss her ‘‘Good-by!’’ Her lively rattle refreshed him for the tug and strain of the outer world. At the door he stopped to say :— ‘“* Apropos to gelatine, I wish, if you can find time to-day, that you would make some cider jelly for that fever-patient I was telling you of last night. I will take it up at my afternoon visit. And a bowl of your incomparable chicken-broth would be most acceptable to that poor girl who is dying of consumption.’’ ‘*Thank you for speaking of it. I will have jelly and soup ready by dinner-time. Aw re- monds, laces, and the supreme delight of out- | dashing all the other women in her circle.” “It is surprising,’ said the doctor, reflect- ively, as he pulled off his slippers, and drew on the warmed boots his second son, in obedi- ence to the mother’s signal, brought him, ‘“‘ how little women, as a class, know of their hus- bands’ businesses. I wouldn’t be afraid, now, to admit you to a share in my practice. Iam sure you would be more successful in the treatment of diseases of women and children than one-half of the regular physicians in town. When I die, you can plagiarize that epitaph in Peré la Chaise, ‘The bereaved widow will eontinue the business at the old stand.’ Don’t frown, my darling !’’ The children had scampered away, and he eame around to his wife’s side and stroked her forehead caressingly. ‘You are the truest helpmeet Heaven ever bestowed upon man. If I smile at the warmth with which you put forth your theories, it is not in ridicule. When I remember how timely and how untiring was the help of this strong little hand,”’ raising it to his lips, ‘‘in my hard- est struggles; how bravely and how cheerily you battled at my side; what a pillar of strength I find you now, my heart swells with pride and thankfulness.”’ She put her arms around his neck, hid her eyes for a moment upon his broad breast, then | raised her face with a glad laugh. “Tt does me good, through and through, to | hear you say that, dear, for I know if you did | not love me, if you did not feel that we were | one in all things, you would reject my offered co-operation or accept it with a bad grace. Yet I have only done what every loyal wife would—lent a hand, as ‘Ten times one is ten’ has it, whenever and wherever I could. All men are not so generous or so just as you. voir /’’? waving her hand as he drove off. She always accompanied him to the door, let her be never so busy, and the sharp morning air having chilled her feet, she returned to the dining-room, and stood before the grate, warm- ing them while she laid her plans for the day. Perfected them would be the better word, for the programme of every morrow was mapped out before she lay down to rest at night, and reviewed with the rising of the sun. Her hus- band told her teazingly, that she ‘‘had system on the brain.’’ It was certain that the me- thodical division of her time, the apportion- ment of each duty to its hour, and a strict adherence, so far as lay in her power, to the rules thus made had become second nature with her. She had a cordial aversion to loose scraps and unfastened threads of all kinds; liked to work without haste and without waste. ‘The children’s lessons while I am washing the silver,’ she wrote down in her mental tab- lets. ‘‘ Then, Robbie and my mending-basket. Next, the jelly—I’ll put the gelatine in soak this minute. Then, put on the broth; wrap | Robbie up and send him out to play; and finally, having dusted parlors and library be- fore breakfast, what can hinder me from secur- ing two hours—may be two and a half—at my desk? In the afternoon I will steal time to make a rough draught of that Charitable So- ciety report, and still be able to pay two or three calls which are pressing upon my con- science. To-night, if Andrew can get away, we will go to hear Saxe’s lecture. A hearty laugh helpeth mental and spiritual as well as bodily digestion.” | While she prepared the gelatine, she gave one thought to the conversation of the break- | fast-table. It was in the form of an earnest, searching query that brought a sigh to her lip If ' and a shadow to her brow.

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232 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. “I said women hadn’t a fair chance in life. Why is it? No prejudice bears heavily upon me. The world flatters me for my industry. My husband is my appreciative co-worker, not a jealous tyrant. Yet my achievements are not commensurate with my ability, never equal my expectations. Each day sees some duty neglected, the accompiishment of some project postponed ; failures that are not referable to accidents in the household machinery, nor, so far as I can judge, to my own mismanagement. *Man goeth forth unto his work and unto his labor until the evening.’ There is the impli- cation of continuous labor and, at the evening, completion. Woman's work is always begin- ning, never ending. I should think myself a bad economist of time, were it not that I hear the same complaint everywhere. Mrs. Ford, with her retinue of competent servants and immense income, told me yesterday that she could not snatch a quiet hour in the whirl of life for the perusal of the choicest book of the season, and had never a moment of leisure, even at twilight, to sit down and talk with her children. What is wrong? And whither is this fast life driving us?’’ She turned to the breakfast-table,.and began to collect the silver and china, calling in her clear, loving voice: ‘Bertie, I will hear your Latin, if you are ready.”’ This was her eldest child—a boy of eleven, who had been at school for two years past. His recitations were a delight to his teachers, a mystery to hisclassmates. The mother, who had been his only instructress until he was nine years old, never bethought herself that she did anything outside the line of plainest duty in going over his lessons with him at night, or that other mothers would have voted it a ‘‘bore’’ to make practical test each morning of the Manner in which he had studied them. The boy took it equally as a matter of course that this should be done. It was the occasion of boasting remark with neither. By the time he brought his Latin grammar, she had before her the small pan of hot water, the mop, and clean glass-towels, which were the sequstur of breakfast on Monday and- Tuesday that the work of the laundry might go forward without interruption. She seated herself in front of them, propped his book up and open upon the table within easy eye-range, and heard the recitation, while her swift fingers polished goblets and silver. Other lessons followed in quick succession, and when she was through with Bertie’s examination, Horace, a roguish nine-year-old, who loved play better than study, was ready for his turn. “If those men-fellows at the academy only explained things as you do, mother, there would be some fun in learning,”’ he said, bluntly, at the conclusion of the drill so patiently con- dueted. His mother smiled and pinched his ruddy cheek. “This man-fellow must study the harder to make up for their shortcomings.’’ Her boys thought her “jolly.” “A brick, sir!’ Horace would have added, exultingly. With the serene consciousness possessing their souls of lessons so well mastered that they could confront the ‘‘men-fellows’’ without mis- giving, they strapped up their text-books, sub- mitted their hair and collars to her for a parting touch, kissed her heartily, and went whistling off to school. ‘*Nine o’clock !’’ said Mrs. Letsome, consult- ing the clock, when her work in the dining- room was done. ‘‘ Now, Robbie, we will have ‘our good time’ in the library.” This was the child’s own term for the hour they passed together after his seniors had taken their departure. He trotted on before her to the library, spelling-book in hand. He was just six years old, and the other boys liked to arouse his indignation by telling him his were “play lessons ;’’ but he had learned by means of them to read prettily, and spell in words of three syllables. While he read ‘ Rollo at Work” aloud, his mother was busy with the family mending-basket. It was a fancy of hers that the regular motion of the fingers in needle- work composed the nerves, and helped her arrange her thoughts. She always kept a piece of plain sewing within reach while teach- ing or studying. The child progressed but slowly with the story, by reason of the fre- quent pauses at the end of words or sentences requiring explanation. By this process of un- tying the tiny knots as she went on, the parent kept the web of her instructions even and firm. With her there was no temptation to slur over inaccuracies, to wink at vicious pronunciation or parrot-like renderings. The learner was as her own self, bodyand mind. His life was en- grafted, whether good or evil, upon hers. The thought of this kept her watchful and faithful in that which was least as in that which was great. He was deep in the interesting narrative when a ring of the door-bell preluded a tap at the library-door, and a pretty, girlish head peeped in. ‘*Am I an intruder, Mrs. Letsome? I know the forenoon is a busy season with you, and I will not detain you two minutes. I just ran in to borrow the fourth volume of the ‘Queens of England.” I have finished the third, and am all impatience for the next.’’ “You will find it on the third shelf of the bookcase there, Jule. I knew you would like it. Are you all well this morning?” “Very well, thank you! This is the right volume, isn’t it? It looks just splendid! O, Mrs. Letsome, I must tell you! Annie Ellis and Tom Starr are really and truly engaged. Jennie Ellis told me of it last night. They are to be married in the spring, have a grand re- ception, and go abroad for a year. Won't that be ril ta co le: th th Di Sh of in de CO) we ho shi an ing mit jus ew hai utt ane Vai bor pot foo her ane hin ean wil to |} tere suit leat turé sani Sue Die to Ss ‘eat ishil mer govi to h seer man Sayii you Yet Wish flurr thin: .

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oor Ss ewe OOF =e Peat @ — of he ce ht eePE> at STUMBLING-BLOCKS. 233 P : ! . be grand? Hehas given herasuperbdiamond | ‘I know of no rule capable of general appli- ring—a solitaire, of course. He has perfect taste. Altogether, it is a charming match. Don’t you think so?’’ ‘Very suitable. Iam pleased to hear of it. They are both favorites of mine.’ But, as she spoke, Mrs. Letsome could not help glancing at Robbie, who was moving dis- contentedly in his chair. ‘The young, visitor leaned against the mantel, book in hand, and the hostess’ heart sank within her, warned by | the recollection of many similar experiences. ‘it took her longer to go than it did to stay.”’ She was a near neighbor and an ardent friend of the doctor’s wife, who repaid her attachment in kind. degree of personal discomfort sooner than in- convenience or wound the lady she loved so well. Yet, knowing the habits of the house- hold’as well as she did those of her own home, she talked on and on, one subject leading up to another, for three-quarters of an hour, stand- ing all the while, ‘“‘going’’ every minute. ‘I must tell you one thing more,’ or “there is just one question I wanted to ask you,’’ oc- curred so often that Robbie, who had, at first, hailed the phrase as a signal of release, became utterly skeptical, after the dozenth repetition, aud miserable, as skeptics generally are. In vain he fidgeted and fluttered the leaves of his book ostentatiously; in vain scowled, and pouted, and kicked out first one fast-numbing foot, then the other. Juie ran on eagerly with her indefinite series of anecdote, and opinion, and’ query, until his mother’s sincere pity for him prompted her to say :— ‘“My son, if you are tired sitting still, you can run up to the nursery for a little while. I will call you when I am ready for you.” ‘‘T don’t care torun about, mamma. I want to know how Rollo got on piling wood,’’ mut- tered the aggrieved youth, balked in the pur- suit of knowledge. ‘‘Tt is miraculous how your children take to learning !’’ cried Jule, admiringly. ‘‘As na- turally as fish do to swimming, and for the same reason. They are born to literature. Such things run in families. Now, there is our Dickey. He is eight years old, and has been to school a year and a half, and he can’t spell ‘eat’ without the book. It is the most aston- ishing thing, how you find time for your nu- merous avocations. You are housekeeper, governess, seamstress, authoress, and caterer to half the sick people in town, besides being secretary and: treasurer to mercy knows how many benevolent societies. Mrs. Rand was saying at our house yesterday that she regarded you as the most wonderful woman she knew. Yet you never seem overworked or hurried. I wish you would give me the secret. Tamina flurry from morning until night, and only get things half-done after all.” VOL, LXXXTV.—15 eation except the very simple one, ‘A season for every duty, and every duty in its season,’ ”’ returned “Mrs. Letsome, briefly, yet pleasantly. She was too thorough a lady and liked her young friend too well to hint by manner or word that her presence was ill-timed. But she drew a thankful breath when the talkative damsel suddenly recollected that she had **promised to go shopping with Annie Ellis at half-past ten, and here it was almost eleven !’’ | and ran away. Doetor Letsome said once of Jule Martyn, that | The girl would have endured any | , one end of the table. “T am awful glad she’s gone!” growled tobbie. ‘It just spoils everything for people to come in and stay! stay! stay/ all lesson- time.”’ ‘“My boy must not be selfish,’’ corrected the inother, mildly. “Jule likes to stay with us because she loves us and Knows how we love her. Now, dear, bring your book into the kitchen. I am going to make something nice for a poor little sick boy who has no mother to take care of him. I only hope my thoughtless Jule may not have cheated the child out of his jelly,’’ she subjoined, inwardly. She disliked this sort of peripatetic instrue- tion. It distracted the learner’s attention, and made it difficult for her to fix her own mind upon the lesson ; but time was flying, and she had promised her husband that the much- needed delicacies should be ready in season. She had cut up the fowl, which lay ready- dressed to her hand in the kitchen; covéred it well with cold water, and set it on in a sauce- pan at the back of the range to heat gradually ; the boiling water was doing its work upon the gelatine as she strained it, and the flannel strainer stood beside her. ‘‘ Until it is entirely | dissolved,’ read her receipt, and the end was ’ not gained when the door-bell rang again. Robbie looked up anxiously from his seat at His mother had worked with as little noise as practicable, and he was fast forgetting the novelty of his position and the temptation to watch her in reviving interest in Rollo’s adventures. ““*A large part of the pile came down upon him!’’’ he articulat d, in breathless excite- ment. ‘“‘Mrs. Morrris would like to see ye in the pairior, mem,”’ said the housemaid. ‘I made bowld to tell her ye was perticlerly engaged in | the kitchen et that minute, but she says it’s important business she’s come upon. She won't kape you ten seconds, she says.’’ “Stir this until it is quite melted, Mary, and | then leave it until I come back,’’ ordered the | bie’s lip quivered. | inistress, with calmness, that was not remote from despair. ‘‘ Never mind, dear,’’ for Rob- ““T hope mamma will not be longaway Bea brave little man!” Mrs. Morris—handsomely apparelled, and with an effusive cordiality in her greeting that would have wrought charitable judgment of

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234 her and her errand in Mrs. Letsome’s breast, despite her inopportune coming, had she been less familiar with her ways and deeds—was gushingly apologetic for her unseasonable visit and the liberty she had taken in summoning her hostess from the kitchen. ‘*We women of business know one another’s trials so well that we cannot be too consider- ate in respecting the time and engagements of our sister-workers in the hive where there are so many drones,”’ she said, creamily—the unc- tuous flow of monologue that is most discour- aging to the lover of short, pregnant sentences | and prompt measures. ‘‘ And everybody says you are the soul of system—a truly wonderful woman. I wish your example were infectious. The way women of the period fritter away their time—and time is money, and more than money, for a minute lost is never regained—is abso- lutely deplorable. I will net trespass any longer upon your valuable time than is neces- sary for the right statement of the matter that brought me here. I wish to consult you with regard to the case of a poor family I have just heard of. I believe you are the visitor in be- half of the Charitable Society in this district?”’ “You are mistaken,”’ interposed Mrs. Let- some, with suspicious alacrity. ‘‘ Mrs. Todd, on the next block, No. 49, is the person to whom you should apply. It gives me pleasure to state this, for she is very prompt in the dis- charge of the duties devolving upon her as visitor. Mrs. Morris did not offer to rise. “Indeed! I was misinformed, then. This is a most touching case of destitution. At least, it is, if the tale the woman brought to me be true. Of course proper investigation should be made before relief is extended. I am pleased to learn that Mrs. Todd is a judicious person. I shall roll the whole burden of re- sponsibility off upon her and hasten home with an easy conscience. I am persuaded in my own mind that much harm is done by indis- criminate giving. I have had experiences which would deter a less tender-hearted per- son from essaying another charitable deed. I remember one bitter day last winter—or, it may have been the winter before ; I think it was, for my Coralie was quite a child, and she was in the room; or, I am not altogether positive that it was not Natalie—a young girl called’’— I spare the reader the long spun-out narra- tive to which the luckless housewife was forced to listen. This was followed by another, and still another—all illustrative of the extreme susceptibility of the speaker to imposition when her sympathies were attacked, and the suffer- ings she had undergone in heart and pocket in eonsequence of this idiosyncrasy. This drew out a lament from the maternal bosom that her two daughters shared in their parents super- humanity and exquisite refinement of feeling. GODBY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. | lantic was the loveliest thing! —— _————— ‘**Coralie will weep profusely over a tale oi distress she chances to read in the papers ; and as for my darling Natalie, weare really obliged to conceal all such things from her. I have seen her sob, as if her heart were breaking, over a dead chicken she picked up ina country stroll—a tiny, downy thing, scarcely a day old. They cannot seem to understand the existence of evil; remind me of snow-drops shuddering in a bleak wind, when the knowledge of sorrow and erime is forced upon them. I wish you knew my girls well, my dear Mrs. Letsome! There are so many points of sympathy between you! And they do so enjoy your exquisite stories! That last article of yours in the At Coralie read it aloud to us, and the precious child could hardly | get through for the emotion that choked her voice.”’ ‘*An article of mine in the Aflantic/” re- peated Mrs. Letsome, less suavely than’ was her wont, her honest soul being in a sickening tumult. ‘I never wrote a line for it in my life !’’ ‘‘No?” in languid surprise. ‘‘Then it must have been some other periodical. We take everything, and the girls read all of them. They are so literary in their tastes! Such is also my natural bent, but I am forced by my unfortunate neuralgia to confine my self-cul- ture to meditation and observation rather than to study. My precarious health is a grievous drawback upon my thirst for knowledge. When I recollect what were my acquirements in years gone by, I could weep in humiliation of spirit. Yet, after all, it may be a blessing in disguise. Even St. Paul had a thorn in the fiesh, you know. And when one reflects upon the manifold mercies still left to her, and sees so many others who are destitute of the barest comforts of Jife, she should not repine. Then,” raising herself slowly from the chair in which she had reclined for a whole hour—sixty min- utes of slow exasperation of spirit to the un- willing auditor—her mind swinging back to the subject of the errand that ‘‘ was not to detain Mrs. Letsome ten seconds,’ “then, you hon- estly advise me to go to Mrs. Todd ?”’ ‘*By all means! There is no other course for you to pursue. She is the appointed visitor for this district. I would not interfere with her work if I could, and could not do it one- tenth so well as she does.” Mrs. Letsome called up the last relics of consuming patience at the prospect of emanci- pation, and spoke politely. She even smiled, but other martyrs have sung at the stake. The torturer took her hand between her gloved palms, and pressed it affectionately. ‘‘Now I cannot have you say that/ Nobody could do anything better than you! Why, positively, I regard you as a prodigy. How you accomplish so much is an unexplained problem. I have never a spare moment. My foe pe ar al ci m de co Vi: tic he th

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girls’ dresses occupy at least one-half of my time. Girls in seciety must dress so much, you know. Then there are my social and religious and charitable duties! I go wild with thinking of them all—and my terrific neuralgia! I left a dressmaker and a seam- stress at home awaitimg my orders. ‘Dear mamma,’ said Coralie, ‘how can you leave us in this strait? Our dresses must be done in season for Emma Mayne’s party, and, you know, they are to be literally covered with trimming.’ ‘My blessed daughter,’ I answered, ‘I could not spare one moment for my own benefit or pleasure. But this is a mission of mercy.’ Indeed, my dearest Mrs. Letsome, I should not have presumed to break in upon the sacred routine of your morning duties with anything less important. I know you are the soul of system. And you have no doubt that Mrs. Todd will answer my purpose? Good- morning! We would esteem it swch an honor if you would call and see us some time. It would be an inestimable advantage to my dear girls to be much in your company. Good- morning !”’ In her flight kitchenward, Mrs. Letsome caught a glimpse of the dining-room clock. She wrung her hands with a groan of reai pain. ‘‘Half-past twelve! hours !’’ There was a brunted look in her eyes and a slight tremor in her voice as she accosted Mary. ‘The jelly is cold and partially congealed. I must heat it over the fire until it is thin enough to strain. It will not be so clear, but that cannot be helped. This soup is boiling too fast, Katy!’ te the cook, who, busy with lier irons, had not noticed the bubbling sauce- pan. ‘‘As it is for a sick person, I wish to extract all the strength from the meat. Yes, Robbie, mamma is as sorry as you are to have your lesson broken into so many pieces, but we will not fret.”’ Mary, by virtue of her long residence in the family, ventured to speak a part of her mind. “They imposes upon ye, mem, because ye are that good-natured ye won’t send them about their business—if they ’ve got any.”’ ‘“«T try to treat others as I would have others treat me, Mary,’’ was the only reply. It silenced the girl, and tended to calm the rebellion in the mistress’ own heart. She was doing right in submitting to these unconscion- able and unnecessary demands upon her pre- cious time. Much of her husband’s popularity, My golden morning much of her own usefulness in life,. might | depend upon her perseverance in the kindly courtesy which was the law of her conduct to visitors as to her family. Yet these interrup- tions were a severe trial, the greater that her habits were so methodical, and that she dreaded the clash of contending duties. STUMBLING-BLOCKS. 235 People imagined that they could offer her no more acceptable tribute than by flattery of her published writings. For herself she esteemed them lightly as works of art; always made pen-work secondary in importance to that of the household. Yet she loved it fondly—of late years, gratefully. Her simple stories of home-life, her essays upon every-day topics, her playful yet fearless satires upon prevailing follies, had been popular from the outset of her modest career. For ten years past they had brought her money with reputation. The first article for which she asked or received pay- ment was written under the stress of earnest desire, almost agony, to aid her husband in his early struggles upward. There were so many young physicians, and he had lictle professional influence, few wealthy friends, only brains, energy, faith in Heaven, and in his home, her, and Baby Bertie. She had often said to herself that she could know no purer pleasure this side Paradise than she tasted the evening the welcome enclosure arrived. Upon the strength of the remittance, she laid the sleeping baby in his cradle, threw on her hat and shawl, ran around the corner and ordered a quart of oysters home for An- drew’s supper. Never had another ‘‘stew’’ steamed up so fragrantly as she turned it into the hot covered dish, on hearing his step in the hall. He was chilled, hungry, disheartened, and weary, from a round of visits to charity patients—the unpromising stepping-stones that lie at the entrance to the road to success in the life he had chosen. His eyes darkened into something akin to misery as he kissed her. She guessed that he was reproaching himself for having taken her from the luxurious home of her girlhood, and set her in the humble abode which was all his slender means could procure. An envelope lay beside his plate di- rected in her best hand-writing to ‘ Doctor Andrew Letsome.’’ He opened it, and the checque, made payable (at her request) to him, fell out! “Talk to me after that, of the sweetness of utter dependence upon the one beloved !’’ she would exclaim, still to herself, when she reached this passage of her reminiscence. ‘‘It is time such tawdry tarletane of sentiment went out of fashion. his is the age of workers, not | droning dreamers !” It mattered nothing to her that beyond her home circle the belief was general that the wife of the rising physician wrote merely for pastime, or was moved to present the creations _ of her fancy to the public eye by a longing for | fame. She knew and Gop knew that she never took up her pen without a prayer that the | work of that hour might be for good ; that the | | | veriest trifle that seemed like the amusement | of a leisure evening had its aim; was cast forth with hope and faith that it would accomplish | that whereunto it was sent. Only Andrew

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236 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. knew of all mankind how diligently, yet how | joyfully, she wrought in what she named to | him as her “profession,’’ or how acceptable were the sums she contributed yearly to the store of “‘the firm.” It was their secret—one holy and sweet—that drew their hearts more closely together. “It is a little talent—and but one,’”’ she would say in their confidential talks; “ but since it is the Master’s gift, I dare not leave it unimproved.” She was very busy just now upor a more ambitious work than any other that had yet | engaged brain and pen. She was writing her | first book, and her mind, on the morning which | had been bestowed upon Jule and Mrs. Morris, | was teeming with thoughts crowding to the birth. They had chased sleep from her eyes the preceding night. She longed with passion, only those who have known the fervor of com- position can understand, to give them visible expression. By the morrow they might be dead—still-born mockeries of what had been life and beauty. She hinted nothing of the disappointment to her husband at the one o'clock dinner—a primi- | tive custom the doctor insisted upon for the sake of the boys’ health. The jelly would not | be firm before six o’clock, she was compelled | to admit, but she would walk up the hill with it herself at that time, taking Bertie for an es- cort. The broth was all ready, sealed up ina glass jar, which he could lay upon the seat or in the foot of the buggy without danger of spilling. But after he had gone, she went back to her confidante, the dining-room fire, | and held a rapid, silent council of her wits | upon the “situation.” “T eannot depend upon the afternoon as working time, and I ought not! I owe some- thing to my friends and to society at large. When I can get two hours honestly in the fore- noon for desk-work, it is all I desire; quite as nitch as is good for me. I might defer these calls until to-morrow. It is a dangerous pre- cedent, but 1 have lost nearly three hours to-day. write that report, and then it may be I shall have a quiet hour or so that I may use as I like. Iwill make the walk with the jelly serve me for out-door exercise, and by taking all three of the boys they will not be defrauded of their twilight talk. If the worst should come, I can give up Saxe. I shall mind the sacrifice the less since it is doubtful whether Andrew can go. I'll send the ticketS to James Minnis and his sister. They cannot afford to buy tliem. I ‘don’t usually cut my time so fine as that,’ as Mr. Bucket remarked of the brick- If4yer who had ‘her ladyship’s watch.’ But this is an exceptional case. It seems to me,’’ struck by a sudden and disagreeable thought, “that the exceptional cases occur so often I will dress Robbie and myself, | now-a-days that they are likely toconglomerate into a rule! (Conclusion next month.) rere Oe ae THE GOLDEN WEDDING. BY CAROLINE MARSDALE. Tus is a2 wedding day, my darling. ‘ Whose?” Why, yours and mine; And blessed is the bride, they say, on whom the sun doth shine; It shines as brightly now as when its glad beams kissed the snow Fifty years ago to-day, full fifty years ago. They said ’twas cold, ‘twas bitter cold, that February day, But I felt not its icy breath; my heart was crammed with May; For, decked with smiles and blushes, as you floated through the room, In youthful loveliness, you seemed a spring flower in full bloom. The artists raved about you then, as well, indeed, they might, With your cheeks like damask roses, and your great eyes black as night; I wonder why they do not ask to paint your portrait now? I'm sure the beauty is not gone from off your cheek and brow. Yes, you are beautiful, my darling, far beyond com- pare, Though on your forehead may be seen a wrinkle here and there ; Lovelier than in your youth, though white as driven show The hair that hung in golden ringlets fifty years ago. The hand that once was soft and white is dark and shrivelled now, But oft that little hand hath cooled my weary, aching brow; Much kindly, generous work hath done, much given in charity, And ‘tis more beautiful to me than in the days sone by. Yes, yes, you're lovelier now, my dear, in this, your autumn tide, Than when in days of auld lang syne I wooed you for my bride ; Don’t shake your head and teil me that the mirror says not so; The mirror tells a falsehood—I'm sure I ought to know. And we’re still young enough, my love, to face life's stormiest weather, But if, indeed, we must gro” old, why we'll grow old together ; And when we reach the other shore, the land of love and truth, We'll drink bright waters from the fount of ever- lasting youth. Ah, when the final summons comes, may we go hand in hand Across that stream whose waves divide us from the better land, Where saints and angels sing their praise before tl’ Almighty’s throne! There is no marrying there, they say, but still you'll be my own. al at di g1 dk

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rT BREAKING AND BENDING. 237 BREAKING AND BENDING. “T may break, but I will never bend,” one sometimes hears a foolish, hoity-toity young person say—a high-tempered young person, who prides herself on her independence, on her spirit, on the tenacity with which she can hold her own against any amount of pressure that may be brought to bear on her—an ignorant young person, not versed in the grammar of common sense, and to whom the very elements of the science of life are as yet unknown. “I may break, but I will never bend,” says this foolish young person, tossing her head at pa- ternal authority, flatly defying mamma’s more gentle admonitions, and rejecting all brotherly advice of frank submission, all sisterly good words of tender yielding, as so many snares and pitfalls into which, if she walks, she loses her dignity and gains disgrace. She loses her dignity! Tleaven help her high-tempered folly ! As if submission to lawful authority was a dis- grace; as if believing in the value of that wis- dom which copes only by experience was the mark of a feeble mind; as if accepting the inevitable with the patience and resignation by which alone can be avoided a useless and unseemly struggle was the sign of aught but wisdom and philosophy, and a proof that the most difficult of all Knowledge, the relative measures of strength, has been acquired, and is now used to good purpose. Nothing of all this will the hoity-toity young person see; and you might as well put an unbroken colt between the shafts and attempt to drive him soberly along the highway, as to bring such a nature as hers into the ordinary habits of home dis- cipline, without more tronble than perhaps the conformity is worth. Almost better let the rebel go free in her rebellion than strive for a loyalty which cannot be worn, and as little forced. Ah! how many a nature noble in its elements is stiffened by pride into something far less beautiful than it might have been, and infinitely less valuable—has failed its highest possibili- ties through wasting its strength and battling against the insuperable. ‘I may break, but not bend,” is unhappily too true a threat with many, and too fatally fulfilled. They do break in sorrowful earnest ; they dash themselves to pieces against the rocks of opposition, round which a little skilful steering would have taken them happily and safely; they are ground to powder by the circumstances they will not avoid, yet might; they spend their energies in fighting with facts to which that very fight gives body and a closer-grained consistency, and which by more docility, more plasticity on their part, would have fallen into shape and have ceased to trouble them; they make ene- mies by their obstinate resistance in matters of no importance, where only the appearance of yielding, involving no sacrifice of principle, would have given them friends; they lose in the tempest they themselves evoke the gracious growths which would have flourished and borne goodly fruit in the calm; all their life is devoted to a warfare wherein they cannot con- quer, and wherein no defeat teaches them a better method and a more peaceful wisdoi ; and when they die, they leave. behind them only the memory of a useless turbulence, which has taught no lesson save the one of avoidance —which has inculeated no useful precept, raised up no bright example. They have broken, not bent, and the grave closes over the pitiable fragments of a life which might have been a beautiful and stately whole had the | faculty of bending when needed been cultivated and put in practice. One such stiff-backed member of a family is sufficient to make the misery of ahome. There is no question in which the determination not to give way does not come into action, to throw | the whole out of gear and into discord. Has the girl let herself drift into an unwise love affair? No arguments can convince her that her choice is unworthy, no demonstrations of the worthlessness to which she clings shake her tenacious hold, no prayers of those who love her best and know what is fittest for her future cause her to waver or to ponder. Had she suffered herself to be convinced in time, how much after-misery would have been spared her, and how much wretchedness would be avoided now! But she holds on, and calls her self-will constancy, and boasts that her heart may break, but her will shall never bend. Or has a youth set his mind on some profession, for the difficulties of which his pastors and masters know him to be eminently unfitted, and in the advocacy of which his imagination only, not his reason, is engaged? He may break, but he will not bend; and so begins the struggle between power and desire, which lasts for all his life after, which makes his existence a pain and his whole endeavors nugatory. But he will not yield. If he would, he might be one of the prosperous successes of humanity ; as it is, he will be one of its failures, ever at war with his circumstances, and swimming against the stream of his fate—in vain. The same kind of thing is true with respect to sorrow. Now sorrow is a thing to which we must submit. There is no way of escape from this. Care, anxiety, troubles in trade, all the unhappiness which comes from the crossness of events that can be overcome, we may, per- chance, with luck and energy, circumvent and escape ; but to sorrow we must yield with more or less patience—which also is dignity. Yet some people fight against their grief as against a personal foe, and call in question the very wisdom and justice of God by which they are so tormented. They see no blessing in chas- tisement, they recognize no fatherly hand, no ultimate law of love ; they are hardly holden,

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See ee — 238 GODEY’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.

and they rebel; they kick against the pricks, and are only lacerated the more. common thing to see certain impetuous or weakly irritable persons sent half mad, or rendered utterly demoralized, by some heavy bereavement, wherein the only way of healing Jay in patience, in resignation to the unaltera- bie decree. They will not be patient, they will not resign themselves ; they let their sorrow as a vulture feed forever on their breasts, and they will not suffer the angel of submission to chase it away. They go mourning for all their lives after, and they think the unreasoning obstinacy of their grief loyal devotion to the loved memory, when it is simply a passionate or a querulous opposition to the necessities of heir condition. Again, you see some people utterly unable to fit themselves into the shape belonging toa change of circumstances. Say they have been wealthy, well appointed, and all the rest of it; losses come, and they are plucked bare; but never can the poor, shiver- ing creature forget the time when she flourished about in a peacock’s train and eagle’s plumes —never submit her soul to the homely hodden gray, which is all a turncoat fortune has left her. We come across them again and again, sad and sorry, with eyes ever turned back to the past, with heads unbowed to tke present. They cannot bend; they will not stoop to the Jevel of their fortunes, they say, proudly; so they fight, and strive, and come the worst off in the end, losing all dignity in their reverses as they have lost already all enjoyment of their prosperity, and getting no more good from the state in which they are than from that which they have lost. Such people are broken. For a time they retain the semblance of the old high-hearted strength, but it is only the sem- biance, the mere husk without the core; as time proves, when the pressure becomes too much for them and they fall to the earth, broken, because they have not bent, destroyed because they would not change. After all, what folly this is! We have all to bend to that which we cannot overcome by striving against. The facile happy temper which can adapt itself to change of conditions, the patient heart which can receive its sorrow meekly and say, ‘‘Thy Will be done,” if with many tears, yet with simple faith and unaffected resignation—are not these things better than the turbulent or the stiff-necked natures which may break but will not bend, and so lose the reality of power in efforts to retain it? Noone need falsely flatter or submit unto slavishness ; no one need kowtow if even he has to kneel; but it is the duty of every one to know when to bend to the passing storm, and how to yield to the mastery of events; and we ought all to be able to estimate exactly our own forces and those of circumstances before we begin the struggle—wherein we may get worsted! With each other the faculty of judicious bending is It is no un- |

‘inestimable. The surly mood which stiff- backed opposition would only deepen or con- | solidate is often charmed away, dispelled into thin air, by the sweetness of temper which takes no notice, but quietly accepts the frown ' and the fume as things of course. The advo- cates of the breaking theory would have con- solidated it by their vain struggle ; and the loss of a whole life’s happiness has before now dated from just some such mistake. Outside the holy heaven of the Beatitudes, they are | also outside the tender gardens of happiness ; and those who may break but will not bend | never know either the value of a meek and quiet spirit, or the exquisite joy that lies in sacrifice. It is a grievous mistake, and the sooner the young person with a spirit recognizes this, the better for all concerned. ——___—_<peg@———_—_—_- TURNED OUT FOR RENT. BY MAGGIE LUTE SULLIVAN BURKE.

OvrT, out in the night, in the chill wintry air, Turned out on the pave with its stones cold and bare, Shut out from her home with its sad dearth of bread, Alone with her God and the stars overhead! Cast out, with her babe still asleep on her breast— Asleep to the sorrow that mars not his rest; Asleep to the new pearls bedecking his hair, Bright gems from the sea of his mother’s despair ; Out, out, like her Lord, with no place for her head, All friendless, and hopeless, and starving for bread ; Thus brought face to face with her life's direst woe, And yet ’tis unfelt ‘neath a bitterer blow; For this is the wail, voiceless, deep in her heart, “Cast out like a thief, put to shame, set apart.”’ But what hath she done with her wild, startled eyes? And what with her tremulous, short, gasping sighs? Ab! what with her weary and faltering feet, show Ghnading like lead through the fast dark’ning street? What! is one so weak found a dangerous thing, | Concealing ’mid softness a treacherous sting, | That ye, to expel her, have borrowed a need Of two brawny knights of the star and the reed? This, this is her crime—Oh, ye winds, whisper low! Nor give to the echoes her sad tale of woe, Lest they tell the hills, and the beasts cry “for shame!” Gaunt poverty fiils all her measure of blame. or “Tr is a deplorable condition,” says Bishop Sherlock, ‘“‘to be always doing what we are always condemning. The reproaches of others are painful enough. But when the lash is laid on by our own hand, the anguish is intolerable.” THE time and labor are worse than useless | that have been occupied in laying up treasures | of false knowledge, which it will be necessary | to unlearn, and in storing up mistaken ideas | which we must hereafter remember to forget. An ancient teacher of rhetoric always de- manded a double fee from those pupils who had been instructed by others, for in that case | he had not only to plant, but to root out.

