Godey's Lady's Book And Magazine 1874-09: Vol 89 Iss 531

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fj " ) ,, “oats SEPTEMBER. - nman at the Sploniie ee ee — no Premium given to Coe GODEY’S a o4 . - 5 EDITED BY MRS. SARAH J, HALE, L. A, GODEY. t} Whos 1) * wi

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4 NEW CHROMO FOR 1874. TO BE GIVEN TO EVERY SUBSCRIBER. SODEBY’sS LADYS BOOK. The Oldest Magazine in America. 18'7+. 1874. IN ADDITION TO OUR SPLENDID STHEL ENGRAVINGS RELIABLE COLORED FASHION-PLATES, WILL BE GIVEN FROM TIME TO TIME ELEGANT CHROMO ILLUSTRATIONS, A NEW FEATURE THAT HAS NEVER BEEN ATTEMPTED BY ANY OTHER MAGAZINE. STORIES BY CELEBRATED WRITERS. The following popular writers, in connection with many new ones, have been engaged :— Marion Harland, Ino Churchill, Mrs. C. A. Hopkinson, Louise S. Dorr, Mrs. Victor, S. Annie Frost, Sue Chesnutwood, Ete. OUR OTHER DEPARTMENTS-— Model Cottages, Designs for the Work-table, Knitting, Embroidery, with Colored Engravings of the same, Netting, Drawing Lessons, Invaluable Receipts, Original Music, Etc., WILL BE RETAINED. A PREMIUM CHROMO To every Subscriber, whether Singly or in a Club, who pays in Advance for 1874, and remits direct to this office. TERMS: One copy, one year le ie ‘Ss - $300 to the person getting up the club, making B Two copies, one year . ° ° . 3 eee nine copies . . ‘ $ ‘ ‘ - $21 00 Three copies, one year . ° ° . - 75 Eleven copies, one , and an extra copy Four copies, one year . ° ° - 1000 to the person getting up the club, making Five copies, one year, and an extra copy twelve copies . . , é ° ° - 27 50 to the person getting up the club, making Twenty-three copies one year, and an ex- six copies ‘ ‘ ’ ° ; ; . 1400 tra copy to the person getting up the club, Eight copies, one year, and an extra copy making twenty-four copies . ° . 5500 Let it be understood that every subscriber, and the getter-up of a club, will have the beautiful Chromo of “TRUE TO NATURE,” sent to them, free of Postage. 4@ And any subscriber in a club, or a single subscriber, can have the Chromo “True to Nature” mounted on stiff Bristol board, ready for framing, by sending twenty-five cents additional, and the postage by us. We do not mount any of the other Chromos. 4 To the ester op of a club of 4, 6, or 9 copies, we will send in addition to “ True to Nature” as an extra premium the choice of a single copy of either of the following: “ The Singing Lesson,” and “ My Pet.” 4&—- To the getter-up of a club of 12 copies, we wil! send in addition to “ True to Nature” the following: “The ae Lesson” aud “My Pet” Or, if desired, “ The Old Miil” and “ True to Nature.” aa the getter-up of a club of 24 copies, we will send in addition to “* True to Nature,” “The Old Mill,” “ The Singing Lesson,” and “* My Pet.” z= ry T Dollar subscriber can have a choice of a copy of the following: “True to Nature,” “ The Singing Lesson,” and “‘ My Pet.” a—~ Will the peeett up of clubs be particular and state what premiums they desire. premiums are only forwarded when the remittance is sent to us. 43- When the subscribers all reside at one place, the premiums will be sent tothe person who sends the club for distribution. ta" VANADA subscribers must send 24 cents additional for every subscription to the Lapy's iK. 43 The money must all_be sent at one time for any of the clubs, and additions may be made to clubs at club rates. The Lapy’s Boox will be sent to any post-office where the subscriber may reside, and sub- scriptions may commenes? with any month inthe year. We can always supply back numbers. Specimen numbers will be sent on receipt of 25 cents. HOW TO REMIT.—In remitting by Mail, a Post-orrict ORDER on Philadelphia, or a DRaFt on Phi- ladelphia, New York, Boston, Baltimore,or any of our principal cities, payable to the order of L. A. . is preferable to bank notes. If a draft ora Post-office Order cannot be procured, send United States or National Bank notes. Address LL. A. GODEY, N. E. Cor. Sixth and Chestnut Sts., Philadelphia, Pa.

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BRAIDWORE.-SGERMON CASE. (See Desoription, Work Department.)

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= = = Oo fa bad ; = - « ry ~ 2 > - Up) f ot a a= fT . l Si RE SS THE MISSION OF FLOWERS. * VOL, LXXXIx.—14

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MATTIE WALTZ. COMPOSED AND ARRANGED FOR THE PIANO-FORTE. BY EF. INGLESIDE. As published by J. STARR HOLLOWAY, 811 Spring Garden St., Philada. Tempo di Valse. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by J. STARR HOLLOWAY, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. ee

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MATTIE WALTZ.

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GIRL’S DRESS. i Front and back view of dress for cirl of six years, made of gray summer serge, with one skirt and over- dress, cut as a loose polonaise, belted in; the front of skirt is trimmed with a plaiting, the back with a ruf- fie. The polonaise is corded. LADIES’ JACKET. Front and back view of jacket, made of heavy corded silk, and trimmed with lace. 216

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GODEY’S Hadys Hook and Magazine, VOLUME LXXXIX.—NO, 531. PHILADELPHIA, SEPTEMBER, 1874. “FAITHFUL WOUNDS.” BY MARION HARLAND. PART L. ‘*THeEsE front blinds must not be left open fora moment, Katy. I thought I had told you that before, and that, knowing the reason why I gave the order, you would not be likely to forget it,”’ said Mrs. Sheldon, in a tone of grave displeasure, entering her spare bed-room, where the chambermaid was busy dusting the furni- niture after sweeping. Close them at once, and be more careful in future.’’ “I know you said the parlor blinds was to be kept close shut all the time, ma’am; but I didn’t take it you meant as these was to be, too,’’ returned the servant, staring. **I do not wish the front blinds in any story of my house to stand open—certainly not fur a long time to come. Let the air and light in from the back windows, and through the slats of these shutters. Turn them when more light is needed, and while you are cleaning the rooms. When you have finished, make all dark again.”’ The lady—who had been pretty not many years ago, and was now pallid as a consump- tive, weary looking, and dressed in the deepest mourning—sighed heavily after issuing these positive orders, drew a key from her pocket, and, kneeling before the dressing-bureau, un- locked a drawer—the next to the bottom. The two upper were empty and open, guests hav- ing occupied the chamber for several days pre- vious, and only left the house that morning. The contents of the drawer were covered with a fair linen cloth, apparently the fine sheet of a cradle or crib. Katy, glancing over her shoulder, saw that it was filled with baby clothing—dainty dresses, rich with lace and em- broidery ; tiny shirts, worked flannels, tucked eambric skirts—but half worn, all beautifully done up and laid away with care that would See have told the sad story of the ownerless ward- robe to any mother's heart, without need of the corroborating evidence of Mrs. Sheldon’s apparel. Rose leaves, once white as linen and lawn, were strewed over and among them. They were brown and crisp now. Six months had passed since the mourner had buried her youngest born, a noble boy, who had just com- pleted his second year. She took out every article, handling them tenderly, almost reve- rently, silent tears falling thickly upon their pretty daintiness. One by one they were laid on the sheet spread on the carpet to receive them until the drawer was empty, when Mrs. Sheldon wiped out every corner, to free it from the possibility of lurking dust or moth, and began slowly to replace the garments in ex- actly their former order. She had done this every week since her child’s death, and would let no other hands touch them. Katy felt her own eyes fill, and considerately keeping her back turned to her mistress, pol- ished window-panes and door knobs, and dusted circumspectly among the mantle orna- ments, going on tip-toe from point to point, casting about, meanwhile, in her untutored mind, for some phrase of consolation or diver- sion that she might with propriety utter. “It’s a lovely day out, ma’am,” she said, at length, feigning to peep through the parted slats, and taking audible inhalations of the breeze that strayed into the room, freighted with the scent of horse-chestnut blossoms, and of the earth lately wetted by a spring shower. * The dust is laid beautiful. A walk would do you a dale of good—'liven you up wonderful. You are gittin’ right down peakéd, and white as the wall, with stayin’ in-doors. And it’s quite a worry with us girls, ma’am, how little you ate. It’s exercise you ’re needin’, and a sight of people and things out of the house. No offence, I hope, ma’am ?”’ Mrs. Sheldon shook her head, without re- mitting her task of re-arranging the drawers. 2.7

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218 GODEY’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. “No, Katy. You afe very kind. But I do not feel like going out. It is not confinement to the house that is wearing upon my strength’’— Another great sigh finished the sentence, The girl was silent for a minute. She was fond of “tthe mistress,’’ with whom she had lived for several years, and Baby Geordie had been the pet of the houseliold. Her Irish heart was moved by the sight of the mother’s continued sadness; but common sens2 told her it was as injurious to health as to tone of mind. “If you could onee bring yourself to try it, ma’am,’’ she urged, yet more respectfully. “I am sure you would be the better for seeing sights as wouldn’t remind you all the while of the baby—rest his sweet soul! . If you’d make one trial !”’ Mrs. Sheldon was turning over the treasures in the lowest and most shallow drawer of the set—sashes, shoulder knots, and bits of baby jewelry, sheathed pins, a necklace, sleeve clasps, and the like, holding each By turn in her hand, with the gesture and expression of unappeasable longing one can so vividly pic- ture to herself in reading how Florence Percy’s stricken mother, in “‘ Cradle-time,”’ toying with a lock of her infant’s hair, “ Lays it on her bosom tenderly, And tries to think her darling nestles there.” “That will do, Katy. I do not want amuse- ment, or to be diverted from thoughts of my boy. I would not forget him if I could.” “And nobody’d have you to forget him, ma’am. There’s no fear of you doing that," persisted the maid, eager to vindicate herself from the implication of heartlessness. ‘Sure, there isn’t one as knowed him but grieves after him. It isn’t for the likes of me to tache you anything, ma’am ; but I’m thinking oftentimes you’ve a right. to be a proud mother, with all yer throuble, seein’ you ‘ve a blissed little an- gel in heaven.of your own. There’s none of us livin’ as is so well off as he is this minute,” The old, old phrases! so old and trite that the unlearned run them off as glibly as do the wise—the ordained ministers of Gop’s consola- tion! With the listener’s sigh this time was mingled the odd, sad wonder, that Job’s three voluble comforters had not scolded him into frenzy by bidding him remember how much better off his children were, lying lifeless and disfigured, under the fallen roof and beams of the. banqueting house, than when they last stood before him, erect and gay in youthful comeliness and. health. ‘“ You do not understand these things, Katy,” she said, sorrowfully dignified. ‘‘No one can who has not been through the furnace for her- self.”” Quieted effectually, but dissatisfied, Katy finished her work, and crept away, like a ghost in lilac calico, Mrs. Sheldon might dream of the Past, and mourn over the Present, and shiver at thoughts of the Future, unchecked and undisturbed. All of her living children were at school. The house was very still, since the servants’ daily rounds were accom- plished. She recalled, without omitting one accessory to the experience of other days, how differently her. mornings were spent in the autumn and early. winter ; how she would lis- ten, smilingly, for the scamper of lawless feet along the hall; the rattle of the door-knob in a chubby hand stretched high up to seize it; the imperious thump upon the panels, if this were not answered from within; then the pleading tones, ‘‘ Darling mamma! p’ease let your Geordie boy in!’’ The poor mother, hugging the rack, and her- self applying one torture after another, each more exquisite than the preceding, in the full belief that she elevated and strengthened her motherhood by so doing, clasped a pair of baby shoes, yet plump with the shape of the soft white feet, to her heart, and rocked to and fro, moaning aloud. ““My boy! my beauty! nobody misses you, nobody mourns you, as mamma does. She will never get used to living without you! never! never !’”’ Her grief was sincere, yet unconsciously to herself its sharpest sting was in these last words. ** And still the world goes on! goes on !’’ Millions of other stricken ones, sitting as- tonied and trembling in the abiding darkness of their woe, have sounded the plaint, with varying degrees of indignation and jealousy, for the honor of their translated treasures ; have said to themselves and to Gop, if not, in so many words, to their fellow men, that they did well to be angry because these things were so. “If I forget thee, O my beloved! let my right hand forget her cunning ; if 1 prefer not thy memory above the chief joy of this world !’’ was the paraphrased lamentation of this wo- man, who believed her sorrow to be exceptional and supreme. It was not enough that a part of her life had been torn out. Acquaintances whose tears had flowed readily with hers while Geordie lay, unburied in their sight, were be- ginning already to ignore her loss; to inquire ‘‘why she did not come to see them ;”’ to recom- mend mental tonics, such as excursions and entertaining beoks, as physicians might vale- rian and laudanum for the relief of neuralgia. Friends seemed to expect that the green wound was skinning over. The scar, they said, she would, of course, bear about with her always, and the spot be sensitive, even sore, for many years, under the pressure of certain memories and unavoidable associations. But Time was a marvellous healer, and in a healthy nature his work should by this be progressing favorably. She must ‘‘ bear up,’’ and remember how many mercies she still possessed—so many more than

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“FAITHFUL WOUNDS.’’ 219 poor Mrs. A, who had “lost” her husband last week, and poor Mrs. B, who had never had a child. Mrs. Sheldon drifted far down this tide of unprofitable thought, sitting on the carpet, leaning on the open drawer, the most precious jewel of all laid across her palm, and catehing, like a live thing, about her finger, in @ sunny, silky coil. A curl from Geordie’s forehead— severed when the restless brain beneath was forever still. Only ® baby’s hair! But what to her, who had seen the sods join, with cruel swiftness, above the head she would have had know no harder, colder pillow than her breast. Was the day tlien coming when, in all the world he had gladdened for her, she alone would remember and regret him? The more reason, then, that her royalty should be stanch ; that her respect for her boy’s memory should be marked and enduring. The grave should not triumph over her fidelity. Living or dead, he was hers, and she would love him forever. She bethought her of households where the names of the dead, and, for perhaps a brief week, the passionately moaned, was by tacit consent a forbidden word. Those who had gone early to their rest had dropped completely out of the lives of the survivors. The severed chain was mended so ingeniously that the lost links were not missed. Who, except in poetry, said, ‘‘We are seven!’’ when one or two or four had been “taken.’”” Those who were *‘lefi,” as a rule, made the best of the situa- tion, without wasting time and nerve in useless regrets, or weaving sentimental theories of continued oneness. “T never appreciated, until Jately, the horri- ble selfishness of human nature,” she solilo- quized. “It goes far toward making mea believer in total depravity. Yet, when I said this to Aunt Mary last night, she replied, with the melancholy-cheerful tone suitable to such occasions—-such a flimsy cloak for real indiffer- ence as it is!—that ‘this was a merciful dispen- sation of Providence.’ ” “Tf we always suffered as poignantly as at the first, life would be unendurable, my love,” she added. ‘Time does draw the pain out, and it is right and best that it should.” ‘*She who has buried four children can thas congratulate herself—and me, whose heart is breaking. Asif all one had to think and strive after in this world was to make life endurable to herself.’ She got up from her knees in the energy of her protest against the unfeeling dogma ; kissed the curl over and over before restoring it to the velvet case in which it was kept; locked the drawers, whispering, ‘‘ Farewell, my darl- ing!’’ as to a living presence, and went back to her sitting-room, to get rid of the heavy morning as best she might. Her windows overlooked the garden, where was a fair show of early flowers. The birds had found build- ing sites and music galleries in the lilac and pear trees, and the tender grapes on the trellis ‘gave forth.a goodly smell.”” But she bowed her shutters, subduing the sunshine to a half light, tinged with greenish reflections from the blinds, and drew up her work-stand. There was no real need for her to busy herself ac- tively in household duties. She used to enjoy running down into the kitchen at all seasons ; to toss up an elegant little trifle for her hus- band’s supper; to manage a surprise dessert for the children by the time they came home at noon ; to try a new receipt for her cwn amuse- ment or satisfaction, or prepare a tempting delicacy for a sick friend. She had no heart for any of thisnow. What cared she what was eaten and drank at her table, while Geordie’s high chair was wanting from her left hand, and the straying, hindering fingers, aiming at . sugar bowl or cream jug, no longer demanded her watchfulness? Tle very sight of food was disagreeable to her much of the time, and so it ought to be to all who gathered about the family board, if they loved and missed Geordie aright. She had been an industrious reader of the best current English literature, and ‘kept up” her French and music as few other mar- ried ladies in her set did, besides being intelli- gently interested in the leading questions of the day, whether scientific, literary, or politi- cal. Her husband’s pride in her ability to con- verse well upon such topics was patent to all observers, best understood by herself. She had gloried with innocent vanity in his loverly attentions, and put out all affectionate arts to retain and augment his admiration. That was before the bolt fell from heaven that laid waste all her pleasant places. ‘‘ Heartless frivolity’”’ was the mildest term she applied, in her altered mood, to such guileless wills and the various pursuits she then found so delight- ful. “T lived like a butterfly in those days,” she once said to her husband when he gently strove to engage her anew in these. “I am the but- terfly after the storm, now.”’ The irreproachable order of her work- basket elicited another deep-drawn sigh. How Geor- die delighted to trifle with her reels of silk! casting so many meshes about his legs’ and arms that she was fain to unwind him hourly like a very animated cocoon. What tall, tot- tering chimneys he would build with rolls of tape and spools of thread! how often had he hidden her thimble and scissor-case, chuckling gleefully at her search for them! There were dreariness and ‘desolation in the regular ar- rangement of these now. Could it be that she had ever wished, between laughter and vexa- tion, that “things could be kept in their places for five minutes in the day?” If she could have Geordie back, for even that length of time, she would beg him to forgive this and many other petulant speeches that rankled