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ff- n- ito ch vn 0- n- SS Ww de re ad id he es r woe CSOD MY STEP-MAMMA. 239 MY STEP-MAMMA. BY PETIT LICHEN. PART I. WE stood at the open casement in the grand old hall which had been a charmed spot to me from early childhood ; stood gazing out upon the wealth of pink blossoms and white nodding so gayly in the pleasant sunshine, and promis- ing, each in its own pretty way, to send us treasures of fruit in a few brief weeks. Tears were heavy upon my eyelashes, and I was asking myself whether the trouble invit- ing them there might not also be a blossom heralding some precious fruit—that fruit which is ‘unto life eternal’’-—and humbly deciding that all the great and petty cares which fret and consume us so sadly are really such. Many of them, indeed, like the thorny thistle, bloom in early promise, but unlike it in the beautiful hidden gift. And very naturally, though ineffectually, I was, at the same time, craving the presence of my lover, Vance Hadyn, who was then lingering about the Rome which had filled his artist-dreams for years. I had been pointing to the blossoms, and tell- ing papa how particularly bright and hope-in- spiring everything appeared to me at Ferndell. **And to me also,’’ he replied, in a voice so sweet-toned by some deep feeling that I turned involuntarily to glance at his face. Then I moulded my thought into words :— “Well, papa, I must say your countenance seems to have appropriated a portion of the general brightness.’”’ He laughed, and I fancied a flushed brow was concealed by a kiss on my lips. For a moment I scrutinized him, and then, prompted by some mischievous Puck, said :— ‘“As my papa, I have rather invested you with the majesty of age; but it occurs to me that you are quite young-looking, and would make a passable elder brother. Let me see! You are just forty-two, and I am nineteen. No great difference that?”’ ‘To my mind, no difference at all under some circumstances. Twenty years orso may not sever loving hearts.’’ The tone was curious—and, for the matter of that, so were the words—half-musing, half- tender. Again I scanned my papa’s face. Obviously peach and plum blossoms and de- sirable brothership oceupied his mind but little. Could it be possible that my tome-loving papa | was meditating matrimony? The thought was not a pleasant one ; so I proceeded, in a rather vague way, to comment further upon the beauty of the morning and our surroundings. I was interrupted by the irrelevant and startling question :— ‘Would the idea of a step-mother Be very terrible to you, Adele?’ I was too much shocked to reply. | My child?’’ | ‘* Papa, you cannot mean it | “I do, indeed, Adele. Will you try to love her for your father’s sake, my daughter ?”’ ‘*How can I promise, papa?” 1 answered, passionately. ‘‘How do I know what kind of a woman you intend giving me for a mother ?’’ “ True,’? he murmured, half-sadly. Drawing a small locket from his bosom, he touched the spring, and held it open before me. An exclamation of delight escaped my lips. ‘*T was sure you would admire her,’’ he said, in pleased tones. ‘Admire her! She is an angel of beauty, papa, but she is a mere child.’’ And I felt disposed to add: ‘* And has the mind of one, I judge.’’ But I forbore. The beautiful image had softened me, and duty was twitching at my sleeve. Then how could I wonder at my fa- ther’s infatuation? I who inherited his poetic temperament and idolatrous love of beauty ‘She is about your own age, Adele.”’ ‘Indeed! I should hardly imagine her so oid,’’ undutiful sarcasm lurking in my reply. He appreciated it, and, with an unmistakable flush, said hastily :— ‘** You forget your decision of a few minutes since. The sentiment then expressed differs widely from the one just implied.’’ ‘**Of course, I was jesting, papa. Certainly a thought in regard to your choice of a wife would have been one most unlikely to present itself.”’ “My wife! my sweet girl-wife!’’ he mur- mured, half-forgetful of my presence under the glamour of the lovely pictured face. I was glad then that I had left those testy words unspoken. What could Adele Brittain have to say to a man who loved thus, and that man her own father? So I stood attentively noting the soft luminous light in his eyes, and wondering whether my Vance’s shone the same when he asked me to become his wife. My eyelids were then so weighed down by shyness and deep, deep joy that I could not see. But Icould remember that Vance Hadyn’s tone was no more love-musical than papa’s. Directly my heart stirred for my father’s hap- piness. What were the motives of this child? I blundered out the question vexing my mind :— **Does she love you, papa’”’ ** Love me!”’ It was more an expression of passionate joy than a reply, yet I was fully satisfied of his entire faith in her purity of heart. I then took a rather curious survey of papa as he stood there. Mentally and morally he had long been known to me, but, as a suitor and lover, 1 had never dreamed of valuing his attractions, and at the close of a critical in- ventory of these I decided that he could not fail to play such a part with eminent success. As I aPrived at this eonclusion, I recollected 9

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240 GODEY’'’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. having checked my garrulous old nurse, not very long before, when about to communicate something in regard to the clouded married life of my parents. 1 would not suffer the veil of secresy to be drawn from so sacred a subject, and happily for them the life was eut short by the early death of poor mamma. The recol- lection served to awaken more kindly feelings toward ny baby-mamma to be. I thought how sorrowful a thing it is for a man’s early dream of love to be wrecked, and alse that it does sometimes happen that his true and most passionate one asserts its power at mid-life, in- stead of in the first flush of youth. And I longed with inexpressible longing for this pretty creature to crown my father’s latter days with new and enduring sweetness. Under the influence of these holier emotions, I nestled close to his side, assuring him that his only and darling child would never wilfully bring a shadow over his new-found happiness. It appeared that while I was jaunting the previous summer with Cousin Phil Rivers and his bonny wife Milly, papa stole away from his books for a breath of sea air, and at Newport met the little elf born to assume my-surname, who, attended by her brother, was then capti- vating all hearts by her grace and beauty. Fortunately for papa, they were New Yorkers, and much of the wooing was afterward done under shadow of the great publishing house of I often thought his new book was giv- ing him a vast deal of trouble ; but instead of the endless discussions with Messrs. : which I so naturally imagined were taking place, he was occupied in quite a different manner in quite a different quarter of the Em- pire City. My expected step-mamma, Nita Grant, knew even less than I of a mother’s care and tender- ness, Mrs. Grant having breathed out her life, ten years after her marriage, in giving birth to this, her second child, to whom she left, with her dying blessing, the dower of her own won- derful beauty. Sixteen years later Mr. Grant’s death com- pletely orphaned the young Nita, and when papa made that memorable trip to Newport, she was the pride and darling of her brother | Ramsay, by whom she was watched over with almost lover-like assiduity. There was less of the earth, earthy in my mood when I learned this from papa, and thenceforward I listened to the blossoms nod- ding forth their wise counsels, day after day, and then to the full, glad measure in which the last signs of the falling petals were repeated by the fruit glowing beneath a summer sun. And while God spoke in this sweet way to my head and heart, the months crept on, till the desired bridal-day came and passed. Volumes of dust, unsightly heaps of mortar, bricks, and rubbish, heralded it. Incessant hammering, vexatious and ludicrous encounters with the various artizans employed, sorely tried our nerves if not our tempers. But out of the confusion bloomed a doubly beautiful home and a peerless bride. I who had prayed so earnestly to be enabled to lay aside purely selfish desires, and preserve our sweet household peace at this cost, bowed happily enough before the guileless spirit and unrivalled charms of my child-mamma. Toa nature such as hers, no other gift could be so precious as love. Once the idol of her father, then the exclusive care of her brother Ramsay, and soon the very life of papa’s life, she neces- sarily knew of no atmosphere but this fragrant one in which she had been nurtured trom her birth. At our first interview she charmed my sight, and captivated my heart, affecting me by her grace and loveliness much as a fine painting or a strain of sweet musie does. I instantly per- ceived that the artist had done her injustice. Hier face was fairer than the pictured one, and characterized by none of its insipidity, though unmarked by intellectual power. A bewilder- ing tenderness brooded in the depths of eyes, large and black, while exquisitely moulded fea- tures, rich coloring, and a frank, sweet expres- sion, combined to render the face one of surpas- sing beauty. And always I was likening her to a bird, in her quick, dainty movements ; the pretty, graceful turn of her head; and the lovely innocence of the eyes. She possessed, too, that rare ornament, an abundance of hair. And evidently she dis- dained to bring its glossy blackness under con- trol of the goddess unquestionably gone daft ; and despite the authority so highly valued by the world at large, she gathered it in truly graceful fashion at the back of her head, fast- ening its splendid masses with a single golden arrow. A spray of flowers, or a knot of bright ribbon among the wavy bands drawn away from the forehead, completed the head-tire, unique as simple in these days of hideous and disgusting modes. The twenty-sixth day of August was chill, humid, and murky enough to have been the special donation of our mother across the water; but in the evening’s dusk a fairy child glided over our threshold, bringing in her tiny form sufficient light and gladness for papa’s desires. She made a pretty picture as she stole down ' the wide old stairs that same evening, efter exchanging her travelling garb for a robe of more delicate texture. With a curious sense of delight I watched the little hand sliding along the dark walnut balustrade, and the jets of diamond light flashing from the ring encir- cling a slender finger, and indulging an odd fancy I have for drawing pleasant omens from trifles. I said to myself that the sparkle and rainbow hues were a passage of love, truth, and peace for our household. in he rg

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MY STEP-MAMMA. Though the hall was brilliantly lighted, she did not observe my approach from a distant part of it, her attention being attracted by papa and Ramsay Grant, as they stood conversing | before the fire, which I, in consideration of the chilly atmosphere, had caused to be kindled in the library. Unwilling to deny myself the pleasure of unseen feasting my eyes for a mo- ment upon her loveliness, — did not speak. The library door opening directly in front of the staircase, she passed into the room without turning her head, I closely following. | follow the low prelude. 241 charmed the young bride hours before, Ramsay Grant and I remaining where we were, in- stinctively conscious that our absence would be unregretted, if observed. I had never heard my step-mamma sing, and | with some curiosity I listened for the voice to In a very few min- | utes the sweetest strains that ever fell from | mortal lips were palpitating upon the air. Ut- | terly forgetful of the presence of my com- Papa’s | back was toward her, but noiselessly as she | moved, he instantly became aware of her presence, and with a fond smile advanced to meet her. The tea-bell almost immediately summoning us, this cosey bridal party of four gathered around the table. With a tact and blushing grace infinitely engaging, Mrs. Brit- tain presided for the first time at her husband’s board, I quietly taking a lesson for my own future benefit. During the whole meal I was conscious of the serutiny with which Ramsay panion, I clasped my hands, and bent my head in an agony of delight, almost wondering the poor fleshly bonds did not snap beneath the spirit’s rapturous throes; and, thinking how divine the gift dropped from the Divine Hand | to bless earth’s .owliest sons, and how won- Grant invariably favored me when opportunity | offered. But the penetrating gaze of the fine gray eyes had, as usual, no disturbing influence upon me, for, notwithstanding the liberties it | took with my plain features, it was both kindly | and pleasant. This comfortable indifference did not, however, continue the entire evening. Later, beneath the same gaze, the blood surged in torrents to my cheeks and forehead, when in the full tide of speech I faltered, ‘*‘ Mrs.”’— and then paused, realizing all the absurdity of addressing such a young mite of a thing by the title of mamma, and yet fearful of giving pain by substituting a more ceremonious one. A second glance in the direction of the dark gray eyes made it evident that they had busied themselves to some purpose with my face, diving deep into the thoughts vexing my mind. The handsome mouth was curved by an amused smile, calling the same to mine as I courageously said, ‘‘Mamma!”’ A most enchanting blush tinged the cheeks of the youthful step-dame. «Pray, call me Nita !’’ she quickly responded. I hardly liked that appellation under the cir- cumstances. After a moment’s deliberation, I suggested :— os “Why not Mamma Nita? It is a pretty and caressing name.’’ “That is sweet! Paul, Ramsay, do you not like it?’’ never moving her eyes from “ Paul’s” face. “‘Much,’’ smiled papa, “ but I was just think- ing 1 would like some music. Our incessant touring seems to have stilled your singing voice. Let me hear it again,’’ rising and lift- ing her from the low seat on which she had stationed herself beside him. ‘“ This firelight has held you captive quite long enough, little lady.” And they passed into the elegant rooms beyond, from which the blazing logs had derful must be the melody floating from the lips of those whe eat ‘‘of the fruit of the Land of Canaan,” the last note died away. Draw- ing a deep breath, I lifted my head, but uttered not a word, reluctant to break by speech the spell that still enthralled me. “You are fond of musie,’”’ at length rather asserted than questioned the owner of the gray eyes. ‘** Passionately !”’ “You play?’’ was the next assertive ques- tion. “A very little.” “You answer in fashionable parlance, of course.”’ ‘‘No; in sincerity and truth, as I always strive to do.”’ “T might have known that from your face,” he musingly observed. **Certainly you will know it from my mouth should we become better acquainted,”’ I replied, a spice of mischief in my voice. “‘T hope we may become friends,’’ was the cordial response ; adding immediately, ‘‘We should, indeed. You know I am your uncle now.”’ Quiet amusement lurked in the eyes bent watchfully upon my face. ‘“Yes, I know,” I replied, demurely, though greatly disposed to laugh. **T see you are mirthfully inclined. Let me entreat you not to doubt that I am a sage in wisdom and in years—twenty-eight to-day.”’ I laughed outright, saying, as I sportively bent my head :— ‘Be assured I shall ever hold you in proper reverence.”’ There was a curious gravity in his responsive smile, which I was tempted to analyze upon the spot, when Mamma Nita’s voice again claimed every thought. Our party was reduced to a trio the next morning, Bob having, long before we were astir, driven Ramsay Grant over to B——— to meet the earliest New York train. Designedly the first in the breakfast-room, I deposited be- side Mamma Nita’s plate the daintiest of silver baskets, in which reposed the various keys

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242 GODEY'’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. committed to my charge when but a wee lassie. ceptance of her rights, and after breakfast was over, and papa duly installed in his library chair, | was emboldened by the remembrance to propose that she should be introduced to her pantry and places of like interest to a house- keeper. We had madea general survey of the kitehen department, bestowing kindly words and smiles on each servant, and at length stood inspecting the well-stored shelves of the pantry. ** Indeed, Adele, Ido wish to become an ex- eellent housekeeper,’’ said Mamma Nita, ina grave, earnest way, quite as pretty as the pret- tiness with which she had charmed me before the coffee-urn. ‘ Paul will be much happier if he knows that his establishment has a compe- tent mistress.”’ A reply from me would have been super- fluous. By some magnetic attraction best un- derstood by newly-made husbands, papa had reached his Nita’s side just as she finished speaking. A merry laugh greeted him, and then, stepping back, she said, with laughing eyes, and demure countenance, and-such capti- vating grace, too :— “Mr. Brittain! I am amazed! The idea of following your wife to the pantry! Directly you ’ll be going to the kitchen. A savant—a poet in pantry and kitchen! Paul!” It was foolish, yet tears would rush to my eyes as I watched the proud, fond look papa bent upon the lovely, roguish face. Not that I grudged her the love. Oh,no! It only filled me with a strange undefined fear. Wherefore I knew not, for I have ever believed it was sweet, and right, and true, to love with all the deep earnestness of an earnest nature, it being, indeed, God’s most precious gift. But there is an apostolic command which now presents it- self, though unthought of at that time: “ Little | children, keep yourselves from idols!’ These quiet hours ushered in several gala- day weeks. Our house was constantly thronged with guests, Mamma Nita moving among them the very impersonation of winning loveliness, and hour by hour binding the heart of her adoring husband to herself with stronger chains. One day after the ringing of the dressing- | bell, I met papa hurrying through the upper | hall with some lovely sprays of scarlet fuchsia. Holding them before me, he said :— “These chanced to attract my eye, and the thought occurred that they would make a charming addition to Nita’s toilet. Are they not perfect ?”’ ‘““Perfect, indeed, papa, and they will grace a perfect head.’’ “Go and get some for yourself, child—or stay ; I have an abundance for both,’’ hastily snapping the branches as he spoke. “The idea, papa! Why, I’d look like a fright! You must remember that there is a It was pleasant to see her pretty, graceful ac- | wide difference between Mamma Nita’s face and mine.” “Talways remember that my daughter’s face is instinct with goodness and intellect, and I remember no more,’’ returned papa, with a smile just as affectionate as ever he had had for me. Tears filled my eyes, so sweet it is to be approved by beloved lips. That day at dinner I was not surprised to see papa’s gaze wander so frequently toward the place where Mamma Nita sat, crowned with his fuchsia bells. And I suspected Ram- say Grant, who had allowed himself the rare Juxury of a whole day’s absence from his dark law office, found me but an indifferent conver- sationalist, for I so loved to watch the graceful motions of my step-mamma, and listen to the quaint, and sometimes piquant, sayings drop- ping from her lips, that I was prone to forget that more might be expected of me. Perhaps I was most self-indulgent in this respect when in the vicinity of Ramsay Grant, feeling that my enthusiastic admiration of his sister would be sufficient excuse for me in his eyes, aside from the promptings of the warm friendship with which I knew he regarded me. That my delinquencies at table had not passed unob- served was made evident that same afternoon. He had taken Lady, papa’s pet riding horse, and gone over to B ostensibly for the mail, really for exercise. As he threw the rein to the servant on his return, I stepped from the drawing-room window and met him at the portico steps, so assured I felt of a letter from Vance, and so eager, too. **T suppose you will now vouchsafe me some of the attention of which my sister deprived me at dinner; at least, till I provide you with a more interesting study,’’ he smiled, opening his coat and displaying a minute corner of a letter. 1 only laughed, holding out my hand for the coveted missive. *‘Nay, it is folly for me to part with my charm,”’ leisurely rebuttoning his coat. ‘You are tyrannic! 1 want my letter very badly.”’ Do you?”’ “Dol! Look at my hand!” “Yes, Lsee. It is a suggestive hand; small, fair, and’’— “‘T directed your attention to my hand,” I | interrupted, ‘‘because just now it symbolizes ” my waiting state. ‘Oh, pardon me, I entreat!”’ hastily taking the letter from his pocket, and examining it with the most aggravating deliberation as he continued. ‘It is a foreign letter, and the | characters have without doubt been traced by | | a female hand.”’ I darted a keen glance at his face. It was obvious that Vance’s delicate penmanship had deceived Mr. Grant into the idea that the mis- Js — — - Co nm _

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*k ul fer] Oo @ ets = sive came from a lady, and as obvious that he had no knowledge or suspicion of my engage- ment. At this moment we were joined by Mamma Nita and a few of her letter loving guests. ‘“‘Shame, shame, Ramsay! Give it to her!” laughed the dear little step-dame, instantly perceiving the state of affairs. Bowing profoundly, he obeyed. “Ah!” she exclaimed, as 1 made my escape with my hard-won treasure, ‘‘another of the semi-weeklies.”’ The merry-making days at length ended. We had been enjoying two weeks of delightful quiet when one soft October morning as we left the breakfast-room, papa said :— “Wave you ladies any commands for the city? I believe I will take advantage of this fine weather to attend to a business matter that will demand my presence there before the close of the week.’’ Intrusted with some trifling commissions of which we, woman-like, immediately thought, Bob was instructed to bring Lady around with- out delay. Ere long we stood on the portico receiving the happy parting embraces, and ex- changing the pleasant last words. There was such tenderness in his leave-taking that morn- ing! He drew me to his side and kissed me again and again, saying to Mamma Nita, half- laughingly, half-caressingly:— ‘“What shall we do, sweet wife, when we lose our precious daughter?’’ and without pausing for a reply, continued, an unmistaka- ble tease in his voiee: ‘‘ You did not tell me what Vance said in yesterday’s letter about leaving Rome, Adele. When shall I have the pleasure of again welcoming my son that is to be?” Vexed with myself for allowing him the gratification of seeing me blush, I answered with a very creditable assumption of indiffer- ence in my voice :— ‘‘He says it need occasion us no surprise to see him any day, though he may not come for a month yet.” ** Did he say ‘us?’ ’’ maliciously queried papa. With another kiss, and an amused glance at my glowing face, he turned away just as the horse was led to the steps. As he was about tv vault into the saddle, Mamma Nita suddenly exclaimed :— “Do not mount, Paul! Let us walk with you through the avenue. Lady will follow like a dog. The morning is lovely enough to tempt the most unpromising of hypochondriacs, and to healthful folks, like Adele and Nita Brittain, it is irresistible.’’ ‘A happy suggestion !’’ cried papa. “‘ Away for your hats at once, or I shall miss the train.”’ “‘And how do you intend to employ the hours of my absence ?’’ questioned papa, as we approached the gate leading to the highway. MY STEP- MAMMA. 243 “T have not thought,’’ I was saying, when Mamma Nita interrupted me. ** Adele, it is just the day for that sketching ramble and leaf-harvesting which we have so long promised ourselves. What do you think’’”’ “I will reply in the words of ouy dear de- parting here, ‘A happy suggestion !’”’ ‘Paul, you understand? We shall gather tinted leaves, and sketch some lovely spot, expecting a large meed of admiration from you this evening,” she said, with a little satis- fied nod, graceful enough to captivate an older man than he. “Very well, only take good care of your- selves, remembering that you are sunshine to Paul Brittain.”’ As he settled himself in the saddle, he looked down with loving, mirthful eyes upon his win ning elf of a wife, saying :— **T would vastly like to be kissed again !”’ At first a laugh rang its musical reply, and then :— ‘‘Well, give me your two hands, and let me have the use of the stirrup while you steady it with your foot, and you shall have the kiss.”’ In a trice the light figure was poised there. Papa’s arm was thrown around her, and the rosy lips were lifted to his. “‘T cannot bear to leave you this morning, love,’’ I heard him softly murmur. A shade passed over the beautiful face as she rested her head for a brief instant against his shoulder; then, placing one little hand against his cheek, she pressed his lips down te hers, saying, in a low, subdued voice :— “T suppose we are very foolish, Paul, but I feel quite saddened.”’ “It is a sweet foolishness, darling, is it net?” “T think so,”’ she blushed, springing lightly to the ground. “Well, I must be off now. Adieu!’ and smilingly lifting his hat, he cantered rapidly toward B——. “The much-coveted leaves lay themselves unasked at our feet,’’ I said, stooping for one that dropped with a soft rustle before me, as we turned from the gate. ‘‘How beautiful! Paul will be sure to ad- mire that, Adele.’’ ‘*Beautiful, truly. Beautiful in death,’’ I replied. “Pray, do not talk about death, Adele. It _ gives me a shiver.” In some surprise I glanced at her. Tears just ready to fall glistened on the long lashes. ““We must all face it some day, dear,’’ I re- sponded, linking my arm within hers. ‘“ And I think we shrink from God’s sweetest message | when we draw back in affright. Death is, in- deed, the very gate of life to the Christ-robed, and the eye of faith enables the waiting ones | behind to see that the separation is but for ‘a i q | i

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— ee 2 : — = wee. = ~ 244 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. little while ;’ that God’s time is the best time for the called and for the waiting.’’ ‘‘Hush, Adele; your words come to me like a prophecy of sorrow!” The mood was one so foreign to her, and for & season clung so pertinaciously to her, that I felt almost troubled. But the healthful in- tluences of our ramble seemed to have scared it quite away by the time we returned toa late dinner, and in some pretty feminine occupation the afternoon sped cheerily by. —| Donning our red riding-hoods a few minutes | 7 | you stay quietly here till I return. The sight before five o’clock, we went out to pace the portico, in momentary expectation of seeing papa ride up the avenue. We soon found that he had not arrived by the train appointed, yet we walked on, more for the purpose of smoth- ering the shadowy fear lurking at our hearts than for any other reason. Six o’clock came and passed—still no papa. Wearied and deeply He caught my hand in a firm clasp that was almost sustaining, as I gasped :— “Papa! Where is he’’’ His ashy pale face told of woe, before his lips unclosed. ‘**He has been seriously injured by a fall, Adele.”’ Poor Mamma Nita had started from her seat and stood gazing silently at him with distended eyes, and white, quivering lips. Approaching her, I placed ber on the sofa again, saying :— ‘Papa has been hurt. 1 will go to him, and of you will soon restore him, we all know.” “No, no!” interrupted Ramsay Grant ; ‘‘ both of you remain here. Men are needed just | now. Trust me, Adele!’’ he added, as, will- fully shaking my head, I advanced toward the door. I paused, looked at him. It was | enough! anxious, we sought the parlor. Bringing the | leaves so carefully laid away to tempt from | him an expression of adiniration, we made a sorrowful pretence of interested occupation by arranging them in bouquets, talking the while | fferi | suffering. of anything rather than the apprehensions en- gaging our secret thoughts. soon found this insupportable. Suddenly toss- ing the leaves aside, she exclaimed :— “ Adele, what do you think of my ringing the bell, and ordering Bob over to B——— to | learn whether Paul has been at the stable?” “TI think well of it, but we may prepare our- selves for a merciless teasing when papa does return,’’ I replied, endeavoring thus to reassure myself. Bob soon returned from the livery stable with the intelligence that Lady had not been season of waiting, no longer attempting to banish or veil the gloom by which we were op- pressed. Twining our arms about each other, we sat in silent, fearful expectation. At last a shrill whistle announced the arrival of the “You will soon come for us?’ I faltered, sinking on the sofa beside Mamma Nita. **T will,’ and kissing his sister’s colorless cheek, he hurried from the room. I had read in his face that papa was. past The awe-hushed tones, the dull Mamma Nita | tramp of slow feet on the stairs, the sound of opening and closing doors, all, all repeated the truth written there. Soon he returned to us, and soon it was told. A short tale, and sad. Poor papa! A minute too late at the depot, he sprung for the nearest platform of the moving cars, missed his foot- ing, and the whole train passed over him, in- stantly extinguishing life! It was a beautiful morning, sunny and calm, that first shone upon our desolated home. We were in the library. It seemed pleasant and | right to be where he had spent so many hours. called for. So we composed ourselves to another | eight o’clock train; then another half-hour | dragged slowly by. Just when hope was de- parting, we heard the distant roll of wheels. “We are to have visitors,” I said, rising, and peering eagerly through the window. It was in vain. The beautiful day had set in threatening clouds. I could distinguish nothing without. “‘T trust it may only be visitors,’’ murmured Mamma Nita, in a hushed, nerveless way. I trusted the same, but made no reply as I came back and stood waiting—for what? For anything—for the worst! Like a sweet anthem floated through my mind the holy words: ‘‘ As thy days, so shall thy strength be!’ The wheels ceased, and after a slight bustle in the hall, I heard Ramsay Grant speaking in low, hurried tones to the servant. As he en- tered the room, I sprung forward to meet him. Mamma Nita reclined on the lounge, a pale image of her usual self, while in the great arm- chair, drawn close to her side, I sat, listening to Ramsay Grant’s suggestions in regard to the sad duty before us. Suddenly my heart stood still. I was listen- ing, but not to Ramsay Grant’s mellow voice. A harsher sound had arrested my attention. From the hall came the echo of a quick, firm tread, familiar to my ear as a robin’s song, and far, far dearer. I gasped for breath as a hand turned the door-knob. My sight was dim, but in another instant a voice I could never mis- take cried :— “*My poor Adele!” Rising from my chair, I staggered forward. “O Vance, Vance !’’ Isobbed, as I was caught | to the breast I had so longed to shelter my head against. For a few moments I forgot the eyes of others. Witha burning flush I glanced up, but we were quite alone. His presence at this time was a boon precious as unexpected, and if I felt happier than an hour before I could have conceived it possible to be, my grief was none the less poignant and de su sti fu ea wi by Wi ba bit we fre Gu se th th fu

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- eS SES Vy deep. _I recognized in his coming one of the sunny beams with which the Father ever strives to brighten the darkest hour, and thank- fully it was received at His hand. All too swiftly sunrise and sunset followed each other, and soon a freshly-moulded grave was numbered with the many at Greenwood. My poor child-mamma seemed half-stunned | by the suddenness of the shock, and, ghost-like, wandered from room to room, only to steal back to us, and drearily resume the delicate bit of embroidery to which no new stitches were added, or re-open the book in which no fresh leaves were turned. To her Ramsay Grant, Vance, and I untiringly devoted our- selves. Both gentlemen being residents of New York, they could be much with us, as was natural they should, and, indeed, necessary on Ram- say Grant's part, papa having appointed him and Vance executors of the will made on the eve of that ill-starred bridal. But my artist- Vance, gladly availing himself of the well- known abilities of this accomplished lawyer, took no part in the settlement of the estate. I, once papa’s inseparable companion, and more in his business confidence than is usual with daughters, became to Ramsay Grant what he, with a smile, that perplexed me a little by its gravity, termed his ‘“‘right hand.’’ Indeed, I was often perplexed in those days, and long held in grieved remembrance a short interview that took place between us on a certain morn- ing while papa’s lifeless form still blessed our home. Some trifling errand had called me to the library so early that I was surprised to find Ramsay Grant seated before the table, busily engaged in writing. Impressed by his worn, haggard appearance, I paused beside him. “You are looking very ill, Mr. Grant,” I said, unbidden tears rushing to my eyes as my mind reverted to the sad cause, and dwelt gratefully upon his unremitting kindness. Some nameless emotion crossed his face as I continued : ‘I grieve to see how these sorrow- ful days are telling upon you.” « The forced smile and constrained tones grieved me still more as he replied :— “You are very kind. I believe I am not feeling quite so bright as usual, a sleepless night having stolen some of my elasticity. But, pardon me! you are standing all this time,’’ starting from his seat, and turning the chair toward me before I could object. “Thank you! I can remain but a moment,”’ adding, as my eye rested on the papers scat- tered over the table: ‘I would gladly relieve you of some of these burdens. Can I help you in any way?” I looked up as Iasked the question. He was regarding me gravely, intently, and as our eyes met, the same emotion swept over his face. Abruptly he replied :— MY STEP-MAMMA. 245 “You can do nothing for me,’’ and as ab- ruptly left the room. I was exceedingly pained, but a few minutes later, watching him pacing the garden walks with bent head and folded arms, I decided that some secret care oppressed his mind, and en- deavored to rid myself of the wounded feeling. When at the breakfast-table we again met, his manner had regained all the gentle kindliness hitherto marking it. Yet there was a faint shadow of reserve, more easily felt than de- seribed, and that shadow, gradually increas- ing, cost us all the old cordial intercourse. By papa’s will our beautiful home became the property of Mamma Nita, and, in spite of the urgent invitations of Cousin Phil and Milly that my residence should thenceforth be with them, I very willingly acceded to Mamma Nita’s proposition that we should remain to- gether till my bridal day. Ramsay Grant soon secured an elderly com- panion for us in the person of Mrs. Thrace, the widow of a remote connection of theirs. The grossest nature must have aeknowledged the charms of this fair old lady. The whitened locks, which, in thick masses of tiny natural curls, lay close to her forehead, beneath the delicate lace border of the unpretending cap, made a lovely crown above a lovely brow. And never did I weary of gazing upon the face of clay so wonderfully illumined by the light of the heaven-born spirit within. Quietly, even happily, passed the winter, and by the time the Blossomed promise of the spring had been redeemed in rich clusters of fruit, Mamma Nita had reeovered much of her old cheerfulness. A lingering shade of sadness always “marked her face, but what really troubled me was the spirit of restlessness so fre- quently manifesting itself. Again and again, when Vance’s presence secured me agreeable companionship, she would slip quietly off, re- maining away for hours together, only putting her beautiful head in at Mrs. Thrace’s door, to say, in her own winsome way :— **You shall have some lovely flowers, dear Mrs. Thrace. The wild wood is tempting me again.’’ Then she would return late in the day, laden with flowers, butso weary that it made me heart- sick. More than once after such an excursion, I saw Vance gazing sorrowfully upon her, and knew that he felt grieved as I, notwithstand- ing his vague, almost indifferent comments when the subject was broached. In the midst of this sunshine and shadow, the summer fled on, and another October had cast its tinted splendors about our home and over the dear grave at Greenwood. Mamma Nita’s decision to close the house on the day following my marriage parted us for a season from Mys. Thrace, whose private inter- ests demanded an absence of a few weeks. Though we sadly missed the placid face and

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246 GODEY’S LADY'S BUOK AND MAGAZINE. cultivated mind of our dear old friend, the way. Your intelligent acquaintance with Mr. tl hours dropped swiftly aside, till but eight | Brittain’s business has rendered your aid indis- nu weeks of maiden freedom remained to me. pensable, or I would not, I assure you, have d vexed you with these things.’’ hi aaeenenad “Oh, ne! Iam not wearied in the slightest,’’ e@ I returned. ‘It is the hungering and thirst- PART II. ing for papa’s presence that oppresses me.” I Ir was the first of December. The day had | brushed aside a tear as I spoke, and stepped vi been wild with hurrying clouds and eddying | hastily to the door. tl gusts of wind that wailed and shrieked around The hall was dimly lighted, and I loitered te the house like some unearthly thing, and the | for a few minutes in the low window seat to th night was wilder still with snow and hail. | allow the traces of emotion to pass from my Vance had promised to come up in the four | face. Vainly I strove todistinguish something o’clock train that evening ; but there had been | of the night without. All was impenetrable no joyous expectation on my part, the stormy | darkness, the wind’s increasing blast alone vi atmosphere forbidding every hope of the kind. | bringing me its doleful tidings. As I listened, sl Great, therefore, was the surprise and delight | a nameless dread took possession of me, and I fc of Mamma Nitaand myself when both Ramsay | rose with a shiver and hurried into Mamma Grant and Vance stepped in at a later hour. Nita’s boudoir, which papa, in his worshipping th Something connected with the final settlement | love, had fitted up with exquisite taste, and so M of papa’s estate had brought the former, and | contrived as to communicate with parlor and u very soon after tea he retired to the library, | library. After his death she had shunned the tl with the unwelcome intimation that he should, | room, and it had become, at her express wish, after awhile, be obliged to claim a portion of | a part of the parlor, and was the frequent n my time. I felt especially annoyed, for I saw | mode of access to the library. I therefore en- te that Vance was harassed and worn, and I | tered without hesitation, and passed on to the grudged the moments I must deny him. | parlor. I had nearly reached it when I was We three sat talking for some time, and | arrested bya sight that glued my feet to the then I begged Mamma Nita to lay aside her | floor. I work and sing for us. Vance eagerly seconded | Could that be Vance? My Vance? Could my request, and in a few minutes the storm’s | it be Mamma Nita upon whoin he was lavish- N wierd howl was lost in the wonderful melody | ing those passionate words of endearment, and 0 floating through that quiet room. What she whose hand he was pressing in such a mad le sang I do not know. I only know the burning | fervor of tenderness to his lips? e passion, the deep pathos, the last wail of un- | Her face was turned from him, and covered re utterable woe were as distinct to my percep- | with one hand, her elbow resting on the arm ti tions as if conveyed in my own language, | of the quaint old chair she graced so well. I instead of in the soft Italian which alone was | saw that she was weeping. I knew that she n melody from her lips. My pulses throbbed, | loved him, and across my wind flashed the s my frame thrilled beneath the power of that | recoliection of countless trifles which might h magic voice, till the overwrought feeling spent | have made me suspect the bitter truth long itself in the low, shivering sob that escaped | long before. . f me. Softly, note by note, died the sweet I turned away with a heavier weight at my v sounds, and once more the wind howled its | heart than that left there by poor papa’s death. t fierce song and moaned its sorrowful dirge with | I was within a few paces of the hall door when t uncontested power. The matter-of-fact voice | the blackness of night gathered before my I of our buxom maid, Letty Payne, summoning | sight. I reeled, would haye fallen but for a me at that moment to the library, was actually | strong arm that caught me. Noiselessly and t welcomed as a relief. As I left the room, | swiftly I was borne from the room to the r Mamma Nita glided into a lovely aria of which | library lounge. I was not unconscious ; only l she was particularly fond, and which, in its | deathly faint, and like one paralyzed. The rippling melody, always reminded me of rain- | same ready hands chafed mine into something t drops dripping exquisite music. like warmth, and bathed my forehead till the 1 I closed the library-door with much more of | life blood onee more coursed freely through a an every-day feeling, and quite ready for the | the veins. Seon I opened my eyes upon @ inconsiderable task before me, knowing that | weary world. How gladly would I then have Vance would be happily entertained for a | opened them upon the beautiful Unseen, so while. A short time sufficed to complete our | near, and yet so far away! But not thus is work. I pushed my chair back from the table | the immortal-crown won. Long I lay there ’ with a half-smothered sigh, for there was ever | thinking—thinking how to bring three wretched a saddening influence in this contact-with papa’s | hearts out of the abyss of misery just revealed 1 past life. to me; praying for strength from the Infinite “I have wearied you,” said Ramsay Grant, | to support, and wisdom to guide me. Lost in the anguish of these thoughts, I had forgotten “but it is the last time you will be taxed in this

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Mr. dlis- ave t, ’, rst- ped red my ing ble me ad, iI ma ng nd he sh, nt he ld h- id id o*< -_e eon ood Be eS oo

MY STEP-MAMMA.

247

I glanced A misera- the presence of Ramsay Grant. across the room, no one was there. ble fear smote my heart, and with nervous | haste I started from my recumbent position, exclaiming :— ‘*Mr. Grant!’’ There must have been a sharp terror in my voice, for it was with an alarmed countenance that he stepped from behind the draping cur- tains of the bay-window at the extremity of the room. ‘Adele! Miss Brittain! Iam here!’’ “T thought you had left me.” “Oh, no! Not until assured that my ser- vices are no longer required would I think of such a thing as leaving you. Can I do aught for you?” I was uncertain whether he had witnessed that scene, and if so, of his intended course. My lips parted in an unavailing effort to give utterance to the question. A low voice broke the silence. ‘Miss Brittain, you may trust me. no more to-night. Wait till morning. tell them you are faint, and have retired.” “Then you do know?” *“T do!” His voice was hard and stern. “You will leave all this to me, Mr. Grant ?”’ I entreatingly asked. “To you, poor child! Nita is my sister? Alas, that it should be my own sister who had stabbed to the heart the lamb I would so gladly have sheltered from every sorrow!’ And, flinging himself on a chair, he buried his face in his arms on the table before him. The sight of this unexpected emotion gave me new strength. I realized something of his shame and grief. Approaching him, I laid my hand on his arm, saying, gently, as I did so :— ‘“You must waive your right as a brother in favor of my holier one, Mr. Grant.’’ Neither word nor movement replied to me. I know the heart’s anguish pierced my tones as I con- tinued: “Indeed you must do as I say. I pray you lay no other weight upon me!’’ I grieved at sight of the troubled face lifted to mine. He rose from his chair, and, placing my hand within his arm, Jed me back to the lounge. Seating himself beside me, he said :— “T have been selfishly forgetful, Miss Brit- tain. Pardon me! and lay any commands on But talk me that will insure you peace or happiness, | and I will abide by them.” “For the first time I was moved to tears. After a little, I replied :— ‘Allow me to say all that must be said. To-morrow you leave us. Go without one word of reproach to either. Think how they must have suffered. Alas! how blind I have been!” “Tt shall be just as you request, if you will promise to inform me should you at any time feel my services to be desirable. When a

father’s or a brother’s aid is needed, will you rely on me?”’ “There is no one on whom I could so will- ingly call, Mr. Grant.’’ ‘Thank you! And now you will retire, and leave all this miserable work for a new day, Miss Brittain !”’ “‘T cannot, Mr. Grant! Indeed, I cannot!’’ He looked anxiously at me for a moment, and then said :— ‘Perhaps you are right.’ I rose, saying, as I gave him my hand :— “T shall not see you again. Farewell!” He clasped it tightly for an instant, with a murmured, ‘‘ Heaven bless you!’’ Again I passed from the library into the parlor beyond, Ramsay Grant’s last words fol- lowing me with wonderful power, and strength- ening me with heavenly strength, as I went forward to sever the tie that was fretting those | two weary hearts, and rending mine with an. guish. I felt no anger. My life, it is true, | seemed miserably barren, stripped of all that I will | Do you forget that |

had made its earthly rejoicing, but I realized that Vance lad never loved me, and I grieved more over the terrible mistake he had made, and the suffering they had endured, than over my own loss. In truth, I had met with no loss. I had been possessed of love’s semblance only. it had been a happy seeming—nothing more ! Vance stood by the grate with one arm rest- ing on the low mantle, and hands loosely clasped on its edge, gazing abstractedly at the glowing coaj3, whose ruddy hue failed to im- part the slightest tinge of color to his pallid face, while Mamma Nita sat drooping over her soft, bright zephyrs, the trembling little hands diligently occupied, and the eyes scrupulously avoiding Vance’s vicinity. I knew then, and was, happy to know, that a sudden passionate impulse had surprised those words from Vance. There had been no long course of culpable duplicity, but each had battled with the feeling in hope of final victory. I seemed to be lifted more completely out of the narrow circle of self at that moment. As I entered the parlor, the eyes of both rested upon me. Simulta- neously they exclaimed :— “* Adele !”’ ‘You are ill, Adele!” cried Vance, hastening to whee] fofward an easy chair. I rested my hand on the chair back, for my limbs were trembling, and urging me tc prompt action. “Vance! Nita!’ Something in my face or tone arrested Vance as he was about to place me in the chair, and he drew back a few paces. “Vance! Nita! I know it all! All the sad truth you have wished to conceal from me, and Iam here to utter just such words as I should were Idying. You are free, Vance—free as if I were, indeed, dead. Love each other always, and, know that you have my prayers for your

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eo 248 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. happiness. May our Father bless you both!” And before they had recovered from the shock of my words, 1 had once more glided into the dim old hall. I stumbled over the mat at the foot of the staircase, and a sigh or a groan must have es- caped my lips, for the library door opened and Ramsay Grant hastened to my side. Without a word, he drew my hand within his arm, and aided me up to my room. At the door, he said :— “Shall I send Letty te you, my child?’’ How those two words, ‘‘my child,’’ soothed me! I felt a little less desolate then. I shook my head, and silently held out my hand, which was as silently pressed and dropped. A cheerful fire lit the room brilliantly, and I threw myself on the low couch drawn before it, with a sense of complete exhaustion. The reaction had come—I could think no more. Future movements must be left for the decision of a future hour. In this half-torpid state I lay till in the gray dawn the sound of wheels crushing through the icy crust of the snow told that Ramsay Grant had started for the city. Very soon after, I learned in the same way that I should be spared the misery of an interview with Vance. He had taken an earlier train than usual, and thus saved us both a very needless trial. Wearily I crept into bed, hoping for the invigorating rest of sleep for body and mind. It was high day when I was wakened from a refreshing slumber by Letty’s quiet movements about my room. Almost the first thing at- tracting my attention was a letter on the dressing-table. Now, it was an undisputed fact that Letty Payne’s overflowing sympathies shed balm on the heads of all the loving pairs of whom she had ever heard, they being objects of supreme and undying interest, till the nuptial tie de- nuded them of their glory, and sunk them to the level of ordinary eating and drinking mor- tals. And more than once this maid of ours had subjected herself to invidious remark by the emphatic declaration, ‘‘If I have a weak- ness, it is for lovers!’’ Poor Letty’s meaning, though somewhat enigmatically conveyed, did credit to her woman’s heart, and I #ully appre- ciated the placid benignity of her countenance as she took the letter from the table, when unmistakably assured of my waking state. Holding it aloft, as if desirous thus to render the information doubly impressive, she said, with sententious force, ‘‘Mr. Hadyn!”’ and then tenderly replacing it, proeeeded to busy herself again about her duties, evidently fear- ful of marring the felicity of the occasion by many words, little suspecting how long the seal would remain unbroken. Standing at the window seme time later, I > thought how pure and peaceful the earth looked in its spotless robe after the spent storm of the previous night, and I wondered, in a half-dreamy way, whether our hearts would re- ceive the white covering of God's holy truth in the midst of the tempest of passion and anguish sweeping over them. As the door closed upon Letty’s retiring figure, I knelt before the win- dow seat, and the aimless thought and conjec- ture were moulded intoa prayer that reached the dear Saviour’s ever-ready ear, and brought back an answer of peace, flooding all my spirit with its heavenly sweetness. So, when in the course of the morning Nita sought me, with pale face and streaming eyes, I was well prepared to re- ceive her. A holy pity moved my heart for the poor little thing weighed down by the grief shadowing her bliss. As she sank on the cushion at my feet, clasping her hands over my knee, with that pleading, pitiful look, I leaned down and pressed my lips to the brow which God had made so very, very beautiful. ‘**Poor Nita!’ I murmured, in low, elear tones. ‘‘Be happy, poor little one, be happy! The dear Saviour, before whom we shall both some day stand with unveiled eyes, knows how truly I pray His blessing upon you.” The graceful head, with its wealth of raven locks, lay piliowed on my knee. A deep sob was all the reply. Gazing down upon her thus, I recollected how often papa’s knee had been the resting- place of this same head, and how he loved to draw away the confining golden arrow, and float the shining tresses to their full wavy length, till the tiny figure was almost shrouded in its woman's glory. And then I pictured what he would have felt could the future have been foreseen by him. Quickly this strange, miserable thought was put aside, and I again spoke to the winsome thing reminding me of some pretty tropical bird with broken wing, as the poor human heart fluttered and throbbed against my knee. ‘“‘T know you meant me no evil; I know you strove to do right, dear. Nor do 1 wonder that Vance loved you,”’ I continued, a slight tremor in my voice at mention of the long-familiar name, “for you are so very lovely, and must please an artist-eye like his, while I am plainer than most women. And when I think’’— The tearful face was lifted to mine, and the quivering voice interrupted :— “You are not plain, Adele. No one could be plain with those soul-eyes and that noble, intellectual face. But better than all, you make us feel that heaven is a little nearer when you are with us. And so Ramsay said when’’— I laid my hand gently on the trembling lips, and continued, as her head sunk to its old po- sition: ‘‘And when I think how fearful the lie he must have acted had we spoken the irrevo- eable marriage vow, I thank Him, who notes evi bli dri pu 1o1 ev fu an

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ee ee en _— we were MY STEP-MAMMA. 249 even the sparrow’s fall, that I am protected from so great a misery, and Vance from so black a sin! Then grieve no more, Nita, but draw nearer the Saviour’s feet, and let Him purify your heart through this gift of earthly love. Believe me, His voice thus pleads in every joy and every sorrow.” The beautiful face was again lifted, and eyes full of trouble sought mine. “T can readily conceive that you are feeling and acting somewhat as the holy angels do, Adele, but, while reverencing you, I still grieve. I have darkened your life, and cannot forget Nag ‘The iron ore of disappointment and pain is transmuted into pure gold, Nita, when we per- mit the Great Alchemist to watch over the crucible. The Father’s love and mercy are in the bitterest things, and the wonderful sweet- nesses he drops into our hearts more than com- pensate for the fleeting earth jcy. Truly, ‘The secret of the Lord is with them that fear Him.’ Besides this, I know that you are guiltless of any design to injure me, that love stole into | ”? your heart before you were aware. ‘Indeed, indeed, it did, Adele!’’ she cried, eagerly, a vivid blush dyeing forehead and throat. Watching the pretty color fade away, I said, musingly :— ‘* Life is full of such sorrowful mistakes, but it is only an unregenerate love of self that be- guiles a woman, thus tried, into an angry, em- bittered spirit. The dear, pampered ‘J’ can never bear wounding, or being deprived of any of its baubles. Ah! well may I thank One that 1 know the preciousness of recognizing His loving providence or permission in the most trivial events of my life. Accepted from His hand, each joy is intensified, and each sorrow has its celestial halo.’ With a caressing gesture, Nita murmured :— “Your saintly pardon is teaching me sweet lessons, Adele. I, even I, would taste of the ‘river of water of Life,’ of which you have drank so freely.” “*Let him that is athirst come!” For reply a. tear rolled down her cheek and | dropped upon my hand. My regards were drawn from the beautiful face I had been con- templating, and fixed upon the wordless re- | sponse. It was a little thing to the eye, shim- | mering there in the fair morning light; but was it not the signet set upon my dead past? | And more than that, was it not moulded out of a human heart’s fierce throes? And more, far more than all, might not the Father above be- hold in it something beyond the reach of my finite vision—a prophecy of the tiny germ of the new life which all His saints once received? Nita’s voice aroused me to a recollection of her presence :— “Yes, Adele, you have, ‘all unconsciously, ministered to my soul’s need, and poured balm NOL. LXXXIV.—16 into my heart. You cannot conceive how much I dreaded your anger, and the estrangement which I knew must be the result. But we will always love each other, Adele?”’ ‘*‘ Always, dear,’’ again touching my lips to the fair brow. ‘And soon, very soon, our lives will come to flow on in the old sunny way, and hour by hour we will erase this miserable spot from our memories.”’ The eagerness with which she spoke could not conceal her endeavor to smother her secret convictions of the impossibility of such a thing. I was prompt to utter the truth :-— ‘‘We will love each other, Nita, but you must see that Icannot remain here. My home will henceforth be with Cousin Milly Rivers.”’ Tears were now raining from the eyes which poor papa had once loved so well. Falteringly dropped the words :— “‘T have been rejoicing in the thought that we would continue together here.”’ My face must have expressed some of the astonishment this wild scheme awakened. I forced the needful inquiry :— *‘ And what of Vance?” With a quick, reproachful glance, she ex- claimed :— “Adele, could you think we would do other than part forever? Mr. Hadyn will return to Rome, and you and I will live here in the old place, and in the old loving way.”’ The low, strained tones and whitened lips betrayed the heart’s sacrifice. A fefvent ad- | miration filled my heart as I looked down upon | the pretty, petted creature, whom I would have deemed utterly incapable of exhibiting so mag- nanimous a spirit. ‘*Niea, you are not justified in needlessly darkening your lives, and since consideration for me dictated the course you indicate, I shall take the liberty of interfering.”’ “You are an angel, Adele !’”’ exclaimed Nita, | pressing my hands passionately to her lips. | “Hush, hush, Nita! Only be happy, peor child. What folly your little head has been concocting! And nowas a first assumption of the authority I claim as my right, I shall insist | on taking you to your chamber, and bathing | these swollen lids with rose-water. Then I shall bid you sleep and wake your own bright | Self to the life of love and joy which is opening | before you.”’ With a smile, which I hoped was more than shadowy, I said this. As I twined my arm | about her waist to lift her from the cushion, she exclaimed :— “Stay, Adele! You have not told me when —when you leave me,” and tears again filled her eyes to overflowing. “You know I intend to go to New York next week to make Cousin Milly a long-pro- mised visit ?” “Yes,”’ she sighed, doubtless recalling, as I

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250 CODET'S did, that my marriage was to have humodintily followed that visit. Directly she added : ‘‘Then | you will not forsake me at once, as I feared?’ **T will not go a day earlier than the one ap- pointed, dear. For a season we shall escape the world’s curious eye and critical tongue, but for a season only. Now, come!” Very shortly I returned to my room to oc- cupy myself with the duty so lately discovered | to me. Perceiving clearly that my hand, my voice must build the happiness of Vance and Nita, I drew his still unopened letter from my desk as a first step toward the accomplishment | of my purpose. To all this I know that the cold and worldly will scornfally enough cry, ‘‘ Unnatural !’’ and quite justly, too, for such impulses are not natural, but heavenly. They are the very at- | mosphere of heaven, and heaven’s own precious gift tous. Ah, well! the scanning will never mar the truth. I know that more lilies and violets bless the earth for the love filling our hearts, and distilling from our lips and deeds beautiful forms and emblems of the spirit’s holy emotions, and how much nearer heaven is felt to be, I pray these worldings may.soon learn. I quailed at sight of the familiar penmanship, but in tracing the bitter regret and self-con- demnation of the few penciled lines, I gathered new strength for the task before me, and very soon I had written from an earnest, peaceful heart areply which I knew Vance would never disregard. Nor did I rest till Bob had been dispatched to post the missive full-freighted with joy for the two so dear to me. It was with a sense of relief that I found, upon descending to the dining-room, that Mrs. Thrace had returned ; for I had been dreading the hours which must be spent ¢éte-a-téte with Nita, and most especially had I dreaded this first meal after the painful events of the last twenty-four hours. Very nicely, however, did it pass over; the weather, Mrs. Thrace’s visit | and journey affording us an abundant supply | of conversational material. A few brief days, and the parting hour came. As I exchanged the last words with Nita, I | slipped into her hand Vance’s answer to my letter, knowing that she would there find sun- shine enough to illumine the overshadowing | clouds. PART IIL. Covustn Mruiy Rivers was a dear little ma- | tron ; chubby, cheery, and withal full of sen- | sibility and warm impulses. And daily her blithe, loving voice fell upon. my ear with real medicinal virtue for my sick heart, while heal- | ing seemed to flow from the dainty childish | fingers and pattering feet of our worshiped | Penates, Ned and Ruby Rivers. No Vance came. Milly was quietly ob- | LADY'S BOOK . AND MAGAZINE ] servant for awhile ; but she was by no means | & patient waiter, and soon settled the difficulty by unceremoniously bursting in upon me one night, as I stood in half-weary mood before my bedroom fire. Grasping my shoulders with her fair, plump hands, she assailed me with the much-dreaded question :— “What is the matter, Adele? Why does not | Vance Hadyn come ?” I knew that my secret must some time be | committed to the keeping of others ; so firmly | crushing back a very cowardly desire to run away from the frank blue eyes searching my face, I replied :— | “Knowing how much I love and trust you, Milly, you must be content with a brief reply. | For good and sufficient reasons, my engage- ment is broken.” | Milly’s plump hands dropped from my shoul- | ders, and her eyes glistened with unwonted tears, as she cried :-— “IT did not dream of such a thing as that, | Adele. Be assured I will never harass you | with questions. ‘But, Adele, since this is the case, you will not refuse to make Phil and me happy by remaining with us? Surely Nita can provide for herself in some other way.”’ ‘** Nita is not an obstacle, Milly. A letter re- ceived from her this morning informs me that the Marvins sail for Europe in a fortnight, and that she has decided to accompany them, ac- cording to engagement, notwithstanding they go so much sooner than she anticipated.”’ Milly favored me with a quick, suspicious glance, only saying. however :— ‘‘ Then our home is your home ?”’ “‘T am at your service for the remainder of my days, dear Milly.” Kissing my cheek, she sighed: ‘It is sorrow- ful that our joy should come through your grief.”’ Then, after a moment’s thought, she questioned: ‘‘I may tell Phil, Adele ?” “Certainly, but no one else. And from this hour let the subject be buried by each of us.’ | So when it was announced, early in March, | that Vance Hadyn had followed the beautiful Mrs. Brittain to Europe, and made her his wife, | it elicited no comment from us, and the world was allowed te gloat for the nine days over its _ wonder. *‘So you are determined to ignore the pre- sence of an old friend? I have stood here at | least five minutes waiting for a token. Oram | I quite consigned to oblivion ?”’ I sat in a remote corner of the brilliantly- lighted rooms, beside a little table strewed with engravings. In my hand was a remark- ably fine photograph of the Vatican. As I | gazed upon it, memory quietly turned back- | ward some pages in my life, and I had alto | gether forgotten my surroundings in glancing | over the once-charmed leaves now powerless to quicken a pulse. I had felt especially dis- »

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ns ty ly er he ot nd \c- us of w- ur he re- at 1m POETRY. 251 inclined to spend this pleasant April evening abroad ; but, finally yielding to Milly’s solicita- tions, had, in the earnest, conscientious en- deavor to contribute to the happiness of those about me, secured a large portion for myself, and in most contented spirit sought the com- parative retirement of the aforementioned corner. I was somewhat startled by the familiar voice so unexpectedly breaking in upon my medita- tions, and, without lifting my eyes, waited for the concluding words of the speaker. The next minute I had encountered the kindly smile of Ramsay Grant. “Can it be possible?” I exclaimed, extend- ing my hand. ‘* And wherefore not?’’ he returned, taking it in the old, firm clasp I remembered so well. I made no reply, not feeling disposed to say just what I was thinking, and he continued :— “T have given you reason to consider your- self forgotten—is that in your mind?” I smiled assent. ** You should have suspected and appreciated one of my motives for the course which I per- ceive you have condemned.”’ I looked at him inquiringly. eagerly, passionately :— ‘** Believe, always believe that I have acted in direct opposition to my inclinations, Miss Brittain. How could I delicately seek your presence? How could I hope to be anything but a painful and disagreeable reminder of the past? But seeing you here to-night, I gladly avail myself of the privilege I would long ago have sought had I dared to do so.”’ I knew my cheeks were crimson-dyed. Ram- say Grant’s look and tone, far more than his words, had been areveiation. ‘‘ Twice blind !’’ I thought to myself, as I replied :— ‘You should never have imagined such a thing, Mr. Grant. It is not so, never has been so.”” ‘‘Then I entreat that there may be a renewal of our old friendly relations, Miss Brittain,’’ adding the next instant, in a low, impassioned tone: “And if I should, some day, grow strangely presumptuous, and ask more, Adele, pardon me !”’ A few months later he did ask more, and I— pardoned him. He spoke =—_~ >_> IN MEMORIAM. (Miss Mary Madeline Bower, Daughter of R. F. Bower, Esq. Died at Keokuk, Iowa.) BY KATE HARRINGTON. SHE perished in beauty As withers the rose, When its delicate petals Begin to unclose. She passed from among us And left us to pine For the treasure we could not With calmness resign. The light of our home Has grown dim since the hour It lost the dear presence Of Madeline Bower. Her voice was like music That trembles along When the last strain is sung Of a beautiful song; So witchingly mellow You'd stand by her side, And drink in its echo Long after it died. Now vainly we list At the still twilight hour For the notes of our Song Bird— Lost Madeline Bower. Her tresses of light seemed O’er marble to flow, For her brow could have rivalled The purest of snow. Ah! none but bereaved ones Who've wept o’er the clay, Can know of our pangs When ‘twas hidden away. One tress from its sisters We severed that hour; *Twas all we might claim Of sweet Madeline Bower. Oh, would they could waft us Our treasures above— Some tender remembrance, Some token of love! A mystical sign That they do not forget! A blessed assurance They yearn for us yet! Or is it designed That we hear not, nor see One trace of our loved ones Till death let us free? Do we pass through this vale, With its shadows and bright, * That the Glory of Heaven May burst on our sight? If so, how ecstatic, How rapturous the hour Our freed souls are welcomed By Madeline Bower! —_—_ > _____ GIvE not thy tongue too great a liberty, lest it take thee prisoner. A word unspoken is like the sword in the scabbard, thine ; if vented, thy sword is in another's hand. If thou desire to be held wise, be so wise as to hold thy tongue.—Quaries. THERE is no such thing as forgetting possible to the mind; a thousand accidents may and will interpose a veil between our present con- sciousness and the secret inscription on the mind ; accident of the same sort may also rend away this veil; but alike, whether veiled or unveiled, the inscription remains forever ; just as the stars seem to withdraw before the com- mon light of day, whereas, in fact we all know that it is the light which is drawn over them as a veil, and that they are waiting to be re- vealed when the obscuring daylight shali be withdrawn.

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en on ; } ; , : > 252 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. HOUSEHOLD DECORATIVE ART. EMBROIDERY. TuE art of embroidery was originally de- rived, like many other arts and sciences, from the Spanish Moors, by whom it was introduced into Europe early in the Middle Ages. As ap- plied to tapestry hangings, it was at first used among Christian nations for the decoration of churches, and for employment on State occa- sions only, till Eleanor of Castile set the exam- ple of using it for domestic purposes, which Fig. 1. oe A , a Yo ¥ was soon generally followed by the wealthier classes. Throughout the Middle Ages needle- work embroidery, chiefly for hangings, but also for some other uses, formed the great oc- cupation of ladies when not engaged in domes- tic or other duties; and the beauty of their work, together with the invention and design Fig. 2. \ which they displayed in it, are such as might well raise the admiration and envy of the ladies of the present day. These old works have not merely the conventional prettiness which is generally the only, though not the invariable characteristic of modern needlework, but have often realartistic beauty, and display not merely fancy, but even imagination, in the designs. In this respect certainly they have little in com- mon with modern ‘‘fancy work,”’ which is ap- parently so called in a sarcastic sense, from the utter absence of any fancy displayed in it. The modern lady, instead of exercising her inventive powers, simply copies a pattern set before her, stitch by stitch, without the slight- est idea of deviating from it if its forms are bad, or of developing any new forms of beauty for herself. Frequently even this mere copy- ing and counting of stitches demands too much mental exertion, and she must either purchase her ‘‘fancy work” ready begun, and the pat- tern laid out for her, or perhaps even with the ornamental group of flowers or other device already finished, and with nothing left to be Fig, 3. a Nik ALN bet NZ > ww Nile al = at done beyond filling in the background. This degeneracy in skill and taste from even the standard of those qualities in their own grand- mothers, is in great measure to be attributed to the substitution of so limited a style of work as German wool embroidery for the more beau- tiful and legitimate styles that preceded it. In Berlin wool-work, as it has been usually prac- tised for the last forty years, anything like real Fig. 4. Pare wibrs “sl beauty or flow of fancy is an impossibility. That this absence of invention and good taste in their lighter occupations, should continue among ladies is neither necessary nor desirable. An abundant fancy is a characteristic of the female brain, and ladies would be far happier and better in many ways if they would allow its free development. Few things could be better calculated to effect this than a return to the graceful and beautiful occupation of their “\ Se ff fe = 8 =~ Ff eh CL =~ A HH

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his he 1d- rk Lu- ac- 2al ste ue le. he to eir HOUSEHOLD DEUVORATIVE ART. 253 female ancestors. There is at the present time much desire for this shown among the | upper classes, and legitimate embroidery is again rapidly becoming a fashionable employ- ment. We propose in the course of this article to give some description of the various methods of working, and of the stitches used in them, | as well as of the materials required. We shall also give a series of original designs, but we trust that our readers will not, after pe- | rusing the above remarks, content themselves Fig. 5. WNNZEVNG AAIIPRIP RI PKI DKK SAARAPBRAABAAAYHY with merely copying these, but will use them only as stepping-stones to embroidery work, in which the patterns will be of their own devising. The methods of embroidery practised at dif- ferent times and in different countries, as well as the various stitches employed in them, are almost endless. Taylor, the water poet, in 1640, mentioned by name no less than twenty- one distinct stitches as being in vogue among the English embroideresses of his day. We have not, however, at the present time to deal with the antiquarian aspects of embroidery, but to speak of it as it may be applied to mod- ern practice. Between ordinary German wool-work and | | legitimate embroidery there is an intermediate | style, which has latterly been somewhat freely practised. It is susceptible of far better effects | _ 6. ae ae a than the former, and is by no means difficult. Over the ground of German wool, worked in cross-stitch upon canvas, diapers such as those | given in Figs. 1 to 6 are over-stitched in silk. Thus treated, the German wool-work loses its | objectionable flatness, and gains great bril- | lianey. While on the subject of German wool- work, we would beg our readers to remember, | if they continue to practice it in preference to | better styles of embroidery, that, though it is | capable of being enriched as above, it is a method of work which is, artistically speaking, exceedingly limited, and really fitted for the production of flat patterns only, such as geo- metrica! designs, or conventional ornaments. In cross-stitch it is impossible to shade objects in such a manner as to give them any satisfac- tory resemblance to nature, and the represen- tations of animals and flowers which have been attempted in it, are as numerous as they have been lamentable failures, and ought merely to be preserved as examples of bad taste. In appliqué, which is a very ancient and al- ways a favorite method of embroidery, broad, flat masses of color are gained by fixing one fabric over another. In Fig. 7 we give a de- sign for a mantel-piece hanging to be worked in this manner. For appliqué the materials chosen are usually velvet, silk, cloth, and cloth of gold or silver; when velvet is used it should always be silk velvet. It may be employed for a variety of purposes, such as cushions, curtains, the covering of chairs, ete., and though shading cannot be attempted in it, it produces rich and fine effects in flat patterns. The ordinary method of preparing the ma- terials is by stretching some thin gray Holland on a common embroidery frame, and covering Fig. 7 it evenly with embroidery paste, which is made by adding to three tablespoonfuls of flour as much resin as will lie on the end of a spoon, mixing them smoothly in half a pint of water, ing thein till they boil, and allowing them | to- boil five minutes, when the paste should be | turned out and left till cold. The material - must be laid upon the Holland, and smoothed till it adheres evenly. It will require about twenty-four hours to dry, and after being re- moved from the frame, the designs which are to be formed in the material may be traced upon the back of the Holland, and cut out with a sharp pair of scissors. The above prepara- | tion refers more especially to cloth, velvet,

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ane et 254 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. ete. ; for silk, white lawn is preferable, and a black and white starch should be used with it instead of paste; and, indeed, for all white materials a white back-lining should be used. Different parts of the design may, of course, be formed in different colors, each to be pre- pared in the same way. Being cut out, they have to be laid upon the background, which, in our illustration, is sir posed to be of black, or dark purple, or maroon cloth, and fastened to it round the edges with sewing silk. There are two ordinary ways of edging the pieces laid on in appliqué, that which has the richest eifect is bordering them with a moderately stiff Fig. 8. cord (as shown round the trefoils in our illus- tration), and sewing over this with silk. Gold- twist makes the most splendid bordering of this kind. The other is that shown round the semi- circular pieces at the roots of the stems, and which consists in working round the applied material with bright-colored silk in buttonhole stitch. It will be observed that a considerable space is left between these stitches to give them their full effect. In ordinary flat embroidery, no applied ma- terials, as of pieces of fabric, cord, or spangles are used, nor is any part of the pattern raised by eard-board or other packing beneath it, and the design depends entirely for its effect upap the colored stitches used in it. This was the kind of work most in vogue in the days of our grandmothers, and it is, as it admits of shading, the most delicate and beautiful, if not the most striking kind. The beautiful Eastern embroi- dery—Indian, Chinese, and Japanese—is mostly of thisclass, and may, in arrangements of color, form good examples for imitation. In raised embroidery, different substances are placed over the material, to give the effect | of relief to the stitches. An approved modern method of working is by taking card-board— | that known as thin mounting-board is good— | tracing upon it the design to be raised, and cutting it out, care being taken to leave suffi- | cient points of attachment in the more delicate | parts of the design. The pieces of card have | then to be sewn strongly in their places, upon | the material which is to form the ground, with cotton, and the bits of card-board left for sup- Fig. 9. port cut away. If the design is to be still further raised, as would be recommended in working the large fleur-de-lis in Fig. 8, a line | of even twine should be sewn down over the | centre of the figure, and over this a silk or gold | thread can be worked. More than one row of twine should not be used, or the effect will be spoilt ; and the thickness of it must depend upon the amount of relief required. If the figure is to be worked in gold or gold color, the card beneath it should be colored with gamboge. Fig. 8 is a design for an embroidered curtain- border, with an edging of velvet, the principal Fig. 10. SS P ~* Se Sas Se parts of the pattern to be worked in relief; this will look very handsome if the fleur-de-lis is worked in gold thread or gold-colored silk. Fig. 9 is a mantel-piece hanging, in which the fan-shaped flowers are also in gold, and raised upon card, the line of twine being near their } outer extremity; they may, however, if pre- ferred, be worked in colored silks ; the ground should be dark velvet. In Fig. 10, which is intended for the border of a table-cover, the raising of the embroidery is effected by merely laying on a colored cord up the centre of the running pattern, and sewing it down.

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1 r we oe )h6S QUEEN VS. KNAVE. 255 QUEEN VS. KNAVE. BY SOURIZ AFTER graduating from the university with the highest honors, M. Henri Saint Valliere re- turned to his native city to commence the prac- tice of his profession, happy in being once more united to his fanrily, whom he tenderly loved. It was the holiday season, and, as it would be a month or two ert the young lawyer would have an opportunity to display his elo- quence, he passed the time in renewing his ac- quaintance with his father’s old friends, who welcomed him warmly. Henri was one of those’ happily constituted persons who are able to win all hearts; with old and young, of both sexes, he was a general favorite. Handsome, and well-made, with brilliant conversational powers, and a courteous, winning manner, he was the cynosure of many a bright eye; and, also, being one of the best matches in the city, of many a managing mamma. The vigilant father remarked all this, and determined to marry his son as soon as possible, before some foolish preference had time to interfere with his wiser plans. “My son,”’ said he, after Henri had been at home about a month, ‘you must establish yourself. In order to inspire respect and con- fidence, and procure a good practice, a lawyer should have a wife and children ; at least, it is necessary in our city. You know my friend Lascelles, one of our richest citizens; you are also well acquainted with his daughter, the ac- complished and lovely Mile. Eugenie ; she it is whem I have chosen for you. They are our neighbors and sincere friends, and I am fully persuaded that my demand will be well re- ceived. How does this project suit you? There will be your first case to plead before a pretty girl.’’ The young lawyer, though a very dutiful son, Was by no means timid. “My first case,” replied he, “is already gained, but it is not with Mlle. Lascelles, and Iam surprised that you should have thought of her. Are not wealth, beauty, grace, youth, and, in short, perfection, united in the person of Mile. Adele, the daughter of M. Durand,. who is also your friend ?”’ “You are right, my son, and I confess that in default of the one, I should be just as well Suited with the other ; besides myself, Lascelles and Durand are the richest men in the city, and I do not think that you will meet with any opposition from the family of Mlle. Durand. It I thought first of the alliance with Lascelles, it was beeause I observed that you sought his daughter’s society frequently, and I thought you loved her.”’ “‘Ah, father, what a mistaken idea! It is Adele that I love. Adele whom I adore.’ “Besides,” continued the father, “I prefer | M. Lascelles to M. Durand, so there was a lit- | tle selfishness in my choice. But I esteem Durand, and your choice is a judicious one.”’ “* Judicious !’’ cried the young man. ‘‘ Now confess, father, that to any one with a heart or eyes any other choice would be impossible ; but, as I have already told you, my first case is gained. Adele loves me!”’ “Tow! Are you betrothed?” “Why, yes, father; we have been betrothed three days.”’ This time, at least, the wishes of both fam- ‘ilies accorded with the children’s love. M. Saint Valliere demanded, and M. Durand will- ingly granted, the hand of his daughter, for he knew of her love for the young Henri. The marriage contract was drawn up, the settle- ments arranged, and M. Durand announced the pleasing news to his daughter. But what was his astonishment to see her turn deathly pale, then flush, and in a broken and confused voice declare that she could never accept the hand of M. Henri Saint Valliere.’’ ‘But, my child,” said the father, “‘ you loved him yesterday, you confessed your love to your mother, and you cannot possibly make a more suitable alliance, nor one that would please me better.’’ ‘“Never, never, dear father,”’ replied Adele, weeping bitterly. Mile. Adele was an only daughter, a spoiled child, whose empire over her father was abso- lute. However, upon this occasion, M. Durand was anxious to triumph over his neighbor Las- celles, and he did not yield to his daughter’s tears. The betrothal was made public, and the necessary purchases were made, and still Mlle. Adele would not listen to reason. It became necessary, then, for M. Durand to in- struct M. Saint Valliere of what had passed ; he, in his turn, informed his son. “You were éntirely too sure, my young friend, of having gained your first case,’’ said the father. ‘Mlle. Adele does not love you, after all, it appears.”’ “Adele not love me!” cried the young man, with astonishment. “She will not hear the marriage spoken of. It is against her will that they have published the banns, and made the other preparations | for your espousal. “‘Tmpossible !’’ exclaimed Henri. He hastened to the house of his betrothed and insisted upon seeing her ; but, though in the young girl’s manner toward him he could not perceive the slightest trace of anger or aversion, he could draw nothing from her but a refusal, choked by sobs, but positive. Adele | rejected his love. She, in a faltering voice, | averred that she did not love him, and did not wish tomarry him. But lovers are persevering, especially when they are in love. Henri sought M. Durand, and throwing himself into ' his arms, exclaimed :—

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~ nnn sore sp rir 256 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. ‘* Your daughter loves me, Iam certain of it, for she confessed it to me but a few days ago. There is some mystery in this retraction that we must clear up. It is, perhaps, nothing more than 4 young girl’s caprice. In the name of Heaven, do not abandon me! No doubt if you should foree her to marry me, you will only be gratifying her true desires.” However, in spite of all their efforts, they failed to unravel the mystery. Henri confided his trouble to ail his friends, among whom was | Mile. Eugenie Lascelles. “Do you understand the meaning of your friend’s strange behavior?’’ said he to her. ‘‘T adore her. She has confessed that she loves me in return, and promised to be my wife, and yet when her hand is demanded, and promised ; when I have gained the consent of her family, she has suddenly changed her mind, and retracted her promise. She loves me no longer, so she says, and does not wish te marry me. But maybe you can help me in discovering the secret of this sudden change ; you, the friend of her childhood, who, next to me, are her most beloved friend; she has, no doubt, confided to you her affection for me.”’ “To me, monsieur?’’ replied Eugenie. ** Never !’’ “Why, are you not the confidante of her every thought?’ “Pardon me, if I have never heard of this, it is because’’— *“Do you not believe what I have told you, mademoiselle?”’ “Certainly, I believe you. But Adele has never spoken a word to me on the subject.” ‘« At least, you must have observed our affec- tion for each other, for our mutual love has been, as it were, nurtured in your presence.” Mile. Eugenie confessed that she had not perceived it, and seemed to sympathize deep- ly with the grief of Henri. She suggested that maybe Adele had been deceived in her feelings for him; she had probably mistaken for love the natural friendship between two persons of the same age, the same city, and whose parents had been friends for so long ; and the proposal of marriage had awakened her to a sense of her true feelings. She showed a sincere regard for the young lawyer. She was kind, gentle, and very entertaining, and if | M. Henri had not been so entirely preoceupied with his unhappy love, he could not have failed to see that it would be easy to find consolation at the house of M. Lascelles. But this was not his intention. His love for Adele increased with her firmness, and became almost violent at every new refusal. As the parents of the young girl were still desirous that the marriage should take place, he had free access to the house, but it was in vain that he implored, prayed, and supplicated. At length he became convinced that neither eloquence nor love any longer had any effect upon his promised bride ;

and that, as his father had said, his first case, which he had so wished to gain, was, indeed, lost. Pursued, however, by the thought that there was something hidden from him, he re- solved to employ a means, slightly repugnant to him, it is true, but which necessity induced him to adopt. Mlle. Adele had a maid, about her own age, who had been brought up with her, and was tenderly attached to her. M. Henri sought this young girl, and slipping into her hand a beautiful gold cross— ‘“*Marie,”’ said he, “I do not wish you to be- tray your mistress, but you see how unhappy she is; how she weeps continually; and you also see how wretched I am; all because 1 wish to marry her; I who was her first love. Why does she reject me to-day, Marie, whilst she loved me so fondly only a few days since? Tell me, I beseech you. Perhaps you may be the means of setting everything right again.” “Oh, no, monsieur, you can do nothing! What is done is done !’’ “Then there is something?” said Henri, talent of converting the slightest indication into a positive avowal. Marie regarded her gold cross. “If you will promise me not to say anything about it,”’ said she. ; “T will give you my word of honor, my child !’”’ “Truly? Never, to any one?” “*T swear to you!” ‘Very well, monsieur, mademoiselle loves you. Ah! she loves you so dearly that she cannot sleep, and we both of us weep all night; but she will never marry you.”’ ‘*What is the reason?” “The reason is, she has lost you.” ** Lost me?” ‘Yes, monsieur, lost you with the queen of hearts.”’ **She has lost me with the queen of hearts? Why, what do you mean, Marie?’ *<T will tell you, monsieur. It would be im- possible to find two friends who love each other better than Mile. Eugenie Lascelles and my mistress have always done. You came, and both of them fell desperately in love with you.”” : “Does Mile. Eugenie love me?” said Henri, almost dumb with surprise. “She loves you to distraction. They have confided their love to each other, and sure of the influence that they have over their parents, their only thought has been, which should gain you.”’ ‘‘But Mlle. Adele knows that I prefer her.” “Mlle. Eugenie is not of that opinion. She thinks that all that is necessary will be to make their wishes known to their parents. The arrangement is between themselves. M. Saint Valliere wishes to marry his son, and, in order to marry him well, ne cannot but

os a a ee a a ee ae

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ise, ed, hat ant ‘ed ut ith M. ito Ne. Py ou 2 re Ist e? ri, he on ou ay es he of n- rd th QUEEN VS. KNAVE. 257 choose between two persons. Mlle. Adele has indeed confessed your love for her, but Mlle. Eugenie has the same claim.’’ “That is not true,” cried Henri. *T believe you, monsieur,’’ answered Marie. *‘But Mile. Eugenie assured my young mis- tress that it was so, and your attentions and kindness to her makes Mile. Adele fear that it is true. ‘Besides,’ adds Mile. Eugenie, ‘if we both of us persist in our pretensions to M. Henri, we shall quarrel. On the other hand, if one of us give him up, and positively refuse to marry him, he must necessarily espouse the other, and why,’ said she, ‘should friends like us quarrel for a husband?’ ”’ “Ts a husband such a trifling thing to ladies, then?” said Henri. ‘‘ Why, they might quar- rel for trinkets.’’ “It was agreed between them,” continued Marie, “‘as a kind of compensation for the sacrifice that the one, to whom the other should resign her claim, should use every means to win your hand, and, failing to do this, should remain single for the rest of her life. They signed the contract, and bound themselves by their honor, by their life, by their hopes of future happiness. The game commenced.” ‘The game?” ‘Yes, monsieur. They played for you with the queen of hearts. Oh, it was a game worth seeing. Though millions should play before me, I should never see so much hope, so much fear, so much anxiety to win. At length, after the six, the ace, the king, and the ten had been played, my mistress lost you, for it was Mlle. Eugenie Lascelles who held the queen of hearts.”’ “Tt was an unfair game, where the stakes were not equal,” cried Henri. ‘All the chances were against your mistress, Marie, since Mile. Lascelles knew that she was not beloved by me, though she had falsely asserted it. She had nothing to lose.” “That is all very true, monsieur, but the game was accepted as a decision; and, as long as Mile. Eugenie holds in her possession the queen of hearts, to which both have put their signatures and their seals, my dear young mis- tress will never marry you.” ‘‘At least, Marie, you must inform your mistress of her friend’s treachery.”’ “She will not believe me. She will only think that I say it to try to free her from her oath. For the love of mercy, monsieur, say nothing about it! If you speak, it is I who will then be accused of perfidy and deceit. For what I have told you is known to no one but the two young ladies and myself, and Mlle. Adele has confided it to me under the seal of secresy.”’ “Very well, Marie. Be calm, child. I shall say nothing about it. Ah, ha!’ said he to himself, as he returned home. ‘So they have played for me with the queen of hearts; and Mile. Eugenie, whom I do not love, and to whom I have never addressed anything more than that politeness which is due to a lady, permits herself to say that I love her, and to win me?”’ With his mind much more tranquil than of late, he entered his home, announced his com- ing marriage to his father, lay down, and slept soundly. The next day he repaired to the house of the Lascelles. Mlle. Lascelles always carefully seized every opportunity of leaving | her daughter and the young lawyer together, and Mlle. Eugenie skilfully assisted her mam- ma; so very soon the young people were alone. ‘Ts it long since you have seen Adele, mon- sieur?” inquired Mile. Eugenie, in a soft and winning tone. “*T saw her yesterday.’* ‘Ah! Have you not seen her to-day, then ?”’ ‘*No, mademoiselle. But I am going there to-day for the last time. You were right; we did deceive ourselves. Mlle. Adele has never loved me. Ihave been blinded by one of those illusions, peculiar to lovers, which astonish themselves when they return to their senses, In my dream there has been nothing true but my love. I believe, now, that Mile. Adele absolutely hates me.’’ **Hates you? Oh, no, monsieur! She is in- different to you, that is all.” ‘Still,’ replied Henri, ‘‘I am forced to re- sign her. She was my first love, and my love for her was deep and sincere. It has been despised and rejected, and all is over. I shall exile myself. I shall leave France.’’ ‘‘ How, monsieur?”’ exclaimed Mile. Eugenie, turning pale. ‘* You will not leave us ?’’ ‘*Yes, I have decided.” ** Will you abandon your profession ?”’ “Tam rich enough to live without it.” ‘But your father?” “He is anxious that 1 should marry. Iam going to espouse the sister of a friend of ours, who is in the United States.” ‘‘Without seeing her?” “‘Yes, mademoiselle. After what has passed, I could not address any one here. Besides, mademoiselle, I owe you all the truth, and I will not keep it from you. My father did in- tend to ask your hand for me.” ‘Ts that so, monsieur ?’’ “Yes. I was in Paris at the time, near a friend, who has the happiness of knowing you, and whose love for you is so profound that, when he heard of my father’s intention, he re- garded me as a rival; and, forgetting our friendship, wished to force me, sword in hand, to relinquish the claims which I had scarcely yet conceived. You will understand that a man of honor could not but concede to a de- mand made in sucha manner. We met ypon the ground, the swords were already drawn, when some mutual friends of ours interfered, and suggested an accommodation, less fatal for

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er Ana nien watt 258 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. us, but, at the same time, aonb hes mene toward you. He agreed to—I do not know whether I ought to finish.’’ “‘Speak, monsieur, speak !’’ ‘“We played for you with the knave of dia- monds, mademoiselle, and I lost. It was a great piece of impertinence, I admit, but per- haps you will forgive an unhappy man, who has lost all that he leves, and who, to-morrow, leaves his native land, never to return.”” With these words, M. Henri Saint Valliere arose, and took leave of Mile. Eugenie Lascelles. Whether the young girl suspected that her | secret was discovered, or whether she believed | the story that the lawyer had told her, she” evidently feared to die single if she held to her oath ; for, that same evening, Mlle. Adele Du- rand received her queen of hearts, accompanied by a little note from her friend, saying that, if it was not too late to yield a game already played and won, she abandoned all claim to M. Henri Saint Valliere, and took back her oath. The young lover had no longer any | trouble in winning Mlle. Adele, to whom he was soon happily married. “How did you manage to gain your case?” inquired M. Saint Valiiere of his son Henri. “At a game of cards, father. I had the queen of hearts against me, but I won with the knave of diamonds.” a oe HER SUPPLICATION. BY ELIZA F. MORIARTY. FATHER, my weary spirit turns to Thee, And seeks the peace that thou alone canst give ; Henceforth Thy meek disciple I will be, And in Thy holy service strive to live. I’m weary of the world’s vain pomp and pride, That long held captive my weak heart from Thee ; Thy wandering lamb now stands the fold outside, And to the Shepherd's arms would gladly flee. Oh, look with loving pity on Thy child, Seeking forgiveness for each misspent day! With Thy repentant one be reconciled, And youchsafe, Lord, to guide my steps alway. It is, O Lord, Thy holy Sabbath night— A solemn silence dwells on earth and air— While looking on Thy distant worlds of light, The calm of heaven steals over my despair. Ah! now I feel, dear Lord, with conscious smart, That pride has been of all my life the bane ; Oh, give to me a meek and humble heart, Like him who felt on earth but grief and pain. I long had worshipped at the cold world’s shrine, The lily, peace, upon its altars died ; And now I bend, O Gracious One, at Thine— Oh, make me worthy of the Crucified! Father, to Thee my yearning spirit turns: I’ve knocked—and Mercy’s gates are oped to me. Thy loye divine within my soul now burns ; Accept the heart I consecrate to Thee. thee Kxow.epes of our duties is the most useful part of philosophy.— Whately. HOW IT HAPPENED. BY ALICE WAYNE. One beautiful morning last spring, I sat with Mrs. Austin in her pretty, home-like morning-room, setting occasional stitches in my work by sheer force of will. The day was too pleasant to waste in sewing, I thought. Apparently Mrs. Austin didn’t agree with me, for she basted one piece of work after another, making ready for the sewing-machine, and talked so pleasantly, and looked so contented and cheerful, that 1 quite decided that ‘‘mar- trying for love’’ was the surest road to happi- ness. She was very lovely-looking, not pretty, in crimson morning-dress, relieved by white apron, collar, and cuffs. -She had been talking about “Gates Ajar.” As usual with her, as ’tis unusual with most married women, she conversed on books, art, any subject of general interest, rather than house, husband, and children. And yet I | knew well that all these were much in her thoughts. But she always said, when any one spoke of that peculiarity of hers, that she thought when talking with unmarried people, it should be remembered that those subjects were necessarily uninteresting, if not painful. The natural longing of every woman’s heart for the dearest love of life, and often the equal longing for children of one’s own to care for, made a sufficiently sad contrast, though no word was spoken. Though early in April, the windows were yaised, and a delicious breeze swept through the room. I was gazing idly out of the win- dow, when I became aware that a question had been asked me. What it was, I had no idea. And then Mrs. Austin laughed her sweet laugh, and said :— “Why, Frank, I believe I’ve wasted my words on the air for the last five minutes.” ‘Oh, no!” said I, and then, ‘‘No; I didn’t hear you. I was thinking how happy you are, and wondering how so brilliant a woman had ever made up her mind to marry a poor doctor. I think you should be moving in society where talent and intellect are the first requirements, instead of devoting your life to housekeeping, care of children, and sewing.” ‘“‘And so, Frank, I’m only housekeeper, child’s nurse, and seamstress, in your eyes? I don’t understand. First you said I was happy, next that I was brilliant, and such a conclusion I never thought of.’’ “You know what I mean, Mrs. Austin. You are stylish, intelligent, and calculated to shine in society. I am surprised that you married as you did, and find so much happiness in your life, I like Doctor Austin very much; think him a model for all husbands, but I know him as a married man. Now, when you married him, you didn’t know what kind of a hysband - = = ow Ji m ne he al pe m ar ol pl sti ca ge