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constantly in her memory. The imprint of two | small black fingers was stamped upon the blue silk lining of the basket, near the top. Ske had determined never to reline it—a resolution widely different from her first impulse when she saw the fat hand, wet from the overflow of papa’s inkstand, close upon her new basket. ‘‘ Naughty Geordie !’’ she had exclaimed, tap- ping the offending member, and the red lip had put on the grieved pout she could never forget. She had no visitors that forenoon; had the haunted boudoir all to herself, and was grate- ful that the lovely weather induced those who might have intruded upon the sacredness of her griefful meditations, to stay out-of-doors, instead of passing a half-hour apiece in her sunless parlor to be sobered by the sight of her smileless face and dead-black robes. She sewed upon a piece of uninteresting white work—all seam and hem—that called for no exercise of judgment or taste, until the bang of the front door, the clatter of three pairs of boots on the stairs made her start nervously and frown in pain or displeasure. “Mother! I’m head again!’ ‘Mother! whatdo youthink? We’re going to have no end of fun !’’ “Mother! mayn’t I tell you first?” The trio precipitated themselves toward her. “‘Sh—sh !”’ helding up her forefinger. ‘My dear boys!”’ ‘““Why—who ’sasleep?”’ asked harum-scaruin Will, aged seven. Jamie and Aleck~—his elders by two and four yeras, pinched and nodded at him to recall him to a sense of his indiscretion, whereat he said, ‘“*Oh, I forgot !’’ and hung his head. “‘Mother wishes her sons would try and re- member some things/’’ continued Mrs. Sheldon, plaintively. ‘‘Now, go slowly and without noise up stairs, wash your face and hands and be ready for luncheon.”’ They obeyed without sulkiness, being really tender-hearted fellows, who had compunctions about their hilarious conduct of the minute be- fore, and went off, very decorously. But, by the time they reached the top of the stairs lead- ing to their chamber, the repressed fire burst forth anew, and jocund sounds—all three talk- ing together, and at the top of their lungs, with occasional shocks and plunges upon the floor that shook the room below, in which sat the mother ; testified to the evanescent nature of the impression made by her appeal to their fra- ternal affection. The shadows’ darkened upon her soul and her countenance when a merry snatch of melo- dy floated up the staircase, heralding the ap- pearance of a young girl of fifteen, breezy and smiling as the day. She had a satchel of books on her arm, which she tossed to a lounge and daneed across the room to kiss her mother. “ Belovéd eye! belovéd star! Thou art so near and yet so far!” 220 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. she trilled in true operatic style, stopping ab- ruptly at sight of her parent’s swollen eyes and colorless complexion. ‘Dear mamma, are you feeling worse than usual to-day ’?’’ “I am well enough in body, Mabel. The heartache is always the same. TJhat will never be better !’’ There was no word of overt reproach in this, yet the girl recollected remorsefully the out- burst of song into which she had been betrayed by the combined influences of cheerful society, glorious sunshine, and bracing airs. “And I have wounded you by my thought- less levity! Iam ever so sorry, but my spirits will get the better of my judgment sometimes.”’ “‘T should think you would not need to be re- minded of the change in our once happy home,”’ said the mothev, with some severity. ‘‘ You, at least, are old enough to realize the extent of our affliction.” ‘*Indeed, mamma, I do miss dear little Geor- die very sadly,’’ rejoined Mabel, meekly and tremulously, ‘‘ Almost as sadly as you can.” “I do not ask, or expect that, child. There is no heart like a mother’s. I should know this after the inany evidences of forgetfulness and want of consideration that have been brought to my notice of late. I ought to be thankful that you can sing and be gay. Only, my soul is sick with longing for sympathy, sometimes.”’ Mabel stole from her mother’s presence, as wretched as her worst enemy could have de- sired her to be. Shut up in her own room, she threw herself across the bed and cried heartily. She was fickle, and careless of the feelings of others who had more heart than she, she said, in vehement self-accusation. She wished she was dead, and out of this miserable world! Everything was so changed within the half year! It was hard that Gop should have se- lected this family as the target for such fierce arrows of judgment and wrath as drink up the spirit of the bravest; that He had hung a veil of sackcloth between them and the beautiful life that bloomed and smiled for. others. She was sufficiently chastened in mien when she answered the summons to luncheon, to act as a precautionary damper upon tne efferves- cent boyishness that might have otherwise have dealt additional wounds to the mother’s heart. After a few furtive glances from the sorrowful countenance at the head of the table to their sister’s—usually sparkling with fun and good- humor—now downcast and tear-blotched, the lads subsided into cowed quietness ; swallowed their meal with all the dispatch compatible with tolerable breeding, and departed with suspi- cious alacrity, for the more genial atmosphere of school. “TI don’t know what has come over them,” remarked the mother. “It used to be a diffi- cult matter to drive them from me in season to a -_— *& = 4A — > wm, — —

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“FAITHFUL WOUNDS.” 221 reach school at the proper hour. I suppose I am but a sorry companion for the young and happy!” sighing from the depth of her soul. Mabel lingered, hat on, and satchel in hand. “Mamma!” she said, timidly, “I met Mr. Wilder in the street to-day. He was on his way here—to inquire when I would resume my music lessons, He hasan application from an- other pupil for my hours. I promised to call by his house this afternoon and give him your answer.”’ ‘You surely told him that the piano had not been opened since your brother’s death?’’ re- plied Mrs. Sheldon, not without asperity. “IT did, mamma. He said he had refrained from pressing the matter upon your attention out of respect for your affliction, but this appli- cation left him no alternative.”’ Mrs. Sheldon mused, silently, for some min- utes. ‘‘ What is your wish, Mabel?’’ she then inquired, abruptly. Mabel colored, and the water stood in her eyes. ‘‘If it will make you feel badly, mamma, I will give up the lessons altogether, rather than touch the piano in your hearing. But if I am to keep on with my music’’— ‘*You would like to resume lessons and prac- tising forthwith !’’ finished the mother. ‘‘ Very well! Mr. Wilder can come as usual, Ishall get used to such things by and by, perhaps!’’ “Tt is a genuine trial to me,” she said toa friend who called that afternoon, after repeat- ing the incident. ‘I shrink from music and laughter as much as | did when my darling had been but six daysin his grave. I think the repugnance grows upon me, rather than diminishes.’’ The visitor, a comfortable, fresh-colored ma- tron, with kindly eyes, and a dimple in each cheek, looked lugubrious with all her might, which did not go very far. “Of course, my dear! Of course! Very natural, I am sure. Most mothers have ex- actly the same experience. As you say, these are things one never quite gets over— these sorrows, I mean. But we ought to try and believe that they are blessings in disguise. I wish you would rise above your affliction somewhat. You owe it to yourself, you know. You are looking dreadfully! It worries me to see how you have run down. You are too valuable to your friends and family to be al- lowed to go on in this way. Why don’t you walk or ride with your husband sometimes, as you used to do? You two always seemed to take such comfort together—quite like a court- ing couple!’ Mrs. Sheldon put her handkerchief to her eyes. ‘“‘Icannot, Mrs. Marks! Dear little Geor- die went with us so often, and enjoyed riding so much that I cannot bear the sight of the car- riage. I told Mr. Sheldon, months ago, that I could never get in it again.. As to walking, I suffer excruciatingly when obliged to go out, VOL. LXXXIX.—15 even on Sundays. I could not endure the everyday bustle of the streets. I feel like wrapping myself up in my crépe and bomba- zine, and hiding from the eyes of indifferent or curious observers, like any other wounded creature.” **] was in hopes to be able to coax you into taking a quiet drive with me, this afternoon,’’ resumed the visitor, with some embarrassment. ‘*We could take out-of-the-way country roads, you know. Do think of it! You would be ever 30 much better for the little jaunt.’ ‘Excuse me! I cannot bring myself to do it. Iamafraid I seem ungrateful to you and to other friends, but I appreciate your motives entirely. You are better to me than I deserve to be treated. Iam the dullest of companions. There is but one theme that interests me, and that is 100 sacred to be spoken of to mere ac- quaintances. It is a great comfort to have you come in, for you were fond of my precious boy, and are not bored by my talk about him.” In the parting salutations, Mrs. Sheldon put aside the one theme long enough to remark: ‘A dear old friend and schoolmate of mine—the most intimate associate of my girlhood—Mrs. Roswell, of C » will probably visit me next month. She is in deep mourning for her husband and her only child ; therefore, she will not go at all into society. But I hope you will call frequently while she is with me. She isa most interesting woman. You cannot but like her.’’ I will call, with great pleasure. I quite long to become acquainted with her,’’ engaged Mrs. Marks, with the air of one who meant whatshe said. “Iamgladsheiscoming. You need the companionship of just such a friend. It will do both of you good.” To her daughter, who awaited her without in the carriage, she said, in repeating the dia- logue: ‘‘ Nota very attractive prospect, if Mrs. Roswell pets her grief as poor Mrs. Sheldon does! I have the horrors for hours after each visit to her.” The young lady laughed. ‘“Doas I do, and keep away from her! I went once, and when the ordeal was over, I could enter fully into the feeling of the poor wretch we read of in the Spectator, who.on coming out of the cave of Trophonious, marched straight off to the near- est tree, halter in hand, to get rid of his misery by hanging himself. After all’’—with girlish uncharitableness—‘“ three-quarters of her mel- ancholy is affectation. I always distrust the reality of a feeling that is paraded in season and ont of season as her inconsolable woe is.’’ This was not only harsh judgment, but cruelly untrue. Katy had hit the mark in say- ing that her mistress was ‘fretting her heart out.”” That she conscientiously fostered sad reflections and harrowing reminiscences as an honest tribute to her boy’s memory ; repelling every tendency to stray into other channels of

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222 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. thought, as disloyal to him and unfeeling in herself, and demanded the like conduct on the part of the rest of the family was a fact. But she suffered actually and keenly. Continual depression and much weeping had not only en- gendered a morbid habit of thought, but were \elling perceptibly upon her physical condition. Her husband was struck, that evening, atthe dinner-table, as if he had never noticed it be- fore, with her wan, haggard face, and total loss of appetite. She had wasted away to a mere shadow of her former self. There were hol- lows in her temples, and the gleam of a gray hair, here and there, in the locks put straight back above them. She eschewed all fashion- able devices of hairdressing, such as crimps and braids; all superfluous ornaments in her attire. A jet pin fastened her crépe collar, and it was the only symptom of jewelry about her except her wedding-ring. Her dress was heavy with crépe folds, and, warm as was the weather, was made high in the neck with close sleeves. A chin cloth and head-band would have trans- formed her at once into a severely-sad penitent, such as is seldom seen out of the cloister. The family meals were the reverse of lively at this date. To this change Mr. Sheldon had become, in a measure, accustomed. Since it grated upon his wife’s ideas of fitness to have the children chatter noisily, as of yore, he would not encourage them to transgress, and himself set the example of eating what was set before him, gravely and silently. He was careful, however, that they should understand why this was done, and solaced their disappointment for the loss of what they styled, ‘‘the dear, good old days,” by surreptitious talks with them at other times and places. The parlors were never lighted in the evening. The round of conventional condolence visits were over, and few were disposed to pay others. Mr. Sheldon romped with the children in a smothered sort of way in the library until their bed time. So long as mamma knew nothing of the frolics, there was no harm done, was the maxim gov- erning this hour. That mamma did know about the jokes and games and other fun, and resented each and all of the unseemly enjoy- ments as a direct affront to her dead child and herself, never crossed the mind of one of the participants. She kept sedulously out of the way while they went on. She used to undress Geordie and sing hii to sleep at that season, and it was copsecrated to him still. Mabel had told her father, in confidence, that she had fol- jowed her mother, one night, to the locked door of a room in the third story, in which were stored Geordie’s toys—his hobby-horse; his crib; the sled he had used but once, and then with Jennie for driver, steersman, and nurse ; his rocking-chair and that in which he sat at table, and other mementoes of his gladsome daily life. It was bitterly cold that evening, but listening without the fireless room, until she was numb and chilled to the bore, Mabel heard convulsive weeping and wild apostrophes to the departed, that wrung her heart. This story recurred to Mr. Sheldon, when, having kissed the children “ good-night,”’ he smoked his cigar over the evening paper he was trying to read. He dearly loved his wife, and respected her sorrow, but if she were im- pairing her health and endangering her life by prolonged indulgence in this, he must interfere at whatever risk of pain to her or to himself. He smoked his cigar out, ceasing the pretence of reading, while he arranged his plan of ap- proaching the delicate subject with due care and gentleness. Then, instead of waiting for his wife to come to him as she sometimes did, to finish the evening in the library, he sought her sitting-room. She was not there, and he sat down in her chair to abide her coming. It was a cosey place, as he had often remarked before, but certain peculiarities in its appcint- ments assumed new meaning and force, to him, now; warned him that no light undertaking was before him. To soothe grief was an easier matter than to eradicate established habits of thought and action. Geordie’s portrait—an excellent likeness, painted since his death—hung opposite him on the wall. A vase of white flowers, renewed every day, was set beneath it. He remembered that his wife had taken great pains to get the little vase. It was slender and made of clouded glass. ‘A tear vase,’’ she had called it, and it had never been used for any other purpose than holding ‘‘Geordie’s flowers.” A wreath of immortelles lay on the top of the oval frame of the picture, which was also lightly draped with white crépe, tied with black love ribbon. A bracket of books were within reach of his hand, as he sat in her accustomed place. “Thoughts upon the Death of Little Chil- dren,’’ he read, glancing from title to title. ‘Agnes and her Little Key.”” ‘Early Lost, Early Saved.” “The Broken Bud.” ‘Gates Ajar.” “Sowing in Tears.” ‘Clouds after the Rain’’—and a dozen others of like charac- ter. Admirable works, all of them, and de- signed to be consolatory, not afflictive. “But Fanny reads nothing else, nowadays ; dwells continually among the tombs. This is suicidal !’’ A volume of Mrs. Browning lay on the work- stand. He took it up, and it opened, of itself, at “‘Isabel’s Child.’’ The pages were blistered with tears, not yet dry. He was turning leaf after leaf, troubled and perplexed, when his wife entered. She hada lamp in her hand, and he surmised correctly, that she had been to the third story chamber to weep among the disused playthings. Her eyelids were sodden with re- cent tears; a damp handkerchief hung from the hand that held the lamp. Without pream- ble, he put his arms about her, and drew her to his knee. ao neeet = oF oF OOO ‘ as fF #® A + = = "mA = 4 © & A a a ee ee ee ee ee ee re a a ee —"

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‘“PAITHFUL WOUNDS.’ 223 “Darling, I am very unhappy about you. What can I say to lift the load from your poor aching heart? Is my love, then, no comfort to you? Is there no solace in the reflection that four precious children are still spared to us? And—forgive me if I pain you, love—but has it never occurred to you that the sight of your unhappiness is a real and present distress to us who love you? Will you not, for our sakes, battle with your depression—try to look at the brighter side of your lot?’ Nothing could have been more tender; but every word offended the ear and sensibilities of her who felt herself to be misunderstood and rebuked. “T cannot be cheerful, Harvey,” she said, her lip quivering uncontrollably. ‘And I do not see how you, of all people, can ask it of me. You must know that I can never again earry the same light heart as when’’— She could not go on. “Perhaps not so light a heart, dear, all at once; but while there is so much of brightness and beauty left in the world, so much genuine affection in your home, ought you to be utterly cast down? And I, ‘of all people,’ am the most seriously affected by your present state of body and mind. I cannot sit idly by and see you go into a decline. 1 prize my wife too highly for that,’’ with an affectionate smile. **I do not care to live,” she replied, in a low, steady voice. ‘‘ Why should I?” ** Because we care to have you live. Throw off this brooding sadness, dearest, and reason the matter with yourself and with me. I am not what is called a professing Christian. You are. Since you are assured that this blow was sent in love, not in wrath, and that our dear little boy is happier than you could ever have made him here, does it seem right and just that you should expend so much thought, so many tears and sighs upon him, and overlook those who are still dependent upon you? It matters a great deal to us what face you wear, and whether cheerful or sad words fall from your tongue. It is nothing to him.” “You need not remind me of that!” in a paroxysm of grief. ‘‘The thought is with me all the time. I can do nothing more for him— nothing, now or ever. I shall never bathe his round limbs again; never hold him in my arms; never sing him to sleep; never feed, and soothe, and amuse him; never look into his dear eyes, and hear him call me ‘Mamma’ —my beautiful boy! How can I forget him, or cease to long for him, when I miss him at every turn, in every minute? Other women keep their children—rear them all. Why should I be robbed, and made to go mourning all my days?’’ She wrung her hands in distraction, wresting herself from her husband’s hold, and pacing the chamber in abandonment of distress. In the desperation of his anxiety, lest she should do herself harm, Mr. Sheldon spoke more sharply than he intended, or was aware of, at the time. ‘‘Fanny, this is wrong! all wrong! You are killing yourself! making your home wretched, and doing no good to him who has gone, by nursing these sickly, morbid fancies. It may sound harsh, but you constrain me to say that the surest way for your children to secure your love and an abiding place in your thoughts is to die. Such unreasoning and excessive grief is sinfully unjust to the living, and is founded upon a distorted concep- tion of your duty to the dead.”’ His wife stopped directly in front of him, tears and outcries checked at once and to- gether. ‘“‘T knew,” she said, hollowly, gazing fixedly into his eyes, “that you were far from sympa- thizing with me in my sense of bereavement. I have learned not to expect this from you, orany one alive. I have studiously avoided speaking to you of my feelings, my sufferings, although the lost one was our child, and you seemed to be fond of him while he was here. I felt, in- stinetively, that such talk wearied you; that your affection was not such as can outlive death itself. I said to myself that men were differently constituted from women; that I must stifle my emotion in your presence, lest you should be disgusted. But I learn now, for the first time, that you are jealous of my angel boy ; that you would never have me allude to the fact that I have such a child; that you would teach his brothers and sisters to forget that he ever lived. Do with them as you will! Wean them from me wholly, if you see fit! My nature is too unlike yours for me to obey your orders in this regard. He was mine! part of my body! part of my soul! Your Epi- curian philosophy of forgetting all that is painful, and dwelling only upon pleasant themes, can never be mine !’’ “Panny, are you crazy?” “IT think I shall be some day,’’ with a short laugh. ‘But now 1 am sane, and in sober earnest.’’ ‘Take care !’”’ warned the husband. ‘‘Some things are not easily overlooked. I have had abundant proof of your willingness to sacrifice husband and living children to a sentimental loyalty—a fancied duty—an idolized woe. I have said that this is irrational and unkind. If it be Christian, excuse me for preferring philosophy to religion. You will have it that I did not love my boy ; that I am meanly jeal- ous of your remembrance of him. Hz whom you, not 1, have named ‘‘robber,’’ may forgive you the foul injustice done your children’s father. It will be long before the smart wears away from my memory. Henceforward we will avoid altercation by avoiding the subject.”’ He went out with this, as afraid to trust himself to say more. The mother flung herself upon her knees,