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HOW 1T HAPPENED. he’d make you, and I sheuld suppose such a plain-looking, quiet man would have been far from attractive to such a person as yourself.”’ I watched her face as I spoke, and such a beautifui light leaped into her eyes at my con- cluding sentence, that I waited anxiously to hear her speak, for I felt that some very happy thought had come to her. It was afew min- utes before she answered me. Then, dropping her work into her lap, she said :— “Frank, I think Doctor Austin saved my life.’”’ ‘Saved your life! Oh! do tell me about it, and then I will understand just how you hap- pened to fail in love with him.’’ And, putting my much-neglected work on the table between us, I folded my arms and prepared to listen. ‘““You know,”’ she said, ‘‘ that I was left an orphan when quite a child; know, too, that I resided with a wealthy uncle up to the day of my marriage. Probably you have also heard that my means were barely sufficient to clothe me plainly. My cousin, Mrs. Craig, is three years younger than myself, and, when a young lady, was far prettier ; quite pretty and showy- looking, in truth. Her father’s reputed wealth brought her quite a good deal of attention, and altogether life for her was extremely pleasant. I was the more stylish and intelligent of the two, but with a plainer face, and no money, besides the abnormal position a woman always holds outside of her own or her father’s house ; all the attention paid to me came from positive friendship or admiration. Laboring under such disadvantages, you may suppose the de- votion of the ‘other sex’ was not burdensome. It used to make me feel pretty badly sometimes to see Julia getting everything, while I, com- | paratively, had nothing. She was, however, very fond of me, and while I claimed no atten- tion from her admirers, was pleasant enough. “Doetor Austin met her at ¢ called. I never met him, save fir a passing introduction, until one evening at the house of a mutual friend. He escorted me home, and afterwards, from time to time, showed me some slight attention. It was a peculiarity of Julia’s to be unable to comprehend any gentle- man’s preferring me to her, so Doctor Austin’s conduct was, to her, inexplicable. I’m in ear- nest,’’ for a look that I could not control made her feel that I thought Julia didn’t wish to understand it. “She still took every visit entirely to herself, although he asked for me, and talked princi- pally with me on such occasions, Some two months after the beginning of our acquaint- ance, we went to the seaside, We enjoyed ourselves greatly for several weeks. It was pleasanter than usual for me, from the circum- stance that Julia had a genuine lover, and cared less, therefore, for the attentions of other gentlemen.”’ *“‘ And so didn’t put you aside, as formerly!" picnic and 259 “Tlush, Frank!’ You must not speak ill of my cousin. She was passionately fond of ad- miration, and didn’t seem able to help using every means in her power to gain it. For me, except as a matter of convenience, admiration from men was of small consequence. I liked Henry Craig very much, but used to feel, while glad in her happiness, yet sad that I, too, was not so blessed.’’ I interrupted her with: ‘‘Mrs. Austin, you never could have married a man like him!’’ “Oh, no! Net that; I wasn’t jealous. He was a man of good principles and .some busi- ness talent, but not at all intellectual. Asa companion I found him tiresome. But I longed for an object in life, and being a woman, wanted to be first in some one’s heart. I can say that, now I’m married, Frank. In my maiden days, I should have hesitated a long time before acknowledging to such a want.” A servant entered and handed her a bunch of deep-blue violets, saying :— “The doctor left them at the door just now, ma’am.’’ Again the beautiful light shone in her eyes as she said :— “Only see how fragrant they are, Frank! Maurice is well aware of my fondness for them!” They were soon placed in a vase close beside my dear friend, and she resumed her story. ** As I said, the first few weeks at the shore passed pleasantly away ; but as the close of the season drew near, we had fewer friends there, and it became somewhat dull. Henry Craig was prevented by business from spending Sung days with Julia, and to complete our misfor- tunes, I was taken sick. My cousin had never had any care of sick people, and was dreadfully worried about me. She was extremely anxious to get me home, and could hardly wait until the doctor gave permission to move me. Fi- | nally he said I might venture it, and 1 managed } somehow to stand the six hours’ journey. We returned to an empty house, my uncle and aunt being in Europe. Our old physician was very ill with typhoid fever, so Julia sent for Doctor Austin. Frank, dear, he was so kind!” She laid her little white hand on mine, and looked into my eyes, as though she would im- press the fact of his kindness on my soul. ‘““The fever had left me very weak—so weak and nervous that my naturally strong will seemed to have entirely deserted me. I de- sired nothing but to lie stilt; I didn’t even think. When the doctor had been attending me for some weeks, he came one day and found me alone, Julia having been obliged to go to the city. I was desperately ‘blue’ that morning. ‘“‘The afternoon before I had gone out on the piazza and seated myself to enjoy the lovely September air. My eyes fell on a cluster of white roses, growing on a vine that climbed up

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* eee St eet 260 GODEY'S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. one of the pillars, and suddenly, by what asso- ciation I know not, all the thoughts and feel- ings surged over me‘that for weeks I had been repressing. The full consciousness of my loneliness, that sense of entire isolation felt only by those devoid of close family ties, the many trials that awaited my return to active life, all compressed themselves into a moment’s thought, and in all the glory of an autumn sunset, I felt enveloped in an impenetrable gloom. That night I slept but poorly, and the morning found me desponding, as I have said. “Unfortunately for Maurice, he began ex- pressing his desire that I should exert myself a little. I felt him to be ettremel¥truel, but I lay still and listened until he asked me some question. And then—well, Frank, I can’t re- call minute particulars; I only know that all my distress came out, and I plainly showed what I felt. All the lack of interest in life, my cowardly dread of facing unpleasant re- alities—in few words, my preference for lying stiN, until I died, rather than return to the aimless, lonely life I had been leading hereto- fore. “He had taken my hand to say good-by, as he asked the question which led to my out- break. Dear me!’’ She laughed as she said: “It was very touching indeed, Frank. I sup- pose he held it for half an hour, while trying to comfort me, and I thought nothing of it until after many days. But I never had my hand so squeezed before or since.’’ We laughed together at that, but I looked at her hand, and didn’t wonder that he had em- braced the opportunity to squeeze it. “But,” she resumed, “‘to finish a long story, he understood the kind of temperament with which he had to deal; and by sympathy, sug- gestions as to the work the world needed from me, and, perhaps—unknown to myself—the interest that he himself inspired in me, induced me to make the required efforts, and so ‘saved my life.’ ”’ “Was that all? I supposed he had done something very brave and heroic. You’ve disappointed me, Mrs. Austin.”’ “Poor Frank! You expected something tragic, didn’t you? Be comforted! It would have been tragic enough, but for the doctor’s sympathetic encouragement. I was so weak that if my interest in life, my wll to recover had not been aroused, I would have sunk gra- dually, but surely. He told my aunt after- wards that he had never seen a young person with so Jittle mental rallying force. Iwas like one stunned by a terrible grief. So you see, he did save my life.” “Mrs. Austin, did he fall in love with you right off?”’ She laughed musically. ‘“‘He says that he admired me before we became acquainted, but that he ‘fell in love’ with me the day he was called in to attend me; because he found me so unselfish, patient, and altogether lovable. But lovers are unreliable in their statements, you know.” Looking toward the violets, she said: ‘‘ Mau- rice says he never sees a sweet-scented violet without thinking of me. I had them always in my room during the many weeks that he at- tended me. So Iam well supplied with them, from the earliest that bloom until all are gone. I never remember their blooming so plentifully in the autumn as they did eleven years ago. But come, Frank, that’s enough of a love story for you. Let’s go take a walk.” “Just one thing more, Mrs. Austin. How long after that were you married?” “Just about two years. Doctor took me lovely drives, and used to drop in to see me at all sorts of odd times, especially the following summer. Julia was married in the spring, and I felt rather lonely without her; so he used to come almost every day. Sometimes he’d stop when first starting on his round in the morning, and ask me to drive in the evening. And so it went on, until I went to the mountains in August.” “Was that the crisis?” “Yes, I believe it was. An intimate friend was staying with me up to the day of my de- parture, and she told me afterward of a remark that made her think him very far gone. Iwas finishing a blue and white dress the morning before I left home. He stopped for a few minutes, and I requested him to admire my dress. When he arose to go, I insisted that he should wait a few minutes longer, while I ran up stairs to get something that was to be worn with this same robe. ‘““While I was gone, Laura said, ‘I think Nannie wiil look lovely in this dress; don’t you, doctor?’ “She says she will always remember his ex- pression and the tone of his voice as he an- swered: ‘I think Miss Nannie is always lovely.’ She looked upon our marriage as a certainty from that time.’’ “But tell me, Mrs. Austin, how was it fin- ished up?” ‘““Well, he took me to drive that evening, and asked me to write to him. And—I had a splendid time for three weeks in the moun- tains; and the evening after I got home we had another drive, returning by moonlight. And that closed the story.’’ “And you were married after an engage- ment of a year?’’ “Yes, the following October one year. One glorious afternoon at five o’clock. And now I’m going to end the tale by telling you that the light in the church was beautiful ; that I wore a silver-gray travelling dress, with gray hat and feathers; and that I stepped into the carriage that was to take us to the Baltimore depot feeling very serious, but perfectly happy.” id san i> 2 oe ee ee. ae ee ee ee i a -

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ee ACTING UHARADE. 261 ** And you’ve been so ever since ?’’ “Yes, Frank. And just as soon as you re- nounce ambition for love’s sake, you, too, will be happy.”’ And again the white hand was laid on mine, and the dark brown eyes looked into my own, as though they had fathomed all the thoughts that for so many months had disquieted me. oe ACTING CHARADE—MADCAP. BY MAURICE F. EGAN. Characters. Miss EMELINA Boaes, 3 . Miss ARAMINTA Boaes, owes old matds. MARGARET WESTMORE, their niece. JAMES MORELY, @ young man tn love with MAR GARET. SHAKSPEARE TENNYSON Hoaa, @ would-be poet. A POLICEMAN. ScENE I.—MAD- ScrenE.—A sitting-room. The door leading to another room tn view. Curtain rises, dis- covering MARGARET seated in a thoughtful attitude. Margaret. I must try to earn some money. Since I was left an orphan in my girlhood, my dear, good aunts have tenderly cared for me. How can I ever repay their kindness? I ear- nestly desire to add something to their narrow income, but how? Become a teacher I can- not, for there are already too many ; besides, I cannot expect to equal those whose previous lives have been spent in preparing to enter that profession. Iam but an ordinary player, so I cannot teach music. What can I do? What could have induced my aunts to tell James that his visits here must cease? He is rather reckless and uncalculating—poor, dear James !—but still— Enter SHAKSPEARE T. Hoaa. Margaret. Good-morning, Mr. Hogg! I did not hear you ring. Hogg. Nature has beatified us with a morn of pre-eminent magnificence, Miss Westmore, without doubt. No, I did not summon the at- tendant by a clangor of metal, but finding the portal thrown open, I entered unheralded. Your respected relatives by the maternal side are enjoying that greatest blessing of our transient existence in this mundane sphere— health, I trust? Margaret. My aunts? Yes, they are well. Hogg. am rejoiced to receive information of that happy fact. You are doubtless aware, Miss Westmore, that the genius of fame, in his etherial flight through the regions of this sphere, dropped his yerdant laurel crown— Margaret. Accidentally, and does he offer a reward to the finder? Hogg. By design--on, I may venture to as- *sert, a not altogether unworthy person’s cra- nium. Margaret. Then somebody has lost the re- ward. I was just going to look in the Ledger for ‘‘ Lost—A laurel crown.”’ Hogg. Joking aside, Miss Westmore, I am that not altogether unworthy specimen of the genus homo, crowned with the coronal of glori- ous fame. Thus garlanded, I stand before you. Margaret. Pray be seated, then, My. Hogg. But, excuse me, I look in vain for the ever- green you have mentioned. Perhaps you un- knowingly removed it with your hat? Hogg. You are exceedingly matter-of-fact, miss. Margaret. But we all are not poets, you know, sir. Hogg. True. To return to our subject, the Evening Moon has characterized one of my productions as bearing the greatest resem- blance in the world to Tennyson’s ‘Owl ;” not in the matter, but in the exquisitely sub- lime treatment of the subject. Have you read the ‘‘Owl,”’ and did you attentively peruse **Clairvoyance of a Genius Soul?’’ The latter was written by myself. Are they not both sublime? Margaret. Even a step beyond. Hogg. Thank you! I knew that you would appreciate. (Bowing.) Beauty is ever fore- most in strewing the gleaming path of muse- inspired genius with luxuriant wreaths of in- spiriting laudation. By the by, I have a poem here—a frothy thing— Margaret. ( Aside.) I believe that. Hogg. A mere foam flake thrown from the crested waves of my prolific muse. (Hands her @ paper.) Will you read it aloud, Miss Westmore ? Margaret. ( Aside.) What a torment! But I’ll humor him, and see if I can’t disgust him by my reading of this precious ‘foam flake.’’ (Aloud.) Ahem! hem! Hogg. This poem is thought by some to re- semble Jean Ingelow’s in style, but it is not an imitation, I assure you. Margaret. (Reading, with theatrical emphasis. ) “The Daffodil, by Shakspeare T. Hogg. ‘*A maid sat by a brook, a brook ; She wept, and gently took—she took— A daffodil up with her crook—her crook— A shepherdess was she. ‘Oh, miserable me! And, oh! and, oh! I know, I know Not why I cry, Nor, lovely blossom, why you grow: In vain I sigh— Roll, brooklet, roll— For inealescence of the soul.’ ”’ Hogg. Does not the repetition of certain words produce a beautiful effect in my poem? Is it not touchingly simple? Margaret. Very simple.

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re 5 ome “ePe ha ae 2 262 GODEY’'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. Hogg. Now, some poets delight in obscurity. Idonot. ‘“Incalescence of the soul” is charm- ingly clear. It reminds me of Emerson. You enunciated marvellously well, Miss Westmore. 1 think that you manifest decided ability for the theatrical profession—the loved art of Thespis—I do, indeed. Present my felicita- tions to your respected relatives. When an- other inspiration seizes me, lionlike in its golden claws, I'll call again. Aw revoir! [ Brit Hoaa, leaving the poem on the table. Margaret. { hope his muse will postpone that inspiration indefinitely. That is a good idea about the theatrical profession, though. I often thought I’d like to be an actress. I'll practise awhile, and then go to a manager and ask for an engagement. Let me see (reflect- tively), I could act Lady Macbeth, or Ophelia, or Camilla in Miss Mitford's ‘‘ Foscari’’—yes, Cannilla suits me best. (Reciting.)— “This hath been A long and weary day ; there is a heat, A gloom, a heavy closeness. See! this rose Is withering too, that was so fresh and fair— The white muskrose—that which he used to love.”’ Very well done, indeed. There is no one in the dining-room, and my aunts are safe up- stairs; so I1’ll go in there, and try something startling. [ Goes into the next room, leaving the door ajar. Margaret. ( Within.)— “Help! help! The Doge! The guard! Stay with them! Part them! Leave them not! Hold them asunder, count, and in my prayers Thou shalt be sainted! Help!” Jtnter Misses EMELINA and ARAMINTA from opposite sides. Fmelina. (In agitation.) O Araminta! Araminta. O Emelina! what’s the matter? Emelina. Such awful noises ! Araminta. They ’re all being murdered next door ! Margaret. (Energetically. )— ‘“*He’s slain ! Oh, bloody, bloody brother! Kill me too! Be merciful! Help!’ Emelina. O Araminta, it’s terrible! Araminta. They ’re thieves, and they ’Il take those two large china vases our grandmother left us. I always said something would happen ! Emelina. Nonsense! It is not a man’s voice. See what that open paper on the table is, and— Margaret. (Screaming.) “Away! Thy hands are bloody! Help, Doge Foscari !"’ Eimelina. It’s our niece Margaret. She’s gone mad. Read that paper, Araminta. Araminta. It is poetry. Ialways feared this. She has taken to writing poetry (sobbing), and gone mad! (Tears up the paper.) Emelina. Go to the door, and see what she is doing. Araminta. You go, sister, please do! You always were the bravest of the family. Do look! I hope the carving-knife wasn’t left in the dining-room. Margaret.— ‘‘Help, father! The old man stands stiffening there " into a statue. He’ll die first. Off! off!” Emelina. I’ll see what she’s about, at all events. (Advances cautiously to the door.) Araminta. What is she doing, sister ? Emelina. (Peeping through the crack.) She has got the carving-knife, and she’s waving it before the looking-glass. Margaret. (Screaming.) — “‘ Wouldst thou kill him o’er again? He bleeds to death ! Father, it is thy blood !’”’ Araminia, O Emelina! she says she'll have our blood. Hadn’t we better call some one? Enter SHAKSPEARE T. Hoce. Hogg. A resplendent diurnal rotation of time, ladies. I returned for a small gem from the exhaustless mines of poetry that I left here. Araminta. O Mr. Hogg! our niece has gone mad. Hogg. Impossible. (Seeing the scraps «f paper, and picking them up.) What is this? My poem! Did she perform this deed? Had she the heart to tear those glowing words to shreds? She must be mad. Margaret. ‘‘Death! Death!’ Hogg. She’s mad. I intended to ask her to plight her troth to me, but, as she is mad, I won’t. [£rit Hoee. Enter POLICEMAN. Policeman. What’s all this stir about? Are you all a-gettin’ killed? Emelina. Our poor niece is insane. Policeman. ’Tain’t in our jurisdiction, then. Can’t arrest mad folks. If she was only drunk, mum, I’d grab her in a minute. Let’s open the door at any rate. (Opens the door.) Enter MArGARet, brandishing the carving knife. Tableau. [Curtain falls. } Scene IT.—CAP. ScENE.—A rlor; flowers in the window. Massanmr 13 discovered sewing. Margaret. Who would have imagined that my freak for acting could have caused this disturbance? After having, with great diffi- culty, persuaded my aunts that Iam not really insane, they still insist that something must be the matter with me, so they have brought me to this lonely country place in search of health. — kes -* =e ft lr» * ~, — * = «8 Se - me we SS Se — tA

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of m ne ¥ = “4: a AUTING CHARADE. 263 Of course, I must submit to this infliction, as well as to be doomed by them never to see James again; or, if Ido happen to meet him, to treat him asastranger. What could have induced them to treat him with such severity ? lie was a prime favorite with them until our picnic to the grove last summer. Enter JAMES MORELY. James. Margaret! Margaret. (Starting.) Jam—Mr. Morely, I am surprised to see you, greatly surprised at this intrusion. James. Mr. Morely ! mean ? Margaret. I mean what I say, sir. I under- stand that my aunts have forbidden you the house. Why did you enter it, then? James. Because I love you, Margaret. Your aunts are intbued with some silly prejudice against me, and I have followed you here in order to make known the cause of it to you. Believe me, I am guiltless of— Margaret. You need not defend yourself. I do not believe that you have done aught un- worthy, but I must obey those who have a right to exact obedience. If, by my endea- vors, I can change the state of their minds in relation to you, youshall be informed. Please go now, and do not think hardly of me, for, in this case, my duty lies in obedience to my kind aunts. James. But if you knew why they have treated me in this way— Margaret, what do you Enter Miss EMELINA. Emelina. (Raising her hands.) Gracious alive ! What do I see? Enter ARAMINTA. Araminta. O Emelina, I never did in all my days! Emelina. (Sternly.) Young man, I cannot express my feelings— Araminta. Young man—let me add, sister— #e cannot express our feelings. Go on, sister. Emelina. Awakened by your insolent en- trance into this house; on what errand have you come, sir? James. To obtain an interview with your niece—Miss Boggs. Emelina. Now that you have seen her, in spite of my prohibition, your absence is most desirable. Araminta. Yes, young man, your absence is extremely desirable. Margaret. (To James.) I will do my best to make all end well. Now do go, James—Mr. Morely, I mean. Emelina. The undutiful girl calls him James. Araminta. Goodness gracious! What bold- ness! What forwardness ! James. I beg permission to say, ladies, that your niece is not to blame. (DBitterly.) This visit was unwelcome to her, I assure you. Good-by ! [EHxit JAMEs. Emelina. Margaret Westmore, I’m ashamed of you! Never did limagine that you would speak to any person, much less a young man, when we had forbidden you to do so. Margaret. Aunt Emelina, what charge can you make against James Morely? Until very lately, you treated him with great favor— Araminta. Hear the girl! What a question ! Why— Emelina. Please to be silent, sister. 1 do not wish him to become your husband, Mar- garet, because he is too giddy—too reckless to be intrusted with your happiness. This I judge by various indications. For instance, last summer, at the grove, he ventured out on | the lake in search of water lilies for you, while the blackness of the clouds, and the frequent flashes of lightning, foretold a storm; in con- sequence his frail skiff narrowly escaped being wrecked. Margaret. Is that the only reason? Araminta, No. I have two excellent ones. (Solemnly.) Child, I never knew a Morely that came to any good. You needn’t laugh; there ’s a great deal in names. There was that man who was hung last week— Margaret. His name was Morgan. Araminta. Well, it doesn’t make much dif- ference; it’s nearly the same; and besides, Morely is such a very common name—a very plebeian name, indeed. You shouldn’t want fo marry a man with that name, Margaret. Re- member that you are related to the Boggses. We spring from an old family, my dear; we are somebody. Why, our grandfather had a coronet engraved on each of his teaspoons. Emelina. A coronet! How can you say so, Araminta? It was a horseshoe. Araminta. O Emelina! how can you say so? Your memory must be failing ; it was a coronet —the crest of the de Boggs. Emelina. My memory failing! (Sharply.) We never had a de before our name, and you know it. Our grandfather was very supersti- tious, so he had a horseshoe stamped on his teaspoons to keep away witches, he said. That’s the truth. Araminta. (Sobbing.) I’d think it asin to call my own sister a story-teller, so I would. It was a coronet. Emelina. I won’t dispute, but it was a horse- shoe. Araminta. Isha’n’t dispute either, but it was a coronet. Margaret. Come, Aunt Emelina, let us go out for a walk. [Hreunt EMELINA and MARGARET. Araminta. When a person begins to lower their own family, something generally happens to that person. I knew a young man once who disgraced his family by becoming a mere mechanic, when they (the members of his

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— Ss Oe ar eS 264 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. family) desired him to commence the study of | Sir Reginald Vere de Vernon plays upon his law. Well, this young person lived on; fifty | guitar beneath the casement of the lovely Lady years passed; he did not dream of evil. At | Aurelia Chardavoye, and— last retribution came—he died. Something will Emelina. Umph! If Mr. Hogg comes around happen to Emelina, I’m certain. I wouldn’t | here playing a guitar, or anything else, I'll be surprised if it rained and her new gown were spoiled ; or maybe she ’1] come home with her head cut off by a sawmill or something. Oh, dear! no one can tell what may happen. Enter EMELINA, hurriedly. Araminta. Something has happened! I knew it! Emelina. Oh, sister, I’ve lost my cap! Araminta. Lost your cap! The one that your grandmother left you? The one with the point lace? Emelina. The same one. I was walking down the garden path with Margaret, when a | puff of wind came and blew my light cap from my head. It settled among the bushes on the | top of those steep rocks on the'side of the house. Araminta. You will never get it, for no one can climb those rocks. Why didn’t you keep the strings tied? Ob,dear! It was made from one of Marie Antoinette’s pocket handker- chiefs, too. Emelina. What nonsense! I saw grand- mother buy the lace. Araminta. ( Positively.) It came from France. Emelina. It did not, sister, but I’d give al- most all I possess to have it back again. Enter MARGARET, with the cap. Margaret. Here is your cap, aunt. Emelina. (Delightedly.) Is it possible? How did you get it, child? Margaret. A gentleman ascended the rocks and brought it down. Emelina. He’s a reckless person, whoever | he be, but I am exceedingly thankful for his kindness in recovering my cap. [Curtain falis.] ScenE ITI.—MADCAP. ScEenE.—Same as Scene I. Curtain rises, dis- covering MARGARET and the two aunts seated | . c | you let him marry me, if he asked it. ( Aside.) | My aunt never breaks a promise. I hope she’ll at a table, Miss ARAMINTA reading, the others sewing. Emelina. Tam so glad to be at home again. Truly, “there is no place like home.” I do not admire poets in general, but the one who said that, had some sense. By the by, I notice that cracked person—Shakspeare T. Hogg, as he calls himself—prowling around again. I hope you don’t want to marry him, Margaret ? Margaret. Oh, no, aunt! Emelina. What is he after, then? I’d like to know that. Araminta. (Looking up from her book.) Per- haps he is looking up at the window of his lady-love, as in this delicious novel the noble send him off quicker than I ever sent an Italian organ-grinder. What do you mean by “lady- love?’ I trust you don’t think he passes this house so often merely for the purpose of seeing you? Araminta. (Simpering.) Oh,no,no! What a quiz you are, sister! I’m not blushing at all, now Iam not. Am I, niece? Emelina. Who said you were? Don’t be silly. You have taken to reading novels of late, I see, but I won't have you falling in love’ If you do, you’ll just have to fall out again. You are too old for such nonsense. | Araminta. Old! Shecalls meold! And la | mere child! Emelina., Only forty-nine last spring. [Heit ARAMINTA, sobbing. Emelina. Now, Margaret, has our country trip cured you of your tantrums? I hope you 'are reconciled to have no communications | whatever with that madcap, James Morely? Margaret. But, you know, dear aunt, if James Morely is a little bit reckless and | thoughtless now, he will improve as he grows | older. Emelina. Not at all! I do not believe in that doctrine. ‘‘The child is father to the man,”’ isn’t that a proverb? When I was a girl, I was just as staid and as womanly—old- maidish, if you will—as I am at present. Margaret. (Archly.) If climbing cherry trees, stealing neighbors’ strawberries, and some other tricks, of which I have heard my mother speak, are old-maidish pursuits, then you certainly were old-maidish. Emelina. (Smiling.) Well, well, your mother was noted for her short memory— Margaret. Doesn’t that trait run in the fam- ily, aunt? Emelina. Don’t be saucy, miss. You have not yet told me who it was that recovered my point lace cap. I should like to reward him in some way. Margaret. What would you give him? Would say yes. Emelina. (Angrily.) I’m astounded at your boldness, girl. What is this world coming to? Yes, I'd let him have you and welcome ; for a girl who has boldness enough to ask such a question, I have really noesteem. In my time girls never thought about marriage until they were asked. [Zzrit Miss EMELINA, # @ rage, Margaret. Oh, aunt! I must pacify her. [Hrit MARGARET. Enter Miss ARAMINTA. Araminta. She called me old (putting her oa-— . 92 @& Gms 6

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his dy nd "ll an his ny m- ve ay in ll ur )? ne ey er handkerchief to her eyes). but I can forgive. I saw Mr. Hogg pass the window just now. There is his step in the hall. How my heart beats! Oh, crnel Emelina! Enter SHAKSPEARE T. Hoae. Hogg. (Bowing.) Miss Araminta! She whom I most desired to perceive in the solitude of this sitting-room. Araméinta. (Curtseying.) Good-evening, sir! (Placing a chair.) Hogg. Miss Araminta, I earnestly desire to communicate to your queenly self some tidings, your answer to which will elevate my soul high in the cerulean ether of. hope, or cast it down into the deep, dark abyss of horrid despair ! Araminta. Oh, dear! Hogg. 1 will be frank. Once I loved your niece, but her extraordinary conduct healed the wounds inflicted by the brightness of her organs of sight. (Kneeling on one knee.) Now I love only you. My internal perceptions have undergone a complete change. Wilt thou be mine; Araminta? Araminta. I will be thine, Shakspeare Ten- nyson. Hogg. Call me by the endearing appellation of Shaky, beloved Minty. Let me lead you to your sister Emelina. (Offering his arm.) Araminta. (Sobbing.) O Shaky, she will never consent to our marriage ! Hogg. How! Dare she resist the impassioned pleadings of love’s young dreamers’ Can your intellectual faculties, dear Minty, conceive no plan for obtaining her consent? Araminta. I have it! LI read in a novel the other day how two lovers, in a case like our own, frightened a cruel parent into consenting to their union. One of them personated a ghost— Hogg. Enough! I understand! Get me a sheet. | Exit ARAMINTA. Hogg. Ha! True love shdil conquer! What a pity that my name does not ehd with an s! How sweetly Hoggs and Boggs would rhyme! Enter Miss ARAMINTA with the sheet. Araminta. (Giving it to Hogg.) Go into the next room; my sister is coming! (Hoge goes into the other room.) . Enter EMELINA, followed by MARGARET. Margaret. Indeed, dear aunt, I meant no harm by my question. It was James who re- covered your cap. Emelina. James Morely? Just like the giddy madcap ! Margaret. I feared that he would be killed in ascending those high rocks, and begged him to let the cap remain where it was, but know- ing it to be yours, he declared that you should have it at all risks. Araminta. ( Aside.) It’s time the ghost ap- VOL. LXXXIV.—17 ACTING CHARADE. 265 peared. The light ought to be put out, but I am afraid to do it. Emelina. Kind fellow! I’vea great mind to forgive him, though he is a madcap. Araminta. ( Aside.) The door is opening. Margaret. Shall I call James, aunt? He is waiting outside. Enter Hoce wrapped in the sheet. Fmelina. (Starting.) What creature is this? Hogg. I am the apparition of thy paternal progenitor. Doomed for a certain time to promenade the terrestrial globe— Margaret. (Laughing.) It’s Mr. Hogg! Emelina. (Angrily.) What does he want? Call James, Margaret. Margaret. Come in, James! Enter JAMES. Emelina. Put that Hogg out, James, and I'll forgive you. Araminta. (Rushing forward.) No,no! You shall not tear him away! O Emelina, let me wed dear Shaky ! Emelina. Has it come to that already? Well, you will be well matched. Hogg. My heart is effervescent with overflow- ing joy, sweet Minty. Emelina. And now I willingly consent to the marriage of my niece Margaret to James Morely —so do you, Araminta—and I’m sure that the bridegroom elect will be all he ought, if he be something of a madeap at present. [Curtain falls. ] ooo RESURRECTION. BY GEORGIA. There is a Rainbow in the cloud That overhangs the grave ; the shroud Is tinged with its meek glory-hues, And for the dead there is “* good news!” THE man is weary, and weak, and old; His heart is drowsy and numb with pain; He falls asleep! he is still and cold! He never will wake or rise again! So sinks the sun; so falls the leaf; So the flowers unfuld—and fade ; So the’ beautiful, frail and brief, In the dreary, wintery grave are laid, But do not weep, though the sun may sleep, And dark and cloudy may be the night; For the day will break, and the sun shall wake, And scatter the clouds with his morning light. And so the leaf, and so the flowers, Winter is drear, and dark, and cold, But spring will come with her suns and showers, And leaves and blossoms again unfold. Then do not weep, neither dark nor deep The grave should be to believing eyes ; The Lord is risen! hath broke the prison! And all that sleep in the grave shall rise!

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266 GODEY’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. THE VILLAGE DOCTOR. BY M. 8. 8. ‘*GooD-MORNING, dear Sue !’’ was the greeting of Mrs. Mortimer Hall, as, with languid step and dignified mien, she entered the parlor of her friend Susan Grey, who was preparing her pretty room for the reception of the Ryefield “Sewing Circle.’’ “You darling creature!’ was the response of Susan Grey, in the lisping, affected style peculiarly her own, at the same time exchang- ing with her adored Ellen Hall the usual, most feminine greeting of a kiss. ‘“‘How good of you tocome so early, and surprise me so de- lightfully!” glancing at her own ample, un- graceful working apron and at Mrs. Mortimer’s elegant morning costume. “Indeed, I think myself quite tardy, and everybody else guilty of the same misde- meanor. But I suppose,’’ continued she, at | the same time reposing wearily on the sofa, ‘“‘that this furnace-like climate of our ‘Sunny South,’ in which we gasp and pant from May to November, is sufficient extenuation for all the errors of procrastination.’’ ‘But here comes, or rather rolls along, the good chronicler of this ‘Gem of the Seaboard,’ Cousin Nancy Jobbings,’’ as a queer figure ambled up the trim birch walk to the house. It was a figure apparently human, and one of extraordinary briskness and activity, not- withstanding its tun-like proportions. Shape- less and round as a colossal hogshead, it sup- ported on a gigantic pedestal the smallest of heads, which seemed to have fallen accident- ally, and to have settled most comfortably, on the ample shoulders, without the customary, visible support of a neck. Mrs. Jobbings was a privileged character in Ryefield, a universal Cousin Nancy. She could boastof no ‘‘ feminine garniture,” and was entirely in the ‘‘ rough,” but was a diamond for all that. There was not a heart which beat for twenty miles around that did not owe her a heavy debt of gratitude for kind acts and kinder sympathy in seasons of sorrow and distress. It was her boast, that she had superintended every birth, deathbed, and marriage that had taken place within the lapse of forty years in the parish. Like the ‘gentle giantess” in the “Essays of Elia,” her ‘‘person was a burden to herself, no less than to the ground which bore her,” and she possessed an equally gadding mind with that colossal personage. Indeed, Mrs. Jobbings’ tongue was afflicted with a chronic dissolute- ness, as were her feet with a fondness for “ambulatory exercise.’’ This tongue, under no restraint, wagged incessantly, thought- leasly, and oftentimes destructively. Her or- gan of secretiveness was but imperfectly de- veloped on the very limited portion of her head devoted to phrenology; but under her wide 7 | bodice beat a munificent, compassionate heart, which grieved sincerely when brought to a sense of her indiscreet acts. ‘‘La, me!’’ said .the old lady, who had by this time reached her destination, and was comfortably reposing her immense bulk in the most commodious of arm-chairs. ‘La, me! Only two of you, I declare. I am complete fagged out by the particulary hot walk. I’ve took up Orchid Street ; it’s took the breath out of me,’’ and she puffed at a high-pressure rate, and fanned with such vehemence as to create a miniature whirlwind with the huge turkey tail, ‘“‘like a banner spread,” which she held in her sturdy grasp. ‘‘ You twoarelike Diamond and Pythoness, the most irrevocable friends,’’ and Mrs. Jobbings, who was unskilful in the use of words, smiled benignly upon them. Mrs. Mortimer Hall and Mrs. Gaston Grey were friends, if lavish endearments and fre- quent interchange of tokens and gifts is the criterion of affection. Like most feminine friendships, it had begun at school, become the habit of girlhood, and had extended into matri- mony, and run its course through long years of jealous rivalries and petty envies, of which the fair outside gave no token. Each lady had, in common parlance, made a good match, if two good-looking, prodigal sprigs of aristocracy, in quest of fortunes, could be reckoned eligible. These daughters of plebeian fathers, who had honestly or dishonestly—it was all the same— earned, by their own exertions, their countless thousands, were taught to train and cultivate their natural gifts with the view of entrapping *blood”’ in the toils of matrimony. Mrs. Mortimer Hall was, by dint of intellec- tual force, the leader of ton, and the ruler of the feminine world of Ryefield. Her will was law. None dared gainsay her wishes. Her house was the rendezvous of gayety, and she herself elegant, handsome, condescending to the more unpretending inhabitants of her native village. She gloried in the power she wielded, and queened it in the character of the aristo- cratic Mrs. Mortimer Hall. Her less gifted friend, Susan Grey, whose light, like the rays of the moon, lie extinguished in the more daz- zling beams of the sun, was forced to be con- tented as leader of the choir, which post she admirably filled. She furthermore solaced her- self for her little worldly disappointments by extraordinary religious devotions, and made long and loud prayers at the women’s prayer meeting; for Ryefield was a devout commu- nity, and could boast a fair number of religious devotees. The charitable,.pious ladies had now col- lected for the ostensible, laudable purpose of fashioning elegant trifles and all sorts of use- ful and ornamental commodities, which those of the fair sex who are well skilled in .needle- craft can so admirably accomplish. All of which had a benevolent, religious tendency i a ~~ — ow bt a ew 2 2h be — mew * OQ ee

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1e towards missions, organs, and church embel- lishments. This long-established, admirablé society was the pride of the really charitable, a place of social gathering for the young and old, and a charming rendezvous for the gossip- loving all ;’’ and to quote Mrs. Mortimer Hall and ‘School for Scandal,”” that lady, being strong-minded, scorned “ the weaker traits of feminine character. The ladies, as we have said, had now assem- bled, and were all engaged as best suited them- selves, while the buzz and hum was general enough to indicate that silence did not reign in their midst. Mrs. Mortimer Hall soon an- nounced the interesting news of the arrival of the fashionable Lovejoy family from Charles- ton, where the yellow fever was raging. Whereupon the astonishment was overwhelm- ing, and the inquiries of when did they come general, and the wonderful secresy of their movements duly commented upon, to the great satisfaction of Mrs. Jobbings, who smiled com- placently and significantly during the investiga- tions, and finally relieved the general curiosity by acknowledging having been sent for the night before, on the family’s arrival, to nurse little James, who had been taken ill on the way. “*Oh !”’ cried Mrs. Weasle, the tender mother of a dozen offspring, ‘“‘the heartless people have brought the fever.”’ “What could you expect of those stuck-up Charlestonians’?’’ said Miss Mehitable Crab- tree, fast passing into the ‘“‘sere and yellow leaf.”’ ‘Shocking !”’ old ladies. ‘““Dear me!’ issued from the commodious depths of Mrs. Jobbings’ arm-chair. ‘ What’s the panegyric about? Is croup a courageous disease? I,’’ continued she, indignantly, ‘not to know at my time of life the sympho- nies of croup as instinct from yellow fever ! How people can fly into cantanmounts for no- thing! I must be losing my concernments !”’ at which distressing probability the good lady leaned back with such a crash as threatened destruction to the chair, and fanned in extremis. ‘‘What doctor was in attendance?” inquired Mrs. Mapleton, with an anxious glance at her pale’sylph-like daughter Camille, for whose set- tlement she had unsuccessfully angled dozens of times. Camille, whose inanity and utter nonchalance had almost exasperated her mamma, was not graced by nature with any of the fascinations of her sex, nor had she any aspirations beyond her crochet, but rather sighed for some lone hermitage, where the machinations of mothers, and lectures on manners and matrimony could not disturb the calm tenor of her way. ‘‘Young Moreton, to be sure,’’ replied Mrs. Jobbings. ‘““Where was Wiseman? ‘* Dreadful !’’ echoed a dozen And,” gasped out THE VILLAGE DOCTOR. 267 Mrs. Mapleton, ‘‘were the two girls there, too?’’ ‘‘How indelicate! What’s there to shock nervous sympathies in that?’’ rejoined Aunt Nancy. ‘Suppose I did take him and intro- duce him to the family! They were mightily taken with my young boarder,” continued she, triumphantly, ‘and that little madcap Fannie called him the village Apoller, whom she was determined to break to Cupid’s yoke, if only as a revenge for the bleeding hearts of the dis- appointed maidens of Ryefield, who had longed and sighed in vain for one tender glance from his glorious black eyes.”’ **Oh, the audacious fast creature!’’ shrieked Miss Mehitable. ‘‘But no one expects any- thing of people who have no genealogies.’’ And she looked ineffably disgusted as the thought even of such plebeianism crossed her aristocratic mind; she, who was a descendant of Landgrave Smith, and great-great-grand- daughter of Chancellor Jones, who stood high in the annals of State fame. And although her family, by dint of poverty, had been forced for many a long year to hide their diminished heads in the humble obscurity of Ryefield, had they not, as the black waves of beggary surged over them, hugged more closely and more fondly the receding, shadowy outline of de- parted glory, and as beggars, even had reared a wall around themselves ? ‘‘Indeed,” replied Aunt Nancy, who was by no means slow to take up the cudgels for the Lovejoy family, and was at no time averse to engage in a war of words with Mehitable. ‘The Lovejoys have as good a right to respect- ability as any one else, even if they be ascend- ants of the Lean Lords, or what do you call ums. Their geology is as reproachable, and quite as extinguishable, as other folks are, and,’’ continued she emphatically, ‘“‘they are the very first in the allegory for true, genuine Carolina refinement, high-toned sentiments, and warm-hearted hospitality.’"” And, having exhausted her powers by her noble defence, Mrs. Jobbings leaned gasping back in her chair to recuperate for a fresh onset. Miss Mehitable threw a glance of scorn on her, and muttered, audibly :— ‘‘Why will people tolerate such vulgar mon- strosities in refined, enlightened society? Any- thing,’’ with a contemptuous shrug, ‘‘ however, is allowable in Democratic country places,” and she gave a just perceptible little sniff of her blooded nez rétrouseé, and tossed most aristocratically the glossiest, longest of curls. “Fanny and May are charming girls,” lisped Mrs. Gaston Grey. ‘So pious and attentive in church.” “So stylish and déistingué in appearance!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer Hall. Neither of these ladies had marriageable daughters, and worshipped devoutly at the shrine of aristocracy and fashion. -

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IE as ay 2 268 GODEY’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. ‘‘ Pious and fashionable !”” sneezed Mehitable. “They may be the latter, for fashion is but the synonymous term for ‘fast.’ They are not held in such high esteem in the city, I assure you, for Fannie’s eqnduct has been very repre- hensible—most outrageous, as I have been told.” “I hope, Miss Mehitable, you will not adopt,”’ said Mrs. Hall, with severity, “the unfortunate predilections of this scandal-loving age to exaggerate and disseminate atrocious, ill-founded tales.” “Mrs. Hall,”’ responded Miss Crabtree, who stood a little in awe of the black eyes of the “Tutelary Divinity’ of Ryefield, “I feel wounded by your insinuations, and expressed no belief in the stories myself, but deemed it no breach of politeness to mention to a few se- leet friends a small morsel of gossip, for which you know very well I have most supreme con- tempt.”’ “Certainly not! There is no harm, of course,”’ clamored a dozen old ladies, who were earnestly and eagerly awaiting the nice little bit of seandal. ‘‘ Allin a friendly way.’’ “Tt is at any rate a well authenticated story,” said Mehitable, “‘and told on the best authority of some of the very first families in town.” “My dear friend, Miss Hodge, heard some things from her intimate associate, Mrs. Podge.” “And,” ehimed in Aunt Nancy, “a nice ‘Hodge Podge’ they made of it.”” “Odi profanum vulgus!” scornfully whis- pered Mehitable, who was a “blue as well as a blood.’’ “‘Madame Pompadour,”’ she went on, nothing daunted, “told me.”’ “That frizzled French woman that was here?”’ interrupted Mrs. Jobbings. ‘‘Why, that woman, I’ll warrant, has made more dis- ruptions in society than ever did Mount Lasu- | vious. The poor child has fallen ‘into the very pangs of malice ;’ and now, Miss Mehita- ble, give us the substance of the story.” ‘* A. most improper intimacy at all hours, and all places, with young Hendrin Scarborough. Buggy rides, moonlight walks, and other im- proper proceedings.” — ‘“Merey on us!” responded the Lovejoy champion; “is that all? Why, young Hen- drin Scarborough is soon to be married to Mary Lovejoy, the elder sister. There, I’ve gone and told, when it was a pledged secret! QOh,this reducing world!” And Mrs. Jobbings rocked backward and forward in an agony of despair, but finally solaced herself by a re- freshing glass of lemonade, and resumed her harangue much to this effect: ‘As to girls having beaux who choose to dangle after their pretty faces, it is nature. But this twaddle about moonlight and starlight is the conven- tions of people’s brains, who,’’ with a covert glance at the enemy, ‘‘having but a small share of charms, of course are but littie troubled with attentions ; and then, with lots of leisure time, and by the assistance of futile imagina- tions, they enact falsehoods, and set afloat in- decent stories, which should inflect odium on the progenitors. Andas tothe rigmarole about noble ascendancy, the result of my inflections is, that it isn’t worth a bauble. Itis gratifying enough to know that one’s grandfathers were decent and honest, but people are of precious little account who pin their merit on to the coat sleeve of ancestry, and while they subside themselves into nonentities, are puffed up and | satisfied with the extinction of an ancestor. | Give me a young man who dares to assert his | own power, and makes use of the talents which God has given him.”’ “Tt does well enough for people to talk thus who have nothing to boast of themselves,’’ was Mehitable’s cutting rejoinder. And Mrs. Job- bings, fairly exasperated by the home thrust, | turned recklessly and ruthlessly upon her, saying :— . “The Landgrace blood is disseminated into so many veins that it is by this time derluted into mere ‘dish water.’ It should diminish your haughtiness to know, Mehitable, that the cheating apothecary at the corner, Slimmings, | bases his claim to respectability upon that | deteriorated fluid, which I rather think flows in quite a muddy stream through his veins. Mine,” continued the old lady, triumphantly, “is no extract of Washington or De Lafayette, but an honest, truth-telling liquid, which no kith nor kin has ever yet disgraced.” Just at this juncture, one of those mentally active old cronies, who had ensconced herself in a favorable position for the twofold exercise of both eyes and ears, exclaimed :— “I declare! there is Doctor Moulton! And bless my eyes and stars if he is not handing | Fanny Lovejoy out of his—yes, his ewn |. buggy !”’ At which announcement every neck and head in the room was stretched forward as far as politeness would permit, to witness the phe- nomena. The object of curiosity, however, had alighted before the nice little episode was generally seen, and stood on the threshold, presenting as pretty a picture as the jaundiced eyes of those practised old. scandal-mongers had ever seen. In her simple morning costume of pure white, she looked a very Hebe. The luxuriant mass of her auburn hair was gathered at the back, and knotted simply. Her sweet face was flushed by a rosy tinge, while her soft brown eyes were beaming with goodness, and overflowing with a merry, cheerful light. Mrs. Mortimer Hall and Mrs. Gaston Grey advanced and warmly greeted their fair young friend, who, in the sincerity and guileness of her na- ture, saw no sinister design or intentional un- kindness in the frigidity which pervaded the ‘sewing circle.”’

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Se ete we Her cordiality and affectionate warmth of manner gradually dissipated the surrounding chill, and infused something like sociability among the elder ladies, while her merry mood was infectious, and very soon thawed the icy deportment of the younger ones, notwithstand- ing her grave misdemeanor of having been driven in the doctor’s buggy. The stern looks of the Ryefieldians relaxed somewhat to the sweet tones of her voice, and cheerful geniality displayed in her conversation. Besides, they were burning to hear how it all came about, and how Fanny Lovejoy had arrived at such distinguished partiality on the part of young Doctor Moreton—Doctor Moreton, who had been impervious to all female attacks; who had hitherto withstood the combined subtleties of mother, matchmaker, and maid. The mar- riageable half of Ryefield had long lain at his feet, had he cared to know it, but so zealously guarded had been the fortress of his affections that he continued on his way with imperturba- ble gravity, with unsuspecting mien, and the indifference of a stoic, until the matchmaking matrons and manceuvering mammas had long voted him down as heartless. And now, after all those laudable efforts of theirs, was he really captivated by that city belle—a piece of frivolity —a pink-faced doll? And the undercurrent of conflicting emotions which tossed and racked the minds in that little room was appalling. Mrs. Jobbings, whose inquisitiveness was irrepressible, at length solved the mystery by a downright interrogation. Fanny, merrily laughing, confessed to a little mishap on her way, Owing to a very femifine nervousness of hers, and her dread of a peace- ful cow, whom she rather foolishly imagined to be advancing with evil purpose upon her. She had attempted to fly from the coming dan- ger, uttering little womanly shrieks of dismay, may, when her farther progress was checked by a harmless-looking little vine, which had entangled her feet, and, after twisting her ankle cruelly, had precipitated her td the ground. “‘And, really, I must have lost conscious- ness,’’ continued the fair oratrix, with a pretty blush; ‘‘for when I recollected myself again, I looked up, and there was that doctor trying to assist me.’’ She then told how she had been so ashamed of her weakness about the cow as to insist upon ‘being taken to the “Sewing Cirele,’’ in lieu of going home, although it was quite apparent that the doctor thought that she was hurt, as he had frequently, during the drive, asked if she did not suffer. It was astonishing, after this information, how condescending the Ryefieldians became, and how eulogized the doctor’s attentions were, since humanity, and not admiration, had been the spring of them. Fanny had been truly injured, and gladly accepted a ride home in Mrs. Mortimer Hall’s THE VILLAGE DOCTOR. 269 carriage. For a month was our little belle confined to a lounge, suffering all the agony of a sprained ankle, with Doctor Moreton in at- tendance, while Mrs. Jobbings, as was her wont, all kindness and patience. And, indeed, the good nurse seemed to need a greater meed of that commodity than ever, for Fanny, from being the meekest of patients, was becoming the most restive, captious one. Ridiculing the doctor almost to his very face, and, then, after his departure, frequently giving way to bursts of hysterical weepings. Altogether, it was an anomalous case. The doctor, however, seemed not at all dis- turbed by these strange ebullitions, but lingered each day longer than duty required, and ap- peared to enjoy nothing so much as a war of wits with his lovely patient. He was a most devoted, indefatigable practitioner, and as such received loud praises from Mrs. Jobbings, who prophesied for him a most successful career as a physician, At the same time, she anathe- matized Fanny as an ungrateful creature to | show such indifference, not to say dislike, of | her favorite. All of this was, of course, promulgated to the Ryefield ‘‘Sewing Circle.’’ And so moili- | fied had Ryefield become, as to express some | compunctions for its past denunciations of Fanny, ‘‘who was, after all, better than was to be expected.”’ In the meantime, Mrs. Jobbings’ forbear- ance sometimes vanished before Miss Fanny’s *‘voung lady airs,” as she termed it. So one day the old lady very bluntly informed her charge, in the presence of Moreton, that her conduct was nothing but the result of love, and drew a parallel case between it and ‘that | of her own “Mary Jane,’’ when Tom Giles couldn't be brought ‘‘up to the scratch.” _ Fanny bounded almost off of her sofa, and scornfully asked, ‘“‘if it was probable that Rye- field was a feliciteous spot for the growth of | the tender passion? Jt had reared so many graceful Apollos !”" At which remark, the doctor took up the eudgels for his native village, and for Cupid, too. Fanny expressed extreme astonishment that | so renowned a woman-hater could so much as | waste a thought upon that silly little god, and | here a perfect war of words ensued, the doctor assuring her that wit was an edged tool, and she declaring that she wore the closest of armor. He then was rather concerned to know if her heart was encased in the same material. Of course, the little coquette left no stone un- turned to make him believe that she was not troubled with such an appendage at all. Where- upon her antagonist replied, with more earnest- ness than the occasion required :— “*Shali I, wasting in despair, Die bec@use a worman’s fair ?’"”

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PPG OT oy OR 270 After the physician’s departure, Mrs. Job- bings inveighed loudly against poetry and ‘poetical dabblings. Sure sign of some hal- lereernations of the brain,”’ said she. ‘Be- yond ‘Rock of Ages’ and ‘Hasten, Sinner,’ which every good professor of religion ought to be acquainted with, versification should be left to the inclusive use of love-sick maids and moon-struck youths.’’ That afternoon, while good Aunt Nancy dozed comme al ordinatre, in her comfortable arm-chair upon the moon-lit piazza, and the doctor, not, as his habit was, reposing his lazy bulk on the lounge by her side, but wandering up and down, fidgeting restlessly, and acting altogether so unlike himself, that the old lady’s sleepy brain conjectured all sorts of “whys and wherefores.’’ He suddenly cast himself down at her side, and astonished her by the abrupt question of ‘“What she thought of his taking a wife?’’ Whereby thoroughly awaken- ing the good lady, and electrifying her into commencing an eloquent speech on the bene- fits of matrimony, “‘its decided respectability, and the insulated, not to say disreputable, con- dition of a bachelor, who had no one to blame but himself, as he could at least ‘pop the ques- tion,’ and thus give less fortunate maids a chance to be niarried, or die widows, which was certainly a more honorable state than that of single blessedness.’’ Then followed an analysis of the individual merits of the Ryefieldian candidates for the Elysian state, and the kind creature promised even to tolerate Mehitable, if it was in her di- rection ‘the doctor was tending. “ Matrimony was a most improving institution, and under its sanctifying, enlarging influence, who could say but that Mehitable wouldn’t be metamor- phosed ?” Next Camilla’s charms were discussed. ‘‘ She certainly was ‘wishy washy,’ with no will of her own, which was, after all, a subsidoratum in a wife, who were only targets for men to vent their spleen upon. What did a reason- able man desire more in a wife than skill in housewifery?”’ Marriage with Mrs. Jobbings meant marriage, and nothing more. In her vocabulary it was bride-cake, favors, and the other paraphernalia. ‘‘Besides,’’ said she, “husbands don’t hang on every bush, and men should remember that all women weren’t had just for the asking.”’ Aunt Nancy then wound up with an eulo- gium on Fanny Lovejoy, “who,’’ she con- fessed, “had presented quite a different phase of character lately. That was owing, however, entirely to her physical suffering, which pro- duced great changes sometimes, there existing such sympathy between the body and the mental conditiun.”’ Whereupon the doctor muttered something about the “desire of the moth for the star,’’ to GODEY'S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. which Mrs. Jobbings replied by a violent de- nunciation against craven spirits :— “Modesty was 4 virtue, surely, but who would respect a shame-faced man that had not the spunk to ask for a wife. Somebody must possess the brass neeessary in the emergency.” The doctor laughed merrily at the end of the fair, fat oratrix’s speech, and with some polite hints as to the inexpediency and indecorum of jesting at the expense of the fair sex, bade her a cordial good-night. Mrs. Jobbings ambled after him to gain per- mission to divulge the important fact that he was at last matrimonially inclined. With a merry laugh, he accorded assent, and the good dame, with a sigh of infinite satisfaction, sought her own couch, to dream of weddings, brides, ete. Next morning, before “ Aurora had sprinkled with light the dewy lawn,’’ for those “‘ old time folks’? were early risers, Aunt Nancy had de- livered her soul of. the burden it bore, and the secret was safely deposited into the now joy- ously anticipating breast of Mrs. Mapleton, her next neighbor, and poor Camilla under- went an immediate revision and correction. The following day a meeting of the society most appropriately took place, thus relieving | our good old chronicler of a world of trouble. The news was cheering. Managing mothers were sanguine, veteran matchmakers buoyant, while the little maidens’ hearts were in a charming flutter of expectation. The com- munity was on the gut vive, and the gossips at their busiests ; still the hero gave no sign, but remained as ever, a great matrimonial puzzle. In the meantime, Fanny was well enough to leave her lounge and take short walks on the piazza and beach. Doctor Moreton yet lin- gered, until Mr. Lovejoy, although a liberal man, began to reflect Hpon the probable length of his bill. No other constructions had been put upon his attentions, as all had been so nicely disposed of under cover of professional visits. Fannie had subsided into the gentle maiden, subject to fits of pensive musings and quiet ‘abstractions. The little flirt ‘‘ playing with sparkles,’’ and the madeap girl full of wild bursts of merriment, had toned down toa more womanly dignity and calm serenity of manner. lt was the latter part of August, on the eve of a sultry day, when nature was still, and the world seemed enjoying a perfect repose. Heavy clouds lay low in the eastern sky, while white fleecy vapors floated above them, ming- ling their rosy tips with the bright blue of the summer sky. The sun, as he sank in the west, gilded with his rays the whole canopy of heaven, and lent a gorgeousness to the scene of unparalleled beauty. Fanny had sought the beach, and sat, as was her mood of late, in tender, melancholy gazing up at the sky, and then wandering ‘‘o’er the

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rma &Y ft — = ww = “aS wT THE VILLAGE DOCTOR. 271 glad waters of the dark blue sea,’’ whether her spirit was as free as the poet sang, may have been a matter of conjecture. The little maiden, musing sadly and alone, seemed lost in dreams, when a shadow crossed her vision, a shadow which of late had a weird-like way of gliding across her path. Her cheek glowed for an in- stant at this probably not unexpected rencontre, while the hue of returning health tinged her neck and brow. ‘‘What are the color and nature of your dreams, fair lady?” gaily asked Doctor More- ton, as he took the vacant seat by her side. ‘‘Ah!” continued he, casting a glance around him at the glorious scenery, ‘“‘the source and inspiration of your thoughts is doubtless this blending of earth and heaven in beauty,’’ and in rich, mellow tones he repeated from the “bard of bards’’— “The tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, in color, though varied, in beauty may vie.” “And,” said he, while an expression of admi- ration passed over his fine countenance, and his voice took a softened cadence, ‘‘ where the virgins are as soft as the roses they twine.” “ And,” saucily rejoined Fanny, ‘‘all, save the spirit of man, is divine.’ ** Indeed, do you condemn the whole sex, or do you make an exception of some favorite swain ?’’ ‘* All are alike,’’ was the spirited reply, ‘‘in the same category of unmeaning flatterers, faithless lovers, and neglectful husbands.”’ “What an amount of experience and phi- losophy you must have obtained, at such a remarkably youthful age!’ replied our hero, in mock astonishment. At which, Miss Fanny pouted her rosy lips, and expressed impatience at the very silly turn the conversation had taken. Her interlocutor, however, seemed nothing loth to continue it, but repeated most provoking passages from “Byron’s Woman,” “who,” said he, eagerly scanning Fanny’s face, ‘‘are all such fair and fond deceivers that one knows not how to put any faith in them at all.’’ “Cease to quote,’’ replied his listener, “from that misanthropical, disappointed man, who is to be admired and pitied, but not believed ; and, doctor, take my advice, if you have such disregard for our sex, you had better never try to marry,” and the fair damsel blushed at her own earnestness. “Your advice, however sage, agrees not with my present dearest wish, which is to enlist in my behalf a feminine friend.’’ “Mehitable Crabtree!’’ archly interrupted Fanny. ' ‘‘Spare me the length of those curls! No, indeed! But, to lay all jests aside, have you never suspected, sweet girl,’’ and he drew nearer to her side, ‘“‘ who has been the charming pilferer of my heart’s best love all this long while?” And he took the little white hand in his, and, bold fellow! as it lay unresistingly and temptingly there, imprinted a kiss upon it. Its owner, half sunshine, half tears, bore it all with most becoming grace. Then he offered her a share of his home and heart, if, indeed, she could tolerate a selfish ‘‘ Benedict,’’ who had lived so long alone, and for himself, that to humanize him might be a hard task. Fanny did not, however, seem to think the undertaking anything very appalling, and in the shortest possible time*everything was ami- cably settled between them. Even the eus- tomary waverings and preambles of pa and ma were got over in a‘satisfactory manner, for Mr. and Mrs. Lovejoy came under the head of fashionable worldly folks, and for that very reason were the more able to appreciate the advantages which would accrue from a mar- riage with so talented, rising a professional man as Doctor Moreton was. Besides, was he not, to quote Mrs. Jobbings for the last time, an ‘‘extract’’ from one of Carolina’s most hon- ored families, and scion of an ancient stock, and one who could rise by his own laudable efforts, independent of the prestige of birth? Various and contending were the emotions when the engagement was announced publicly. Despairing mothers were contemptuous, match- makers relieved, while broken-hearted maids were pale and sorrowful. Mehitable Crabtree, like a faded flower, with its pristine sweetness well-nigh trampled out by repeated disappoint- ment, became the quintescence ef bitterness, and as her ‘‘ petals’’ dropped off one by one, in utter despair married a widower with ten off- shoots besides being a parvenue. Mrs. Jobbings eontinued for many years to be Mrs. Jobbings still, and after she had lived to see her favorite Doctor Moreton rise to the very summit of his profession in the city to which he had removed, was at length gathered to her honest forefathers, regretted by all, notwithstanding her idiosyncrasies and pecu- liarities. NR OQ You should forgive many things in others, but nothing in yourself.—Ausonius. THE desire of power in excess caused angels to fall ; the desire of knowledge in excess caused man to fall; but in charity is no excess, neither can man nor angels come into danger by it.— Bacon. A a@oop inclination is but the first rude draught of virtue; but the finishing strokes are from the will, which, if well disposed, will by degrees perfect ; if ill disposed, will by the superinduction of ill habits, quickly deface it. —South. It is in vain for you to expect, it is impudent for you to ask, of God's forgiveness on your own behalf if you refuse to exercise his forgiv- ing temper with respect for others.— Headley.

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<< Se ee re 272 GODEY’S LADY'S BUOK AND MAGAZINE.

THE SCHOLAR’S SOLILOQUY. BY FLORENCE HARTLAND.

A MAN sat in a large, gloomy-looking library writing. Twelve! rang out harshly from the rusty hall clock; and the last log in the wide fireplace fell in two with a dull sound, and dropped smouldering on the gray ashes. Sha- dows lurked in the far-apart corners ; and as the few coals grew gradually less bright, the cold spirit of the winter midnight crept noise- lessly in, and blew its icy breath upon the | lonely writer. But he heeded it not. Rigidly, as if carved in bronze, he bent over the table | and wrote on, his hand gliding silently and ap- parently without effort over the paper. He had sat thus for hours, but not a motion be- trayed restlessness or fatigue, not a shade of weariness dimmed the steady gaze of the eyes that followed the rapid pen. A cold, proud, gifted man, whose calm, broad browand gleam- ing eyes said plainly, ‘1 can!’’ whose firm, compressed mouth answered as clearly, ‘I will!” <A face instinct with power, and yeta power you shrank from; a face where deep, absorbing thought had so enthroned itself that even the lingering memory of a smile seemed to have passed from it forever. One! Two! Three! rang out the warning clock, but the scholar moved not. He was writing the last few pages of a great philo- sophical work that would place his name, al- ready illustrious, still higher on the shining roll of those the world will not willingly let perish- The tireless pen sped on more and more rapidly, nearer and nearer it came to the longed- for goal, until, at length, with a low exclama- tion of triumph, the man paused and threw it from him. It was done—the long, wasting labor of years! He knew that shortly his name would be wafted afresh with acclama- tions over his own land, and across the wide ocean to another hemisphere. His bent form straightened, a flash lit up the depths of his dark, sunken eyes, then a sombre shadow | quenched it, and his head dropped on his folded arms. At last he arose, and crossing the room to a large eastern window, he threw up the sash, | and stepped out into a rambling old garden. The spirit of night reigned supreme. ‘‘Silence, silence everywhere!’’ Not a motion, not a breath stirred the branches of the huge, leaf- | less trees that sentinelled the house. Stark and | still they raised their shivering arms to hea- ven. The lake at the bottom of the lawn was locked in the frozen arms of the ice king, and | the few evergreens on its banks looked, in the dim light, like gloomy ghouls watching the | waters’ enchanted sleep. The silence was more thai solemn; it was awful. The whole world seemed sleeping the deep sleep of utter

death, that one thought involuntarily that Azriel’s dark shadow must have fallen sud- denly in one vast pall over the entire earth. The scholar stood for a moment with arms crossed upon his chest, looking at the wild, wierd picture of wintry desolation, then raised his eyes to the heavens. No shadow there! The fathomless blue was glowing with stars. By thousands and tens of thousands they swept on in their grand march through the wide fields of the firmament. The face of the | Solitary watcher grew almost fierce as he | gazed at them. In the faint light his haggard | features worked convulsively, and his stern lip | trembled. A sound, muttered yet audible, es- | eaped them :— “Why are ye placed thus forever beyond the reach of man’s wildest ambition? We know not whence ye come or whither ye are speed- ing. What hand fashioned you, and launched you out on your tremendous paths? What marvellous intelligence causes you to meve on and on through untold ages, undeviating and unfaltering, far above our petty aims and rivalries, bright wanderers of the skies? What connection have you with this planet we call our own? Ye were not made, surely ye were not made, only to give light and beauty to this mere atomic part of the vast universe? What order of beings inhabits you? Are they gifted with intellects, compared to which the proudest mind of man is feeble and imperfect? If the Bible be true, was the great atonement of the Son of God necessary for them also to seal their pardon with the offended Majesty of Heaven? Yeanswer not. On and on, world after world, system after system, ye move in your revolution around that one grand centre where the Invisible Omnipotent One is said to fix His burning throne. Ye mock me with your eternal beauty, your changeless glory— mock me! Men call me gifted, and I tower above my fellows. What of that? Standing

| to-night beneath that stupendous arch, I feel that there are truths written out there in gi- | gantic characters that I might try a lifetime— | and try in vain—to decipher. I know literally | nothing. I must cling like the weakest of all | humanity to the strange book we call the Bible, or be swallowed up again in that black, stormy | sea of doubt and speculation through which I | buffeted for years. I shudder at its remem- | bered darkness; I sicken at the memory of | those hours when I wandered hopelessly be- | neath that black pall of scepticism, that shut me out from a hereafter, and put me down to a level with the brutes that perish. My strong will failed me there. It has won for me as high honors as man can win; it cannot unlock for | me the portals that shut out futurity. But to- | night, the first time for weary years, I feel | stirring within me the faint foreshadowing of | man’s glorious destiny. Yes, I am immortal ; exhaustion ; the sleep so like, so terribly like, | I was not made to perish. This yearning, this

— tw 4 1 Se cz Af A oft — 2 TT sO h a h mM ae ts ote oh tet of _ © tt 2 Sf Ulett Oo

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= RS SES eS Se i “ — wee ee C6 OS OO OS POETRY. 273 clamoring for immortality cannot be stifled. I salute all things eternal, and claim them as my kindred. Wherever dwells the dread Creator of all this threbbing, heaving universe ? Whoever, whatever, the Great Original be, a spark of His own divinity is glowing in me, and must glow forever. Mysterious Author of all things, thou art my Father! Eternity, sol- emn yet ravishing thought, thou art my birth- right! Stars, beautiful stars, lam higher than ye, | am greater than ye, for I shall live, I must live, when ye shall have faded out like a spent taper, and your glory shall have van- ished like a dream! Spirits of the departed, glorified seraphs in Paradise, lost souls of the regions of darkness, I salute you! All, al, are iny brethren,.for all, like me, must live for- ever !”’ As in answer to the excited scholar’s apos- trophe, a low wind sounded in the far distance. Nearer it came, till it swept through the old garden. It lifted the damp hair from his brow with a touch that was almost a caress ; bowed for an instant the naked limbs of the ghostly trees; then, like a vast, articulate sigh, fled whence it came. ‘““A breath from the fields of eternity,” he said, aloud. ‘‘ A whisper from the cold lips of some listening spirit!” And, like a spirit him- self, he glided through the gloom back to his chamber. ‘*God keeps His holy mysteries Just on the outside of man’s dream. In diapason slow, we think To hear their pinions rise and sink ; While they float pure beneath His eyes, Like swans adown a stream. “ Abstractions are they? From the forms Of His great beauty? Exaltations From His great glory? Strong precisions Of what we shall be? Intuitions Of what we are? In calm and storm Beyond our peace and passion! “Things nameless, which, in passing so, Do stroke us with a subtle grace! We say, ‘Who passes?’ They are dumb! We cannot see them go or come. Their touches fall—soft, cold as snow— Upon a blind man’s face!” tied TAKE THE Patns.—Never think it too much trouble to answer your children’s questions. How often do we hear the tagt reply: “I am sure I don’t know, child—pray don’t tease me, when you see I’m busy!” This is the surest way to stunt the growth of your child’s mind. It is the most cruel and ruthless conduct pos- sible, thus to deny a child the information which he craves, and allow him to feel all the awkwardness and pain to which ignorance ex- poses him. Rather hail with joy these indica- tions of a growing mind, and make the little inquirer happy by drawing him to you witha kiss, and give him as full and patient an eluci- dation as he may require. BEAUTIFUL DREAMS. BY EMMA NASH. CoE the beautiful dreams In the hush of the night; They steal through the darkness With their magical light, And touch with their fingers The overwrought brain, To give to its slumbers A roseate strain. Come the beautiful dreams, With their soft, velvet tread, As the stars in the sky Walk the clouds overhead, And whisper in soft tones, Near the slumbering one, Till he dreams ’tis the voice Of his love, far at home. Oh, the beautiful dreams, How they lighten the soul From the woes of the day That on misery roll! How they calm the worn heart, With their fancies so fair; And lull wretches to bliss, With their magical air! Oh, the beautiful dreams! Kind and wonderful dreams, So fragrant with roses And the sun’s genial beams— When the night is cold, dark, Ne’er a flower in bloom, And the ice and the snow Have robed all with their gloom. But the beautiful dreams— Gentle, beautiful dreams— Melt the frost from the rose, And the ice from the streams, Rob the brow of its frown, Steal the woes from the heart, Stay hunger and thirst, _ With their magical art. Hear the beautiful dreams In the hush of the night, Stepping on roses fair, Delicious and bright; O’er the pathway of sleep They steal on their soft way, Draw near the lone dreamer, And he dreams he’s at play In the garden at home, *Neath a beautiful tree, And watching the blithe bird From the cage just set free ; He awakes at the sound Of its musical note, That is gushing in bliss From its wonderful throat.’ Ah! ‘tis only a dream— A sweet, beautiful dream— For the sun is now up, With his matutinal beam; And the cold world awakes— The same callous, cold world," With its banners of woe, Death, and hate all unfurled. —_—_ oe THE first ingredient in conversation is truth, the next good sense, the third good humor, and the fourth wit.—Sir W. Temple.

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274 GODEY’'S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. WORK DEPARTMENT. LEATHER WORK BAG. THis bag is composed of a leather frame- work, lined with a blue silk bag. Cut out of soft leather a piece ten inches long and seven inches wide, and round off the corners. ‘Then Fig. 1." and bind the framework with a strip of leather, cut into scallops on one side. Fasten a wire covered with leather across the centre of the frame, bend it together, and put in the blue silk lining bag, with blue cords and tassels. Fig. 2. Fig. 3. with a sharp knife cut out strips from this | Next make the handle of four strips of leather, piece in a slanting direction at regular inter- | the edges of which are turned in, plaited to- vals of a quarter of an inch, leaving half an | gether according to illustration, and then put Fig. 4. Fig. 5. il \\ ( i ti NN inch of leather all round the edge. Weave | on the bunch of leather flowers and leaves. these strips crosswise through the strips left | These are cut out from the patterns given in in the framework, and fasten the ends to the | Figs. 2, 3, 4, and 5, moistened with water, and rim of leather. Sew a wire all round the edge, | marked with a knitting needle whilst laid flat

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WORK DEPARTMENT: 255 on the palm of the hand. The stalks are formed TRAVELLING DRESSING-CASE. by folding down the edges on both sides. Fig. TH1s box is made of thick card-board, opens 4is the inner part of the fuchsia, and is gummed | on each side, and covered over with scarlet together to form a cup, the leaves being turned | cloth, with a border worked around the edge 7 ‘Sa HH Atl) i} ABN H TH {if Lis inwards. Fig. 3 forms the outer part of the | in colored silks. Fig. 1 shows the interior of flower, and the pointed divisions must be bent one side of the box, with the different pockets, backwards; the leaves, after being veined, | made of gray linen, with the edges worked in should be hollowed a little underneath, and | zephyr. Fig. 2 shows the other side, with the then flowers and leaves adjusted in a group | different sewing materials in it. A glass is in- according to illustration. serted in lid of Fig. 1, which can be propped

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276 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. Fig. 3 up to serve as a dressing glass, a3 shown in Fig. 3. —_——— Oo ; KNITTED SHAWLS. THE stitch is easily and quickly done; and has a good effect in two colors of four-thread fleecy ; searlet or any bright color, and either white or black; bright magenta or rose color, . and a very. soft, light gray, look well. Two long wooden pins, No. 4. The quantity of wool must depend on the size of the-shawl. Cast on 1 ‘stitch, in searlet fleecy. 1st row. Bring the wool forward, and knit this stitch. 2d. Join on the white or black wool, and purl the back row with it. 3d. Bring the wool for- ward as before, and knit the 2 stitches plain. 4th. Purl with scarlet. 5th. Bring the scarlet wool forward; knit 3 plain. 6¢#. Purl with white or black. 7th. Make 1, knit 1, make 1, slip 1 as if about to purl; knit i, pass slipped stitch over, knit 1. (The proper pattern is to pass the slipped stitch over 2, but when there are only 3 on the pin, it must be passed over only 1, as the last stitch on the straight side of the shawl should always be knitted plain, to make a firm edge.), 8th. Purl with scarlet. 9th. With same, make 1, knit 1, make 1, slip 1, knit 2; pass slipped stitch over, knit 1. 10th. Purl with black or white. 11¢h. -With same, make 1, knit 1, make 1, slip 1, knit 2, pass slipped stiteh over the 2; there will then be 2 stitches left when this is the case, make'l, and knit the 2 plain. 12th. Purl with scarlet. 13th. Searlet, make 1, knit ly Slip 1, knit 2, pass slipped stitch over, make 1, glip 1, knit 2, pass slipped stitch over, knit 1. Continue in this manner, a purl and pattern row alternately, throughout the shawl. Two rows are done with each color, and it is always changed in the purl row ; the wool is not broken off, but eare must be taken not to tighten the edge too much when each Color is resumed. No increase in the purl or back rows, but each front row (which is the-sloping side of the shaw]) begins by, make 1, knit 1, before commencing the pattern, and it will be found that the pattern rows end with 1 and 2 stitches alternately, which must be treated as before directed. When the shaw! is the size required, cast off rather loosely. For the Fringe. Cast on 10 stitches. Make 1; purl 2 together, alternately throughout the row. Every row is the same. When sufficient for the two straight sides of the shawl has been knitted, cast off 6 stitches and slip off the remaining 4, which are to be unravelled. CASE FOR TABLE-CLOTHS AND DINNER NAPKINS. Tuts case, for holding table-cloths and din-~ ner napkins while in daily use, is made of gray jean ‘or linen, embroidered with brown silk, and braided with brown braid. . Cut out of gray jean and brown Holland two pieces twenty-one inches long and thirteen inches wide. In the four corners of one of the pieces of jean work the design in the illustra- tion, in stitching or chain stitch, with brown netting silk, and add the braiding. Then sew iti H H } "yl ' iil METH Wy biyiith obits N \ | Y § . Ny y : \ Ny NY Y Nyy the jean and the Holland over pieces of card- board the required size, so that the Holland forms the lining, and bind round the edges with ribbon or worsted braid. Next cut out four three-cornered pieces of jean and of Hol- land, and work a pattern on each piece of jean. Sew them over pieces of card-board, and bind them round, making a small éyelet- hole at one of the three corners of each piece, > @ £ Ba to see Be kia o

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ff 10 ly of eS ye

WORK DEPARTMENT. 207

to admit a string. To one side of these three- cornered pieces sew the soufflet, consisting of four strips of linen nine inches long and three inches wide, sewn together at the ends, and bound with braid on both sides. Stitch this soufflet to the upper part of the larger embroi- dered portion of the case, according to illustra- tion, and tie the four points at the top together with a bow of ribbon. Then make a soufflet for the table-cloth case of four strips of linen

Sie = We : g

Holland, on the edge of the side of the soufflet that remains open, and sew on strings to tie in the centre. This case May be made of silk or reps, lined with silk, ‘and embroidered in colored silks. It then is suitable for a wed- ding present.

<a BANNERETTE. THE foundation of the centre part may be of q

Fig. 1.—Embroidery and Appliqué Design for Bannerette in the Full Size. four inehes wide, and of the length of the sides of the case. Join the ends together, and bind the sides with braid. Sew them to the lower part of the case and to three sides of the upper part, leaving one long side open to receive the table-cloths. In order to keep the souffiet in Shape, sew a strip of card-board, covered with | satin or velvet. It is bordered with velvet or satin of two shades, worked round with her- ring-bone stitch; it is lined with silk, and edged with cord, and finished with tassels. The illustration of the working of the centre part is given in full size. This bannerette is made on a frame of either |

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am ee - Reon eaacaanis ——- Fig. 2 gilt, ebony, or plain wood, and is used to pro- tect the eyes¥from gas or firelight, the stand lifting out of the base so it can be held in the hand. heat, _-o KNITTED CUFF, IN TWO STRIPES, VERY ‘PRETTY. Materials.—One ounce of Shetland wool and four pins No. 19. Cast 26 stitches onthe 1st needle, 28 on the 2d, and 18 on the 3d. 1st row. Seam a stitch, slip a_stitch, knit a stitch, pull the slipped stitch over the knitted one, knit a stitch, bring the wool forward, knit a stitch, bring the wool forward, Knit a stitch, knit 2 together, seam a stitch. 2d stripe. Knit a stitch, bring the wool forward, and knit a stitch ; continue to bring the wool forward, and knit a stitch till you haye made 8 loop stitches. Continue these alternate stripes all round this row. 2d. Seam a stitch, knit 7 plain, seam a stitch, knit 17 plain. Continue these alternate stripes all round this row. 3d. Seam a stitch, slip a stich, knit a stitch, 278 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. pull the slipped stitch over the knitted one, knit a stitch, bring the wool forward, knit a stitch, bring the wool forward, knit a stitch, knit 2 together, seam a stitch. 2d stripe. Knit 3, knit 2 together, knit 7, slip a stitch, knit a stitch, pull the slipped stitch over the knitted one, knit 3. Continue the stripes all round the row. 4th. Seam a stitch, knit 7, seam a stitch, knit 2, knit 2 together, knit 7, slip a stitch, knit a stitch, pull the slipped stitch over the knitted one, knit 2. Continue the 2 stripes to the end of the row. 5th. Seay a stitch, slip a stitch, knit a stitch, pull the Mbped stitch over the knitted one, knit a stitch, bring the wool forward, knit a stitch, bring the wool forward, knit a stitch, knit 2 together, seam a stitch. 2d stripe. Knit 1, knit 2 together, knit 7, slip a stitch, knit a stitch, pull the slipped stitch over the knitted one, knit 1. Continue the 2 stripes all round. 6th. Seam a stitch, knit 7, seam a stitch, knit 2 together, knit 7, slip a stitch, knit a stitch, pull the slipped stitch over the knitted one. Continue the 2 stripes all round. This com- pletes the pattern. Begin again with the 1st row, and repeat the pattern 18 times, 19th time knit the first 2 rows the same as usual. 3d row. Knit the 1st stripe the same as be- fore, but in the 2d stripe knit 1, knit 2 together, knit 11, slip 1, knit 1, pull the slipped stitch over the knitted one, knit 1 in the 2d stripe of the 4th row, knit 2 together, knit 11, slip 1, knit 1, pull the slipped stitch over the knitted one. Continue the same all round. Cast off. ARABESQUE DESIGN IN TATTING, FOR EDGING OF TOILET COVERS. Materials.—Cotton Nos. 8 and 10, a shuttle, and tatting pin. Two strands of cotton are requisite for this pattern. Fill theshuttle with No. 10 cotton. COMMENCE on the 8 cotton that is not on the shuttle, 5 double stitches, 1 pearl, 5 double. 1st loop. Now with the shuttle cotton make 5 double, 1 pearl, 5 double, draw close. 2d. Begin close to the last tat, 5 doubie, 1 pearl, 5 double, draw close. On the thread 5 double stitches.

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3d. 5 double, join to pearl of 2d tat (1 double, 1 pearl, 5 times), 5 double, draw close. 4th. 5 double, join to last pearl of 3d tat (1 double, 1 pearl, 7 times), 5 double, draw close. 5th. 5 double, join to last pearl of 4th tat (1 double, 1 pearl, 5 times), 5 double, draw close. Take the thread, 5 double. 6th. 5 double, join to last pearl of Sth tat, 2 double, 1 pearl, 5 double, draw close. 7th. 5 double, 1 pearl, 5 double, draw up. Take the thread, 5 double, join to stem, 5 double, 1 pearl, 5 double, join to pearl of 7th tat, 5 double, 1 pearl, 5 double, 1 pearl, 5 pearl. 1st loop of 2d scallop. 5 double, jein to pear! of 7th tat, 5 double. 2d. 5 double, join to 6th tat, 2 double, 1 pearl, 5 double, draw close. Take the thread, 5 double. . 3d. 5 double, join to 2d tat (1 double, 1 pearl, 5 times), 5 double, draw close, and so on from * or 4th tat. oin >

TRAY COVER. A Part of the border for this cover is shown Fig. 1.,

in the full size in Fig: 2. It is a good design for washstand mats. Linen worked with scarlet Fig. 2

Andalusian wool has a pretty effect for these mats. WORK DEPARTMENT. 279

CORNER BRACKET, ORNAMENTED WITH DRAPERY. Tue bracket is of carved: wood. Round the edge of it is an embroidered drapery, the detail of which is shown in the full-size in Fig. 2.

Velvet or cloth of any color to suit the furni- ture_may be chosen for the foundation ; gold- colored and brown silk for the embroidery. Fig. 2.—Drapery for Bracket. Te.

Each separate part of the drapery is lined with silk or tammy of the color of the foundation, . and is finished at the points with a little tassel.