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224 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. raised her clasped hands toward the picture of her dead boy. ‘‘My darling! my baby! to think that you should have been the cause of this disgraceful scene! Can it be that your mother is forbidden to speak your dear name? Was not my burden heavy enough already?” (Conclusion next month. ) OBJECT LESSONS. BY TETIA MOSS. OBJEcT lessons, they say, are extremely use- ful. This is certainly true in many instances ; for those things that are seen and clearly un- derstood are more readily laid away in that memory of ours, to be reproduced whenever we think proper to loosen the clasp and unfold the leaves. But our school days are past, we need no such lessons as these. School days past! then education proper has just begun; for there are more useful things than books to study, more difficult problems to solve than Euclid contains, and blackboards exist from which no hand can ever erase the marks. The lessons of human nature are easy, pro- fitable, and pleasant; and if only properly ap- plied common sense would cease to be so scarce an article. Dame Nature spreads the book before our eyes, and even casts it at our feet, and as we refuse to accept the truths, common sense gradually leaves us, and we stand poor, conceited, foolish, and unrepentant. But where can a lesson be found, and where an object produced? Right here, upon the stage of life, no lack of mental food exists, for plenty is inscribed on every door; and as teacher and scholar are alike unknown, if agreeable to you, my readers, we will take a | seat and read a chapter. The country unfolding its beauties beneath the rays of the summer sun will constitute our book and entering the stage-coach we will soon be supplied with a chapter. Ah! Here is one. Bustling in with great confusion, a party of six step into the coach. Silks and laces, jewels and curls repose at length upon the dusty seats. In a few moments we learn that they are going forty miles in that same conveyance, to some magnificént sequestered spot away off among the mountains, where board is only twenty-one dollars a week, and the nearest neighbors at a distance of five good country miles, while the post-office is at the other end of the county. Nothwithstanding this sanctified seclusion, trunk after trunk is strapped upon the coach, and the ready tongues of the excursionists tell of the half-dozen silks and kid slippers nicely laid away in each ; for their own party being so extremely dressy, such wearing apparel is absolutely necessary, even amid the damp, moss-grown woods, and through the tangled briers. Itis a curious fact, but each one’s dress costs a trifle more than her companions, and every one of the party left their best clothing at home. They are off on a regular country jaunt, as they term it, and intend having a glorious time ; for as no one knows them, and they are not acquainted in that section of the country, they can act pretty much as they please; conse- quently, city manners are thrown aside, and a wiid, boisterous spirit oceupiesits place. Even the horses straighten up their ears, put their heads together and whisper something to each other. And the driver pulls the reins and says, ‘*What ar’ you about there?’’ But they never tell. They go steadily on puliing their load, not even saying to a friendly horse whom they chance to meet, “Guess what I heard?” But if those horses heads were only turned in an opposite direction, the good old animals (if it were possible) might laugh outright. . For one of the ladies possessing a fan, with a small looking-glass neatly inserted in the woodwork, occupies her time with admiring herself. Every few minutes she takes a sly glance, One might almost suppose that having seen the same face -reflected for so many years she would become rather tired, and rest the glass as well as her eyes for a while. But no, glass and eyes per- form their duty ; and just at the moment when vanity is whispering ‘‘How nicely I look,’ some bystander is thinking, “What a dunce you are.” What a pity it is that our own spectacles are so curiously constructed. And how strange it is that we refuse to look through another’s pair, even if it is one step towards our own advance- ment. But human nature is so full of pride and self-conceitedness, that she prefers pro- gressing on a different plan; consequently, we prize our own glasses above all others, thus un- consciously cultivating our faults, and adroitly terming them our peculiarities ; while in reality our natural peculiarities are often hidden by our cultivated faults. But if these spectacles of ours weve Only kept clean, we might per- chance see differently. But the dust and dirt collect, and we see through the glasses darkly. Meantime the stage-coach travels on, until it is drawn up in front of a dilapidated country inn, marked the “Washington House.” Men are lounging on the long, hard benches, resting after their last night’s frolic and preparing themselves for another. Little white-haired, barefooted boys stand with their hands in their pockets, with mouth and eyes wide open, look- ing for something they scarcely know what. A dirty- looking lad comes to water the horses, while the driver leaves to obtain something stronger. nasi. Presently a well-dressed man appears smok- ing a cigar, when two or three little urchins cry out, “Give us the stump, Mr?” But mister’s attention is attracted elsewhere, for six linen handkerchiefs are already displayed. Presently yo

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A LEAF FROM A SOFA’S EXPERIENCE. 225 his increases the number to seven. And the handkerchief commences a flirtation, and the flirtation ends in acquaintance, and the ac- quaintance is rapidly progressing when the driver reappears, just five minutes too late for the proper starting time.. Then there isa leave- taking, and a promise to meet some time in the course of the summer. And that meeting ends in a friendship, the friendship in a hasty mar- riage, when two birds of the same feather are caught in the gilded cage. Be that as it may, the driver cracks his whip, the horses start, the boys hurrah, then scatter, and all is quiet. The loungers, after quarrel- ling over the one newspaper, commence a fresh nap, and Mister helps himself to a new cigar, then walks into the road to view the departing coach, There it is going up the mountain road, the noisy occupants awakening the echoes, and driving the startled eagle from his lofty perch among the rocky cliffs. Now and thena watch- dog guarding some quiet country home, hear- ing the unusual noise barks loudly and long, before the coach appears, and keeps it up some time after it has turned into the deep, narrow gorge. Thus onward they go enjoying themselves, without the slightest regard for the comfort of others. And when the driver finally leaves them at their boarding-house, he is inwardly thankful that it is not his home whose quiet- ness is to be destroyed by such fashionable city boarders. But let us leave them now, and as we come to the end of our chapter, let us close the book, wipe our eyes, and think a mement before com- mencing another lesson. ———— -—~ -e - WITHIN. BY M. W. M. Draw the curtains closely, darling; Shut out night, and storm, and gloom; Let no single sombre shadow Lurk within this quiet room, Rain and sleet without are falling, And the wild winds moaning cry, But within are light and gladness; Within, darling, you and L We care not for the world’s fierce warring, Though dark or fair its changeful skies, While love-tuned hearts within are beating, WhNe beams the light of love-lit eyes. Through the long day, though jarring discord Fall heavy on our wearied ear, We'll put it all aside at evening, Nor let its echo enter here. Then draw the crimson curtains closely, Fold close and warm my hand in thine; The far-off world is all forgotten, While thou within art only mine, >> ’ Be not provoked when opinions differ from your own. = A LEAF FROM A SOFA’S EXPERIENCE. BY MARAH,. My defaced mahogany and rosewood have long since forgotten their career in Brazilian woods, buf J, the old parlor sofa, that has so long been an honored oceupant of Col. J ’s fine old mansion, can never forget my rich and varied experience in all the precious lore of love conned by bright young spirits within these time-honored halls. I cannot tell a hun- dredth of the sweet love-tales, whose rippling music has so often beguiled my silent hours. My season of communication is short, and I shall fill it with annals of my favorite in my master’s house—the sunny-tempered and be- loved Mattie. R With that preface need I say she was happy ? You, my kind reader, will take it for granted that, having a delightful country home, pleas- ant surroundings, and loving friends, of course, she was happy. Yet how often those things we most confidently believe are farthest from the truth. . At the time my simple little heart-history opens, Mattie had just entered her twentieth year. Her life had hitherto been checkered with light and shade. Her father’s darling, he would, if possible, have shielded her from every grief; but the mother’s heart, which should have warmed towards her best and most de- serving child, turned to those earlier born and more beloved, and Mattie’s heart had been often wrung by the thought that of all the childish voices that had ever made the old homestead ring, her’s would have been least lamented, soonest forgotten by all but the stately old father, who had always been her ideal of all that was grand and noble in the masculine character. Very fair seems my heroine to me as I see her through the open parlor door, this sunny summer eve. She is standing in the front door of her home, the fleecy folds of a lovely buff lawn floating around her, and a spray of coral honeysuckle drooping over the knot of raven hair wound so carefully around her shapely head. Her black eyes light up with additional lustre, as she observes a light buggy gradually rising over the hill a quarter of a mile in front of the house. ‘Father is coming!” thought she; “how glad I am! I hope he will bring tidings of my lover. Oh, how long he has been absent! But I can wait,’”’ she added, cheer- fully. Seating herself on a bench in the pleasant porch, she patiently waited for the good news she anticipated. Let us, with her eyes, look at the lovely but somewhat contracted landscape. A large, beautiful yard, well setin blue grass surrounds the house; forest trees cluster in t

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> = 226 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. irregular groups on its smooth verdure, while scattered here and there blooms a rosebush, or a honeysuckle. To the right lies the large, old-fashioned garden, the paling of which is partly hidden by a luxuriant catalpa. A little farther from the house, and more in front, is the orchard, now one mass of living green. To the left the yard slopes off towards a creek or ravine, the banks of which are thickly grown with young timber; while in front the ground rises gradually, and then rolls off toward the open pasture land, through which she a few moments since saw her father’s buggy. Now she rises as it rolls up to the gate, and two gen- tiemen alight. Ah, Mattie, I know who it is, for the tell-tale flush rises to your cheek, and your eyes flash a glad welcome to your lover, as he comes briskly down the walk, too impa- tient to accommodate himself to your father’s slower step. “How do you do, Miss Mattie?’’ said the new-comer, stepping quickly forward. His hand closed over hers with a warm, tender pressure, and his eyes told a volume as they gazed with loving affection on the blushing face before him. “Truant! why have you been gone so long?” said she, as he released her hand, after leading her into the parlor. *T could not come sooner,”’ hereplied. ‘Oh, my darling, you are really mine! I spoke to your father, owr father, to day, and he has given me the right toclaim you. How happy we shall be!” And twining his arm around her waist, he made her sit beside him on the *“old sofa,” Leaning her head on his breast, she silently thanked God for having granted her the price- less boon of Ais love and her father’s blessing with it. “What is it, my love? Are you sorry I can claim you as all my own?” asked he, raising her face from his bosom, and gazing fondly upon it. “Oh, no, no!’’ she exclaimed. ‘‘ But my very happiness impresses me with such a deep sense of my Heavenly Father’s love. My heart is full to overflowing with gratitude that he has condescended so abundantly to bless me.’’ “Yes, but he sometimes sends blessings and afflictions hand in hand,”’ said he, with mourn- ful tenderness. ‘I am sorry that ours come thus. I must leave you to-morrow, to be gone till late in the fall of the next year, perhaps longer. Nothing but dire necessity drives me from you. Do not weep so bitterly, my pre- cious one! It will sweeten my absence and my toil to know that I have a faithful, loyal heart here, waiting and watching for me, and believe me, I shall hurry back with all a fond lover’s impatience.” “Ah, but the thought of the long, weary days that must elapse ere I can see you makes me sick at heart,” sobbed she; “and who knows but death may divide us, or, worse still, time and distance may estrange your love. Oh, I cannot think of that/” and her head sank on my protecting arm, and her frame shook with suppressed emotion. Her lover gently stroked the smooth hair, and spoke soothingly and cheeringly, until the wild storm of feeling subsided, although his own spirit sank strangely at the thought of this parting. For long hours they talked and planned and dreamed of their future, until the announce- ment of supper broke up their communion. Their last on earth, but they knew it not. Ah! wellitis we cannot look into the future. Well for a woman’s heart, as she clasps her lover’s hand in parting, and perchance feels his kiss on her brow and lips, and looks into eyes that have only beamed love upon her, that she does not know it is for the last, last time. The last time! Oh, saddest of phrases! How often is it set a seal and a memento above the grave of hopes too bright toendure! The part- ing hour came. Its scenes are too sacred for human ear. J, an “old sofa,” am not called a sentient, being, but I could feel the trembling of the bowed figure, and hear the suppressed sobs, as she knelt at my side where he left her. That parting was her first grief. It revealed to her her capacity for suffering, and, alas! it revealed to her that lighthearted girlhood had passed away forever ; that woman’s mantle of sorrow had enveloped her, never more to be laid aside ; but to be worn, henceforth, as long as life lasted, patiently, quietly, perchance at times smilingly, but evermore to be worn. Patiently, as far as outward indications went, Mattie bore the separation from her lover. Through the day she was kind and cheerful, unselfish as ever. But at sunset— that old, old gathering time of memory—she would repair to the parlor, and, kneeling by the cherished “‘old sofa,’”’ that had heard the rippling of her girlish laughter, she would pour forth the pent-up anguish of her soul. Many a fervent prayer from the deep chalice of affection and religion, that has its home in every true woman’s breast, was offered up for the idolized wanderer. After a few weeks, letters came. As of yore, Mattie stole into the parlor, to read them in her accustomed seat, leaning against my arm, that would fain have shielded her from all the ills of life, Her face glowed with ani- mation as her eye swept swiftly over the pages written in a clear, vigorous hand, and breath- ing undying affection, and a hepe that their separation would not be so long as he had an- ticipated. Cheered by his words more than she could express, she breathed a deep sigh of thankfulness as she folded the precious docu- ment, and rose to leave the room. I heard her fleet step on the stairs, and, for the first — an nah eh tn a ate ah ae Se 6a 6b

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POETRY. 227 time since his departure, a song burst from her lips. For many months the correspondence was kept up, guarded on her part, for her pure na- ture revolted from the idea of displaying, in sickening ‘‘love letters,’ the depth and holi- ness of the attachment she felt forhim. Af- ter a time, his jealousy took the alarm. He imagined she was becoming cold and indiffer- ent, and his letters intimated as much. But she, trustful as a child, would not believe that his love was growing less fervent, and that, in the endeavor to conceal] the truth from himself, he tried to think she was becoming estranged. Thus time wore on. I could see that my dear mistress grew paler day by day, and her voice had a quick, anxious intonation, as she inquired for letters on the return of any one from the city. At last the blow fell. Mattie had seemed happier than usual. More than a year had passed, and autumn had come. The June roses that had bloomed so luxuriantly the last summer they had spent together had again budded and blossomed, and given place to the dahlia and the lily, and the sweet honey- suckle Jent its heavy fragrance to the air. The twilight was gathering as Mattie paced slowly up and down the broad garden walk, now stopping to inhale the perfume of a half- blown monthly rose, and anon drinking in, with kindling eye, the crimson glories of the autumn sunset. Her thoughts were with the dear, absent one. ‘‘In the fall I will retarn, Mattie dear,’’ he had said, more than a year previous. And now, oh! might she not expect him soon? And her face brightened at the thought. The sound of carriage wheels disturbed her reverie, and she went hastily in to meet her father, whose return from the city she had been momently expecting, with the unacknowl- edged wish that her lover might be with him. The colonel met her at the door, and, handing her a letter, passed on into the house. Her quick eye caught the postmark, and she seated herself on the porch to devour its precious contents, before going in to wait on her father at supper, as was her custom. In a few mo- ments a low groan startled me. I heard her footsteps in the hall, and her anguished cry of ‘Father! father!’ A passionate burst of tears told the sad story. He had wearied of “her pure love; had professed to believe that she no longer loved him, and concluded by saying it was best the engagement should end, as it might be years before he could return, and from the tone of her letters he thought she would not like to be hampered by an engage- ment to a poor law student, whose prospects for matrimony were still too far in the future to be even dreamed of. It was a cruei letter, and it cut my poor Mattie to the soul. If I had had a heart, it certainly would have ached to see the change that came over her bright young face; She became pale and wan, her step was feeble, and her former merry laugh was never heard. Her accustomed duties were not neglected. Father, mother, brothers, and sisters each claimed her attention, and received it. But in the twilight she would betake herself to the parlor, and there, where no eye could see, nor ear hear, save her Heavenly Father’s, she would struggle with her great sorrow. My hour is elmost ended. Dear reader, this is “an ower true tale,”” not simply conjured up to while away your time. My mistress still lives, though years have passed. Time’s busy fingers have effaced many of the feelings and sorrows of youth from her heart. She has re- cently given her hand to one to whom she seems warmly attached; is the comfort of an invalid mother and an aged father, and the light of a happy home; while I, the “old sofa,’’ unlike the beauties that have flourished and faded around me, have, quite lately, been rejuvenated by the upholsterer’s skill, and am yet the chief ornament of the venerable parlor which has so long sheltered me, and I may yet be the favorite lounging-place of my beloved Mattie’s children, and my arm will pillow their youthful heads as tenderly as it did hers years agone. REMEMBERING. BY MRS. ELLA CALDWELL MORSE. LIKE 4 mournful wail of music¢, a tender, sad refrain, The memories of other days are coming back again; In slow, harmonious measures, in symphony’s sub- lime, The melody of music beats against the bars of time. Down the aisles of long ago, with a slow and solemn tread; Walking on the sacred ashes of the loved, the lost, the dead ; From the buried past, dear faces that I loved, with tender smiles Rise to bless me, and caress me, in these memory- lighted aisles. Oh, the past, the dreams of passion, down the aisles of long ago, Clasping hands and kissing faces that I loved and trusted so! Some were false, and cold, and cruel, but their memory to-night ’ Shall not come to cast a shadow, shall not come to cast a blight. Many a white-sailed ship has drifted o’er the ocean far and wide, And compassless, and rudderless, went down be- neath the tide; And*many a ship that sailed the seas, and drifted far away, To-night in beauty lie at rest upon the moonlit bay. I look far off across the blue, I see no mist, no tears ; I only see the shadow of the swiftly coming years. The past—oh, let the dead past rest, and hide the grave with flowers! Strengthen my hand, and nerve my heart, to meet the coming hours.