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a eee e 280 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. A silk cord is sewn round the edge, and a heading of quilled ribbon or cloth ornaments the edge of the bracket above the drapery. ——_—_ --e CASKET PINCUSHION. A sQUARE box of thin wood or pasteboard is lined throughout with quilted cherry-colored satin. The top is then stuffed and covered with satin, with a coverpf crochet or guipure netting over it, designs for which have been frequently given in the Lapy’s Boox. The sides and bot- tom are also covered with satin, finished on each edge with a silk cord. A ruche of satin ribbon, with ‘bows at each corner, trims the cushion. The Tid is edged with a cord, and lifts up, furnishing a receptacle for jewelry. os > BABY’S BOOT (CROCHET). Materials.—A quarter of an ounce of rose-colored woel, one yard of rose and white satin ribbon, and a pair of cork soles: MAKE a chain of eleven loops with rose- colored single Berlin wool, and work one row | in double crochet, then work the remainder of the slipper in ribbed crochet. For the front, work until you have nine ridges, increasing at each edge by working two stitches in one. For the sides, work nine stitches until a suffi- cient length is worked (about twenty ridges will be required ), then join this to the front, and work in double crochet all round, increas- ing two stitches at each corner of the instep ; finish with a row of one double, and ‘seven chain twice, in each stitch all round, ind draw with a ribbon. Sew on the soles on the wrong side, make a strap the length required for the ankle by working two rows in double crochet, making three stitches at each end for the but- tonholes. te al BOX OTTOMAN. Tue foundation of this ottamon is a strong cireular bux, the top of which must be well padded. Thearrangement of the pretty chintz cover ‘fs clearly shown in the design. It will be found to be an exceedingly useful article.in the bedroom. eraser uo Poe = a eo wea we ae oF re = ~ a -— ~~ a= 4

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REVEIPTS. 281 Receipts, Ete. STEPS IN COOKERY. WitnHovt wishing to enter upon the various modes of cleaning kitchen utensils, we will merely observe that the best plan is to clean them as far as possible as soon as they have been used, and that when we say clean, we mean make them absolutely free from dirt and grease. We will venture to say that ina majority of the kitchens of our middle classes the cooks would pronounce as clean vessels which no amount of sand, soda, and soap could ever make fit for use; and yet, as a rule, English servants are not dirty, for see how bright the door .plates, and how white the door steps (no easy matter in a climate like this) are Kept by them. That they do not keep their saucepans clean is purely a matter of habit, and, like most bad habits, is difficult to eradicate ; but yet it is not an impossibility if the mistresses will but insist upon them being kept in good order. Cleanliness is a word which should be graven in capital letters over the door of all kitchens, large or small. When a young woman has been taught not only how to clean a saucepan, but also how to know a clean saucepan from a dirty one—to know, in fact, what absolute cleanliness means—then, and then only, should she be permitted to enter upon the study of cookery; an art, or science, as you please, than which there is none of more importance to mankind. Let those laugh who will, but what would become of us without cooks, even bad as they are. The next thing to teach an apprentice is the pre- paration of the materials for cooking, viz., plucking and drawing poultry and game, skinning and draw- ing rabbits and hares, trimming joints, cutting up loins into cutlets, cleaning and scaling fish, etc., and lastly, the trussing of poultry and game. With the above, should be taught the picking, washing, and cutting up of vegetables—from peeling a potato or shelling peas to turning carrots for ragouts with fancy vegetable cutters. All these things appear simple enough, but, like everything else, to be well done they require great care; and there is a wrong and dirty way of doing them, as weil as a right and a clean way. Until a kitchen maid has learnt to prepare everything ready for cooking in a becoming and approved form, she should not be allowed to ap- proach the kitchen range, except, perhaps, to learn how to light and manage the fire—an operation, by the way, which is by no means unimportant, and re- quires a certain amount of training and practice to be done properly. The first operation of cooking to be performed by the tyro is boiling vegetables in water and salt; then boiling fish, and boiling meat. Her instructor will be able to te her whether the things to be boiled should be placed in hot or cold water in the first in- stance, and also when the salt is to be put in; but how much of it to use, and how leng each thing should boil, are matters which the learner must find out by her own practice and observation. To have learnt to boil a potato or fish to a nicety is already a great stride in the art of cookery. Making stock for soups will be the next step; and by degrees the preparation of soups and sauces should be taught. At this stage a cookery book, 'f it be a tolerably good one, becomes useful, and the composition of made dishes of meat, of poultry, of fish, and of vegetables, can be learnt from it; but the making these things creditably must be learnt by practice. VOL. LXXxIv.—18 Frying, roasting, and broiling come next, and each of these constitutes a special art, which requires special instructions. What is common to all is the management of the fire, and this must be mastered first. To learn how to do all these things well is the work of years, and even then the learner must have, in addition to her own aptitude and willingness, the good fortune to be under an instructor who knows how the work is properly to be done. Now-a-days women turn cooks just as the fancy takes them, and that such find places is a sign of two things—the great dearth of properly trained cooks, and the ina- bility of employers to distinguish between a cook and an imposter. The preparation of sweet dishes is quite a separate branch of cookery to master, which requires even greater training and practice ; cleanliness being here more than éver an indispensable condition to insure anything butunutterable failure. It is given to very few to be good cooks, and at the same time pastry cooks and confectioners. For, unless such an one have by nature a light and a cool hand, no amount of teaching and practice will enable her to make good pastry. Still, there is plenty and enough of sweet dishes into the composition of which paste does not enter. These should be taught by degrees —from the simplest to the more complicated. But, above all things, the preliminary operations, such as whisking eggs, buttering moulds, etc., must be learnt perfectly. Last of all comes the knowledge which constitutes the ethics of cookery, and this will gradually grow upon the cook who is fond of her calling and inte- rested init. If this be the case, she will lose no op- portunity. of watching better cooks than herself at work, and seeing how they send up dinners, and of what these dinners consist. She will also make a collection of bills of fare, and last, but not least, she will study books on cookery. Thus will she become able not only to cook but to compose a dinner. The above is but an imperfect outline of the course of study which is required if one is to become a good cook. Nor can the searcity of such be wondered at when we consider the endless knowledge which must be acquired before you can honestly call your- self a cook at all. In fact, a cook must be an artist in the broadest sense of the word. : MISCELLANEOUS COOKING. Veal Hash.—Take some remnants of roast or braised veal, trim off all browned parts, and mince it very fine. Fry a shallot chopped small in plenty of butter; when it is a light straw-color, add a large pinch of flour and a little stock; then the minced meat, with chopped parsley, pepper, salt, and nut- meg to taste ; mix well ;.add more stock if necessary, and let the mince gradually get hot by the side of the fire. When quite hot, stir into it off the fire a yelk of egg and the juice of a lemon strained and beaten up together. Se. +e with sippets of bread fried in butter around it, and three or four poached eggs on the top. Sweetbreads.—Trim a couple of sweetbreads, 80. i them half an hour in tepid water, then parboil them for a few minutes, and lay them into cold water; when quite cold, take them out, dry them, and lard them thickly with fine strips of bacon. Put a slice of fat bacon in a stewpan with some onions, carrots, a bundle of sweet herbs, pepper, salt, and spices to taste. and a small quantity of rieh stock; lay the sweetbreads on this, and let them gently stew till quite done, basting the top oceasionally with the liquor. When cooked, strain the liquor, skim it of

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panne commer 282 GODEY’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. superfiuous fat, reduce it almost to a glaze; brown the larded size of the sweetbreads with a salamander, and serve with the sauce over them. Brown Soup.—Take equal parts of carrots, tur- nips, onions, and celery; cut them all in the shape of very small dice. Puta good piece of butter ina saucepan, with a little pepper and salt, and a tea- spoonful of powdered lump sugar; toss the carrots in this till they begin to take color; then put in the celery, after a little time the turnips, and then the onions. Whenall the vegetables are equally colored, add as much stock as you want soup, and set the saucepan by the side of the fire to simmer gently for a couple of hours. Then skim, and serve. Horseradish Sauce.—Scrape one or more sticks of horseradish very fine; indeed, to grate it is best. Have a good tablespoonfu!; put it in your sauce tureen with a teaspoonful of made mustard, a tea- spoonful of salt, two tablespoonfuls of good vinegar, and three tablespoonfuls of rich cream. This is an excellent and well-tried receipt. Sheep’s Kidneys.—Custom seems to have estab- lished but one method of dressing sheep's kidneys for breakfast, namely, 2 ta brochette, or broiled, Split them epen, but do not entirely divide them. Put a fine skewer through them to prevent their warping or closing together again; place them, in- side downwards, upon a gridiron; as soon as they feel pretty firm turn them, and directly the gravy is well risen, take them up; pepper, salt, and add to | each a good piece of butter rubbed in some boiled parsley, squeeze a lemon over them, and put them inte a hot dish. It is also admissible to toss them in butter, or cut them into thin slices; season them, dip them into batter, and fry them. They are also capital devilled, or chopped small after they are dressed, and made into croquettes or an omelette— for this purpose one kidney is sufficient for a mode- rate-sized omelette. e Dolpettes of Cold Meat.—Prepare the meat as for a hash—or some hashed meat that has become cold will answer the purpose—add to it somé bread-crums, enough to stiffen the consistency, mix it together with the yelk of eggs, shape it into small balls, dip them into egg, roll them in bread-crums and grated Parmesan cheese, and fry them brown. Glaze them or serve them with tomato sauce. Venison Pie.—Cut your meat into moderately small pieces; boil down the bones to make gravy. Season the meat, and properly distribute the fat and | the lean in a dish edged with crust. Pack the veni- | son pretty elose, cover with a lid of crust, and bake size, and arrange them upon iron (or tin) plates, slowly for four hours. If preferred, the venison may be first jugged for two or three hours, to make it tender, and afterwards put into a raised pie. CAKES, PUDDINGS, ETC. Lisbon Cake.—Melt half a pound of good butter, having care to skim and draw it clear in a bowl. When it has become cool, stir it with a wooden spoon until it is of the consistence of cream. Then add half a pound of white sugar in powder, stirring | the ‘whole continually, and beating in from one to six eggs, a half pound of flour through a sieve, and séme grated lemon peel, or nutmeg, according to | yéur taste. After it is thoroughly mixed, turn the composition into one or more moulds well greased, and bake in a very moderate heat. It must remain three-quarters of an hour in the oven. A Lady's Pudding.—Rubd off on lumps of loaf- sugar the yellow rind of one large lemon, or two small ones. Then crush that sugar, ahd add more to it til! you have feur heaped tablespoonfuls. Beat to a stiff froth the whites only.of four eggs. Then gradually add the sugar (a little at a time) to the beaten white of anegg. Have ready in a pan a pint of cream or rich unskimmed milk. Stir into it by degrees the mixture of white of egg and sugar, alter- nately with four heaped tablespoonfuls or four ounces of sifted flour. When the whole is mixed, stir it long and hard; and then transfer it to a deep dish, the inside of which must be slightly buttered. Bake it from half an hour tothree-quarters; and when done, sift powdered sugar over the top. Send it to table warm, with a sauce of equal quantities of fresh but- ter and powdered white sugar stirred together toa light cream, and flavored with lemon-juice and grated nutmeg. This pudding will be found very delicate. For a large one, take the whites of eight eggs, the rind of two large lemons, half a pound of sugar, a quart of cream or rich milk, and eight heaped tablespoonfuls of flour. Flat Paste Cake.—Put in a bowl three pounds of flour, make a hole in the middle, in which put one pound of fresh butter, four eggs, one ounce of salt (if the butter be salt, a less quantity will be suffi- cient), and enough water to mix the paste so that it ean be worked. Knead well, make it into balls that you flatten with a rolling pin, on a floured table, that the dough may not adhere. Make your flat cakes as thick as your thumb, wash them over with the yelk of an egg, powder with sugar and chopped almonds, put them in an oven, and bake them of a good color. Savoy Cake.—Take eight eggs, separate the whites from the yelks, which latter you put in an earthen dish, with three-quarters of a pound of white sugar in powder, and the grated yellow or entire skin of a lemon. Stir the yelks of eggs with the sugar, until they have well amalgamated. Whip your whites of eggs to a very thick snow; then mix your yelks gently, and add, through a sieve, a half pound of fine flour. Mix well the whole, turn your paste in the tinned moulds or forms, which you have beforehand carefully greased. Do not fill the moulds more than two-thirds full, and bake in an oven moderately hot. Magdalen Cukes.—Take half a pound of butter, and let it soften in steam; stir it with a wooden spoon for a good quarter of an hour, until it is re- duced to the consistence of cream ; incorporate with it then, one by one, six eggs, add a half pound of grated sugar, a little orange flower, or grated lemon- peel, and after all, mix with it a pound of flour. Work well your paste, so that you can roll it out with a roiling-pin. Make your eakes of any convenient about half the thickness of your thumb; wash them with yelks of eggs, and bake them in a very mode- rate heat, so that they may remain in the oven half an hour. Carraway Cake.—Sift half a pound of rice flour into adish. In a deep pan cut up half a pound of fresh butter, and mix with it half a pound of powdered loaf-sugar. Having warmed them sligitly, stir to- gether the butter and sugar till very light and ereamy. Break five eggs, and beat them ina shal- low pan till thick and smooth. Then stir them gradually into the pan of beaten sugar and butter. alternately with the flour, a little of each at a time. Add by degrees a teaspoonful of powdered cinna- mon and nutmeg mixed, a wineglassful of rose water or of rosé brandy, and half an ounce or more of car- raway seeds thrown in a few at a time, stirring hard all the while, Butter a square iron pan, put in the mixture, set it in a rather brisk oven, and bake it well. When done, sift powdered sugar over it; and when cool, cut it inte long squares. ew OF oS oF OD aa —/! - me ce — £2 a Os FO SF ae

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1e@ nt y Ps 1g 1e it e, le it. id ry at of at of 1e It it at at PS ie dd ST ar BS oO r =e © REVEIPTS. 283 CONFECTIONERY DAINTIES. Marmalade Cakes.—Mix together a quarter of a peck of flour, with half a pound of refined sugar dis- solved in ten spoonfuls of water, half a pint of yeast, a pound of currants, two ounces of candied lemon- peel, cut in thin slices, half an ounce each of cinna- mon and mace grated, a quart of milk, ten eggs beaten up, and about a pound of orange marmalade. Bake the cakes at a moderate temperature, and ice with loaf-sugar and white of eggs. Banbury Cakes.—Take three pounds of currants, a pound of butter, four ounces of loaf-sugar, a quar- ter of an ounce of mace, with the same quantity of cloves, and half a peck of flour. Then make it into a paste with boiled milk, and three-quarters of a pint of yeast. Place the dough near the fire to rise, knead it well before it is made into cakes. To make a Hedge-hog in Confectionery.—Beat up about two pounds of blanched almonds with a little water and sherry into a stiff paste; then pound up with it a pint of cream, twelve raw eggs, and enough loaf-sugar to sweeten it. Put the paste in a pan over the fire, and mix with it half a pound of butter, which must be continually stirred into it. When the paste has become sufficiently stiff by boiling, | make it into the shape of a hedge-hog. Imitate the bristles by means of blanched almonds slit, and place the hedge-hog inadish. Then boil some cream with sugar, and the yelks of a few eggs, and when ready, pour into the dish round the hedge-hog. Let the dish get cold, and send it to table. Barley Sugar.—Prepare some strong syrup, and | boil it as much as possible without allowing it to change color. Then strain into it astrong decoction of barley. Remove the syrup from the fire, and al- low it to settle; then pour #% out on a marble slab previously well oiled. When the barley sugar is cold, cut it in pieces, and roil it into sticks of the proper shape. Lemon Drops.—Pour some lemon-juice on some finely-powdered loaf-sugar, and boil to the consist- ence of thick syrup. Drop this on plates, and put them ina warm place todry. They are then to be taken off the plates, and preserved in well-stopped vessels. If preferred, some of the lemon-peel may be cut small and added to the syrup. Another Way to Make Lemon Drops.—Pour four ounces of lemon-juice over a pound of loaf-sugar, and also the same quantity of rose-water. Boil them int syrup, and then add some grated lemon-peel, and mix them well together. Then proceed as pre- viously directed. MISCELLANEOUS, The Management of the Finger-Nails.—The cor- rect management of the nails is to cut them of an oval shape, corresponding with the shape of the fin- gers. Never allow them to grow too long, as it makes it difficult to keep them clean; nor too short, as it causes the tips of the fingers to become flat- tened, and enlarged, and turn upwards, which gives the hand an awkward appearance. The skin which crows in a semicircle on the top of the nail requires much attention, as it is often drawn on with its growth, dragging the skin below the nail so tight as to cause it to divide into what are termed agnails. This is to be prevented by separating the skin from the nail by a blunt half-circular instrument. Many persons Cut this pellicle, which causes it to grow very thick and uneven, and sometimes damages the growth of thé nail. It is also injurious to prick under the nail with a pen, or penknife, or point of the scissors. The nails should be scrubbed with a | brush not too hard, and the semicircular flesh pressed back with the towel without touching the quick. This method, if pursued daily, will keep the nails in proper order. When the nails are badly formed or ill-shaped, the ridges or fibres should be scraped and rubbed with a lemon, and well dried afterwards; but if the nails are very thin, the above remedy will not do them any good, but might cause them to split. Hints about Toasted Bread.—To prepare buttered toasty hold it before a good clear fire that it may be done as quickly as possible, and butter it the instant it is toasted. If this is not attended to, the torst, instead of eating light and crisp, will be tough and leathery. To prepare dry toast, if it is required to be crisp and thin, it should be put in the toast-rack, and placed before the fire for some time before it is used. When thick toast, not too dry, is wanted, it should be done as quickly as possible, and served at once. To Polish Patent Leather Boots.—Mix some tur- pentine and sweet oil together, and rub over the boots with the finger, and polish with a soft cloth. If there are any cracks in them, these should be filled up with the ordinary boot blacking first, and any furniture polish may be applied, instead of the turpentine and oil, if preferred. This treatment renders them more lasting, and gives a good polish till the bopts are entirely worn out. Savory Omelet.—Make batter as for a pancake, chop a little parsley and green onions, and pepper and salt, stir in, and fry in plenty of lard. It may be served either dry or with gravy. To Cleanse Cloth or Silk from Spots of Wazr.— Place a piece of soft soap upon each spot and warm it slightly before the fire, or the sun (if hot) will serve the purpose. Wash the spot afterwards with soft water, and it will disappear. To Make Toast and Water.—Put into a deep jug some slices of bread which have been toasted on both sides a deep brown. Pour a quantity of spring water over them, and cover the jug. After the water has stood for some hours, strain it for use. CONTRIBUTED. Ginger Cookies (or Molasses.)—-Two cups of mo- lasses (New Orleans the best), eight tablespoonfuls of butter, nine of hot water, four teaspoonfuls of soda, and one of alum: dissolve each in separate cups in half the water, one teaspoonful. of ginger (or more if preferred); put the alum and soda in the molasses first; mix soft as you can roll out. Sugar Cookies.—Break into a cup one egg, a piece of butter the size ef the egg, then fill up with sugar. Fix three cups in this way, and to each cup add a tablespoonful of thick sour milk, and to three table- spoonfuls of milk add a teaspoonful of soda. Remem- ber to put an egg to each cup, butter and sugar the same. Harrison Pudding.—Four cups of flour, two-thirds of a cup of melted butter, one cup of molasses, one of raisins, one of milk, one teaspoonful of soda. In- stead of butter, if you choose, use one cup of suet chopped fine and two eggs. Boil in a bag or tin dish three hours. Baker's Gingerbread.—T wo eups of molasses (New Orleans best), four tablespoonfuls of butter stirred together without melting; add one cup of flour, two tablespoonfuls of soda dissolved in one cup of milk, one teaspoonful of alum dissolved in one-third of a cup ef boiling water, and one tablespoonful of gin- ger. Stir all well together, adding flour gradually. Roll thin, cut in slices, and bake quickly. Mrs. B. T. P.

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NF ye ae 284 GODEY’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. Editors’ Cable. THE POWER OF BEAUTY. ° The woman is the Glory of the man.—St. PauL. THE eyes of the infant seek Beauty in Light, The beam he would grasp is the world to his sight: Not to have, nor to hold, for self is asleep ; ’Tis an instinct immortal the Beauty to keep, Which Light and its colors in garniture wove, To glorify Earth and the Heaven above ; And caverns and oceans this garnishing prove, For the beauties of Nature are smiles of Gop’s love. : This thirst for the beautiful clings to us all— *Tis the grief of the Soul for her pitiful Fall! We feel that the perfect in Nature was given To beings created for glory in Heaven! We must seek th’ ALL-Goop our lost heauty to win; We must train the young children ere passions begin, For the human will be what the human hath been, While the false and the foul have a license for sin. Man gathers his gold, delving deep the dark mine ; —To Woman, God ‘’s gold in His image Divine, A jewel too precious for angels to wear, Is laid on her bosom, or lent to her care: Her home may be humble, but blessings are given— Withheld in the sunshine—through shadows of even; And the faith, that in sorrow for duty hath striven, May brighten her gems with the glory of Heaven. Oh, mother of sons !—in our land of full life, Where boys may press onward, with men, to the strife— Are thine far away from the home of their youth? Fear not! If their hearts hold the Beauty of Truth, Impressed by the lessons they learned at thy knee— That the Gop of the Brs_g is LorD of the free— They will follow His Laws, though no mortal may see ; They will turn from temptation when thinking of thee. Let man, o’er the Earth he subdues, hold his sway, “Sweet Home” is the Empire of woman alway; Here, giving her life for the lives she hath given, She may rule, as her right, in the service of Heaven. Her presence is felt like the breathings of May, That open the flow'ret, and lure the estray, While her faith in the Saviour, illuming man’s way, Crewns the gloom of his toil with the GLory or Day. THE WORKER AND THE WINNER. THERE is one great idea which we have sometimes striven to place clearly before our readers, but which is so suggestive and so important that we will once more turn a new aspect of it towards them. The inorganic world—the vegetable and the brute creation—require for their subjugation the strong hand of man. When the nations of the earth emerge into the light of history, we find them one aad all slowly subduing the constitution of Nature, or adapt- ing themselves to it, through the vigor and inven- tions of their men. It is not an artificial disability, imposed upon womaa by civilization, but a natural incapacity, to show her that her work lies not in the region of matter. Wherever the mere endeavor to | subsist has absorbed the energies of a tribe, there the women have been degraded into hewers of wood and drawersof water. The savage, who valued only strength, despised the sex who had less than himself. And the law has always been the same, that inani- mate and brute Nature yielded only to the hand of man. Enter for a moment a jeweller’s store. See the diamonds and pearls, the silver and the gold, the bronzes and the marbles that have been dug from the depths of the earth, rounded, and polished, and cut into a thousand beautiful shapes by the cunning hand of the artificer; and reflect upon the toil, the ingenuity, the slow progress of mechanical art that ealled them into being; and then reflect that in all this work there has not been raised the hand of a single woman! And now think a little longer. This magnifi- cence of ornament was not made by women, but it was made for women; for their personal adornment, and that of the homes over which they preside. Man labors that he may make woman happy, that he may adorn her dweilling-piace and herself with the choicest fruits of his toil. In so doing he recognizes the great fact that while she has done nothing of this hard work, she has helped him in a worthier way. She-has added strength to his hand, she has lifted a lamp for his guidance. “ These are my jewels,” said the Roman matron, as she led her young sons into the room where the wives of Roman Senators were flaunting their jewels. Never was a better definition of woman's important work of an educator given in so few words. Hey work is to improve human nature in the living beauty of goodness, whilst men beautify unorgan- ized matter. ‘‘ Goodness is beauty in its best estate.” This personal goodness, the complement of all the virtues and accomplisiments, should be the grand aim of life. The young mother with her new-born so. on her bosom has in her keeping a jewel of more worth than all the diamonds in the world; and in his work for her, man is making his return of gratitude for the priceless gifts he has received at her hands. The education, without which half his force is wasted; the moral principle which keeps him steadfast against temptation, and feaches him to do unto others what he would that others should do unto him, he owes to the training of woman, and this is his tribute of thanks. The real Inspirer, for whom this great work of subduing the inorganic world has been achieved, is woman. For her man’s brain has thought, bis eye has measured, his hand executed, and his fingers ornamented whatever his understanding and genius could apprehend of beauty and use in the material world. No book, except the Bible, has so clearly de- fined the differences of men and women in nature and in duties, as will the study of this collection of his beautiful work for her use of the beautiful. And woman’s work, when she shall be trained and fitted for it, as man now is for his own work, adequately, will show results on humanity more excellent in their beauty than the masculine mind can now ap- prehend from the results of what it has done. a 2éaAws= "ee = we rE Se hw eS ee ee Oe HK hus Ce “aA Deeerwme 4 lanl eo =k ee mee eee

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re vl ly if. ii- of 1e m id 1g ie at sl st > _ Se. EDITORS’ TABLE 285 OUR NEWLY-FOUND KINDRED. THE progress of science is bringing the nations of the world nearer together in thought and feeling, as well as in other ways. It has not been suspected until recently that the people of the south of India belonged, as regards language and traditions, to the same peculiar stock, or subdivision of the human race, as the nations of Europe. Yet it seems that this is now an ascertained fact. The author of a re- markable article on ** Dravidian Folk-Songs,”’ which appeared in a recent number of the Cornhill Maga- zine, affirms that the Dravidians (as the people of Southern India, numbering some thirty or forty mil- lions, and comprising several distinct nations, are collectively designated) “‘ represent lineally an off- shoot from the great parent stock which left the fatherland long before Sanscrit was grown into vigor, and about the same period that the Teutonic wave flowed northwards into Europe. There is scarcely a Dravidian root,” he adds, “ which does not appear in Gothic, Anglo-Saxon, or Icelandic. The gram- matical forms follow the same rule, and Tamil and Telugu possess at the present day the complete verb which has left such traces in our language as are, art, and were.” It is satisfactory to learn that these newly-dis- covered relatives of ours are far superior in point of morality and religion to our more distant and more self-sufficient kinsfolk, tae Braminical nations, as they may be called, of Northern India. Indeed, they seem quite worthy to be ranked, in natural qualities, with the best of the western nations. This may be inferred from the evidence of their popular songs, of which many examples are given by this writer, in what he affirms to be almost literal translations. These songs are of a very peculiar cast—serious, often religious, and always pure. “In a large col- lection of folk-songs from all the chief Dravidian | languages,” we are told, “‘not one may be called im- moral, not one cheerful.”” The mournful cast of these songs is ascribed to the struggle in the popular | mind against the gross idolatry which has been im- posed upon these nations by the Brahman invasion and supremacy. Many of their religious poems are | directly aimed at this idolatry, which they reject and rebuke. In its place they invoke a single deity— pure, just, and merciful—under the name usually of Vishnu (the * Preserver” of the Brahman Triad) or some one of his appellatives—Purandala, Narasimha, Runga, or the like. As an example of this style, we | may quote the concluding verse of a song entitled “The Troublesome World :"— “When men are sick and poor, Sorrow enters; Though wealth should bar the door, Sorrow enters. If gained by strength and care— * Pain is in store— Great hoards the shelves should bear— Pain is in store. But if each day you pray, No sorrow comes; To him who hears alway— No sorrow comes— The excellent Vishnu, Your joy is great; Great peace will dwell in you, Your joy is great. Chorus. Never, oh, my sou'! can peace be thine, Until great Runga’s grace be mine; If angry he, all hope resign.” A very remarkable piece, ina peculiar unrhymed metre, is directed against the worship of images. It is certainly surprising, when we think of the many- headed and many-armed monsters of the Hindvo pantheon and of the great idol of Juggernauth, to find a poem comprising verses like the following among the popular minstrelsy of Southern India :— “My God is not a chiselled stone Or lime, so bright and white: Nor is he cleaned with tamarind, Like images of brass. “I cannot worship such as these, But loudly make my boast That in my heart I place the feet, The golden feet of God. “Tf he be mine, what can I need? My God is everywhere. Within borane man’s highest word, My 4iod existeth still. “In sacred books, in darkest night, In deepest, bluest s y In those who know the truth, and all The faithful few of earth— “* My God is found in all of these. But can the Deity Descend to images of stone Or copper, dark and red? * Alas! how long did I adore The chiselled stone, and serve An image made of lime or brass, That’s cleaned with tamarind!” A people whose character and sentiments are re- presented by such compositions as these, are fitted for a better religion than the childish and cruel de- lusions of Hindoo mythology, which they are instinct- ively seeking to throw off. One cannot but look for- ward with hope to the results which will follow when the nature of the Christian belief is made known to these millions of our kindred, who appear, it must be confessed, better qualified than our own direct an- cestors, with their harsh creed and savage Vathalla, would seem to have been, to appreciate its excel- lence, and observe its strict but gentle requirements. There is no brighter subject of anticipation than the | day when the whole people of India, numbering one- tenth part of the human race, with their strong re- ligious feeling and their high reasoning power, shall accept the teachings which in a few centuries have lifted the nations of Europe far above them from a much lower deep of barbarism. USEFUL EDUCATION. A MOVEMENT has been set on foot in England for improving the education of women in the middle and higher classes of society, by rendering it more practically useful. The complaint is made that they “are taught a great many accomplishments, | but have very few solid acquirements;” and that * girls, on leaving school, are frequently suffered to lead a frivolous, useless life, instead-of being en- couraged to raise a good superstructure on the foun- dations existing.”” A meeting was recently held at the Society of. Arts, under the presidency of Lord Lyttleton, and a prospectus issued-of a scheme for a proposed improvement in the methods of instruction. The committee propose to provide what they term a good “home education; that is, we presume, an education which will fit the pupils for usefulness in their future homes. The matter, we are told, “has nothing political or emancipatory about it, but limits its aspirations merely to social remedies.” There is certainly room for improvement in the same direc- tion in our own country, and perhaps quite as much in young men’s colleges as in ladies’ schools. t SERVANTS IN FRANCE ANO ENGLAND. Uxper the title of ‘French Home Life,” an evi- dently well-informed writer has lately given in Blackwood’s Magazine an account of the character and h..bits of domestic servants in France, as com- pared with those of the same cless in England. His | rernarks are highly suggestive, as well for the facts | which he states, as for his inferences. -His descrip-

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= EE a NN pA > ees ee ee ao apempteEn. ttn kilajne 286 GOVDEY'S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. tion of the wide distance and utter alienation, the impassable gulf, as it would seem, between servants and their employers ia England, is quite startling and almost appalling. He speaks chiefly of men- servauts, though to a certain extent his remarks ap- ply, of course, to women as well. In England it is expected that a servant shall be an impassive ma- chine, without sympathies and without feelings, ex- cept where his rights and perquisites of office, so to speak, are concerned. He must not smile in his master’s presence ; must not expect tebe addressed familiarly, or to be admitted to take any part in the joys or sorrows of the family in which he lives. On the other hand, he is allowed, and, indeed, expected, to guard his own claims and privileges with the ut- most jealousy. He will only do the special work for which he is engaged—the footman never taking the coachman’s place, for example; and he must not be disturbed in his allotted times for meals and rest. Under this system the English servant becomes a stolid, sullen, selfish personage, outwardly respectful, but inwardly, as this writer believes, nourishing hostile and resentful feelings, if not toward his own employers, at all events towards their class, and the system of society in which he leads his joyless exist- ence. In France, on the other hand, masters are friendly with their servants: they talk together about the affairs of the fu.nily; and the result is, that service frequently assumes almost the form of affectionate intimacy. The servant, treated as a friend, is will- ing, in an emergency, to turn his hand to any work which the needs of the household may require, whether it falls within his department or not; and he does not insist on any special privileges. “In England,” we are told, “no mistress would venture to disturb her servant at his dinner; in France. she would unceremoniously send him out, if necessary, on an errand.of two hours, between his soup and his meat, and the man would go cheerily and without a growl.” Servants in France, moreover, under this system, are actually more respectful than those in England, and are not only more attached to their masters, but more friendly to the employing class, and more conservative. Very few domestics are found to sympathize with the Communists and other classes hostile to the existing frame of society. The writer, whose remarks we are condensing, ascribes the difference in the position and character of servants in the two countries to a cause which will doubtless surprise the readers of the magazine in which his views are set forth. This cause is in the word democracy. In France, as is well known, there is now complete political equality. All dis- tinctions of hereditary rank have been abolished, and every man fs an elector. The servant, there- fore, is not likely to experience from his employer that supercilious haughtiness with which he is treated where he is regarded as a member of an inferior and disfranchised class; and he, on the other hand, while his feelings are thus respected, is willing to exhibit proper deference and respect to his employer during his temporary engagement, which he knows he can terminate at will, after a brief notice. Thus a pleasant and kindly state of feeling grows up between the two classes. The writer adds that this sentiment of equality is as clearly felt, and with the same ef- fect, In the ease of women servants as in that of men. “The difference,” he observes, “is that the woman feels it, and the man thinks it; with one it is an instinct, with the other it isa conviction; but in both cases it lifts up the level of personal dignity; it generally softens manners, and renders the heart more capable of good feeling towards a master [or mistress, he might have added], whose superiority is only admitted ag an accident, and in no way as an inherent right.” These are certainly remarkable words to appear in a high Tory periodical. But the morai which they involve is commonplace enough, and requires no deep research to find out.. Moreover, it is a moral which is applicable all the world over, as well as in England and France. It is simply that if those whom we employ are treated with kindness and consideration, they will render back kindness and respect in return, and generally in double measure. TuE REst OF THE Goop:— When by a good man’s grave I muse alone, Methinks an angel sits upon the stone, Like those of old, on that thrice-hallowed night Who sat and watched in raiment heavenly bright; And, with a voice inspiring joy, not fear, Says, eons »ward, that He is not here, That He is risen !— ROGERS. NOTES AND NOTICES. SCIENTIFIC GARDENING.—The ** New England Wo- man’s Club” has done a good work in founding a | Horticultural School for women, to prepare them for the work of gardening as a business. The schoo! was first opened at Newton Centre, where a small estate was bought, and greenhouses erected by the promoters. Afterwards, on learning that the school of practical agriculture, in connection with Harvard University, at the Burrey farm in West Roxbury, would be open, in many of its most important branches, for the attendance of women, the school at Newton Centre was discontinued, and the funds are now used for the education of young women in the Harvard Institution. There is certainly no more healthful and agreeable pursuit than horticulture, and when pursued by one who has had ascientific training, it combines mental occupation and bodily exercise in a manner which perhaps no other calling canequal. May the energetic founders of the Massa- chusetts Horticultural School for women have good success and many imitators! HovsEHOLD CONVENIENCES.—How much of do- mestic comfort may depend on very small matters is well shown by a lively passage in Mrs. Hawthorne’s interesting “‘ Notes on England and Italy,” where a curious fact is noticed which we do not remember to have seen elsewhere mentioned. Describing her hotel, in the Scottish Highlands, near Loch Lomond, she says :— “Here I sit now in a pretty parlor, and we also have comfortable rooms surrounded—yes, give ear, England, and never more boast a superiority to auld Seotia!—surrounded with hospitable pegs and hooks! Sebdtland is not only the land o’ cakes, but the land o’ pees, and poor mortals are not obliged to wander wild with despair around their chambers, holding their garments, and erying, ‘Oh! where shall I hang them; oh! where?’ I never saw a peg in Engiand, and I believe Europe cannot show one, iy Scotland and alone excel in this nd.’ Perhaps this superiority of Scotland and America in pegs and hooks may be connected with our in- feriority in wardrobes, clothes-presses, and clothes- closets. Weare afraid even te guess what proportion of bedrooms in this country are without these truly indispensable adjuncts, for which “ pegs and hooks” in any number are but poor substitutes. But Mrs. Hawthorne’s experience, of course, referred to cases in which she had found neither of these conveniences ; and every lady traveller or lodger will share her feelings on this subject. To all “persons about to build,” we say, if you value the comfort of your

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~— om ee GS SS Oy families and guests, take care that every bedroom shall have its clothes-closet, with shelves, drawers, and “ pegs”’ in plenty “Aunt Patty's Scrap Bag.” By Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz.—This little book, so popular some years ago, is here handsomely reprinted and bound, for the pleasure of the new generation. In republishing Mrs. Hentz’s works, Mr. Peterson is doing a real service to the pubiic. She was an intelligent, culti- vated, and noble woman; and her books all bear the impress of her character. They are roman- tic, but never sensational, and from the vulgarity that infeets so much of modern literature they are entirely free. This is one of the most interesting of the series, and especially suitable for young people, with whom, we predict, it will have a great circu- lation. AT Cambridge University, England, the lectures for women promise to be attended by so large a number of students that a boarding-house for their accommodation has been established. The lectures embrace the subjects included in the public examina- tions recently established at Cambridge for women above the age of eighteen. Professor Seeley lectures on English history, Professor Cayley on eure and the principles of arithmetic, and Professor Babington on botany. The courses of Latin, Greek, geometry, logic, political economy, and the principles of musical harmony will follow in continuation of the lectures delivered in the first term. Lectures on the English and German languages are to be delivered to ele- mentary as well as tc the advanced ¢lasses. Women are also permitted to attend at the public lectures of many of the university professors. To CORRESPONDENTS.—The following articles have been accepted: “ Friends—Friendship’—* Romance | vs. Reality” —‘* Dolly Manvers’’—*‘ The Outlook” and | ** My Love's Dower.” The following have been declined: ‘What the New Year Said”—“ Aunt Deborah’s Ghost Story”’— “Counsel and Comfort’—‘‘The Rapids’—“ Garley in Search of Peace’’—‘*The Seal of Death” and “* Maggie Ellsworth.” ** Miss N. C.,’’ Boston, Mass.—You have now written us two letters, in neither of which do you inclose a stamp for reply. You may write as many as you please, but you get no answer unless you do send a stamp. “Miss A. L.,”’ Morrisania, N. Y.—No stamp for reply. “ The Captive.”’—No letter, no stamps. “The Pastor’s Story.”—No letter, no stamps. Literary Notices. From J. B. Lipprncorr & Co., Philadelphia :— LEFT TO HERSELF. By Jennie Woodville. A book skilfully and vivaciously written, and of passing interest. Without partaking of any of the sombre- ness or tedium of a so-called religious novel, the story aims to show how barren and hopeless a thing is a woman’s life unsanctified by religious belief. WEARITHORNE; or, In the Light of To-day. By ‘“ Fadette,”’ author of “Ingemisco,” ete. A cleverly written story, in which there is considerable vigor and freshness of characterization. The de velopment of the plot is, perhaps, managed too sng- gestively to please most readers. Indeed, we must acknowledge that, in regard to some points in the story, our ¢areful perusal of it has left us, after all, in a condition of tantalizing uncertainty. THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS, By John LITERARY NOTIVLS. 287 Foster. Vol. I. It has come at last—an authentic biography of Charles Dickens—the book that we, in common with all admirers of the peerless English novelist, have been waiting for. It is prepared by Dickens's most intimate friend, the man who, in Dickens's lifetime, had contided to him all the lat- ter’s plans, intentions, and hopes concerning his literary efforts, and who, after his death, was one of the executors of Dickens's estate. The book reads almost like a novel itself. In it we find the original Micawber; in it we are taken in truth to the Mar- shalsea, and discover how Dickens could portray the place and its characters so faithfully in “ Little Dorrit." We are introduced tothe “ Marchioness”’ in real life, and are pointed out the very house where Sampson Brass had his lodgings. But limited space forbids us enumerating all the choice things this volume contains. It begins with Dickens’s birth, in 1812, and carries his life up to the year 1842, when he is just returning from America. POEMS. By Mrs. Julia C. R. Dorr, author of “Sibyl Huntington,” ete. Perhaps the greatest trial which the reviewer of new books has, comes in the shape of the volumes of poetry which are constantly issuing from the presses of one or another of cur publishers—volumes which, while they contain no- thing strictly censurable, are, on the other hand, equally undeserving of praise. These books are read by an admiring circle of personal friends of their authors, but possess absolutely no marked literary merit to recommend them to the public at large. So one can judge of the relief and satisfac- tion afforded by a book of poetry which rises above the ordinary level—poetry which is worth reading, and will be read, and which deserves a lasting place in our literature. Such a one is the volume before us. Correct in versification, delieate in thought and expression, and animated with true feeling, the poems of this volume have won for their gifted au- thor a high place among American poets. MYSELF. A Romance of New Eng'and Life. This is not a sensational story. For pleasing its readers it depends rather upon minute and photo- graph-like descriptions of places and people—de- scriptions the fidelity of which will be acknowledged by all who are familiar with New England life. It is a carefully written and an interesting story, and we cheerfully recommend it to our readers. POEMS. By Mrs. Emma M. Bell, A. M. A volume of poems, beautiful in thought, sentiment, and fancy, which will find many admiring readers. EVA’‘’S ADVENTURES IN SHADOWLAND. By Mary PD. Nauman, author of ‘Twisted Threads," ete. An amusing story, just suited for children who love fairy tales—and what chfid does not? Even grown folks sometimes read them on the sly, and this book is surely interesting enough for even them. > From T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Phila. :— A NOBLE WOMAN. By Mrs. Ann 8S. Stephens, author of “ Palaees and Prisons,” ete. Mrs. Ste- phens has never written a story of more absorbing interest than this, or one doing more credit to her- self. Itis thrilling and sensational, and its authoress depicts human passions with a strong and powerfu! pen. BEAUTIFUL SNOW, and Other Poems. By G. W. Watson. This is a new and enlarged edition of a volume of poems which first-appeared a few yeare since. It contains some of the most tender and touching poems in the English language. “‘ Beauti-. ful Snow,” the poem from which the book takes its name, has achieved a wonderful reputation; while “The Oldest Pauper in the Town,” “Ring Down the Drop,” “I Would that She Were Dead,” and