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228 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. COUNTRY HOMES IN NEW EN- GLAND A CENTURY SINCE. BY CAROLINE ORNE. CHAPTER VIII.—Voncluded, AT last she dropped to sleep. He looked at the clock, and knew that either Mr. Fleetwood or Algernon, perhaps both, would be there soon. Mrs. Maxwell sat near one corner of the fire- place, with tightly-compressed lips, her. high- crowned, stiffly starched cap, rising like a pyra- mid from the top of her head. She made rapid progress in sewing the long seam of.a tow and linen sheet, laying it aside oceasionally, and vigorously stirring the hasty pudding in a large kettle over the fire, that was slowly simmering, and which now and then rose in lazy, puffy bubbles to the surface, as is the wont of hasty pudding when it has attained the right consist- ency. There was a pan of milk on a side-table, also porringers and spoons, so that William knew the family were to have pudding and milk for supper. Mrs. Maxwell was now and then be- trayed into giving him a look, which showed that she thought he had been there quite long enough. She, in truth, felt very uncomfortable in his presence, for she knew what she had done, relative to the book, would be taken by him as a personal affront, and that her severity to Edith had greatly lowered her in his esteem. It was true that he was nothing but a boy, but ke was no common boy, and one who had al- ways shown himself ready to do her a favor. He was, moreover, the only son of the most thriving farmer im the place, except Squire Hardhack. : William began to feel that he ought to home, for it was near sunset, but he would not leave Edith until, if she happened to wake, she could see some face besides Mrs. Maxwell’s— one that was kind, pleasant, and encouraging —such as gladdened him and gave him heart in his own home, and made him feel, when he knew he had not done quite right, that he was not under the ban of a sullen displeasure, which no peace-offering on the part of the culprit could remove. Mrs. Maxwell within the last three or four minutes had thrown glances about the room, in a kind of desultory, careless way, so that without appearing to do so, as she imagined, she might take William and the sleeping child in the range of her eye. At last, after an at- tempt to cough, which, her throat and lungs being in a sound state, resulted in a decided failure, she said: ‘‘That child’s asleep—isn’t she?’’ “Yes, ma’am.”’ “IT thought she wouldn’t keep her tongue still so long if she wasn’t. Now, *twould be jest as well for her to sleep upon the settle as where she is.” “I suppose it would,” replied William, at once acting on her suggestion, for at that mo- ment he caught sight of Mr. Fleetwood and Algernon coming towards the house. So tak- ing a cushion from a chair to serve instead of a pillow, he placed her on the settle. The rosy sunset glow came in at the window and shone on her face. She smiled in her sleep—a free, happy smile—with no shadow of pain init. Yet, it was pitiful to look from the red, smiling lips, to the dark purple contusion on her forehead, none the less so from its being partly hidden by a few shining rings of hair, which had in some inexplicable way found means to free themselves from the bondage of the unsightly net, as if to shield the wound. “I shouldn’t wonder,” said Mrs, Maxwell, “if you think I made that bump by striking her.” ‘‘No, ma’am, I can’t think that you or any one could have the heart to give a little child like her a blow hard enough to cause a wound like that.” “To be sure not. Aggravatin’ and trouble- some as she is, I wouldn’t doit. The truth is, she stumbled over somethin’ and fell, and her head struck ag’inst,the corner of a trunk.”’ ‘* Well, there ’s one thing 1 should like to ask you, Mrs, Maxwell, before I go, and somehow I think I’ve a right to, seeing I’m kind of mixed up with it. Ishould like to know why you burnt the picture-book I gave Edie ?’’ “TJ burnt it ‘cause *twas my duty to burn sich trash. It eats up val’able time, and p’isons the mind. When the path of duty is open afore me, I know I ought to walk in it, if it does grate on my tender feelin’s. That’s my doc- trine. I larnt it when I was a child, and shall al’ays stick to it while I have the breath of life left me.” ““Well, my parents were always willing for me to have books that had pictures of birds or lambs, and other animals in them, and they are willing that Alice should have them. I know, too, that my father and; mother are as good Christians as any in the parish, not excepting the minister, the two deacons, and Elder Fleet- wood.”’ ‘I tell you, Will Fieldin’, Satan knows how to hide his cloven foot.”’ Inside of a picture-book, perhaps?” ‘Yes, he can hide it there as well as any where, and "pear like an angel of light. Yer sir and marm is nice folks, and kind, obleegin’ neighbors—I hay’n’t a word to say on that score—but the evil one sometimes throws a mist afore peoples’ eyes, and makes ’em b’lieve jest what he wants ’em to. I tell you, a body must keep a sharp lookout or they’! get tan- gled in some of the teruptin’ snares Satan spreads ’round ’em.”’ “TI think so too,”’ replied William, but we should look out so sharp as not to take cob- webs for snares, nor snares for cobwebs. Par- a ame ww ocdtn =» ct — «4 es Mm am ww et «& of eh 7 —_ Oa a *d Saree ad yp’

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COUNTRY HOMES IN NEW ENGLAND A CENTURY SINCE. 229 son Beale’s text last Sabbath was: ‘ ¥e blind guides, that strain at a gnat and swallow a camel,’ ”’ ‘ By this time Mr. Fleetwood and Algernon were at the door-step, where William met them. ‘“‘ Algernon,” said he, ‘‘I expected to find you at home, and called to tell you that the singers are going to meet at our house this evening for the sake of a little practice, and I want you to come over, if your father is willing.’’ “I should like to go. May I, father?” “Why yes; you ’ve worked hard all day, and I shall be glad for you to have a little recrea- tion.” ? ; ‘“*What’s that yer talkin’ about?’ said Mrs. Maxwell, coming to the door. “William wants me to go over there after supper,’’ replied Algernon. ‘* What for?” ‘“‘The singers are going to meet there.’ “You can’t go” ‘Why not?” “Jest go down suller and look at the pun- kins, and you won’t ax me why.” “Don’t they keep well? I thought they were iooking first-rate when I went down cel- lar after turnips this morning.” “Well, I don’t know where yer eyes were. They’re all sp’ilin’. They must be ent up and stewed right off, or we sha’n’t have another punkin pie this year. Here Mr. Fleetwood interposed. ‘I told Al- gernon he might go,’’ said he, ‘‘and he shail. It won’t do to tie a boy down to work every minute.”’ “‘T’ll warrant it; but twill do to tieme down every minute from afore sunrise till three or four hours arter sundown. Nobédy never ’ thinks that I need any recr’ation; I might work my fingers off up to my elbows, and get no thanks from any airthly critter. It’s all right for me to work and slave myself to death, if you and the boy can slip yernecks out of the yoke. All I have to say is, that when you want a piece of punkin pie, you may go and whistle for it, for all I care. If that boy goes off this evenin’, I won’t touch the punkins.”’ “Well, Deborah, I don’t blame you for not wanting to do them alone,” said Mr. Fleet- wood, ‘but we’ll let Algernon go, and I will take his place. I rather guess that I can pare and cut up a pumpkin as well ashe can. You know as well as I do, that only give him a chance, he will make one of the best singers anywhere around.’’ “Well, do as you like. I don’t expect t® have my way about anything,” replied Mrs. Maxwell, doing her best to put on a look of resignation. “Come as early as you can,” said William, “for you know, Algernon, that we always break up early enough to give all a chance to be at-home by nine o’clock.” ©¢ “Yes, I’ll be there just as early as I can; . but I shall have to step around pretty lively, for, besides helping about the chores and eat- ing my supper, I suppose I shall have to spruce up & little.’ William, as he passed the window, heard Algernon exclaim: ‘‘What’s the matter with Edie’s forehead ?”’ He loitered a little to hear the answer. “It’s none of your consarn,” his aunt an- swered curtly. ** Well, i. is mine,’’ said her brother. “How did the child get hurt?’ “If you must know, she fell down and knocked her head ag’inst the corner of a trunk. If she hadn’t been in mischief she wouldn’t have done it. I’ve had to tell Will Fieldin’ about it, and now I’ve had to tell you, and I spose I shall be obleeged to tell every pairson that comes into the house, if it ’s twenty times a day, as long as the bruise can be seen ’thout lookin’ through a spy-glass.”’ “It’s an ugly bruise, and it seems to me that there ought to be something done about it.” “Doas much as yer a mind to—nobody’!! hender you. J sha’n’t do anything about it, but you can fuss ’round her if yer a mind to spend the time, and show yer skill in doctorin’ that little black and blue spot on her forehead, sich as I shouldn’t thought of mindin’ when I was a child, more ’n a ’skeeter bite.”’ William, when he found that Edie was to be attended to, took heart, and feeling a little ashamed of having yielded to the temptation of being an eavesdropper, he slipped around the eorner of the house into a path over the cross- lots, which led in the direction of home. And here, that there may be “nothing ex- tenuate, nor aught set down in malice,”’ it may be well to say that Mrs, Maxwell, notwith- standing the peppery flavor, which she thought proper to give to the expression of her willing- ness that her brother should make free use of his skillin ‘‘doctorin’ ’” the wound, at the same time giving him to understand that she would not assist him, she produced a roll of ready- made bandages, with that soft, downy nap, which the deft fingers of time can accomplish in a way which might excite the envy of card and teasel. That it might not appear that she had soft- ened down to too lowa notch of condescension, or that her pity, which the innocent looks of the sleeping child had really excited, was too deeply and actively roused, she threw the roll of well-compressed bandages to him across the room, which, either by accident or design, hit him on the head. She moreover informed him that he knew where the camphor-bottle was, and the other kinds of doctor’s stuff there was in the house, which was true.

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230 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. CHAPTER IX. “T would build that dome in air—that sunny dome.” DuRInG the weeks that Ralph Walworth had been at Mrs. Marlowe’s there had been no im- portant changes in the household. Experience Dale, who came with the intention of return- ing in a few days, had, at the earnest request of her aunt, who had spinning and weaving, and many other things to do, concluded to re- main and assist her. This she could do with- out any inconvenience to herself, as she was not, as her aunt had heard, going to be mar- ried. Experierfte at first could not account for it that she had not, as heretofore, when she came tosee her aunt, felt either lonely or home- sick. On the contrary, the days and weeks seemed full of sunshine, and glided swiftly away. The day was drawing to a close, and Expe- rience (Ralph had softened her name into the pretty diminutive of Peri) was standing at the window, where Ralph saw her for the first time. ‘**Peri—my little Peri !’’ These words were spoken in a low, gentle voice, and a hand was laid lightly on her shoul- der. She turned and saw Ralph bending over her. He smiled, at the same time taking from ber hand a soft, lamb’s wool sock she had been carefully darning. It belonged to him, and he examined with great attention, a little group of nicely-darned holes, ‘* Little Peri, the shoe will hide every one of these.” ‘Oh, yes,’’ she replied, earnestly, “‘ the socks will look as good as new when they are on. All the darns will be out of sight.” ‘‘More’s the pity. Why, to my eye they are beautiful as the lace young girls think so much about.” He gave her back the sock, then, having re- mained silent and thoughtful a minute or more, a sudden smile, like a flash of light, made his face luminous. “It may at least be set down on the list of possibilities,” said he. ‘* What do you mean, Ralph?’ “That the man of the true stamp can be an earnest worker—can conquer difficulties, and can put himself in competition with the strong handed as well as strong minded—in short, can earn his bread with his hands, and yet’’-~-he hesitated a little, and then added, ‘‘own castles in the air.” ‘*To be sure he can, and build them too,” she replied, for which she was rewarded by another of his rare smiles. ‘*You, my little Peri, build them sometimes, do you not?” and bending down and looking into her eyes, he said softly to himself, rather than to her, ‘* Yes, I’ve seen dreams there—I see them now. You, too, own castles in the air.’’ “Certainly 1 do,” she replied, ‘“‘and some day I may be as rich as you. While I was darning these socks I built a castle, rivalling in magnificence the palace of the. Alhambra, such as it was in the days of the Moorish kings. Yet, after all, I would not’’*— She stopped short, with conscious blushes tingling her cheeks; for in her abandonment what was in her heart rose to her lips, with a force so impulsive, that she came near telling him that the realization of all this splendor would be as “‘sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal”’ if deprived of the presence of Ralph Walworth, now standing by hef side, and from whom, through a kind of dreamy haze—not- withstanding he was'so plainly apparelled— there seemed to de something, for which she had no better name, than a waft of golden gleams pervading the air around her and mak- ing it luminous. The tingle of the burning blushes that crimsoned her cheeks broke the thrall, in which imagination, for a moment assuming an air of reality, had held her. She felt downcast and humb‘ed at the thought that her emotions were nothing more than elimina- tions of a subtle light struck frgm the electric chain—unrecognized, as she then believed, by him—whieh bound her heart to his. Ralph turned his face towards the west. ‘* Look, Peri!’’ said he, “the angel of the sun- set is abroad, purpling the hills and crowning them with gold. He, too, isa worker—a worker clad in royal robes.’’ This remark caused his thoughts to wander back to some things which had already been mentioned. His tongue was noi often like ‘‘ the pen of the ready writer,’’ but now he spoke freely, and his thoughts were clearly expressed. As Peri listened, she saw that he had found in labor a satisfaction, a sweet content, never granted to the idle and irresolute—that he real- ized, unless its aims were perverted, it was a comfort, not a curse. It was a curse only to those whose finer sensibilities, moral and men- tal, were stifled, trampled on, and finally ab- sorbed by the greed of gain. In short, that “ Labor degraded from her high behest, Cries ye shall know I am the living breath, And not the curse of man.” ‘“* No, Peri,” he said, in reply to some remark of hers, “‘theugh I like to build castles in the air, I shall not pay so much attention to them as to neglect the ordinary duties of life. See, the hills have lost their purple robes and golden crowns, and veiled themselves in twilight sha- dows.” The evenings were growing cold and frosty, se while Ralph replenished the fire in the deep, wide-mouthed fireplace, Peri drew a table in front of it, on which she placed two large wooden bowls, two bright case-knives, and a ball of double-and-twisted tow-yarn. The fire, by the help ef the bellows—in common par- lance called at that time a pair of “‘bellussus,”’ Aa A OD ta ~~ oe

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COUNTRY HOMES IN NEW ENGLAND ACENTURY SINCE. 231 now nearly obsolete—was soon roused to a clear, cheerful blaze. Meantime Mrs. Marlowe was busily engaged in lighting a candle, which she did, paper torches not having come into fashion, by blow- ing vigorously and persistently a bright, live coal held in the tongs till it emitted a blaze suf- ficient to,ignite the wick. ; Ralph brought in from the back room a bushel-basket half full of red apples, large and fair, which he placed by the side of Peri. “It requires considerable strength of hand,”’ said he, ‘‘to cut such large apples as these into four pieces, so you had. better pare them, Peri, ond I will quarter and core them.” ‘‘T suppose the stringing part will fall tome,’ said Mrs. Marlowe, taking a darning-needle from her everyday needle-book, and threading it with some of the tow yarn. ‘“ Yes, aunt,’’ replied Peri, ‘for I think you prefer to do that part.” Ralph glanced: his eye at the clock. ‘Don’t you think we can get the apples all done by eight o’clock ?” said he. ‘Tf nothing happens to interrupt us, I think we can,’’ replied Mrs. Marlowe. ‘“ What do you say, Experience?” “T know we can,” said Peri, as the thin par- ing, that looked like a red ribbon, slipped from beneath her fingers, over the shining knife- blade, and circling down, fell into the wooden bowl she held in her lap. “T know so too,’’ replied Ralph. “And I know I can do my part, though I shall have to work pretty lively, for your fingers, Peri, are nimbler than mine.” ‘If we do finish the apples by eight, aunt, I would like to have Ralph read to us, shouldn’t you?”’ ‘** Certainly I should,’’ replied Mrs. Marlowe. ‘You finished ‘Paradise Lost’ Wednesday evening, I believe ?’”’ Peri remarked. “Yes; but there’s “‘Comus’”’ by the same author, which I found, as I ran my eye over a few of the pages, was full of such beautiful and choice passages, that I know it will please both of you. But the newspaper Mr. Fielding and I take together is come, and I will, if you would like to hear it, read some of that first.’”’ ‘Is there anything in the Poet’s Corner?” asked Peri. ‘Yes’; I noticed there were « few lines, but I did not read them. ‘*Well, you know that I like poetry better than polities, so you must read the poetry last. When I listen to the verses after hearing the politics, they seem as good again, from the con- trast, Isuppose. I can’t help comparing them to so many primroses sunning themselves close to the edge of a frowning rock.’’ When, at last, the strings of apples lay piled together in a large wooden tray, ready to be hung out to dry the following morning, and the basket which now contained the debris was restored to its place in the back room, Kalph produced his paper. There were some things in it more important and exciting than usual. Among others, it mentioned that, at the insti- gation of the British custom-house officers, two regiments from Halifax were landed in Boston, whose presence, and still more, whose outrages had greatly exasperated the people. As he read this and other paragraphs much | in the same spirit, Ralph’s eyes sparkled, his cheeks flushed, and his voice assumed an un- natural moroseness. When he had finished reading them, with a few indignant remarks, he was about to fold the paper. * You forget the primroses I bargained for,’’ said Peri. ‘‘Won’t youletushavethem? I’m sure we need them. That frowning rock I spoke of looks uncommonly ugly.” **It does, and you must excuse my forgetful- ness.”’ It was a quaint little piece, full of freshness and delicacy, to which his naturally deep, mel- low voice, with a musical intonation which cannot be described, but which imagination might liken to the notes of a sweet and solemn vesper hymn, as it rises upwards and floats away among the arches of some dim old cathe- dral, was admirably adapted. When he had finished reading it, Peri said, in a fervent, warm-hearted way, her counte- nance brightening at the same time, so as to make her look very charming, ‘‘ Don’t think me foolish, Ralph, if I say that my heart listens when I read such little, touching, simple pieces of poetry. It may be that I am affected by the rhyme and rhythm.” ‘One is not apt to think anything foolish, when it is the same he imagines himself. 1 see it is getting too late for ‘‘Comus,’’ so we will keep it for another evening. Instead, I will read the first part of Christ’s sermon on the Mount ; it will teach us what every one needs— Christian grace and gentleness.”’ CHAPTER X. “Content in homespun kirtle.” THERE had been a bountiful snow-storm, which had wound up with a sprinkling of hail and rain; just enough to keep the snow from drifting, and make it glisten in the sunshine, as if powdered jewels had been sifted over it. The rough roads and the fields and pastures, drear and desolate, with their covering of dead grass and leaves, were now rejoicing in robes purer and more spotless than the ermine of kings. A horse and sleigh dashed up to Mr. Fleet- wood’s door, just as the family had arisen from the breakfast-table, with that free, festive jingle of bells which sets young hearts a dancing to their musie. William Fielding jumped from the sleigh, threw a blanket over the horse, took

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232 GODEY'’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, a basket in his hand, and entered without the ceremony of knocking, for he saw that the bells had brought the entire household to the windows. ‘“*What has he come for?’’ was the question that passed through the mind of each. The whole matter, whatever it was, had pre- viously been worked out in the boy’s head; in & manner to show that time and opportunity might make him an able diplomatist. ‘Mrs. Maxwell,” said he, placing the basket on a table, near which he steod, “mother sends her love, and wants to know if you'll ac- cept a few of our winter pears, that grew out by the great rock in the new orchard, They are finer and larger than any we ever had before, and she heard Algernon say all your winter pears are gone.”’ ““Yes,”’ replied Mrs. Maxwell, ‘they've been gone this long while. They didn’t keep a bit good. What on airth ailed em 1 don’t know, for they never afore turned out to be sich poor, mis’able things.” She removed the neatly folded huckaback towel spread over the basket. ‘‘I do deciare!’’ she exelaimed, ‘If these ain’t raal beauties! Sound as a nut!’’ after subjecting a few of them to a series of manipulations. Mr. Fleetwood did not speak, but a faint smile hovered on his lips, for his love of the beautiful was ministered to as his eye rested on the mellow russet of the fruit, through which, on one side, liquid gold seemed filter- ing, while on the other it was softly blended with a bright, glowing crimson. “Well, William,”’ said Mrs. Maxwell, ‘tell yer marm that 1 thank her kindly, and that I hope things ’ll come ’round afore long so that I can do her a good turn,” “You forget the melons you sent us last fall. We all thought they were the best we ever tasted.”’ “La! what's half a dozen mushmillions? They won’t keep any time at all. You have to eat them right up,or.they’ll sp’ile. Take yer outside coat off, William, and stopa spell.” “No, thank you. I mustn’t stop only long enough to tell you that mother sent something besides her love and the pears.’’ ‘* Well, I'm sure they were enough for once ; but I should like to know what it was.” ‘‘Her compliments ; and she wishes to know if you’ll come and spend the day at our house, and bring Edie with you.” _ “IT don’t see as I can, any way in the world. * I'd ’lotted to keerd and spin a mess of tow to- day, that I came acrosst last week, that 1’d forgot all about. I hate like p’ison to have it layin’ ’round,’’ “Do go,” said Algernon. ‘It’s no matter about that old swingle tow. ’Tisn’t worth spinning.”’ ‘‘ Well, I do hate to have the trouble of car- ryin’ a youngun with me, If Alge can stay about home, and have. an eye to her, to see if she doesn’t get into mischief, I can leave her. If I ain’t to have her for a plague, I shall be glad to go.” : William east an appealing look to Mr. Fleet- wood for him to come to the rescue, for all his diplomacy had been for the express purpose of securing a visit from Edith, it beimg his little sister’s birthday. Fortunately, Mr, Fleetwood saw and understood the look, while Mrs. Max- well did neither. “Ohi” said he, ‘‘I guess the child won’t give you much trouble, It would be three shillings damage to me, to spare Algernon to keep ’round the house to-day to watch Edie. The mice, I find, are nibbling away pretty smartly at the oats, and I want him to help me measure up twenty bushels or more, so that I can have them ready to earry to market.” “Well, I ain’t so straightened to go but that I can stay at home ; that’s one comfort.” “Certainly not ; and perhaps you had better stay, all things considered.”’ At this William’s countenance fell. He did not, like Mr. Fleetwood, understand that pe- culiar kink in her temper, which inclined her to be on the contrary sides. “You think I had, do you, Rube Fleetwood ? I s’pose yer afeard that you won’t havea good warm dinner, if I go off; but there’s plenty of good corned beef that was left yisterday, andl apple-sass, pickles, and mustard. And then, besides bread and cheese and butter, there’s apple-pie, mince-pie, and punkin-pie, to say nothin’ of baked apples and milk; so I should give it as my candid ’pinion that you can get along without sufferin’, for half a day or so, if I am gone.”’ “Yes, we can get along, as you say; but it. won’t be quite so comfortable for us to have to wait on ourselves. Whether you go or stay, neither Algernon or I can be at home, for the oats must be ready to carry to market the first chance.”’ “I s’pose, then, the child must go with me; but the idee of bein’ obleeged to tote her ‘round, let me go where I will, don’t please me very well, I’d have you to know.” While she was absent from the room, making the necessary preparation, William had oppor- tunity to speak to Algernon. ‘*You and your father must come fowards night,” said he. “Father and mother both said.that yon must. We are calculating to have a right down good time, for, you know, it is Alice’s birthday.” “So it is. I didn’t think of that.” “TI sha’n’t enjoy myself half as well if you don’t come, as I shall if you do.” “T will certainly go, if I can get the work done,” “Oh, Lhope yeu will! Youean’t think how much pains mother has taken to prepare every- thing so as to please Edith and Alice.”

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COUNTRY HOMES IN NEW ENGLAND A CENTURY SINCE. 23 “Tf I mention that to father, I know he ’ll let me go, and he’ll go himself, if he possibly can.” ‘‘We don’t mean to have anything but a lunch at twelve o’clock. Our dinner is to De at four, so try and be there in season.” “Yes,’’ replied Algernon, who, by the en- trance of his aunt, was prevented from saying anything more. “How glad I am, uncle!’ said Edith, as he drew the hood of her little gray cloak over her head, and tied it under her chin. A minute afterward, seated between her aunt and William in the green sleigh, with a spirited black horse in harness, that shone like satin, they were skimming swiftly along the smooth path. The tingling thrill of the frosty air exhilarated Edith's spirits, brought out the roses in her cheeks, and gave brilliancy to her dark brown eyes. They were soon at Mr. Fielding’s. “T’ll take off Edie’s things,” said Mrs. Fielding, whose assistance in her own behalf Mrs. Maxwell had declined; and whether it was by accident or design never transpired— with the hood, came off the coarse net. The child’s hair, thus set free, beneath the touches of the soft brush, deftly applied, though at first a little tumbled, soon, by its own elec- tric life, rounded into shining curls. ‘“*What’s become of your net?” asked her aunt, the moment she found it was missing. William, who entered the room as she spoke, caught sight of the missing article, entangled with the strings of the hood, and, unseen by his mother or Mrs. Maxwell, slipped it into his pocket. ‘Edith, who was already chatting with Alice, and was thinking more about her play- mate than anything appertaining to herself, innocently answered :— **T don’t know.’’ “Likely as not it came off with the hood,”’ said Mrs. Fielding, who, to tell the truth, caught a glimpse of it, as she thought, swing- ing at the end of one of the hood-strings. “Go into the back bed-room, William,’ said she, ‘‘and see if you ean find it. The things were all carried in there.’’ William went, and, having remained long enough to make a thorough seareh, returned, and reported that it certainly was not there. Mrs. Maxwell, however, was not satisfied, and expressed her determination to hunt till she found it. “I’m afraid, William,” said his mother, af- ter Mrs. Maxwell left the room, “that you know more about the net than you are willing to own.”’ ‘I don’t eare. She hasn’t any business to make Edie wear the old, faded, dingy thing. She would be glad to make her look like a fright. Let her try, but she nevercan. Her clothes can’t alter the face God has given her.”’ Edie had never been so happy as at the present moment since the time she lived with her mother, which, to her, was so long ago, and so far away, that all seemed veiled ina nimbus of golden mist, alternately vanishing and brightening, with a kind of dreamy, be- wildering splendor.. No, not quite all. One form never faded—never was lost. Often, when she sat, weary and homesick, knitting a long, coarse stocking, the dreary tick, tick, tick of the cloek, making the silence more drowsy, her outward sense would be locked up in dreams, for she saw, far, far away, ‘‘in vortices of glory and blue air,” her mother’s loving face, beaming with smiles, looking down upon her. Of late, she had been more watchful. She would rouse herself with a start when she found she was losing ‘herself in dreams, for she remembered the sharp sting of a bundle of spriggling birch-rods, dexterously applied by one cognizant of the virtues of birch, and knew well how to bring them out on the little hands, which, still holding her knitting work, would sink listlessly down into her lap. A good birch rod, according to Mrs. Max- well’s theory, was ‘‘the sovereignest thing on earth”’ to take laziness out of a child. But to- day, notwithstanding her aunt’s presence, Edie felt free and joyous, as a bird let loose from its cage. The home atmosphere was so different, so cheery aud elastic, compared with what she was accustomed to. And the furniture, no better than her wncie’s, was so differently ar- ranged. There was no stiffness, no primness about it, such as involuntarily, when she had occasion to cross the well-scoured kitchen floor at home, prompted her to move in a straight line. She did not even so much as think of the smart and tingle of birch rods. How could she, with the pleasant, motherly face of Mrs. Fielding beaming upon her every: now and then, and with the merry, cheerful voice of William about house, who, on this holiday, did nothing more than to bring the wood and water, and see that the fire was well fed with fuel. Edie and Alice were soon busying themselves with, to them, the delightful employment of adjusting a crown, bright with gold tinsel and silver spangles on the head of a large doll, whom they agreed, between themselves, to call the Princess Fatima—an appellation suggested by William. ‘Then there were several smaller dolls of lower degree, dressed in white muslin, with pink sashes. How pleasant it was, thought Edith, to hold them in her hands, and look at them without fear of chastisement, such as haunted her when she sometimes ventured to creep away for a few moments into the garret, and try to make a gown for a rag baby, which, with infinite pains, she was fashioning out of some white though very old coarse cloth she found in the rag bag.

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234 GODHY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. Although Algernon had kindly, at her re- quest, stained its cheeks with cranberries, in what he considered a most artistic manner, and made two little parallel marks for its lips with Spanish brown—the nearest approach to red of anything to be obtained, except cranberry juice. This he was obliged to ignore in so delicate a matter as painting a baby’s mouth, on account of its propensity to spread; and, though he made the eyes with good black ink, the face, when completed according to the best of his ability, had a most doleful, not to say sinister, expression. Algernon confessed that the nose was too far above the mouth, and the eyes too great a distance from the nose. The truth was that, like the eye of Polyphemus, they were both in the centre of the forehead. This incident is mentioned, partly to show how strong the yearning of the lonely child’s heart must have been for something to love and pet, when on the long winter evenings, as has been said in a former chapter, she was re- quired to go to bed before it was fairly dark, she felt a sense of companionship, in having this ludicrous, miserable attempt at imitating humanity at her side, or within reach of her hand. Another reason for adverting to it is to show the little sympathy which many women, even mothers, have for children. They seem to have no perception of their little wants, their little joys and sorrows; or, if they do, they laugh at them—ridicule them. . They must be crowded away in some dark nook or corner of the child’s affections, and, if cherished at all, it must be done in secrecy and silence, while they are constantly exhorted to behave like little men or little women. Edith and Alice had seated the Princess Fa- tima in her chair of state, with the dolls in white muslin and pink sashes near her, when William made his appearance. ‘* Edie,’’ said he, ‘I’ve come to finish up the story about Phebe and her lambe, that you partly read.” “Do you remember it?’’ her voice earnest, her face bright and luminous. “Yes, indeed ; I read it to Alice in the book I bought for you.” “It was one of the prettiest stories I ever heard,’’ remarked Alice. ‘Willie bought me a book, too, with a pretty story in it.” ‘Did the lamb live?” asked Edie. “Oh!” said William, “1 sha’n’t tell you till I get to the right place to tell. How far did you read ?”’ “To where the cross man threw the lamb down before Phebe, and told her ’twas almost dead.”’ ‘‘Well, the poor little thing did seem to be; but Phebe pitied it, and put some crums of bread and some warm milk into a porringer, and did all she could to make it eat.” ‘And did it eat?’’ ‘Yes, after a while; and then, pretty soon, it had strength to.stand. The next day it was much stronger, and so happy that it ran and skipped, which made Phebe jah as glad as she could be.” ‘Did she keep it always?” ‘She kept it a good many years, and once a year it had a fleece of fine white wool, which Phebe’s mother spun, and with her little daugh- ter’s help made into nice warm stockings, or soft flannel for winter garments. So Phebe was well rewarded for taking pity on the poor forsaken lamb.’’ “Oh, how glad I am that the lamb lived! Ain’t you, Alice?”’ “Yes. I don’t believe but that I should have cried if it hadn’t.’’ Mr. Fleetwood and Algernon arrived soon after William finished telling thestory. When, an hour afterward, they were all seated at the table, though the turkey and other savory viands were done to a turn, doing much honor to Mrs. Fielding’s culinary skill ; yet the warm, genial hearts, the open, génerous hospitality of the master and mistress of the feast, gave a truer zest to the entertainment than choice meats or piquant sauces. Never was there a more delightful exemplification of the energy, quickened into life by that heart-power which is nurtured by affection, and should be the pervading element of social life. CHAPTER XI. Still the house affairs wouid draw her thence. SHAKSPEARE. AFTER dinner, while the little girls played with their dolls, William and Algernon chatted together about the singing school, the district school, and various other matters. “I’m going to begin to attend school next Monday,” said William. I’ve helped father get the winter’s wood, and we calculate to have it all prepared for the fire by Saturday night; so he says that if I’ll try and do my part of the chores in the morning, I can go just as well as not. ‘TI hope father will let me go, though Aunt Deborah is so hard against it.’’ ‘If you obtain your father’s consent, that is enough, I should say.’’ “Shall you study Latin?’ “Yes. Your Uncle Ralph has promised to lend me his Latin grammar, and such other books’as I may need.” ‘*You mean to prepare for college ?”’ “That’s what I should like todo. Master Dole, you know, has fitted several boys for college since he began to teach school in this parish.”’ “T’ve heard it said that he fitted Parson Beale’s son; but that was before I can remem- ber.”’ ats @w tee Oo fA mM SA eh Oe ee — = Ae ee be hl tlre lUrllCOUr oes he as