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ae ao PSM ah AOE oo > ie ky A — 288 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. others we might name, are scarcely less deserving of praise. KATE O'DONOGHUE. A Novel. By Charles Lever. From CLaxTox, REMSEN, & HAFFELFINGER, Phila- de!phia:— MEMORIALS OF MES. DYSON. Edited by Miss E. Latimer. It is pleasant to see an affection which united two friends in life prompting the survivor to commemorate the departed. Mrs. Dyson was a good woman, devoted her life to teaching, and was re- warded by the admiration and love of her scholars and her colleagues. The editress was one of the latter, and we think, after reading the memorials of her departed friend, that she will succeed in impart- ing to others her esteem and affectionate regard. DREAM-LIFE, and Other Poems. By Stockton Bates. A compact little volume, neat and charming in its exterior, and enshrining a pleasing collection of carefully finished poems of moderate length, characterized rather by the delicacy and sweetness of.a cultivated taste, than the fire and vigor of poetic genius. From ALFRED MARTIEN, Philadelphia :— THE STORY OF A WEEK. By Mrs. Margaret Hosmer. Mrs. Hosmer’s stories are refreshing to read. She writes in an easy, natural way, which carries on the tale without effort or pause, so that older people as well as children may be interested in them. We have half read through this little book and can heartily commend it. It is made up of stories for children from ten to fifteen years old. THE LANGHAM REVELS. By Lucy E. Guern- sey. A story of English life two hundred years ago, when witchcraft was still a crime against the law, and innocent women were burned and mobbed for infirmities of old age or peculiarities of temper. The story is interesting and the moral very good. JUDGE BRANARD’S INFANTRY. By Annette L. Noble. A New England story of a “camping out” of boys and girls, who spend a while in June away from houses and civilization. It is well and naturally teld, and the after adventures of the children, with their effect on the character of each, will prove very interesting. Mr. Martien has got a new set of types for the holidays. His books are nicely bound and beautifully printed. SUNSHINE BILL. By W. H. G. Kingston. From HarPEeR & Brotners, New York, through J. B. Lipprncorr & Co., and CLAxTon, REMSEN, & HAFFELFINGER, Phitadelphia :— WOMAN'S WORTH AND WORTHLESSNESS. The Complement to “A New Atmosphere.” By Gail Hamilton. The talented author of this book writes wittily, saucily, pertinently, and imperti- nently on certain subjects of general interest at the present time. She tells many truths, but tells them too often in such a way that she had better have been silent. Her book will do good, and it will do harm; and, on the whole, we think more credit would have reflected on its author if she had never written it. HANNAH. Bythe author of “John Halifax, Gen- tleman,” ete. This is a new and excellent story frem the pen of Mrs. Muloch-Craik, written in aid of those reformers who are attempting to repeal the low in England forbidding a man to marry his de- ceased wife’s sister. As our statute books are dis- graced by ne such absurdity, it makes no special appeal to us, though none can fail to be interested in its reading. GENTLE MEASURES IN THE MANAGEMENT AND TRAINING OF THE YOUNG. By Jacob Abbott, author of * Abbott’s Illustrated Histories,” ete. The author of this volume discusses, with much wisdom and at length, the principles on which a firm, parental authority may be established and maintained, without violence or anger. It also sug- gests means for the right development of the moral and mental capacities which shall be adapted to the structure and characteristics of the juvenile mind. It is a beok which every parent should read. THE COUNTRY OF THE DWARFS. By Paul du Chaillu, author of “ My Apingi Kingdom,” ete. Mr. du Chaillu knows how to utilize the knowledge and experience gained by him in his travels, in the prepa- ration of interesting and instructive volumes for the young—volumes which will, in trath, be eagerly sought and read by old and young alike. This vol- ume is handsomely bound and liberally illustrated, and should be added to the library of every boy in the land. BORDER REMINISCENCES. By Randolph B. Marcy, U. & Army, author of “Thirty Years of Army Life on the Border,” ete. The author says of the “‘random sketches,” as he calls them, which form his volume, that, “as they, for the most part, are records of the results of long personal experi- ence in a sphere of life that has hitherto found few chroniclers, they may hereafter possess some historic significance.” The stories are full of life and adven- ture, Which shows that life at a military post is not always the monotonous ‘thing that civilians may deem it. ROUND THE WORLD; Including a Residence in Victoria, and a Journey by Rail across North Ame- rica. By a Boy. Edited by Samuel Smiles. The youngest son of Mr. Smiles, a lad of sixteen, was ordered by his physician to make a long sea voyage for his health. Accordingly he was sent to Australia in a sailing vessel, made a protracted residence in the neighborhood of Melbourne, and when ready to return home, resolved to make the return voyage by the Pacific route, via Honolulu, San Francisco, the Rocky Mountains, and New York. While at sea, the boy kept a full log, and, when on shore, never missed a mail in correspondence with his relatives at home. His journal and letters proved so interesting that, though the boy had had no such thought, his father concluded to publish them, himself revising and cor- recting, but retaining the boy’s language as far as practicaine. Although so youthful a traveller, he displays observing faculties of the first order, a keen appreciation of the grand and beautiful in nature, and a rare penetration into character. We have read few books of travel more interesting than this. From RosBert CARTER & BROTHERS, New York :— TO-DAY AND YESTERDAY. By Emma Mar- shall. GUY DALESFORD. By A. L. O. E. These little books are welcome accessions to our Christmas library. A. L. O. E.’s works are always acceptable. She is one of the best writers for chil- dren in the language, and her temporary absence from the field of literature will invest her new works with a keener interest. Her books will be delightful ing to children at all seasons. From Bo@rRickE & TAFEL, New York :— LECTURES ON DISEASES OF THE HEART. By Edwin M. Hale, M. D., Special Lecturer on Dis- eases of the Heart, and Professor of Medical Botany and Pharmacology in Hahnemann Medieal College, Chicago. Dr. Hale, as this title shows, is a homeo pathist, but he draws his citations, and apparently his remedies, liberally from various sources, without

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restricting them rigidly toany “school.” He affirms, indeed, that the homceopathic treatment has been found peculiarly successful in diseases of the heart. This is a point on which we cannot pretend to speak. The value of the work to persons who do not belong to the medical profession will be found in its clear LITERARY NOTIVES. and minute descriptions of the various affections of | the heart, and their symptoms. The author has brought together, from his own experience and from the works of other writers, a large amount of infor- mation on this subject, which he presents in a terse and lucid style. From Dopp & MEAD, New York, through J. B. Lippincott & Co., and CLaxTon, REMSEN, & HaF- FELFINGER, Philadelphia :— A COMPARATIVE HISTORY OF RELIGIONS. By James C. Moffat, D. D., Professor in the Theologi- cal Seminary at Princeton. PartI. Ancient Scrip- tures. This work aims to exhibit a general view of all religions in their relations to one another. The method adopted by the author is, “first, to present the common conditions, and principal modifying | ondly, to reach as near as possible to the original creed of mankind, not by speculating about it, but by actual examination of the most ancient Scrip- tures ;” thirdly, to pursue the comparative history of the religions; fourthly, to make as complete a clas- sification as possible of al! religions; and lastly, “to determine, if possible, the essential principles inhe- rent more or less in all, and wherein the best religion differs from the rest. THE SCIENCES OF NATURE versus THE SCI- ENCE OF MAN. By Noah Porter. Portions of this essay were delivered as an address before the-socie- ties of Harvard and Trinity Colieges. A request having been made for its publication, it now appears in a modified and enlarged form. THE THEOLOGY OF THE NEW TESTAMENT. A Hand-book for Bible Students. Translated from the Dutch by Maurice J. Evans, B.A. Dr. Van Oosterzee, the author of this volume, is generally regarded as the ablest living Dutch divine of the evangelical schcol. He is well-known as a vigorous defender of the Christian faith against the attacks of rationalism. HUNTER AND TOM. By Jacob Abbott, author of the “Juno Stories,” etc. This is the second vol- ume of “‘ The August Stories,” a handsomely printed and illustrated series from the pen of one of the best writers of juvenile literature. From D. APPLETON & Co., New York, through J. B. Lrpprncort & Co., Philadelphia :— PLEASURE; A Holiday Rook of Prose and Verse. A collection of stories and poems from the best Eng- lish writers, numbering among them Amelia B. Ed- wards, the Hon. Mrs. Norton, and others. The book has several handsome illustrations. DAVID COPPERFIELD. By Charles Dickens. One of the “Handy Volume” edition of Dickens’s works. ’ From WooLwortn, AInsworTH, & Co., New York, through J. B. Lopprncort & Co., Philadelphia :— ESTHETICS: or, The Science of Beauty. By John Bascom, Professor in William’s College. This Kittle volume enters a new, and we might almost say an undefined, field. The prirciples of beauty have been so abstract, and taste has been allowed such latitude, that it has seemed almost impossible strictly to define the one or to place barriers to the other. If we have a fault to find with the volume, it is, that it circumstances of religion in the life of man; see- | LANGUAGE. 289 is almost too general and suggestive in its character. To the intelligent reader, it is perhaps enough that it sets him thinking; but the mass of the reading public need more definite rules and more practical instruction, in order to obtain a more perfect com- prehension of sthetics. BARTHOLOMEW’S DRAWING BOOK. Series. No. 1. TEACHER’S GUIDE: Companion to * Bartholo- mew’s Drawing Book, No.1.” By W. N. Bartholo- mew. The system adopted in this drawing book and guide is undoubtedly the best yet tried. It thoroughly trains the hand of the student, and grounds him in all the principles of line drawing, before proceeding to light, shade, and variety of form. THE NATIONAL COMPOSITION BOQK. This is a blank book intended to be filled with composi- tions. On its covers are found complete rules for punctuation, with iliustrative examples, and descrip- tion and explanation of all the signs used in writing and printing. A COMPENDIOUS GRAMMAR OF THE GREEK By Alpheus Crosby, Professor Eme- ritus of the Greek Language and Literature in Dart- mouth College. This is an old and favorably known work, appearing in a new, carefully revised, and improved form. New From SHELDON & Co., New York, through J. B. Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia :— OUGHT WE TO VISIT HER? A Novel. By Mrs. Annie Edwards, author of “Susan Fielding,” etc. We have read this volume partly with feelings of pleasure, and partly of disapproval. The chief characters are arrunscrupulous, spendthrift gambler, and his pretty, trifling, flirting wife, and none of the people who appear in its pages are such as you can bestow your cordial approval and liking upon. Nev- ertheless, there is a touch of real feeling and senti- ment, especially in its ending, which goes far toward atoning for much that is objectionable. LUCIA: The Problem. By Amanda M. Douglas, author of “In Trust,” ete. This book is not one that we can cordially commend. It is morbid in tone, false in its sentiment, and, we fear, pernicious in its tendencies. This is, indeed, what we have long re- solved to say of all novels in which an unloved hus- | band dies or is killed in order to give place to his more favored rival—and that is the gist of this story. From CHARLES SCRIBNER & Co., New York, through J. B. Lipprxcott & Co., Philadelphia :— THE WONDERS OF WATER. From the French of Gaston Tissandier. Edited, with numerous addi- tions, by Schele de Vere, D.D., LL. D., author of “Studies in English,” ete. This volume, from its size and style of binding, we should judge, is the initial volume of a new “Tilustrated Library of Wonders.”’ The book is divided into five parts: the ocean, the system of circulation, the action of water on continents, the physical and chemical properties of water, and the’uses of water; which parts are again subdivided into chapters. The book is ilhis- trated by sixty-four engravings. From ORANGE Jupp & Co., New York, through J. B. Lrpprncott & Co., Philadelphia :— THE HOOSIER SCHOOLMASTER. A Novel. By Edward Eggleston. This is a genuine picture of Western life, which, without being in any way a his- tory, is yet drawn from the writer's own experiences, It is witty, it is hamorous, it is satiricai, it is written

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Proms 290 GOD#ZY’S LADY’S BOOK A in the very best ray and is, in a word, the liveliest book of the month. From Hurp & Hoventon, New York, through Porter & Coatss, Philadeiphia:— LANDMARKS, and Other Poems. By John James Piatt. Mr. Piatt is a rising poet of the West, who is already known and recognized in literary circles. He has issued several volumes of poetry previous to this, the last one of which, “ Western Windows, and Other Poems,” was most favorably received by Eng- lish critics, who, in their reviews of it, gave its author a high place among American poets, and spoke of him as especially a worthy representative ef the West. In the volume before us, this characteristic is still more marked, the first seven poems, grouped under the general title of “* Landmarks,” all referring | to western scenes and characters. The whole book does him credit, and compares more than favorably with his previous efforts. With masculine strength of feeling and passion he unites the delicacy amd purity of a woman, and there is an air redolent of | home and the affections which will charm and appeal to the sympathies of every reader. From Roserts BROTHERS, Boston, through J. B. Liprincort & Co., Philadelphia :— AUNT JOE’S SCRAP-BAG. By Louisa M. Alcott, author of “ Little Women,” etc. A newsemi-juvenile | book from Miss Alcott! What need we say more? A collection of interesting sketches, first and best among which is “* My Boys.” SING-SONG; A Nursery Rhyme Book. By Chris- tiana C. Rossette. The numerous handsome illus- | trations in this book will delight children, and the | quaint, semi-senseless rhymes will,.no doubt, amuse them. But asa rival to Mother Goose, we believe | Miss Rossette signally fails. ‘“Sing-Song’’ possesses | all the absurdity, with but little of the wit, and none of the wisdom, of the far-famed “* Melodies” of that dame. CUES FROM ALL QUARTERS. By Francis Ja- cox. This is the first collection we have seen of Mr. Jacox’s eclectic articles. They are, in their way, great curiosities, and stand to other books as The Living Age does to other magazines. Mr. Jacox is a man to whom the classics of English literature, both of this age and of the past, are thoroughly fa- miliar, and whose memory or whose commonplace book is so copious, that he can bring together “ from all quarters” all that bears on his subject. Here, for instance, in “ Cities of Refuge,’ are quotations from Archbishop Trench, Lord Bacon, Hartley Coleridge, John Banim, Balzac, Boswell, Wordsworth, Horace Walpole, and Mrs. Browning, all in two pages. We heartily commend the book to all who are in search of illustration and comment upon a variety of themes, by the greatest men and women of our race. THE HOME THEATRE. By Mary Healy. In this pretty volume are collected six little plays, ar- ranged for amateur actors. The length varies from one act to three, and the personages from two to seven. We doubt not they will enliven many house- holds in the long evenings of winter. THE NEW-YEAR’'S BARGAIN. By Susan Cool- | idge. Miss Coolidge’s name is not known to us, but we prophecy that her books will be great favorites with children. She knows just what pleases them. This is the story of a little German boy, to whom every month came with a story and a present. It is a dozen tales bound together in one. The book is beautifully got up, like all of Messrs. Roberts’ publi- cations, and will make one of the handsomest juve- nile gift books of the season. ND MAC AZINE. Goes’ 5 | Sem Ghar. MARCH, 1872. OvR ELLUSTRATIONS.—The steel plate for this month | commends itself for the excellence of its workman. | ship and the beauty of its design. The handsome wood-cut illustration, ‘Gathering Easter Eggs,’’ serves as a reminder to our young friends that the Easter holidays are approaching, with the usual accompaniments of dyed eggs and harmless sport. The Etruscan Slipper, printed 1n colors, is one that wilt be found easy of execution. No grander array of dresses can be found any- where than we have given in our colored fashion. | plate and extension sheet. Seventeen different | styles are there shown. Besides the dresses, there are twenty-three designs of miscellaneous articles for ladies and children on the extension sheet. A plate of collars, basques, ete., is also given. In the work department will be found numerous useful fancy designs suited to useful ornamentation. PENNSYLVANIA. I INCLOSE $3 to ask you to continue the Lapy’s Book. I have taken this gem of magazines for so many years that it would be like losing a dear friend to miss its famiiar face monthly. Tt is alw ays a | welcome visitor, and has whiled away many a lonely hour. May its high-toned presence long continue td add refinement and pleasure to our home is the wish of yours truly, Mrs. J. H. Ir amuses us to see it announced, with a flourish of trumpets, that a magazine has been obliged to issue a third edition of any particular number. There is not a number of the Lapy’s Book published that has less than six editions issued of if, and of | some numbers we have published ten editions. | IT HOPE a good many merry Christmases are yet in reserve for Mr. Godey. If all the blessings of those to whom you are invaluable can Command it, this will indeed be so. D. To accommodate our subscribers, we will club with Arthur's Home Magazine and Children’s Hour at the following prices :— The receipt of $4.00 will pay for Godey’s Lady's Book and Arthur’s Home Magazine for one year. The receipt of $3.50 will pay for Godey’s Lady’s Book and Children’s Hour one year. Five Dollars will a ay for Godey’s Lady’s Book, Home Magazine, and Children’s Hour one year. Arthur’s Home Magazine is the best $2 magazine published. The Children’s Hour is the best juvenile magazine. For Six Dollars we will send the Lady’s Book one year, and pay for Holloway’s Musical Monthly one year, to be sent to the person remitting us the money. WHEN we receive money for a club, we pay that money over, and there our responsibility ceases. If a number is not received, write to the publisher of the missing magazine. AcTuaL Fact.—A few days since, a girl applied for a situation at a friend’s house, and the following questions were asked by Biddy: “Have you coffee in the morning?’ “Have you fried potatoes?” “Have you a clothes wringer?” Well, she would consult her aunt. It is presumed that the aunt ' found some objection, as she did not return.

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nth an- ing ing ng, ind hat on- ent ere ‘les at If of GODEY’S ARM-VUHAIR. 291 WASHINGTON SOCIETY. NEVER was there a more gay and brilliant season in Washington. Notwithstanding the absence of Mrs. Fish, the death of Mrs. Belknap, and the dearth of ladies attached to the Foreign Legations (there being but six or eight this season, instead of the twenty or more of previous winters), the large num- bers of Senators and Representatives entertaining at their homes, and the host of distinguished visitors passing the winter here, have fully compensated us for our social losses. Washington society has been rapidly changing from the showy and frivolous to the intellectual and artistic, as our many literary re-unions testify, as well as our increased apprecia- tion and encouragement of the fine arts. And yet in no city in the world, perhaps, is the dressing more superb and tasteful, especially on grand reception days and evenings. On New-Year’s day Mrs. Grant wore an elegant trained dress of crimson velvet, point lace bertha and sleeves, point lace and flowers in her hair, and diamond jewelry. Miss Nellie Grant wore rose-colored silk, with white muslin overdress. Mrs. Grant was assisted by Mrs. Colfax, Mrs. Secretary Boutwell, Mrs. Attorney General Williams, Mrs. Postmaster General Cress- well, Mrs. Delano, Mrs. General Porter, Mrs. Judge Dent, Mrs. Marshal Sharp, Mrs. General Dent, and Mrs. Babcock. Miss Nellie was attended by Miss Jewell and Miss Drexel. Mrs. Colfax wore white moire antique, dotted with black, and trimmed with flounces and black lace; pearl jewelry. Mrs. Attor- ney General Williams, a handsome brunette, wore an and all the other ladies were exquisitely attired. The Diplomatic Corps made an elegant display, Woman's Recorp; or, Biographical Sketches of all Distinguished Women, from the Creation to the Present Time. Arranged in Four Eras, with Selec- tions from Authoresses of each Era. By Mrs. 8. J. HALE. Illustrated with more than 200 Portraits, engraved by Benson J. Lossing. New Edition, Re- vised and Enlarged. 8vo, Cloth, $5.00; Sheep, $6.00; Half Calf Extra, $7.50. The revised edition makes a superb volume of nearly 1000 pages, Royal Octavo, being fully equiva- lent to ten ordinary voiumes of 400 pages each. Extracts from notices of the press :— This is the third edition of a work which, as a pro- gressive history of women, is without « rival in the scope of its planand the faithfulness of its execution. Commencing with £ve, Mrs. Haie teils us something about almost every notable woman that has ever lived.—Philadelphia Inquirer. By long years of patient and persistent labor and research, Mrs. Hale has gathered the authentic evi- dences of what the eminent ones of her own sex, in all ages of the world, have been and have done, and has placed the fruits of her labors in this noble and enduring “ Record.” Mrs. Hale seems to have been raised up for the express purpose of making such a work as this, her life-long history having been one continued preparation for it. We may add, it isa noble and worthy monument to her sex.—Sunday- | School Times. Let this volume go into every educational institu- tion and home, and it will help powerfully in forming the character of the young. We call particular at- | tention to it, so that our readers may possess the wealth of sentiment it conteins, and, by the examples it furnishes, have the most ample and practical con- ception of woman’s true mission.— Methodist Home ; P , | Journal. elegant pearl-colored satin, trimmed with rose-color ; | with their court dresses, rich with gold and silver | embroidery. Lady Thornton, who aceompanied Sir Edward, wore a dark blue silk dress and bonnet, elegantly trimmed with black velvet and white gui- pure lace, Mrs. General Butler received in a white silk, with black lace overdress and pearl jewelry; and her daughter, Mrs. Senator Ames, in green silk, with white satin overdress, fringed, and cameo jewelry. Mrs. Senator Morton wore a trained dress of vielet satin, with point lace and diamonds. Mrs. Senator Ramsay garnet gros grain, black lace and velvet trimmings; pearl jewelry. At the first drawing-room reception at the resi- dence of the Vice-Presideht, Mrs. Colfax wore a black silk, striped with white, trimmed with white pink feather in her hair. Mrs. Bowers, doing the honors for Secretary Belknap, wore black silk, trimmed with black and white ruchings, with fine lace and diamonds. Mrs. Speaker Blaine wine- colored silk and heavy gold jewelry. Mrs. Cresswell black, trimmed with crimson, and rich gold necklace and jewelry. Mrs. Freeman Clark lavender silk, point lace, and diamonds. Many distinguished literary persons passed the season in Washington. Mrs. Southworth, Harriet Prescott Spofford, Mary Clemmer Ames, Mrs. Piatt, Mrs. A. L. R. Dufour, Mrs. Mary A. Denison, “Gail Hamilton,” Mrs. Mary E. Nealy, Rose Terry, and other ladies; and George Alfred Townsend, Walt Whitman, John Burroughs, Donn Piatt, J. J. Piatt, Col. Gil Pierce, Capt. Almont Barnes, Doctor Mackey, Doctor Cox, “Carl Benson,” Ben ‘Perley Poore, H. Clay Preuss, and others of the sterner sex. Among our artists are Clark Mills and his son; Vinnie Ream and several others, sculptors; and Theodor Kaufman, Peter Baumgras, Max Weyl, Charles Lauman, Belle Smith, and others, landscape and portrait painters. M.'E. N, Five dollars, remitted to L. A. Godey, will com- mand a copy of “* Woman's Record,” postage paid. Tue following old receipt for the choice of a wife is none the worse for being old :— As much of beauty as preserves affection, | Of modest diffidence as claims protection ; A docile mind, subservient to correction, A temper led by reason and reffection, And every passion kept in due subjection ; Just faults enough to Esep her from perfection— Find this, my friend, and then make your selection. Do those foreign employers who import actors and | actresses suppose that the Americans are fools? Do | they suppose they can believe such bosh as the-fol- | lowing? Monarchs do not bestow such fabulous We omit the name of the recipient. *s jewels is a diamond ring valued jewels. * Among } pe es ie enna i i 5,000, pre- and black lace ; Honiton lace collar and sleeves, and | 2¢ $18,000; a diamond cross, with chain, $15,000, pre sented by the Emperor of Russia; diamond oe from the King of Holland, $2200; rubies and pede | from the Queen of Wurtemburg, $7000; locket se with diamonds, very valuable; bracelets from the King of Bavaria, set with five diamonds, $10,000; diamond cross from an American gentleman, $800 ; emeralds from the King of Greece; carbuncle, dia- monds, earrings, and locket, from a Turkish min- | ister.” Who is the American gentleman who gave the $8000? _ That class of people often quoted are not all dead yet. This is one of the tricks of gratuitous ad- vertising that these foreign gentlemen understand so well. Vick’s Illustrated Catalogue and Floral Guide is one of the prettiest annuals of the season. Besides being pretty, it is valuable. We deem the Guide worthy of a notice, and if you write to Mr. Vick, he will send you one. Address James Vick, Rochester, New York. MARK TWAIN says: “Cast your bread upon the waters, and if it doesn’t return to you before many days, you may consider the experiment a failure.”

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——— 292 GODEY’S LADY’S BUUK AND MAGAZINE. HOLLOWAY’s Musical MONTHLY for March con- tains, among its diversified contents, a new and sparkling fantaisie by Sidney Smith, who is acknow- ledged to be the best living composer of light and showy parlor pieces for the piano. There are also two new and beautiful songs in this number, and two pleasing pieces, one of them being very simple and pretty, and arranged for beginners at the piano. | Players and singers of every grade will always find the music in the Monthly exactly suited to their several capacities. The three numbers for the pre- sent year are the best ever published, and we intend that the whole year shall be equally good through- out. The Monthiy is now in its tenth year, and is an established success. But we need large additions to our subscription list to enable us to carry out eertain | improvements which will place it beyond all rivalry, | and we trust that our friends everywhere will help us at once. We will send the January, February, | and March numbers, free of postage, to any address, on receipt of $1. Single numbers 40 cents. Yearly | subscription $4, for which every one receives music worth from five to ten times the amount. To new subscribers we offer a number of valuable premiums, full particulars of which will be found in our pros- pectus. Among the best premiums are Trollope’s fine stories, Marietta and La Beata; Melville's Til- bury Nogo; Ulah, a beautiful volume of poems; Beecher’s Letters to Young Men; Iowa Hand Book;; | Dr. Russell's Canada, etc., either af which will be sent to every new subscriber, 20 cents to be added for postage on each book. For $4.50 we send the Monthly and a $2 book, or Hanten’s celebrated Piano Instruction Book. Postage 24cents. For $8 we send the Monthly and a $15 volume of new music. Post- | age on this premium 64 cents. The Musical Monthly Free.—For $6 we will send any sheet musie published, to the full amount of %, and send the Monthly free for the entire year. Post- age on this premium 20 cents, which must be sent with the order. We have sent off hundreds of dol- lars’ worth of music on this premium. It is one of the most popular on our list. Any music can be ordered, whether on our own catalogue or not. Ad- dress all orders to J. Starr Holloway, Publisher, Box Post-Office, Philadelphia. HeRE’s A Mess.—A new cookery book has been published, from which we make the following ex- tract. How to make Chicken Salad :— “* After the usual getting ready of the cold fowls, | skinning them and taking away the fat, ‘cut all the flesh from the bones, mince it; mix with a little grated smoked tongue or cold ham.’ So far, good— and now for the dressing. ‘For the dressing, mix together the following ingredients: In the propor- tions of the yelks of four eggs well beaten, a tea- | spoonful of powdered white sugar, a saltspoonful of | cayenne, two spoonfuls of made mustard, six table- | spoonfuls of salad of}, and five of vinegar: stir this mixture well, put into a small saucepan, set it orer the fire and let it boil exactly three minutes, stirring all the time. Then set it to eool!’” Here is another :— “*Take a nice rump steak and pound it with a rolling-pin until it is quite tender’ [we pity the rump steak that uires such a process], ‘flour and sea- son; put it into a frying-pan of hot lard and fry it. When nicely brown on both sides, take it up and dredge with flour.’” What could a rump steak have done to the author- ess to deserve such treatment? BETTER be off with the old love before you are on with the new:— “ A New York belle told a suiter for her hand that she would accept bis offer in six weeks, if Mr. So- and-so didn’t make a similar offer in the meantime.” THE Ohio State Journal gives the following no- tice of Marion Harland’s ‘Common Sense for the Household :""— “What we like about Marion Harland’s book— | after its cheery, rattling style and its knowing sug- gestions—is, chiefly, that the articies of her laboratory are accessible everywhere. We had it in mind to uote the experience of that lively little bride, Mrs. ohn Rokesmith, née Bella Wilfer, on this point, and the writer has anticipated us by quoting it in her preface, from which we reproduce it: ‘She was under the constant necessity of referring for advice and support to a sage volume, entitled “The Com- plete British Family Housewile,” which she would sit coneele, with her elbows upon the table, and her temples in her hand, like some perplexed en- chantress poting over the Black Art. This, princi- xilly because the “Complete British Housewife,” 1owever sound a Briton at heart, was by no means an expert Briton at expressing herself with clear- ness in the British tongue, and sometimes might have issued her directions to equal clearness in the Kamschatkan tongue. There was likewise a cool hess on the part of “The Complete British House- wife,” which Mrs. John Rokesmith found high exasperating. She would say, “ Take a salamander, as if a general should command a private to catch a Tartar. Or, she would casually issue the order, “ Throw in a handful” of something entirely unat- tainable. In these, the moments of unreason, Bella would shut her up, and knock her on the table, apostrophizing her with the compliment, “*Oh, you ARE a stupid old donkey! Where am I to get it, do you think?’ It is just this avoidance of things which the housekeeper does not know where to get, that elevates the value of Marion Harland’s book (to speak mathematically) to the fourth power at least.” Horsey information but valuable. The San Fran- cisco Morning Call thus adds another to the numer- ous remedies for a “* balky” horse :— “Tuesday morning a horse drawing a grocery wagon up Pacific Street took a notion into his lean head that he had gone far enough, and, in spite of urging, coaxing, and whipping, stood stock-still, with his legs braced and hisears drawn back. The usual crowd surrounded him, and innumerable treatments were suggested and tried with noavail. They sawed his fore legs with a rope, stopped his breathing, twisted his tail, and pulled and pushed him; but he only braced himself the harder, and looked at the crowd with an eye of contempt. At last a tall Piker came along, and picking up a large handful of mud from the gutter crammed it into the brute’s mouth. | There was a scattering of the crowd as the old horse kicked and reared, and the scene ended in an excit- | ing race by the young man after his horse and wagon, as they tore up the street at a pace they had never | equalled before.” We publish the above because we have seen it tried, and have tried it, and in both instances it was successful. FAMILY KNITTING MACHINES.—Why does i.ot the manufacturer of a good article of this kind advertise where théy can be had and at what price? We see one advertised in the English, papers, price $30. “RESPECTFULLY suggested to tract societies—In such weather as this, the poor would rather be visited by one coal-porter than a dozen colporteurs.”” Yes, greenbacks or black diamonds are better. NILLson.—The New Yorkers seem to have tired of this lady. They stood it very well for twenty nights. At the end of that time she was to have made her appearance here, but the Philadelphians would not stand the high prices. They would not buy repent- ance so dear. Well, the engagement had to be re- newed in. New York, and the consequenee was, empty benches—deplorably so. Very .ConsoLine.—A grief-stricken widow tele- graphed to the friends of her late husband: “ Dear John is dead. Loss fully covered by insurance.”

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edad &®oo6 a = + T @&F WE give below a few of the notices we have re- ceived of our January number :— GODEY’s.—GODEY’s Lapy’s BooK for January, 1872, is on our table in advance of all the other mag- azines, looking as fresh and beautiful as a rose at dewy morn. It is the most inviting number we have ever seen of GODEY, and the publisher promises that many improvements are to follow. ‘* Miss Lolipop's Party,” an outline sketch, and the first of a promised series of engravings, is delightfully expressive, and to our mind more attractive than the generality of steelengravings. Besides the above, this number con- tains three splendid engravings, an elegant fashion- plate, and any number of wood-cuts illustrating new designs. Marion Harland, Ino Churehill, Louise Dorr, Metta Victoria Victor, Annie Frost, Mrs. Hop- kinson, Sue Chestnutwood, and Mrs. Denison, among other brilliant and entertaining authors, are an- nounced to contribute to the literary department of the Lapy’s Book during the coming year—which is all the comment necessary to set forth its superiority. —Democrat, Lupin, Mich. . GopeEY’s Lapy’s Book for January, 1872, is before us, and surpasses all its predecessors. In age and merit it stands unsurpassed by any kindred publica- tion in the country. For upwardsof a century it has been a constant monthly visitor to our table, and we have noted from the beginning a steady upward ad- vance, until now it is a marvel of Fashion and the acknowledged exponent of the American ladies’ boudoir. Its wide-awake founder and publisher has never been parsimonious in money outlay to make his Lapy’s Book better each succeeding month, but has been even /avish in that direction. Each number has engravings, which, to buy separately, would eost three times the price of the Book.—Gazette, Le Roy, New York. Very much obliged to our friend of the Gazette, but is he not making us a leetle old? We started the Lapy’s Book ourself. We were not very old when we commenced it, bet this would make us somewhat over one hundred years of age. From Fairchild’s Club Paper :— “GovEY'’s LapDy’s Book.—Forty-one years old. Our first recollections of a magazine are associated with Godey. Inour youthful imagination we thought his stories and pictures were just ‘Old Splendid.’ We must confess we have not lost our relish for them to this day. Our best wish is that he may live another forty years to publish his good book. To show that we are not alone in our estimation of GODEY, we Will just say that there isa little company of us, 106,000 strong, who take and read the book. ou add the borrowers, I think the number will be ull half a million; if you multiply that number by five readers in each family, you have two and one- half million of people reading GopEy. Only think of it! one-sixteenth of the whole population of the United States, men, women, and children, reading GODEY’s Lapy’s BOOK.” EXAMPLE FOR THE LADIES.—Mrs. R. W. Sander- son, Poppenhausen Institute, College Point, N. Y., has had a WHEELER & WILSON Machine since Feb- Tuary, 1859, employed, without repairs, in sewing all materials, from triple beaver to Nainsook (ten years in dressmaking); it is now used for instructing pupils in the Institute. A NEw YORK paper says that a foppish young dandy, who had just returned from abroad, ap ar at a ball last week elegantly attired in full dress suit, with diamond studs and sleeve buttons, point lace necktie, three buttoned gloves, hair powdered with blonde powder, French heels to his boots, a Strong suspicion of rouge on his cheeks, and a piece of court plaster on hisforehead. The ladies laughed at him so heartily that he left before supper time. FOREIGN journals amuse themselves with the ec- centric humor of the American press, but nothing American could exceed the following extract from the Personal, commonly called the “‘ Agony” column of the London Times: “His life not in danger. In- stead of ‘severe illness,’ read: Two rainbow colored eyes, caused by external unfriendly influences." GODEY’S ARM-VHAIR. 293 NEW SHEET Music.—Whatis the Use? comic song, 25 cents. The Earth is Beautiful, new song, by Bar- rett, 30. Lillie Clare, sweet song, by Coralie Bell, 30. The Twilight Meeting, beautiful song and chorus, by the same, 30. Weary, plaintive and touching song, by Virginia Gabriel, 30. The Silvery Morn, bright and sparkling song, by W. O. Fiske, 30. Sunny Days, song and chorus, 30. Leaves that are Fairest, beautiful song, by Stewart, 30. Hear My Prayer, sacred, for seprano solo and quartette, 50. Ruth and Naomi, new edition of this beautiful duet, by Topliff, 40. The Broken Lily, new and pretty, sung by “Little Maud,” 25. We Met and Talked of Other Days, 30. Why I Love Thee, pretty song and chorus, by E. Mack, 30. The Ingleside, new edition of this favorite old Scotch song, 20. Come, Ye Disconsolate, new edition, 20. The Rapture Dwellitig, splendid Cavatina, by Balfe, 40. Also, Magnolia Schottische, by Ohm, 30. Wyoming March, by Mack, one of the most popular little marches ever published, easy and spirited, 25. Entre Nous Waltz, very pretty movement, Barrett, 20. Ringlet Waltz, 30. Graceful Schottische, by Beckel, 30. Ladies’ Favorite Waltz, by Karl Redan, 30. Spring Schottische, by Mack, with beautiful picture title, 49. Little Amazon March, by Ohm, handsome lithograph title-page, 50. Rippling Waves, fantaisie, by Sidney Smith, 40. Night in Spring,. splendid nocturne, for 2 good player, Fritz Spindler, 60. Echoes from the Mississippi, new set of waltzes, by Ohm, $1. Robin Rough, transcription, by B.S. Barrett, 75, highly zommended by the Home Journal, Brook- lyn Daily Union, etc. Single sheet pieces, easy, for begingers, 10 cents each, viz.: Museum Polka, Moet and Chandon Waltz, Kathleen Aroon Waltz, Irma Galop, Clinton Waltz, Home, Sweet Home, Ivy Green Polka, Guard’s March. Address all orders to J. Starr Holloway, Publisher, Box Post-Office, Phila- delphia. “A WELL-KNOWN author (Talleyrand) says that nothing baffles curiosity, eludes pursuit, and gene- ‘rally mystifies the human intelligence, like the plain, simple, and unvarnished truth. Talleyrand was an awful liar, and the way he baf- fled the Diplomatists was by telling the truth. ACCIDENTS now-a-days are mostly from misplaced switches. As the passengers were preparing~-to leave their seats on the arrival of the New York train is Boston the other evening, an old gentleman picked up a dark object which appeared to drop from a lady's bonnet. ‘“ Madam, is this yours? You appear to have dropped it by accident.” “Thank you, sir’’ (placing her hand to her head)—“ a railroad accident—a misplaced switch.” ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. WHEREAS, on certain boughs and sprays, Now divers birds are heard to sing, And sundry flowers their heads upraise To hail the coming of the spring. The birds piecoanid— hones pairs— Love 'mid the aforesaid boughs, enshrines In freehold nests themselves, their heirs, Administrators and assigns. Oh, happy time in Cupid's court, Where tender plaintiffs action bring— Season of frolic and of sport— Hail, as aforesaid, coming spring. A LAWYER. Says a New York paper: “ The definition of ‘ wed- ding,’ in the fashionable vocabulary, means a grand crisis of clothes; ‘ bride,’ a peg on which finery of all kinds is hung; ‘bridegroom,’ a sober, black object following the bride, of no account in particular, and yet without whom there would be no fuss, Tun could not go on.”