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COUNTRY HOMES IN NEW ENGLAND A VUENTURY SINCE. 235 “Mother says that he has kept our winter school ten years.”’ “I’m going to Dame Wilson’s school next summer,’’ said Alice. “So am I,”’ said Edie, ‘if aunt will let me.’’ Just then Mrs. Fielding entered the room. She lingered a little, to speak a few pleasant words to them. “How different your mother is from Aunt ‘Deborah !” said Algernon. ‘I like so well to hear her kind, pleasant yoice, and to look at her good, bright face !”’ “So do I,” said William ; “and I always feel glad when any one praises her.”’ “T should think you would, for I really be- lieve that she’s the very best mother anybody ever had.” She was certainly one of the best. She had excellent health, and was physically strong ; neither of which gifts are needed by any class of women more than by farmers wives. But these two blessings were not all that made Mrs. Fielding’s work comparatively easy. Her heart was also made strong by the approbation of her husband, who, clearer sighted to her good qualities than to those foibles from which none are exempt, often let fall some word of praise which encouraged and cheered her. Had Mr, Fielding been called upon to give his views on the subject of politeness, or re- finement in the domestic cirele, he would have been nonplussed; and yet, though uncon- sciously, he gave a daily and living example of * those under-valued though priceless qualities which at home should be cultivated and cher- ished, by that quiet appreciation of his wife’s efforts to perform in an acceptable manner the ever-recurring routine of household duties, which is certain to make itself felt. With her, the same as with many others, the ability to perform those duties, and the necessity of their accomplishment, seemed ever to increase ina ratio so exact as to preserve between them that nice equipoise:and accurate proportion which prevents hurry and confusion. By the way, this involves a curious philo- sophical question in the statistics of a con- stantly-increasing and well-regulated family, which it is less easy to explain than recognize. Possibly something like a solution may be found in that patient, more mature experience which is gradually acquired, and which de- velops and brings with it a clear, skilful dis- cernment, combined with that ready tact which confers the power of a quiet acceptance and an easy adaptation to those varied exigences which seem to fall to the wife and mother as a natural allotment. Willam brightened up the fire, and then added a genefous supply of good oak wood. ‘Now I’m going into the kitchen,”’ said he, ‘to help mother. Your aunt offered to help her, but she don’t know where to put things as wellasIdo. I know justas well as mother does, so that when 1’m round here in the house I can save her a great many steps.’’ “1 could do the same by Aunt Deborah sometimes, but she won’t let me, because she says I don’t suit her.’’ ‘She ’s harder to suit than mother is. Oh, I like to have forgot the poem Master Dole lent me!” taking a pamphiet from the mantle- shelf. “What is it about?” “It is called ‘‘The Traveller.’’ Maybe you would like to read it while I’m gone.”’ “IT should. Allie and Edie like to play with their dolis so well that they find plenty of amusement without any help from either of us.”’ ‘Does it tell who wrote the poem?” asked Algernon, as he opened the pamphlet. “Yes, it is by Doctor Goldsmith, and was just published in London when the vessel sailed that it was brought over in.”’ *‘O Allie, I hear sleigh bells!’ said -Edie. **So do I, and as the children are all asleep, Princess Fatima can watch them a little while, so let us go to the window and look out.”’ ‘It’s Squire Hardhack, Allie, and he’s com- ing here.’’ “Yes, so he is. How sorry I am!’ ‘Never mind, Allie. ‘‘We’ll go off into the further corner of the room with our dolls, where he won’t see us.” ‘*Yes, he will. He’ll come peeping into the corner, and then he will say, ‘What are you about? You are old enough to know that it’s wieked to be lazy, and to idle away your time with sich nonsense, Arly Fieldin!’ He always calls me Arly instead of Allie. ’*Tis a hateful name, I think, don’t you?’’ “Yes, and he calls me Eder, and that’s hateful, too.’’ When Mr. Fielding, who had taken Mrs. Fleetwood to the barn—as was the custom among farmers—to look at the oxen, cows, and sheep, heard the bells, he looked out, the same as the children had done, to see who was coming. “I thought the bells were Squire Hard- hack’s,” said he. ‘‘ He’s turning his horse up to the hitching post, so I suppose he means to stop a spell.”’ So he and Mr. Fleetwood joined him, and they all went to the house together. CHAPTER XII. “ Self-exaltation is the fool’s brief paradise.” A PERSON carefully observing Mr. Fielding, Elder Fleetwood, and Squire Hardhack, as they walked along the path which led to the house, would have been apt to exclaim, “‘ How differ- ent is the appearance of Squire Hardhack from that.of the other two men !”’ Mr. Fielding was above the common height,

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his form well knit and muscular, while his countenance, air, and all his movements de- noted a generous nature and a cheerful tem- perament. Everybody who knew him well knew also that he possessed an uncommon amount of fortitude, that most unselfish of our moral powers, inasmuch as it gives strength to concentrate, bind together, and hide the pangs wringing one’s own heart, to save wounding the heart of another. ‘ Elder Fleetwood, who resembled him in some of those characteristics, was naturally predis- posed to melancholy ; a tendency greatly in- creased by his great domestic affliction. The picture of his home-nest, full of peace and quiet enjoyment, often rose up before him, the same as it had been before invaded by the angel of death. The fllusion, which was only mo- mentary, made the reality more bitter. This, relative to the subject of religion, caused him to be more gloomy and ascetic than his neigh- bor, and, as far as opinion went, less tolerant of sports or amusements, which threatened so far to overstep the boundary line of sober cheerfulness, as to reach the verge of mirth- fulness and gayety. For all that, he was not opinionated, and his kindly sympathies would often softeathis austerities. Squire Hardhack was as fall as either of the others, yet was so stout and broad-shouldered, as to make his formappear ponderous. His face was of a texture strongand immobile. In fash- ioning it, Nature’s fingers seemed to have for-’ gotten their plastic skill. There were no pliant lines and curves in his countenance, they were all hard, harsh, and coarse. By the way ho earried his head, it was easy to see that he en- tertained a high opinion of bimself, and that he was pompous, overbearing, and, sometimes headstrong. He was perfectly self satisfied, and this urged him to be assuming. In a cer- tain way, he was very grand and stately, with —as some one has said—‘‘a great many moun- tain-peaks in his character.” ‘These, to the modest, timid, and unassuming, who stood afar off, had the appearance of warmth and bril- lianey, which, at the same time they dared not approach. The warmth and brightness, how- ever, by those who ventured on a nearer in- spection, was found to be only an icy glitter, chilling the heart and dazzling the eyes. Squire Hardhack supposed himself to be a very polite man. He did not realize that in the presence of the truly polite, even the hum- ble and diffident are seldom embarrassed. To have them feel ill at ease ‘was what he liked. To him, it was a flattering tribute to his supe- riority, which he felt to be his due. Mr. Field- ing and Elder Fleetwood being, in his opinion, nearer his level than most people in Greenvale, he condescended to treat them with what he considered great affability. It was a pity that he had neither the wit nor the tact to conceal this appearance of condescension.

“Tam the head man of the South parish of Greenvale,’”’ spoke in every motion, and in every line and feature. If there was ever a person to whom the fol- lowing satire from the German description of an egotist would apply, it was Squire Hard- hack :— “Here, on this market-cross, aloud I ery— 1,1, 1! Titself 1! The form and the substance, the where and the why— The an and the where, the low and the high; The outside, the inside, the earth and the sky ; T, you and he—and he you and I— Ali souls and all bodies are I, itself I!” Instead of accepting the chair offered him by Mr. Fielding, he stood up in front of the fire, so that at the same time he could obtain a gene- rous share of the heat thrown out by the clear blaze and glowing coals, and have an oppor- tunity to take a good survey of the apartment, and whatever it contained. He had just as- sumed this, to him, desirable position, when Mrs. Fielding and Aunt Deborah Maxwell en- tered the room. There was a marked dissimi- larity in the effeet which his presence had on the two women. Mrs? Fielding always brought sunshine with her. Her manners were full of an open, gene- rous hospitality, Which made itself felt. It had grown to be a law of her nature, which she “eould not refuse to obey, and yet there was a slight degree of coldness in her manner towards Squire Hardhack, though he was too obtuse to perceive it; tor she could not forget that he was one of those who oppress’the oppressed, and grind the face of the poor. Mrs. Maxwell thought, and was fond of say- ing, that she was a high-strung, proud-spirited woman, and never bowed nor bent to anybody. Her self-sufficiency, however, melted away in the presence of the richest man in Greenvale. She appeared humble, almost sycophantic. But there are few who might not adopt the language of Burns, where he says :— “ Would that some power the giftie gi’e us, To see ourselves as ithers see us.” If she had been one of that few, she might have seen that it was not so much a proud as a cruel, domineering spirit that possessed her, which, standing out boldly, unpityingly, as- serted itself towards the weak and helpless, but suecumbed to those who trusted in riches, and were in a situation to be more overbearing than herself. The hard, unyielding woman was overawed ; the cheerful, compliant woman remained un- disturbed, and lost none of her self-possession in the presence of one she could not respect. ‘<Our Sam tells me,’’ said the squire, “that you talk of goin’ to schule this winter,’’ nod- ding his head to William Fielding. *T do,” was the boy’s answer. ‘Don’t you know how to read and spell, and to write and cipher?”

28 £2 2p e. oe eee Baas 2 See a oe lee SQacoexe«

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COUNTRY HOMES IN NEW ENGLAND A CENTURY SINCE. 237 * Yes, sir.’’ * Have you gone fur enough to know how to add, substract, and dervide, and can you say the multerplication table ?’’ “I’ve gone through our school arithmetic, sir.”” “And that’s fur enough for anybody, J say, that doesn’t mean to go inter any of the larned perfessions for a livin’. Don’t you think it is, Mr. Fleetwood ?”’ ‘If a boy has no particular love for learning it may be.”’ “‘T loved it well enough, and managed to get what J call an edication good enough for any- body. Boys nowadays wouldn’t think they could get along with no better conven’ences for larnin’ than they had when I was a young- ster. I was years and years older than your boy and Mr. Fieldin’s afore I owned a slate. The winter I went to schule I borrered one of old Major Towle, but his grandson wanted it next winter, and as writin’-paper was dear as goold-dust, as a pairson may say, "twas, of course, too dear to larn to cipher on. So I peeled a white birch log, cut out some nice smooth pieces of the bark, big enough to lay on the kiver of my ’rithmetic, and scraped some pieces of popple coal with my jack-knife, so as to have a p’int on one eend that would make a good, clear mark. Then, with my pieces of birch-bark in lieu of a slate, and a piece of coal for a pencil, I did my cipherin’ by the light of a pitch-knot settin’ on the form in the chimbly corner. So I got my larnin’ in the 'rithmetic | branch without the help of a slate, and saved the two shillin’s it would of cost for a nest-egg, which afore the year was out, had two more fur company.”’ “You did jest right, squire, ’cordin’ to my mind,’’ said Mrs. Maxwell; ‘but Mr. Fieldin’ and brother Reuben, think the more larnin’ a body has the better. I raly b’leve that if Reu- ben had the where-with-all to do it with, he would be glad for his boy to have a college edi- cation.”’ “Can that be so, Debby Maxwell?” ‘IT guess he won’t deny it.” ‘Certainly not,’’ replied Elder Fleetwood. “Nothing would please me better than to give him a college education, if I could see my way clear to do it.’’ “I believe, elder, that you and I think pretty much alike on the subject of education,” said Mr. Fielding. ‘‘ William has a great desire to go through college, and my wife and I think that by close economy we can indulge him. After all, book learning isn’t of greater impor- tance than some other kinds. Every day Iam more and more convinced that the heart needs educating as much as the intellect.” “So do I,” said Mrs. Fielding. ‘But the education of the heart naturally devolves on the parents of a child more than on schoolmas- ters or college professors.’’ VOL. LXXxIx.—16 “That is somethin’ as my wife talks,’’ said Squire Hardhack. ‘‘If I allowed her to have her own way she would spare the rod and spile the child.” CHAPTER XIIL “Familiar acts are beautiful through love.” JINGLE, jingle, jingle. The sound of bells on the clear, frosty air caused two pairs of bright, sparkling eyes to look up from the fur- ther corner of the room, and so diverted the at- tention of others present from all other sounds that the benefit of Squire Hardhack’s aphorism, at the close of the last chapter, relative to the rod and the spoilt child was lost. “Oh, what jolly bells!’ exclaimed Alice, speaking for the first time above her breath since Squire Hardhack came into the room. “They are our minister’s—I know they are,”’ said Edith. ‘His sleigh-bells jingle the loudest and clearest of anybody’s. Sometimes when I hear ’em, I shut my eyes, and then it seems to me that there’s a stream of silver beads com- ing down from somewhere. I can see ’em plain as day. I like the minister, don’t you?’’ ““Yes,’’ replied Alice, ‘and I ain’t one bit afraid of him.” ‘Nor I neither,” said Edith. ‘I do like to have him come and see us. One day he told me about some little brown birds that he fed with crums of bread, and’”’— “Stop! Stop yer nonsense, you mismannerly little chatterbox,”’ said heraunt. ‘She knows better, Squire Hardhack, than to talk before them that’s older than herself, for I’ve told her over and over again that she mustn’t, but she’s so self-willed, she’s detarmined to have her own way. I have a dretful trial with her, Squire.”’ “She ’s pooty much the same as my two boys was, I take it. They were too stubborn to bend, but breakin’ is as good as bendin’, and I soon found out the way to do that. They ’re as pliable now as my go-to-meetin’ calfskin shoes.’’ ‘* Arter all, I guess that gal would be more ’n yer match. Now, I’m goin’ on somethin’ else. I want to ask you a question, squire, and I want you to give me a candid answer. Is it proper or is it unproper for a minister of the Gospel to go ridin’ ’round with bells that have sich a noisy jingle as Parson Beale’s?’’ *“As you desire, I’ll give you a candid an- swer, Debby, and I must say, that I think it is highly unproper. I think, too, that I should be in the way of my duty to speak to him about it.”” “*Yer jest of my mind, and I hope you won’t forgit to speak to him, squire, for you know it ain’t right to shrink from doin’ one’s duty ef it does grate on the tender feelin’s.”’ **Let me alone for that. l never calc’late to

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238 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. slip my neck out of the yoke of duty, and I never was nor I never mean to be one of yer mealy- mouthed ones that’s afeared to give good advice to a fellow critter ef he is a min- ister.”’ Meanwhile Mr. Fielding had gone out to wel- come Mr. Beale. William and Algernon went with him, rejoicing in the opportunity to put the fine bay horse, with the beautiful white star in his forehead, into the stable and give him a measure of oats. The minister was a fine, noble-looking man. His seventy years, which had turned his hair white as snow, had left the form unbent ; while their traces on his countenance had refined and exalted more than they had impaired its beauty. In those primitive times, the people compos- ing a religious congregation thought it right and honorable to retain the minister to whom in his youthful vigor they had ‘given a call,” and caused to be ordained over them as their spiritual teacher in his declining years. If failing health, physical or intellectual, ren- dered his pastoral duties too onerous and op- pressive, a colleague was procured to assist in bearing his burdens. Mr. Beale was not more reverenced than other ministers of a country parish at that pe- riod; but there were few who were so much beloved. In some places when the children saw the minister coming they would steal away and hide. This was in part attributable to his being somewhat stern and unbending, from a fear, perhaps, of compromising his dignity ; but more because most ministers thought it a duty to ply them with questions which to their young minds were too abstruse to convey any meaning. It is hard to imagine that this could have been so had ministers been more tho- roughly imbued with the spirit of the Master they professed to follow. When little children were brought to Christ that he might lay his hands on them and bless them, it is not said that they were seized with fear and tried to hide away. We have every reason to believe that his kindness and benign- ity inspired them with confidence and love. Without being cold or too stately in his man- ners, Mr. Beale always maintained a dignity suited to his station. There was something about him that, instead of repelling, always drew the children to him. This surprised some of the older members of the community. They asked themselves and inquired of others where- in lay the secret charm and the power to do this. It was true that the children liked the schoolmaster ; but when Master Dole called on the parents of his pupils he was wont to pro- pitiate those who, owing to their tender years, were inelined to be shy, by the offering of a red-cheeked apple or a handful of chestnuts from the wide-spreading tree in whose shade they were accustomed to sit while eating the doughnuts or apple-pie brought in little birch baskets from bomes so distant as to oblige them ‘‘to stay at noon.”” Parson Beale gave them neither apples nor nuts, so the mystery for a while remained unsolved. One day, when at some social gathering the subject came up for discussion, Mrs. Fielding remarked that she never had any doubt as to that matter. She thought that his friendly man- ners, kind words, and pleasant smiles, which a child six months old seems to know came from the heart, were enough to draw the children to him and make them feel at home in his pre- sence. There was not a dissentient voice. All present seemed to be convinced that she had touched the string which held the key-note of what they had hitherto imagined to be a mys- tery. Squire Hardhack was more brusque than usual in exchanging salutations with the minis- ter. A keen observer and subtile expositor of whatever pertains to humanity says: ‘There are single expressions that fix a man’s position for you before you have done shaking hands. A stranger to Squire Hardhack would not have failed to recognize him as a consequential, well-to-do farmer, as with an upward sweep of his hand he seized and shook the minister’s, and said, in answer to those inquiries prescribed by the conventional amenities :— ‘I’m well and hearty, parson, as one of my own oxen, and, gin’rally speakin’, they ’re the stoutest and best in the parish.’’ The good clergyman, in manners gentle, re- , fined, and affable, and who would now be called a gentleman of the old school, made a suitable reply. \ “I believe my call to day is as much owing to Starbright—meaning his horse—as to me,” said he, in answer to the expressions of satis- faction and delight by Mrs. Fielding and others. ‘Then he shall have some tid-bit to pay him,’’ said William. ‘*To be sure he shall,”’ replied his mother; but how did Starbright contrive to tell you, Mr. Beale, that he wished to come?’’ “I knew by the way he rejoiced in the clear, frosty air and the bright sunshine, when he was led to the watering-trough, that it would be a great treat to him to trot a few miles over the crust-hardened snow-path to the music of bells.” “‘Speakin’ of bells, parson, makes me think that I want to say a few words to you on that p’int,”’ said Squire Hardhack. The minister signified that he was ready to listen to him. ‘Wall, parson, I kinder think, that ’cordin’ to Scripter we shouldn’t indulge in sinful vani- ties in any shape or way whatsoever. Minis- ters in pertic’lar should be curful to set a good example. Don’t you think they should, par- son ?”” . “T do.” “Well, then, I hope that you’ll never put -— - 4 as & 4 WD wets atk = - & WD te hee a ae ae ot mA — [as — -_— = = ee ee ee ee

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COUNTRY HOMES IN NEW ENGLAND A CENTURY SINCE. 239 bells ’round yer horse’s neck ag’in that make sich a terrible loud jinglin’ as yourn did to-day. Why, the children here was so stirred up by their noise, I was raly afeared they would fall to dancin’.”’ “Starbright is so glad when he hears them, .that he often dances,’’ replied the minister, with a smile. ‘‘They gladden and cheer him, the same as the musie of a harp would you or me.” “T never heard a harp in my life, and if I ever do, I hope I sha’n’t be so foolish and sin- ful as to want to listen to it.’’ The minister answered by taking the Bible lying on the table within reach of his hand, and reading the first four verses of the thirty-third Psalm :— 1. Rejoice in the Lord, O ye righteous: for praise is comely for the upright. 2. Praise the Lord with harp: sing unto him with the psaltery, and an instrument of ten strings. 3. Sing unto him with a new song, play skil- fully with a loud noise. 4. For the ward of the Lord is right; and all his works are dohe in truth. “Wal, parson, I must say, that though no- body goes afore me in sarchin’ the Scripters, I don’t jestly remember the varses you ’ve been readin’.”’ “So I supposed. And now let me putina plea for Starbright and his bells. He likes loud bells best. He enjoys their clear, ringing sound, their merry, jubilant music. It revives and cheers him, and causes him to rejoice in the strength which has been given him. I hold it to be right to provide for the comfort and en- joyment of those animals created for our use and benefit.” “Wal, Zhold to self-denial. In my ’pinion it’s a sin to pamper man or beast. “** Who dainties love, Shall beggars prove.’” “He don’t include himself,’’ whispered Wil- liam to Algernon. ‘‘ He lives on roast turkey, roast beef, plum-pudding, mince-pies, and pound cake.” ‘*We agree in that respect,’’ said the minis- ter, in answer to Squire Hardhack. ‘I, too, think it wrong to pamper the appetite. ‘Feed us with food convenient for us,’ should be our prayer. John, in one of his Epistles says: ‘ Beloved, let us love one another, for love is of God.’ I cannot believe that persons under the influence of the kind of love here referred to, which is no other than the true spirit of Chris- tianity, can be unkind to anything that breathes the air of heaven. As the poet says :— “*Man may dismiss compassion from his heart~ God will never.’ And as Shakspeare has it :— **Gentleness will force— More than force moves—the mind to gentleness.’ ” “QO Alice, that’s Uncle Ralph’s voice, I know,” said Edith, starting up and running into the entry, where she found him standing just outside the door. Algernon was there as soon as she was. “Why, Uncle Ralph,” said he. ‘What can be the reason none of us saw youcoming? I think that you must have dropped from one of those beautiful palaces you sometimes build in the clouds.”’ While Edith, tugging at his hand, was try- ing to pull him into the room, Squire Hardhack rose, and said he must be going. “T’ve been thinking of calling at your house to-morrow morning,’’ said the minister, ‘‘to loak at that heifer I hear you have for sale. Shall you be at home?” ‘*Sartainly I shall,’’ the sullen cloud brood- ing on his countenance, caused by not earrying his point relative to the sleigh-bells, vanishing as if swept away by a magician’s wand. Although he never thought pleasant looks and pleasant words had any value at his own fireside, he imagined that they might be worth something in smoothing the way to a good bar- gain, especially with a man so peacefally in- clined as the minister, and prove the means of turning an animal that ate hay into pounds, shillings, and pence, which would draw in- terest. “Sartainly, sartainly,”” he reiterated, and then with a voice so toned down that it sounded as if mufiled in velvet, and with gracious words, which “ Through his speech trickled softly, like honey.” he inquired relative to the health of Mrs. Beale and other members of the family. ‘‘ Arter all,” said he, as he turned towards the door, “‘I guess, parson, you’re pooty near right about them sleigh-bells.”’ ‘«¢ A man that flattereth his neighbor spread- eth a net for his feet. So says the wise man, and so say I,” remarked the minister after he was gone. oa» Rencineadll IF we are loved by those around us, we can bear the hostility of all the rest of the world— just as, if we are before a warm fire, we need not care for all the ice.in the polar regions. MEN have different spheres. It is for some to evolve great moral truths, as the heavens evolve stars, to guide the sailor on the sea and the traveller on the desert; it is for some, like the sailor and the traveller, simply to be guides. TiME.—Time wears slippers of list, and his tread is noiseless. The days come softly dawn- ing one after another, creeping in at the win- dows, their fresh morning air so grateful to the lips as they pant for it, their music so sweet to the ears that listen to it, until, before we know it, a whole life of days has possession of the citadel, and Time has taken us for his own.

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GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.

SELF IMPROVEMENT. BY PRUE DENT.

“Not enjoyment and not sorrow Is our destined end or way: But to act that each to-morrow Finds us farther than to-day.” How many there are among us who waste their entire lives! How many who, from the promptings of an inordinate self-love, are con- tinually endeavoring by every little artifice to excite the admiration of their fellow creatures by some personal grace or accidental beauty ! Such persons are happy enly when paying their homage at the shrine of Fashion. Dress- ing, shopping, visiting, and entertaining their friends, leave no time for the improvement of their minds, or the cultivation of anything that is good. Such “ Pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize their flower, their bloom is shed ; Or like the snowflake in the river, A moment white, then gone forever.” They know not, that to fulfil our destiny we must act. By the sweat of thy brow thou shalt earn thy bread, is a commandment stamped upon man’s nature by a hand Divine. Whether for material or spiritual good we must labor, without which we ean accomplish nothing. We were not placed upon this earth merely to gather flowers on the banks of the stream of Time, nor yet to mourn because it sways rest- lessly to and fro. This is not our “destined end or way,” but constant action, and so to act “that each to-morrow Finds us farther than to-day.” Further advanced in moral and intellectual improvement, and in faithfulness in the dis- charge of all our duties, and in cultivating, to the extent of our abilities, the talents an All- Wise Father has bestowed upon us. Others there are who give their whole time to amassing wealth. Day after day comes and goes, and their only thought has been of a glit- tering store hidden from the view of man, and how they might add to it. They have no time to think of self improvement, and become, in consequence thereof, selfish, unloving, and un- loved miserly creatures, and when the soul has fulfilled its appointed time to dwell on earth, how readily they would exchange their wealth for that peace of mind which enables the man or woman who has lived a true life to depart without a sigh of regret. How painful is the realization that his life has been wasted ! You may be so situated in life that you really have but little time to spare, but do not fora moment imagine that you have no time for ac- quiring knowledge. ’Twere better, far, to move slowly forward, than to be found year after year in the same place. Even ten min- utes a day devoted to study, will, in the end, make up a large store, and furnish us food for

pleasant thought for many an hour. Spend the same ten minutes in idleness, and we ven- ture to say, while you are at work the remain- der of the day, your mind will dwell upon those little cares and trials that vex one so. Every good effort tells. Odds and ends are of more value than we imagine. Let us urge you, then, . to make use of small opportunities. By so doing, names hitherto unknown will be en- rolled upon the eternal scroll of honor, and ycu will have increased your wealth of mind, and you will daily be coming nearer and nearer that state of perfection for which the immortal soul ceaselessly yearns. Take for your motto “Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.”

-o AUTUMN LEAVES. BY H. F. D.

THERE are poets who sing of May-time bloom— Of June, and the garlands her long day weaves— Of July’s luscious and rich perfumes ; But the laureate loveth the autumn leaves. Oh, autumn leaves! bright autumn leaves! Your magic spe!l the eye receives ; Which looks, thro’ spring and summer’s glow, At all the jewel hues ye show! We would sing like the swan, who, dying, brings His sweetest and best to the last refrain ; Who curves his neck, and clasps his wings, While triumph soars in his closing strain. Oh, autumn leaves! etc. Like the maiden’s cheek, whom Hectic paints, Through waning strength, with a deepening glow, Whom Death, the branding scarce attaints, Whom Fever flames, while life-tides flow. Oh, autumn leaves! ete. Oh, autumn leaves! ye have hues that live In crystal mines, in pearl and gem; A royal splendor can ye give To the passing year’s bright diadem. Oh, autumn leaves! ete. Thy myriad banners wave aloft, While he, the conqueror, passeth by; ’Neath arching skies, o’er masses soft, Whose broideries bright beneath him lie. Oh, autumn leaves! ete. The graceful veil of mist that’s flung Above thy purple, and crown, and train, Is a gauze from a golden fountain wrung, And proudly waveth its rainbow strain. Oh, autumn leaves! ete. It is well that the year, like a choral hymn, Should gather its sweetness, and strength, and fire ; Should fill its beaker high over the brim, And in one rapturous boast expire! Oh, autumn leaves! ete. <boie

MEN often attempt, by the light of reason, to discover the mysteries of eternity. They might as well hold up a candle to see the stars. THE more honesty a man has, the less he af- fects the air of a saint; the affectation of sanc- tity is a blotch on the face of piety.—Lavater.

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NEAR THE MINISTER’S FACE. 241 NEAR THE MINISTER’S FACE. BY H. VICKERY DUMONT. THeEyY had said good-by to each other long ago. Long ago at least according to the time-rating capacity of youth, and now people had begun to forget the beginning or the end of the es- trangement. But of course vague mistrust on the one side, and on the other passionate de- nial of wrong, had been the root of all the evil. She had been in trouble, therefore, perhaps more morbid and exacting than usual, and she had expected him to be equally overwhelmed with herself, to become, through excess of grief, inured to the pomps and vanities of the outer world. He failing to meet the requirements, waited with lugubrious patience until the first passionate abandonment of sorrow for her mother should have subsided, and consoled himself in the meantime by a mild flirtation with another girl. A harmless, innocent affair, as flirtations go, but Miss Maryon imagined harm and perverted the innocence, and the end of it was a tragic parting, with just a little stagey effect on the outside, and an indescrib- able quantity of real pain and passion behind the scenes. After that, for eight or ten months, the longi- tude and latitude of two whole States lay be- tween them, and neither of them bridged the distance by a single conciliatory word. He plunged himself into a vortex of business cares and responsibilities, telling himself, manlike, that he had been without blame in the whole matter, while Miss Maryon had been without heart. She went impassively through the rounds of her quiet life, dwelling painfully upon each word and incident of their parting, until she too acquired his conviction and con- demned herself accordingly. ‘*He knew so little about mamma how could he feel for her as I did? It was selfish and unjust for me to expect so much from him, and altogether J only have been to blame,”’ she said to herself, but inasmuch as she said it to her- self alone, the confession produced no visible result, and the gulf still lay between them, swollen by time, impassable through obstinacy. Another girl in the same situation might have removed the barrier by writing him a frank ae- knowledgment of her error, but Juliet Maryon was reserved and sensitive to almost a misera- ble degree. So she suffered in silence rather than incur even the possibility of humiliation. When the summer came the distance between them grew even wider, for Mr. Maryon, who through his mother’s death had become sole guardian of both his younger sisters, had con- sideration for their deep mourning, and eschew- ing all popular sea-side resorts, took his charges instead for a quiet tour through the maritime provinces, the route being shaped entirely by his own or Bessie’s vagrant fancy, Miss Maryon proper being too provokingly indifferent to care where they went. She liked to go everywhere, she said, and for a time this indistinct liking was gratified. Everywhere meaning a day or two in Halifax, a few hour’s sojourn “In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas, Distant, secluded still, the little village of Grand- Pré.” That never-to-be-forgotten village which Evan- geline has rendered famous, around which the American laureate has cast the halo of his own sweet and tender thought. Then they took a slow survey of the Annapolis Valley, spent half a day in the one sleepy, lifeless street of Digby, and arrived in St. John, to find the whole city looking forward (through the fog) to a grand international boat-race on the Ken- nebec River. ‘“*We’ll go wherever they go,”” Mr. Maryon said, and accordingly migrated with the excited populace to the scene of contest, found the landscape surrounding it so picturesque and peaceful, that when the crowd surged back to the city, he drew his self-made compact ab- ruptly to an end, and with his sisters remained behind. Pitched their tent for a time near the restful little village of Rothesay, and while there Miss Maryon received the first tangible information of her late lover which all those months had brought her. The information came in a letter, and the letter was from Georgine Lovell, dated from Newport, and replete with Newport items. Georgine had always been gossipy, always given to an unhealthy taste for Mme. Rumor’s bonne bouches, but this letter, of all her efforts, was 2 masterpiece, a very triumph of news-im- parting genius. Deaths and marriages, fash- ions and engagements, here and there a mild soupcon of scandal, and lastly that one para- graph, which had sent the recreant blood out of Miss Maryon’s cheeks, which had eaused the old hard pain to throb her heart afresh. “But imagine, my dear Juliet, who I went through the German with last evening? No less a person than Raymond Carey, with whom you used to have such tender passages a long time ago. He is justas handsome as ever, and quite as fascinating ; but, alas! no longer in the market, for they say (remember I repeat it = as an on dit) that he is engaged to Delia Ha wae You remember her, don’t you? A ale, fair girl with a face like an angel’s! That s an immense admission from a cotemporary, isn’t it? But she is just lovely, and I think Raymond is wonderfully lucky. He thinks so himself too, I guess, for last night when I was speaking about that fortnight we all spent at Long Branch, he first looked across the room at Delia and said: ‘Happy days we all thought they were then, and yet I wonder how many of us would recall them?’”’ Miss Maryon did not read any more after that. She simply crushed the letter in her hand, and walking over to-the window looked

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242 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. out at the view before her. A marvellously fair view, and Miss Maryon was an artist in her way, but this morning I doubt if she no- ticed one single feature of that exquisitely tint- ed landscape; for alas, and alas! what to her were azure skies and sunlit rivers, waving corn- fields and hills of dusky purple, while the doom of her own romance was crushed within her hand, while the bark of her own hope was shivered to atoms before her? ** And yet what have I been hoping for ?’’ she asked, in angry expostulation with herself. ‘*What have I been expecting, that I should feel so disappointed? It was my own fault, entirely my own fault. I grieved and pained him at the time, disgusted him probably, and now he has found consolation in a ‘face like an angel’s,’ while I~O Raymond, you might have held the old days a little longer in remem- brance!’ Then she dropped her face in both hands with a strong convulsion of pain, as those old days arose before her, arose in that mocking resurrection which so many of us have realized long after the grave of our hopes has been covered over by Time’s relentless hand. The noonday sun was flooding the window when at length she raised her eyes, when with a weary effort at self-control, she arose from her seat and endeavored to take an interest in the two or three figures that dotted the sur- face of the croquet ground beneath. Difficult enough the task seemed, but before either suc- cess or failure could crown her efforts, Bessie, the second Miss Maryon, looked up from an animated flirtation in the foreground, to accost her sister. ** Juliet, dear, it ’s lovely and cool down here. Come down, please, and let us have a game of croquet. This lazy old Ted needs something to do.’”’ And “lazy old Ted,” otherwise Mr. Edward Maryon, their escort and only brother, came from the wide steps and supplemented: “Yes, Juliet, come on. We’ll beat them in spite of our laziness. Bessie and Mr. Peyton talk too much to play well.” So between them, Juliet was forced to leave the contemplation of her newly-awakened sor- row and go down, being rewarded in the very first instance by inquiry from Bessie. ‘‘What did Georgine say, Juliet? Had she any news?”’ ‘*Of course she had,’’ Ted premised before- hand, with a long exaggeratory dilation upon the fact that a girl could not possibly write a letter without either an engagement or a mar- riage for building material. A dilation which enabled Juliet to remember Georgine’s pre- paratory items, and answer with admirably feigned composure. “This letter is no exception then, for it con- tains ever 80 many marriages. That Mr. Wheeler we met in Portland has eloped with Mrs. Courtney. Her husband, you know, died about five months ago. Fredrica Young has lost ali claim to her maiden name by marrying that old Mr. Eldridge. He isa grandfather, nearly seventy years old. Then Ida Laramie has broken her engagement with De Lancy Owens, and is’””— Ted groaned audibly by this time, and Char- lie Peyton threw down his mallet with the heartiest laugh. ‘What an awful list, Miss Maryon! Hon- estly, I think, if your friend would only be persuaded to come over the border, she might make her fortune as reporter to our city pa- pers, though our township suburbs and all couldn’t raise that much news in a year.” “T should think not,’’ Bessie interrupted, with seventeen’s usual amount of girlish au- dacity. ‘I am afraid Georgina would find it rather tiresome to report runaway horses and street fights, those being about the only items a person could glean in your city. But, Mr. Peyton, you are croqueting my ball. Now please don’t, and be kind enough to let Juliet finish. What else did she say, Juliet?’’ The question was emphatic, and Juliet, driven entirely to bay, turned around despair- ingly. . ‘‘Nothing else, Bessie, excepting that Ray Carey is engaged to Delia Halliday.” A moment after, she regretted having told it, for Bessie did look so unspeakably sorry for her, and Ted, after an impulsive “I don’t believe a word of it,’’ gazed at her with a worid of sympathy inhiseyes. Even Charlie Peyton, whose acquaintance with them was numbered only by Gays, caught‘the universal contagion of compassion, which compassion was of itself the most exasperating offering that could be made to a girl as uncomfortably proud as Ju- liet Maryon. To some people, I suppose, open confession does bring a healing power all its own; but with a circumstantial altering of cases it be- comes the most direct mode of torturing a pain, and thus Juliet found it in the days and hours that followed. Nothing could have given her so much comfort as to have her humiliation ignored ; but this neither Ted nor Bessie seemed to understand, consequentiy she was victimized by well-meant but unwelcome sympathy from both. Bessie petted her, and bemoaned the prover- bial faithlessness of man in the same breath, and Ted devised all sorts of peace-making plans above the curling smoke of his meer- schaum, but both comforters met with so little appreciation that at last Bessie became very nearly dissuaded. ** Juliet is so queer,”’ she said, ‘that even I, her own sister, can’t tell what to say to her. Now, if I were foolish enough to incur any an- noyance like that, I should be dying for some one to sympathize with me; but then I should have been in love half a dozen times since, so oC. = so he i im ee ee ee ee el a Hh _—_— — > ~~» & £€, & wt ~ #- | — -- . = 4 * * beh be Oe