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294 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. THE DOCTOR AND THE UNDERTAKER, THERB Was a young physician whose name was Jacob And the way he wrote prescriptions was wonderful let strange that others versed in Esculapian Had never thought of making such mixtures up be- In consultations with him other doctors were con- used, For “dephlogistication” was the shortest word he used ; He called the smallest pimple “an acuminated wen,” And thus became respected by all his fellow-men. But luck was so against him that all his patients e And one fine summer morning he was greatly hor- ie To see an undertaker’s sign put up across the way, — bore in flaming letters the name of “ Alfred ray.’ And Gray soon added insult to injury when he Pro to form a partnership with Doctor Jacob And an with the latter, who was madder than a urk, That he should have a partner to carry home his work. That night the doctor packed his duds in such tre- mendous haste, That he was not particular where anything was laced ; He flea his Sunday beaver with a lot of arrowroot, And put his stock of bismuth in an India-rubber He fied to some sequestered spot in Jersey, where he ound Sale for his chills-and-fever pills at fifty cents a pound; He prospered for a year or two, but fainted quite awa On hearing that the shop next door was let to Alfred ray! When he recovered from the swoon, he tried to figure ou How he could stop that dreadful man from following him about; At jength he had a bright idea, and so to end the uss He went at once to Alfred Gray, and straight ad- dressed him thus :— “Sir, pone espionage has been a deleterious thing, And if you won’t pursue me when [again take wing, I'll give you all the recipes I’ve laid upon the shelf, And thus enable you to do the killing for yourself!” This generous proposition was accepted on the spot, And Alfred Gray went off unto the painter’s like a shot, And many shortly were surprised upon the sign to see That Doctor Gray succeeded to Doctor Jacob Lee! CLARENCE F. BUHLER. An affecting story comes from Louisville to the following effect :— “Two beautiful young ladies, of aristocratic ap- pearance, were standing on the corner of Broadwa and Fourth Streets, about three o’clock Friday af- ternoon, waltnt foracar. One was ona shopping expedition, and yy By vy enna her off. Sm car came up an op or the passenger, who turned to her friend to give the usual goed y kiss, when by some means her arms became entangled in the curls of her friend, and, just as she was tearing herself away, down came a huge blonde wig, falling with its mass of rich and shining curls and crimps at their feet, and revealing a head of short, dark hair, rolled up in a little knot behind, and arranged to accommodate the deceptive wig.” Well, it about served her right, for how often the cars are detained by young ladies kissing good-by to all their female friends, and, besides, it makes the men feel bad. A NEWSPAPER in an editorial note, apropos to a marriage published under the proper head, felicitated the bridegroom on his union with “a lady of great beauty, and fortune, and of every accomplishment necessary to render the married state happy,” etc. etc. On the next day the editor apologized, stating that his felicitations were * premature.”’ But whether the prematurity arose from the circumstance that the wedding had not occurred, or because the bride had no “beauty,” or no “fortune,” or no “accom. plishments,”’ was left to the imagination of the reader. his word “premature seems to be a prime favorite with the editor referred to. On an- other occasion, having announced that a lady had fallen out of a window, with a child in her arms, and that both the lady and the child had been killed, he the next day retracted the statement as “ premature,”’ leaving his readers to infer that although the fatal accident had not actually occurred when the state- ment was arcenye tor that it mignt nevertheless be expected at any moment. A Frrst-Ciass Reproor.—A presiding elder of the United Brethren Church was preaching in Minnesota, and was much annoyed by persons talking and laugh- ing. He paused, looked at the disturbers, and said: “Tam always afraid to reprove those who misbehave inchureh. In the early part of my ministry I made a great mistake. As I was preaching, a young man who sat before me was constantly laughing, talking, and almost continually making uncouth grimaces. I paused and administered a severe rebuke. After the close of the service, one of the official members came and said to me: ‘Brother, you made a great mistake. That ome mas whom you reproved is an idiot.’ Since then I have always been afraid to re- prove those who misbehave in church, lest I should repeat the mistake, and reprove another idiot.” During the rest of the service, at least, there was good order. AN illustration of the fact that a would-be biter is often the worst bitten of all, comes from Reese River, California. A man entered the office of the photographer in that eee and wanted a single pic- ture taken. The artist named his price, which hap- pened to be about double the amount the stranger possessed. So, after considerable banter, the visitor proposed to have a half-length roa taken for half price. This was agreed to, and the subject paid his money, and adopted what he considered to be an exceedingly graceful and pleasing attitude. The usual operations were gone through with, and soon a first-rate picture, consisting. of a fine view of the subject from the waistband down, was finished and delivered to the waiting customer. There was no mistake ; it was a half-length picture, for half price; and, after delivering himself of a few exclamation oints, the customer walked off, believing, probably, hat he had paid well for a view of his boots, even at half price. A SALOON-KEEPER having started business in a building where trunks had been made, asked a friend what he had better do with the old sign, “Trunk Factory.”’ “Oh!” said the friend, “ just change the T to a D, and it will suit you exactly.” “ A youna lady, with a number of others who were injured by a railroad accident, was carried to a hos- pital, The surgeon came around and said to the young and fashionable miss: ‘Well, madam, what can I do for you?’ Said she: ‘Doctor, one of my limbs is broken.’ ‘One of your limbs?’ said he; ‘well, which limb is it?’ ‘Oh, I can’t tell you, doe- tor, but it’s one of my limbs.’ ‘One of your limbs!’ thundered the doctor, out of patience; ‘which is it? the limb you thread a needle with?’ ‘No, sir,’ she answered, with a sigh; ‘it’s the limb I wear a garter on.’ The doctor attended to her, and then said: ‘Young woman, never say limbs to me again in @ hospital. If you do, I shall pass you; for when a wo- man gets so fastidious as that, the quicker she dies, the better.’ ” f Well! we pretty much agree with the doctor. We remember a French lady of our acquaintance who made mention of her leg. Upon looking at the land- lady, she observed that she was trying to look con- scious. “Q Madame B.!” exclaimed our friend, “I forgot that the American ladies have no legs.”

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ale .” shee Seared - | worn wee! — SUB-TROPICAL GARDENING. Tuis style, now so popular in Europe, and well adapted to our climate, cannot be too highly recom- mended, and, when properly carried out, is the very perfection of the art of Ornamental Gardening. By the introduction of plants with foliage of striking effect, as well as of various shades, the most pleasing results are obtained. There is no class of plants better adapted for this purpose than the new varie- ties of Canna, of which we have now over twenty- five distinct varieties. The Ricinus Sanguineus, a variety of the Castor-Oil Plant, is quite an attractive object, and is easily raised from seed, also the Striped Japanese Maize. A group formed of Canna, with a plant of the Ricinus in the centre, with a row of the Cidadium Escalentium on the outside, is very effect- ive, and if bulbs of Gladiolus and Japan Lilies are planted between them, will add still further to its beauty. The Pampas Grass is a beautiful object on a lawn or in a bed with other plants. We counted. forty of its large, silvery plumes on one plant last season, which had stood out for several winters, with a covering of earth and leaves. The Arundo Donax Variegata, Tritoma Uvaria, Bocconia, Abu- tillon Thompsonii, Coleus, Brythrina, and many others can, by a judicious grouping, be made to pro- duce a grand effect. The introduction of groups of the above among Bedding Plants is now the aim of il who aspire to a true taste in gardening. We will forward by express a choice assortment of the above for Five Dollars. Our Ten Dollar collection of Plants have given great satisfaction. They contain ten Roses, twenty Verbenas, with Geraniums, Car- nations, Fuchsias, Pinks, ete. ete.; in all one hun- dred ‘plants and bulbs, at about one-half the usual catalogue prices. To grow the plants to perfection, a good soil is requisite; fresh loam or sods, from a pasture field, with well rotted stable manure, is the best. The beds should be dug at least eighteen inches deep, and the manure well incorporated with the soil. DREER'S Garden Calendar for 1872, containing select lists of seeds, plants, etc., with directions for their cultivation, will be mailed to all who incluse a stamp. Henry A. DREER, Secdsman and Florist, 714 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, WASHINGTON IRVING says:— “T think it an invaluable advantage to be born and brought up in the neighborhood of some grand and noble object in nature—a river, a lake, or a mountain. We make a friendship with it; we, in a manner, ally ourselves to it for life. It remains an object of our pride and affections ; a rallying point to call us home again, after all our wandeeage. * # # [| thank God I was born on the banks of the Hudson! It has ever been to me a@river of delight. In the warmth of my youthful enthusiasm, I used to clothe it with moral attributes, and almost to give itasoul. I ad- mired its frank, bold, honest character; its noble sincerity and perfect truth. Here was no specious, smiling surface, covering the dangerous sand-bar or insidious rock, but a stream deep as it was broad, and bearing with honorable faith the bark that trusted to its waves. I gloried in its simple, quiet, majestic, epic flow, ever straightforward. Once, in- deed, it turns aside for a moment, forced from its course by opposing mountains, but it struggles bravely through them, and immediately resumes its straightforward march—an emblem of a good man’s course through life, ever simple, open, and direct; or if, overpowered by adverse circumstances, he deviates into error, it is but momentary; he soon recovers his onward and honorable career, and con- tinues it to the end of his pilgrimage.” EXPENSIVE Coats.—The following is from an ac- count of a house robbery :— “Among the articles carried off were two velvet coats, worth several hundred dollars.” GODEY’S ARM-CHAIR. 295 BE careful how you give advice. A lover consulted a lawyer about carrying off an heiress. ‘* You must not carry her off,’ said the lawyer, “‘but she can carry you off. Let her mount a horse and hold the bridle and whip, and then you get up behind her, and let her run away with you, and you'll be safe.”” The next morning the lawyer found that his daughter had run away with the said young man in the aforesaid manner. FOREIGN CORRESPONDENCE.—In all the German houses I have seen of late, braiding on a kind of figured brown Holland cloth seems the rage; they use it for summer tablecloths, for antiniacassars, for coverings for beds, etc. The Germans, you know, instead of having counterpanes as we do, have what they call a Bett-decker—literally a bed-covering— which is kept on the bed all day, and removed at night. These are braided in two widths of braid, usually all red; sometimes the wide red, and the narrow black. One pattern particularly struck me as pretty; the outer portions of it were red braid the inner black and white, and these together formed an outer scroll. In the centre were bunches of heartseases, the flower itself being of white corded piqué, laid on embroidered down, and veined with coarse black silk, and the leaves done in black and white braid. Another similar work, which is used for d’oyleys, has the pattern, in a Kind of neutral tint, printed on white corded pigué; the outer edge is done in buttonhole embroidery with white cotton, and then the neutral tint is worked across in her- ringbone stitch, and the veins in the flowers with thick black. silk; it is very pretty and effective, and would do well for nightgown cases, etc. The Berlin wool work was very handsome, but the best patterns have all come over to us long ago. The Emperor figures conspicuously in a good many pieces of needlework. A large fire screen struck me as effective. The head and bust of William IIT. had been painted in velvet and laid on, while the ground- work was in blue beads on canvas. The appliqué cloth work is turned to perhaps more purposes than with us, especially as‘an ornament to baskets, which are used here very extensively. Surmnecomrvscus.~ Gpenking of Philadelphia law- yers, the distributing clerk in charge of the foreign letters which come through the Chicago post-office was evidently cut out for one. If not, his experience has been such as amply to fit him for the profession of deciphering uriutelligible signs and hierog]pyhics. Many of the superscriptions which come through his hands are among the most mysterious of ciphers— unintelligible from the writer’s not Knowing what he wanted to write, rather than illegible through care- lessness in writing. Whenacountryman of Gustayus Vasa, for instance, still hibernating upon his native hills, sends a letter to his brother in this country, and, writing fgom memory, and a memory not much trained in letters at that, superscribes it “* Seedarabst lenco Ia,” he has succeeded in mystifying the average human mind considerably regarding the intended destination of his misstve. Not at all the post-office clerk, however, who at once sees that ‘Cedar Rapids, Linn County, Iowa,” is meant. So, too, when from the Bremen bag a greasy packet flutters out, ad- dressed to ‘ Hafte Lac Co ill,” it is not difficult to dis- cern, after the letters of the legend have been involved from the chaos in which a stiff fist and a villanous pen have left them, that _the packet is intended for some one in “Half Day, Lake County, Illinois,”’ and thither it therefore goes. But when the only address to be made out from another—and that by no means sure, so vague are forms of the letters—is “Cholly- hutville Co Ill,” then it is that brains tell in the dis- tributing business. Brains finally result in a solution of the palimpsest, and “ Joliet, Will County, Illinois,” is the nterpretation theréof. In like manner “ Ver- seaux incauque Co Amerika’—a_ superscription which could have emanated from nowhere else but France—is decided to mean “ Warsaw, Hancock County,” and it is found that Mlinois has such a town in —— | a county; so the letter is forwarded thither, and has doubtless gladdened or saddened the heart of its object before now.—Lakeside Monthly. We think the clerk in the Philadelphia post-office, whe put a letter addressed to “ Ela Goda” in our box, deserves some credit. We suppose the translation to be thus: “L. A. Godey.”

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. 296 GODEY'S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. RESIDENCE IN THE ENGLISH GOTHIC STYLE. fy! : ‘ Drawn expressly for Godey's Lady's Book, by Isaac H. Honss & Son, Architects, 809 and 811 Chestnut Street, ; [ : Jormerly 436 Wainut Street, Philadelphia. pi ~— THE above design is in the style of English Gothic, drawn in the proportions of the Ovo order, which ve ita degree of retinement that suits the fresh deas of the American people. The principal floor contains a fine rior, dining-room, sitting-room kitchen, stair h and vestibule, with one inclosed FIRST STORY. ' hall under the tower. There is a rear porch or veraudah, entered from the hail by a door and by windows reaching to the floor on the parlor. The second floor has four fine apartments lighted by dor- mer and ble windows, not shown this view. The cost of the building erected in the spirit of the design, will be $4500. As there are a great menet pen le who do not un- derstand the duties of an architect, and as we receive many letters from parties asking us to build their houses, we beg to state that our duty consists of making designs and drawings for the whole house, and so arranging all the details that an inteligent artizan can see at once a direct, cheap, and proper way of executing them. In our experience of hun- dreds of buildings, we know where to look upon the plans to overcome the difficulties which continually occur to those without experience, thereby saving labor, and obtaining beauty by the mere shape of the object. An architect also stands as an umpire SECOND STORY. over the work, and protects the owner from fraud and imposition. é First Floor.—A vestibule; B enclosed hall, 8 by 8 feet: C stair hall, 8 feet wide; D parlor, 15 by 25 feet; E sitting-room, 13 feet six inches by 12 feet 6 inches; F dining-room, 12 feet 6 inches by 20 feet ; G kitchen, 12 feet 6 inches by 12 feet 6 inches; H porch. Second Floor.—I bed-room, 15 by 25 feet; J stair hall; K bath-room; L bed-room, 12 feet 6 inches by 12 feet 6 inches; M bed-room, 12 feet 6 inches feet; N bed-room 12 feet 6 inches by 12 feet 6 in Address letters to residence, 804 North Eighth St., Philadelphia. os oe t0 ew en me ws Oe OO OO el eee ot

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reet, - ue i a a a A FASHIONS. 297 ] FROM the Philadelphia Inquirer:— ““GopgEyY’s Lapy’s BOOK.—Always improving, this magazine has made a start for the new year which surpasses anything yet accomplished by the enter- rising publisher. any new and attractive features iave been introduced. The principal of these is a series of etchings of society, the subject being ‘ Miss Lolipop’s Party.’ The first of them is furnished in the present—the weal Oh amy and represents the family—the mother, her two daughters, and an irrepressible boy—in consultation over the knotty question, ‘Who shall be invited?’ It is a spiritedly drawn and effective picture. The draughtsman is Mr. E. B. Bensell, and the engraver Mr. Lauderbach. ‘the etchings are to be nine in number, one being given every month. Steel engravings, wood en- gravings, colored fashion plates, a page design of parlor ornaments printed in colors, pleasant. and in- structive stories, sketches, and essays, together with much reading of peculiar value to housekeepers, make up the best number yet issued. ALL the departments of the Lapy’s Book for 1872 are conducted with unusual vigor.— 7'imes, Bath, Me. PHILADELPHIA AGENCY. ApprREss “Fashion Editress, care L. A. Godey, Philadeiphia.” 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 gent 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. M. O.—Sent bonnet by express December 20th. Mrs. W. S.—Sent gold pen 20th. Mrs. R. H. M.—Sent rubber gloves 20th. Mrs. J. S. P.—Sent rubber gloves 20th. Mr. S. F.—Sent silver spoons by express 20th. Mrs. J. R.—Sent pattern 20th. Mrs. E. J. F.—Sent breastpin 20th. Mrs. C, E.—Sent hair jewelry by express 22d. Mrs. N. E. N.—Sent gold ring by express 22d. Mrs. Y. H.—Sent articles by express 23d. Miss E. W. K.—Sent pattern 28th. H. J. G.—Sent lead comb by express 28th. Mrs. E. H. W.—Sent articles 28th. Mrs. A. L. R.—Sent pattern 28th. Mrs. E. B. B.—Sent Britannia tea and coffee sett by express 29th. M. A. L.—Sent articles by express January 2d, 1872. J. S.—Sent curls 2d. Mrs. C. H.—Sent initial paper 2d. Mrs. Dr. W. H. H.—Sent breastpin 2d. Miss E. F.—Sent rubber glass 2d. Miss E. D. M.—Sent pattern 2d. Mrs. 8. J. K.—Sent lead comb 2d. Miss M. J. P.—Sent pattern 4th. Mrs. J. A.—Sent pattern 4th. K. M. D.—Sent pattern 4th. Mrs. L. V. MeK.—Sent curls by express 8th. Miss M. A. D.—Sent hair jewelry by express 18th. Miss M. L. W.—Sent hair wire 18th: Mrs. P. E. S.—Sent pattern 18th. 8. E. S.—Sent hair jewelry by express 18th. Agnes.—Your first business should be, instead of | asking questions about your behavior to young men, | to learn to write and spell, and pay a little attention | to grammar. Corinne.—Make the waist plain, and cover with narrow ruches from the throat down to the shoul- ders; elbow sleeves. PD. A. B.—Within fifteen miles. _Miss A. C, pm a sentinel, or a witness. You will find the word in Gen. xxxi. 49 “And La- ban said: This heap is a witness between me and thee this day. Therefore was the name of it called Galeed: and Mizpah; for he said, the Lord watch between me and thee, when we are absent one from another.” Rosa.—Your case is not an uncommon one. In most instances parents form the more correct esti- mate, and you will in all probability find your gain in being guided by their decision. Maria.—You can renew your old crape by passing VOL. LXXxIV.—19 it to and fro through steam eight or nine times; pin it out lightly on a clean cloth, so as not to unduly stretch it, and allow it to dry. Mrs. M.—Not unless you Know it would be agreea ble to both parties. Amy.—You should call on your young friend to welcome her to your welgliborkood. Butterfly.—It is always more polite to answer an invitation of whatever kind. Julia.—We cannot answer questions relating to medical topics. Fashions. NOTICE TO LADY SUBSCRIBERS. Having had frequent applications for the purchase of jewelry, millinery, ete., by ladies living at a dis- tance, the Editress 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 wardrobes, manti! 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, accompanied by checks Jor the proposed expenditure, to be addressed to the care of L. A. rodey, Esq. No order will be attended to unless the money is first received. Neither the Editor nor the Publishcr 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. Vhen goods are ordered, the fashions that prevail here govern the purchase ; therefore, no articles wi!l be taken back. When the goods are sent, the trans- action must be considered final. The publisher of the Lapy’s Boox has no interest in this department, and knows nothing of its 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. DESCRIPTION OF STEEL FASHION-PLATE. Fig. 1.—Dinner dress of peacock-color silk, made with two skirts; the lower one trimmed with a row of black thread lace, headed by a rnehe of lace; the upper skirt is trimmed to correspond, with bow cf ribbon and lace at the sides. Basque waist; open sleeves. Point lace collar and flowing sleeves. Fig. 2—Walking dress of black silk; black velvet basque, trimmed with lace and satin folds. Black velvet hat, trimmed with flowers and black and white lace. Fig. 3—Reception dress of heavy black silk, mace with a court train, and trimmed with narrow ruffles, edged with Valenciennes lace. A piece of silk is turned back en revers at the sides, edged with a wide lace. Bands, trimmed with lace, and bows | trim the front breadth. Basque waist; open sleeves, trimmed to correspond with skirt. Fig. 4.—Evening dress: the underskirt is of heavy white silk, made with a train, trimmed with a pon! appliqué flounce, headed by bands of pink silk, and | puffs of pink silk at the side, edged with lace, and divided by bouquets of flowers; pink silk overskirt and low basque corsage, trimmed with lace aud flowers: short sleeves. Hair arranged in puffs, with half wreath of flowers. Fig. 5.—House dress of purple silk, made with one skirt, trimmed to simulate two with lace, quillings of black silk and passementerie. Basque waist: open sleeves, trimmed to correspond. Fig. 6.—Dress for child of six years, made of light brown silk poplin, made with two skirts, and trimmed with velvet ribbon and bows. White cloth sacque,

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— — 2 RTE aT BS IIE ee ive ca Ee ae 298 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.

bound and faced with black velvet. Hat of the same color as dress. DESCRIPTION OF EXTENSION SHEET. FIRST SIDE. Fig. 1.—Walking dress of black silk, made with ends, trimmed to match. Toque hat, with bow of ribbon and tuft of feathers. Fig. 4.—Dress for girl of ten years, of dark gray Irish poplin. The first skirt trimmed with two rows | of black velvet. Pointed tunic, with bretelles; sash two skirts, and a basque waist, trimmed with folds | and fringe. Hat of black silk, trimmed with velvet and flowers. Fig. 2.—Visiting dress of lilac silk, trimmed witha deep ruffle of same, trimmed with a narrow ruffle plaited. Overskirt and basque of velvet, or of silk of a darker shade, trimmed with fringe. Bonnet 01 the two shades, trimmed with flowers and feathers. Fig. 3—Dress of black silk, made with one skirt, with a casaque of the same, trimmed with Valen- ciennes lace. Black velvet bonnet, trimmed with white lace and pink flowers. Fig. 4.—Street costume of brown silk poplin, made with one skirt, trimmed with a deep ruffle, scalloped and headed by three puffs of silk. Basque sacque with cape, trimmed to correspond. Brown silk bon- net, trimmed with flowers. Fig. 5.—Dark blue serge dress, made with a ruffle, put on to simulate a court train; the front breadth is covered with ruffles. Short black velvet sacque, bound with silk braid. Blue velvet hat, trimmed with feathers. Fig. 6.—Black Cashmere dress, the skirt trimmed with a ruffle, trimmed with two rows of guipure lace and velvet, with a row of each where the ruffle is sewed on. Black Cashmere mantle, open in the back, fastened at the waist by a ribbon bow, and trimmed with fringe. Black hat, trimmed with black feathers. Fig. 7.—Suit for boy of twelve years, of navy blue cloth, white Marseilles vest, blue cloth hat. Fig. 8.—Dress for little girl, of blue and white striped poplin, made with two skirts; white cloth sacque, trimmed with blue velvet. Blue velvet hat, and feathers. Fig. 9.—House dress of cuir-colored silk, the under- skirt being of a light, and the upper skirt and waist being of adarker shade. The underskirt is trimmed with black lace; the upper one with plaitings of the same, and feather bands. Fig. 10.—Dress of gray poplin, made with two skirts; the lower one trimmed with velvet, the up- per one trimmed with fringe and plaitings of silk. Basque waist, trimmed to correspond. Fig. 11.—Dress for child of a year old, made of Nainsook muslin, trimmed with an embroidered ruffle. SECOND SIDE. Fig. 1.—The Macgregor mantle in black Cashmere. This mantle is richly braided with black soutache. It consists <7 a long, loose, sleeveless paletot, with an opening at the back, and fastening the entire length of the front. It hasa large cape open at the back almost to the neck. Both paletdt and cape are edged with rich black silk fringe. Fig. 2.—Costume of little girl of six totwelve years. Blue foulard skirt, trimmed at the edge with a nar- row gathered flounce, and blue silk bows on the front of the skirt. Foulard polonaise, striped biue and white, open in front, with revers, and trimmed with blue silk. Heart-shaped bodice. Sash and ro- sette of blue silk. Long sleeves, with cuffs falling over the hands. Muslincravat. Straw hat, with tuft of flowers placed in front. Fig. 3.—Dress for a little girl of two to six years, of white percale, trimmed with bands of broderie Anglaise. A flounce of the same is placed at the bottom of the petticoat. Round bodice and sash and basques bound with the same velvet; long sleeves. Gray hat, with feather and bow. Fig. 5.—Boy’s dress from eight to twelve years. Brown cloth costume, stockings striped brown and white, brown cloth boots, with Spanish leather tops. White waistcoat. Oval hat of white canvas, and trimming of black woollen braid. Figs. 6, 7,8, and 9.—Headdress for morning. This headdress is a very simple manner of dressing the hair. Two braids of hair are tied on the head by a piece of tape; the waved hair passes over this. Fig. | 7 shows the manner of arranging the braids, Fig. 9 shows the front placed already on the rolls, Fig. 8 shows a back view of the chignon. Draw the hair backwards, excepting a very slight portion, which is rolled up at the ear, and fasten the waved front hair | under the braids. The ends of the ribbon on which the front hair is arranged are tied together under- neath the back hair. Then comb the waved front hair towards the sides from Fig. 9, fasten the ends | of the same underneath the back hair; then comb | upwards that part of your own hair which has re- mained unnoticed, fasten the ends likewise under- neath the back hair, which is rolled up and fastened. Then fasten the chignon from Fig. 8, covering the tape of the front hair. Complete the headdress with jet pins, having the shape of stars. Fig. 10.—Hood for waterproof cloak, which can also be worn over the head. Fig. 11.—Apron with bib. This gray linen apron is made with rerers, buttoning to the apron, as seen in the iustration, and is trimmed with a plaited frill and a narrow band of ribben, embroidered with searlet wool. The bib is also made with revers, meeting in front, where the points are fastened with a button. The shoulder-straps are of double linen, embroidered to correspond with the bands. Fig. 12.—Mantle of black Cashmere for an elderly lady, trimmed with a plaiting of the same, headed by a plaiting of silk. Bows with fan-shaped orna- ments in the back. Fig. 13.—Tournure of hair cloth, made with two rows of puffs, edged with a plaited ruffle all around. Fig. 14.—Sacque for girl of three years, made of white cloth, bound with silk. The hood is lined with silk, and trimnied with silk cord and tassels. Fig. 15.—Spring overcoat for boy of six years, made of very light cuir-colored cloth, and bound with a silk braid. Fig. 16.—Hat of black straw, trimmed with black | velvet, lace, pink flowers, and feathers. Fig. 17.—Gentleman’s scarf, mide of purple silk. Fig. 18.—Ladies’ morning cap, made of muslin, embroidered and trimmed with a bow of colored ribbon. | Figs. 19 and 22,Collar and cuff of fine linen, with | the edge finished with fine embroidery. Fig. 20.—Nursery pinafore of gray linen, with back and front breadths, scalloped around the edges, and ornamented with braided strips of linen stitched over the shoulders, and extending nearly to the bot- tom of the skirt. Fig. 2L—Ladies’ flannel skirt, scalloped on the edge, and braided above it with silk braid. Fig. 23.—Front and back of a sacque for little girl! of one year, scalloped on the edge, and finished with embroidery above it. Fig. 24.—Fashionable draperies and curtains. The curtains are of blue satin, with a border in appliqué and embroidery of blue velvet on a stone-colored

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of ray ws ash ng rs. nd ps. nd his he ya ig. 9 .- = air is air ch mt ds nb er- dd. he ith an on en ed ith rs, ith n, i, dl k id “dl L- rl Ah 1e ié dl satin ground. The white curtains are of plain net, with the pine pattern of point lace. CAPS, COLLARS, BASQUE, ETC. (See Engravings, Page 228.) FASHIONS. 299 Fig. 1—Collar and chemisette of embroidered | muslin, trimmed with lace. Fig. 2.—Sacque of embroidered muslin, trimmed These are becoming, and more dressy than the linen collars and muslin frills worn with colored ties in the daytime. Softly folded China crape, edged with Valenciennes, is formed into large collars, called fichu collars, to wear with black and dark silk dresses in the house. Among the double capes, or sacques with cape | nOw so popular, the one with the Watteau fold on with a plaiting of plain muslin; the back is trimmed | with loops and ends of pink ribbon, and the sleeves the same. This can be worn with a low-necked dress for a dinner costume ; the ribbon should corre- spond in color with the dress. Fig. 3—Collar to wear with a surplice dress, of embroidered muslin, edged with Valenciennes lace. Fig. 4.—Fancy cap of black lace, trimmed with blue velvet and different colored convolvulus. Fig. 4—White muslin basque for evening wear, trimmed with a puff of muslin, colored or black vel- vet, and Valenciennes lace. Fig.“6.—Fanecy cap of white lace, trimmed with pink velvet and carnation pinks. Figs. 7 and 9.—Sleeve and collar to wear with open dress, made of worked and Valenciennes insertion, and edged with Valenciennes lace. Fig. 8.—Cape to be worn of colored satin, trimmed | . , andy oe, & l | saies, or onyx set in precious stones. with lace, to be worn with a black silk dress; it is embroidered with black siik. CHITCHAT ON FASHIONS FOR MARCH. WE have reached the first spring month, and, per- haps, we may dream of soon needing lighter cloth- ing; but the cold blasts still make us wrap our winter clothing more closely about us, and we set the idea aside as not being required for some time. But it is well to be somewhat prepared for the mild days which will eventually follow. Black silk or Cashmere suits will supply this need. Many persons have been employing their leisure time this winter in embroidering or braiding a suit of the latter, and now have it ready for the season approaching. A new overskirt, that is much admired, for silks, woollens, and for muslin over silk, is longer in front than behind, requiring the back breadths of the dress to be flounced very high. To construct it, take tWree front widths of silk a yard long, and two back breadths only three-eighths long. It opens behind, the back widths being in double box-plaits to form a postilion flounce, and the long apron breadths being gathered down the side seam. Modistes have devised a plan for lengthening the short skirts of street dresses, so that they may trail on the floor when worn in the house. Make the six-gored skirt of ordinary walk- ing length—just escaping the ground—cut the placket hole in the middle of the back, sew the three front breadths with slight gathers to the belt, and finish the belt with hooks and eyes, leaving the three back widths hanging. Then face the upper part of the back widths, and put in a drawing-string. When the skirt is‘to be worn in the street, draw the back slightly in the house, let the fulness droop low over the tournure, and the overskirt or polonaise will conceal the loose hanging breadths. Kilt plaiting is the trimming that meets with most favor on lower skirts. It is made straight, is lined with foundation muslin, the lower edge is hemmed with loose stitches on the wrong side, a bias band holds the top flatly, and a row of stitching is placed straight around three inches above the edge. A standing ruffle of Valenciennes lace, with a large jabot or oval rosette in front, is worn instead of a collar with dressy street toélettes in the evening. | the sacque. 1 } the sacque is attractive for its fulness over the tour- nure; while the talma cape is permitted to fall open, it gracefully displays the trimmed Watteau fold. The length of the cape is a matter of taste, as many garments have capes but a finger length shorter than Soutache interspersed with jet, passe- menterie, or silk bands on the cape and sacque, with fringe edging each, are the fashionable trimmings. These capes for spring wear can be made without the sacque underneath, and in making one to match a Cashmere skirt (either braided or embroidered), the capes are literally covered over with work. Marvels of beauty in intricate and costly work are offered for inspection by our superb jewelry estab- lishments. Necklaces are twisted rope chains, or else the cable chain, or large round links of pale Etruscan gold. Some of these necklaces are made with pendants of antique stones cut in intaglio, mo- Everything in antiquity of style is eagerly sought after. Lockets are exquisitely beautiful, with beautifully carved mythological heads. The popular gold bracelet is a thick, heavy-looking band of Etruscan gold an inch wide, with light Greek ornamentation or else a floral design in colored gold. The gauntlet brace- lets, three inches wide, shaped like a great cuff of gold, are new, but are not generally admired. Gen- tlemen’s lockets are of stone, cameo, or of onyx, with monogram. In sets of jewelry those of gold are most popular for general wear, as they are appropriate for all occasions. The designs are copied from the antique, with yellow gold for the base, ornamented with the red and green golds that are colored by acids. Pale blue turquoises are probably the most popular stones for blondes: they are frequently set with pearls. Pink coral sets, worn alike by blonde and brunette, are preferred in balls, square blocks, and pear-shaped pendants, rather than in the carved floral designs. Coral cameos, set with diamonds, are also fashionable. Cameos set in gold and pearls are also shown. Among the precious gems are dark sapphires and great square emeralds, lightened by settings of most brilliant diamonds. Sets of pearl have large rose-pearl centres, from which extend rays of gold, while below are swinging pendants of diamond and pearl. Necklaces are of two or three strands of strung pearls beautifully matched in size and color. Diamonds are not set heavily and in close clusters, but are placed farapart in light gold settings, to display the beauty of the stones. An exception to this is the ribbon necklace of diamonds, in which | the stones are adjacent to each other without visible | setting, and the necklace is made as flexible as a | ribbon by means of springs underneath. breadths up to the belt ; when it is required to train | | We pass on from jewelry to lace, the two greatest luxuries of the toflette. Lace has quite usurped the place of French needlework for all the nicer and more elegant requisites of the toilette ; chemisettes 4 14 Pompadour, sleeves and ruffles in endless va- riety. A beautiful bridal evening dress was of white poult de soie, trimmed with an Undine green, over- laid with tulle, an enchanting combination, uniting an air of fresh youth with the inevitable dead-white- ness appertaining to that interesting period. The | jewels were emeralds and diamonds, a simple water lily for the hair. But the style, par excellence, is ' tulle of snowy whiteness.

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=r 300 GODEY’S LADY'S BUOK AND MAGAZINE. Nothing can be more exquisitely fairylike and ele- gaut than the tulle ball dress of trained skirt, and oyerdress extremely bouffant, ornamented with marabout trimming. Another style is that of hay- ing many light silken flounces beneath the tulle, trimmed with delicate branches of white lilac, a i.inge of white jessamine, sprays of acacia, or frayed :uchings of crape; the corsage of puffed tulle, gar- uished with flowers. A magnificent dress of white ros grain Was literally covered with black lace, the dusky fabric so Spanish in its suggestiveness that, us one looks upon it, the vision of a dark-eyed donna arises as toits rightfulowner. Still, black lace is be- coming to all; it shades and relieves the trop pro- noncé, and yet lends a newer grace to the most faultlessly elegant. The corsage is extremely décolleté this season, but iichus, capes of Valenciennes, or some pretty inven- tion, generally covers the neck, the beauty, half hid- den, enhanced by its light drapery. The imported luce Collars are enlarged to Vandyke-like expansion, and naturally cost accordingly. Amongst the beau- tifal assortment of lace seen is an overskirt of cluny lace, beautifully fine, a shawl of point d’ Alencon of iinest design, with convolvulus flowers in the border. In gazing upon these beautiful laces, one readily credits all the old stories of how the secrets of their fubrication were kept as heir looms in families, their sule inheritance, perchance, taught as the richest dower from a fading parent toa blooming chitd, who, in her turn, grew pale, and wan, and blind over the fatal gift. Thesnowy fleeciness of lace envelopments is hazardous to many complexions; indeed, only a lady sure of her high bred tone may employ it in great profusion. Combinations of lace and silk in neckties ure very fashionable, and ingenuity is exhausted in the multitude of designs in this respect. True lovers’ knots of twilled silk, and edged with fine Valen- ciennes, the ends falling over an oval piece of Swiss | muslin, trimmed to correspond. Standing frills of | muslin, finished with edging, of the Marie Antoinette style, rival collars; also the broad Elizabethan ruff, which is sold by the yard, is quaint and becoming, lending a softness if made of lace, never found in sets of linen. Broidere en relief upon a silk dress is quite one of the nouveautés of the season, and is one of the most ecijlective, both upon light and upon dark grounds. ‘The jardinére patterns, in all colors, over black silk, are very stylish for indoor dresses and jackets ; but for toilettes de sortie, the designs en chmaieu, shaded of the same color as the dress, are in better taste. Black embroidery over black silk gives a par- ticularly ladylike look to a toilette serieuse, while for brides white upon white is chastely elegant. For the evening we have noticed a dress of pale salmon-colored faille silk, embroidered with a rich pattern. The manteau Dauphine, which completed the train-shaped dress, was embroidered to corre- spond. The bodice formed a low corselet with bre- telles, all covered with embroidery work, with inner trimmings of fine Valenciennes lace. The fireside and robe de ‘hambre are such pleasant things in this cold, blustry weather, that we do not wonder at the number of coquettish morning cos- tumes we see just now. One of both the most com- fortable and elegant of these is the Marguerite robe de chambre of gray Cashmere, trimmed with an em- broidered border of pink Marguerites. This border is worked above a band of pink quilted silk around the train-shaped skirt, up the fronts, and around the bodice and wide sleeves, which are lined with pink plush or satin. The bodice remains slightly open in front to show the delicate embroidery and. flutings of the chemisette. The pretty daisies are large and worked in point au passe with floss silk. It is quick and easy work, and may tempt many a lady of leis. ure, for its result is most effective. We have received so many inquiries from young mothers on the subject of infants’ clothing, that we feel we cannot do better than devote our remaining space to that topic. Dresses, slips, shirts, night- gowns, skirts, and double wrappers, are the gar- ments most difficult to make; the smaller articles are much easier of construction. It is best to pro- cure patterns for the garments desired; it saves time, trouble, and expense, for with a pattern it is easy to calculate the amount of material required. Dresses come first on the list; those high-necked and long-sleeved are most in favor at present for infants. This is a sensible fashion, as it dispenses with sacques, which are sometimes left off through care- lessness, so that the child takes cold. However, one, if not more, dressy robe, with low neck and short sleeves, is always included ina wardrobe ; this dress is usually made of the finest Nainsook or mull, and can be as elegant as the fancy of the mother desires. High yoke slips for every-day wear are the simplest and prettiest of baby dresses. Thicker Nainsook and dimity are used for thege. The yoke may be of the dress material, fitted smoothly, and finished by a ruffle or edging, or it may be formed entirely of lengthwise puffs, bands of insertion, tucks, or of Valenciennes medallions and needlework. The two widths of the skirt are sometimes straight, some. times sloped slightly towards the top, and are seven- eighths of a yard long. The sleeves are coat-shaped ; either a ribbon sash or an insertion belt can be worn, or it can be left to hang loosely; the latter is most generally preferred. The night-gown is merely a long sacque, buttoned behind or before as the mother chooses. If buttoned behind, many mothers make it serve for a day dress in the nursery. They are generally made of cambric muslin, with simple edg- ings for trimming. For skirts but little directions are necessary; two breadths of jaconet muslin, or two of flannel are required; the latter are simply scalloped for every day wear; embroidery or braid- ing is added for better ones. For muslin ones, ruf- fles, insertion, tucks, or puffs, are used ; the waist is a double piece of linen or muslin. The shirt is a dainty little garment, made of the finest linen lawn, trimmea with Valenciennes lace; the smallest, smoothest, softest seams should be seen on all infants’ clothing, but especially on the shirt, which comes next to the tender flesh, except where the flannel band comes. These are of doubled flannel, with a broad band of elastic inserted down the front. A blanket or shaw! (a square of merino or fine flannel) is added to all wardrobes, and can be embroidered as elaborately as the taste of the owner suggests. The best bibs for ordinary use are of white lawn, slightly wadded and quilted. The quilting is far apart, in double diamonds, a tiny figure being embroidered in each diamond, and the edge is finished by a scallop. Cloaks are made in two large capes, with a hood. White cloaks are preferred. For summer the ma- terial is pigué and white lawn; for winter, white merino; for dressy occasions, plaid flannels for greater warmth and ordinary. use. Braiding, em- broidery, and fringe are the trimmings for piqué and merino. Caps and turbans of Valenciennes lace and needlework are chosen for both boy and girl babies; soft, fleecy wool knitted caps, braided merino caps, and little lawn bonnets for summer, are all worn. Sacques are not as much used as formerly, when all dresses were low in the neck. They are made of finest Cashmere, braided or embroidered. Berlin wool sacques are still softer, and exquisitely shaped. FASHION.

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GENTLEMEN’S DRESSING-ROOM.

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Go the Fran Saunder's Silvey Baud,

Indian Maiden’s Song. Words by Judge A. B. MEEK, of Ala., from his Poem, “Red Eagie.”’ Music by Mrs. S. B. HAUGHTON.

As published by J. STARR HOLLOWAY, 811 Spring Garden St., Philada.

1. The blue-bird is whistling in Hil-li - bee waa, |= . )

| ees wm

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“eH OH THE INDIAN MAIDEN‘S SONG. EEE. —————— peat-ing the tale of his love, Ter-ra- ree! But nev-er that song, As its notes float a - long, So sweet or so in its rapturecan be, As thy low whisper’d words, pp low whisper’d words, Young chief - 2. 3. Deep, down in the dell, is a clear, crystal stream— The honey-bud blooms, when the spring-time is green Terraree! Terraree! Terraree! Terraree! Where, scattered like stars, the white pebbles gleam, And the fawn, with the roe, on the hill-top is seen, Terraree! Terraree! Terraree! Terraree! But deep in my breast, But ’tis Spring all the year, Sweet thoughts are at rest, When my loved one is near, No eye but my own in their beauty shall see; And his smiles are like bright beaming blossoms te me; They’re dreams! happy dreams! young chieftain, of thee! Oh, to rove o’er the hills, young chieftain, with thee.

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—(See Fashion Department.) =/ ] L Y z wad « r= = = =) io 3 aw ” z S = n < lis