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NEAR THE MINISTER’S PACE. 243 ZI wouldn’t need consolation. Juliet isn’t that kind, is she, Ted? She is not. like the little maid of Areadee. You remember that song, don’t you? “*Moments sped as moments will, Rapidly enough, until After, say a month or two, Robin did as Robins do, Fickle as the month of May, Jilted her and ran away; Wretched little maiden she, Doleful maid of Arcadee. **To her little home she crept, There she sat her down and wept; Maiden wept as maidens will, Grew so thin, and pale, and ill, Till another came to woo, Then again the roses grew; Happy little maiden she, Happy maid of Arcadee.’” “Not the slightest similarity in the cases,’’ said Mr. Maryon, sententiously. ‘‘It was Ju- liet’s fault from the first, and even yet I can’t believe that Ray has forgotten her. Georgie Lovell always was a mischief-making concern, and I just know what difficulties meet a good- looking fellowlike him. The girls will persist in flocking around hini, and then the gaping world proclaim him engaged to the most at- tractive of his admirers. I only wish that Raymond would happen along this way him- self, and I’d venture to make it all right.” Bessie looked up with sudden inspiration. “Why don’t you write to him, Ted?” But Ted laughed down her inquiry. “Not quite that, Chick. I hav’n’t attained that match-making degree as yet. He can find out where we are if he wants to follow; but I don’t intend to implore him.” By this time a week had gone by since the receipt of Miss Lovell’s letter, and while Ted and Bessie discouraged her affaire du ceur, Juliet sat in her own room trying to frame an answer, trying to send some congratulations, or the form of congratulations, to Delia Halli- day, and, in spite of the pain her effort cost her, succeeded beyond even her own expecta- tions. “There is nothing like disciplining myself,’”’ she said, with a mournful little smile. ‘By and by, perhaps, I shall learn forgetfulness as well as he has done.’’ She posted the letter the next day, wonder- ing as she dropped it in the letter box whether Mr. Carey would ever hear of her wish for his future happiness, and how he would receive it, calling herself a simpleton then for the con- stant pain his memory entailed, and trying her very best to talk down the memory by answer- ing Bessie, who, standing on the platform, was waiting patiently for the two o’clock train from the city, the train which was to bring Ted baek to them after a few hours’ absence. Railway time was, as usual, protracted that day, and the girls were very tired of their waiting by the time the express came clamor- ing along beside them. Jerking and jolting as express trains often do, and giving at first the most tantalizing glimpses of moustached faces, and pretty, girlish profiles ; then coming to a full stop, and enabling Bessie’s curious eyes to obtain a full view of its occupants, a view that caused her bright cheeks to flush with excitement, that caused her nervous fin- gers to clutch Juliet’s arm almost rapturously. *O Juliet, do look! Who is that with Ted in this window right here?” And Juliet, looking, had no difficulty in an- swering her, for the face in the window was one that by night and day had been photo- graphed in her heart and brain. Shutting her eyes, its every feature was still before her, the golden beard gleaming brightly in the sun- shine, the mouth almost womanly in its sweet- ness, eyes that still held some reflection from ‘the lingering light of his boyhood’s grace,” the forehead broad and white; even the voice, that was the first to intrude upon her bewilder- ment, seemed as familiar as her own. She could hardly fail to remember that face and voice, for they were the face and voice of Ray- mond Carey. A moment after he was beside them, saying, half-constrainedly :— ‘“‘How do you do, Miss Maryon? Miss Bes- sie, I need not ask you; your appearance is a certificate of itself.’’ And Bessie, recovering from her surprise, was pouring forth a perfect torrent of questions. ** How did you get here? Where did you meet him, Ted? And how did you make up your mind to leave Newport and Miss Halliday ?’’ Her brother and Mr. Carey laughed at her indistinctness, and Juliet, moving her whitened face further in the shadow, blessed the diver- sion, and thanked Ted most heartily for his round about attempt at explanation. “You ask too many and too delicate ques- tions, Bess. Your curiosity has no refinement, and poor Ray does not know how to answer you. Why shouldn’t he wish to tread on colonial soil as well as dozens of his country- men, I’d like to know? I met him at the Vic- toria this morning, standing with his hands in his pockets in the smokiag-room, waiting for a familiar face, he told me, so I brought him along, with the promise of seeing two more besides mine. Now you have our story, and it is alltold. Ray, if you like this place, we will stay another week. It suits me splendidly— quiet and cool, plenty of boating, and no con- ventional impositions or chaperoning duties, except with this irresistible Queen Bess, who, I’m forced to think, bears a slight resemblance to Rhoda Broughton’s heroine, who was sup- posed to be ready for a flirtation with the un- dertaker that came to measure her for her coffin. The last victim is a youthful law sta- dent, and he is awfully enamored.”’ They were walking up the road by this time,

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244 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. Juliet making a speedy recovery of her color, and Mr. Carey attaining quite an enviable state of composure. **O Bessie! Bessie! what do you expect to come to?" “The altar, in ail probability ; but not with Mr. Peyton,” Bessie laughed, and then they reached their abiding place, and Ted was sub- jected to a court martial from his youngest sister. “Teddy, tell me all about it. Is he really engaged to Delia Halliday?” “About as much as you are,” Mr. Maryon answered, with a certain triumph. “I told you beforehand how it was, and I was right. That Georgie Lovell never heard the ninth commandment, I know, or she wouldn’t take upon herself such high-handed ways of ar- ranging people’s affairs for them. But surely, now that Ray has come this far, Juliet will treat him decently.” Bessie was tearing a prairie rose into pieces, but she dropped the fragments at that, and looked up hopefully. ‘*Well, I should think so. It was her fault at the beginning, and now she has such a splen- did chance for owning up! She can’t be ugly enough to keep up that haughty way of hers.’ But Juliet was ugly, if ugliness it could be called, and she did keep up her “haughty ways,” so that, as the days went by, Bessie’s alluring vision of a united band of pilgrims migrating to some gayer region, became more shadowy than ever. It always happens so, I think, when we build castles for our friends, our friends refuse to take possession ; when we dream blissfully for our friends, our friends themselves awake us. Even in the light of the thousand lyrics sung to it, friendship is at times a troublesome virtue, and brings with it many a tiresome entail. And thus, I am bound to confess, Bessie was inclined to regard it as time passed on, and both objects of her care remained as far apart as ever; Mr. Carey devoting himself almost entirely to her, and Juliet maintaing outwardly at least the calmest and haughtiest indifference. Some sisters, I suppose, would, in such a case, have remembered their own individuality ; would have allowed their own vanity to be ex- cited, and accepted his attentions with gratifi- cation. But Bessie Maryon did not belong to the latter class, and instead of being a source of gratification, his attentions annoyed her in- tensely—so intensely, that at last she made Charlie Peyton happy by taking him into her eonfidence. Not exactly proper, of course; but Bessie Maryon was not accustomed to ceremony as a standing ground; and any way, at seventeen, girls cannot always pause to think of the proprieties. “I feel so provoked at both of them,’ she bemoaned, by way of conclusion to her dilem- ma; ‘‘and Ted is just about tired out ef the whole performance. I don’t know what in the world to do with them!”’ Mr. Peyton, with his twenty years’ experi- ence of life, did not know either; but, after the fashion of young lawyers, he looked pro- found, and hazarded a suggestion. ‘Why don’t you leave them together more ? Let the affair take its natural course, and it is sure to come out right in the end. I don’t know much about those things myself, but it seems to me that that would be the best way, in a case where the affections are concerned.’’ He looked so unspeakably sentimental about that time that Bessie, with her usual politeness, laughed aloud. “Excuse me, Mr. Peyton! but you did look so authoritative just then; and, any way, you don’t know how sick and tired I am of affee- tionate cases. I’ve been reading novels so much since we came to this wilderness, that I am just surfeited with Cupid’s wiles. I think I could almost tell you what was in a book be- fore reading it at all; and invariably I know, after reading a few pages, how the story is going to turn out. They all end alike, you know—dramatis persone pairing off in a neat procession to everlasting bliss, the bad ones being opportunately put out of the way. I only wish my tiresome protéges would follow the stereotyped pattern, for I want to get away, I am se sick of British soil.” Her unfortunate admirer, gazing at the **shining river’ dancing and dimpling befcre them, at the picturesque islands and luxuriant autumn-tinged foliage, felt slightly snubbed by her non-appreciation ; but his passion was stronger than his patriotism, so he rejoined, very good humoredly :— “Take my advice, then, Miss Bessie, and you will see them following it in less than no time.”’ And Bessie showed her appreciation of his advice by putting it into execution that even- ing. Theearly September sun was just making a lurid disappearance, and both the girls had wandered down by the river, when Raymond overtook them, and proposed a sail. ‘*Ted is asleep,” he said, ‘‘and Charlie Pey- ton is gone to the city, so I can’t promise any further escort ; but I’1l do my best, if you will come.”’ “You could not upset us, even if you tried, this evening,” laughed Bessie. “And the river looks so lovely, that we can’t say no.” “Then that’s a round about way of saying yes,” answered Mr. Carey, in a matter-of- course tone peculiarly his own. ‘ Young la- dies have such a circuitous mode of approach- ing a consent, I have rarely met one who would be content to reduce an affirmative to its least dimensions. Ah! here is our boat directly to hand. Miss Juliet, you will be most comforta- able here, I think. Bessie, where will you sit?” nest ~~ of me 6crkhlUcrrlUr le OF a ae Le oe nn et 1 aelCUP a ee ae aes >» eas 4 ‘oe oe ee

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NEAR THE MINISTER'S FACE. 245 —_— He turned carelessly as he spoke, but Bessie met him with saucy malice in her eyes. “‘No where under your guardianship, after that libel. Any way, I have to write letters this evening, so I can’t go. You and Juliet will have to do without me for once.”’ After that, any one may understand how awkward and out of place Juliet felt; but Mr. Carey twirled his moustache with an air of vexation which had become almost habitual in this latter week, and answered, just a little haughtily :— *‘Uncomplimentary as it sounds, I shall be most happy to do so, if Miss Maryon will trust herself with me.’’ Whereupon, Miss Maryon finding, without direct rudeness, no outlet for refusal, subsided into her seat, and Bessie made a mocking little courtesy from the shore. Mr. Carey rowed away then from the wharf, or, rather, from the apology for a wharf, guiding the boat along the quiet margin of the river, over the tinted wavelets of crimson, blue and gold, un- der the peaceful shadow of the woodlands, past perpendicular and rugged fragments of shore. Juliet turned her clear, pale face towards the shining miracle of the west, and clenched her hands with a nervous, ever-abiding reco:- lection of the last time they two had been face to face, and alone, bit her scarlet lips painfully as she thought of the weary months that since then had dragged their slow length along. He, outwardly at least, bent all his energy on the oars, inwardly repeated her retrospection, and still for a time neither of them spoke. In most of the love stories which I have ever read, after a romantic or unexpgcted meeting takes place, a short and easy method is imme- diately prepared for the reconciliation, and all the difficulties of estrangement meet with in- stant dissolution. But in real life it seems to me a happy dénouement rarely can be reached without a weary lot of commonplaces to pave the way ; though, alas! when we think it over, to how many the commonplaces go on forever, while the dénouement never refreshes their tired eyes. They began them at last, the usual formula of weather, scenery, etc., both trying to ima- gine the discussion animated, and both meeting with failure; anything else but failure being inevitable while the ghost of an old love stretched its shadow between them. “This reminds me of no place I have ever seen,” said Raymond, half constrainedly, “and yet, looking merely at that strip of shore, it reminds me of one evening at Long Branch when we were all out boating, and Georgine Lovell was upset. That white house in the distanee reminds me, I suppose, of the place where we carried her for.recovery. Do you remember that evening?’’ _ Did she remember it? Could she ever forget it rather? 1t being the last happy evening be- fore her mother’s sudden and untimely death. Every incident and feature of that sail returned upon her. Even the air which had floated upon them from the band in a distant ball-room, the rose she had worn in her brooch, the still glory which the moon had bestowed upon them arose up to offer their incense to memory. She re- membered even more distinctly his tender good- night in the hall, his laughing confiscation of her rose, and the very words he had said as he took it: ‘Silly idea that, that a rose is the em- blem of love. I don’t accept it at all, for this poor little blossom has blown and will fade to- morrow, while our love has blown never more to fade.”’ Ah, well! the rose had faded, and in her sight at least, so also had his love, and keep- ing back the hot, impetuous tears, Miss Maryon answered almost composedly his attempted re- version to old times. ‘Yes, I remember. Poor Georgie did not take much notice of the scenery for a litth while after. Strange, is it not, how two of the most dissimilar landscapes will remind us of each other, or bear some mnemonic connection to some particular instance of our lives. I have had the most tantalizing instance of it in thatrock opposite to us. They call it, for some unknown reason, ‘The Minister’s Face,’ and some way, since I have heard the name, I never pass that side of the island without being re- minded of old Doctor Rogers, the rector we had years ago. It is silly, I know, but when- ever I meet the gray gravity of that cliff I can almost fancy myself waking up from a stolen nap in the corner of our pew and meeting the grave scrutiny of his eyes. Bessie laughs at me, but it is really true.” He did not laugh at her just then. To tell the truth, he felt too much secret annoyance at her unlooked-for dispersion of his original topic, to do more than answer very gravely. “To me your fancy does not seem at all strange; but the idea suggested to me would have been that if that ‘minister’s face’ only had eyes, it might have witnessed many a curi- ous sight.”’ ‘Many a sad sight,” said Juliet, with a sort of shiver. ‘As fair and tranquil as this river looks just now, it is hard to realize that it has been the scene of so many tragedies. But the old boatman that rowed us acress the other day told us a great many stories, and it seemed to me that every ten yards had been signalized by an accident. At one place two girls, skat- ing on the ice in winter, fell through and were drowned. Farther down, Renforth, that cham- pion of the Tyne crew died even while the race was going on. It seemed so terrible to me that I wondered how people could bear to have an- other regatta in the same place, but they have had two or three, I believe, since then. On the other side of this island a man was drowned by the upsetting of his boat, and all the time sd 4

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246 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. » he was sinking, his wife and five little children | kind did take kindly to practicalities that time were watching him in agony from the shore. Imagine the horror of it.” ‘Life is made of such horrors,’”’ answered Mr. Carey, gravely. “Specification is an im- possibility, the cases are so numerous. But it seeins to me that in the light of those Heaven- sent afflictions, it is almost blasphemy for us, we, who for a time may be exempted from them, te employ our own poor weak natures in building up sorrows and trial for ourselves. Life is so short at the best, I wonder why we never can be content to enjoy it without making improvements or alterations of our own.”’ He looked at her with weary yearning in his eyes, but Miss Maryon’s head was averted. Miss Maryon’s voice, when at length she an- swered him, was not attuned to his own. ‘*Because, I suppose, we can never realize present good and discontent is our normal con- dition. Even in Eden, you know, more was desired.”” “And the fall of man followed the desire. A practical lesson to us from the beginning of the world, but that, you see, is another human peculiarity, not to take kindly to practicalities. Is this another island Miss Maryon, or are we still under the minister’s scrutiny ?” Juliet looked up at his question and laughed. ** Yes, it is another island I believe. An unin- habited one this time, though.” “But not lonely enough to be Selkirkian,”’ he answered; then turning, with an after- thought, “It looks very tempting here; we might land for a few moments and gather some of those scarlet berries and ferns to carry back as trophies to Bessie. But excuse me, I could get them myself without troubling you.” “Thank you!” she replied, just a trifle an- noyed at the guarded inflection of his voice. **T will land for a few moments, those blos- soms are so very tempting.” He secured the boat then, and assisted her over the grassy bank beyond them. After that he walked quietly beside her, stealing glances downward at the impervious beauty of her face, chafing ineffectually when he thought of the wall between them, and Juliet, tearing a field daisy to pieces, repeated to herself that old refrain— ‘\He loves me, he loves me. Ah, he loves me not!” “Pine trees and stunted maples, the ferns rank and withered, and the scarlet berries few and far between. ‘Truly, this island is a little like those fabled apples of the Dead Sea,” laughed Mr. Carey, breaking the silence’ at length. “Those people have some idea of utility, though, for here is the only level place on the island occupied by a turnip patch.” He stood still, with an air of mock disgust, and Juliet, looking up from her field daisy, echoed his laugh. “Charmingly unromantic, isn't it? Man- at least.” Mr. Carey took one of the eye-offending vege- tables by its top and answered, lightly : ‘*Shall we take this back to Bessie, as we failed to se- cure our other trophies, or will we hide our mortification by simply saying nothing about our explorations ?’’( “We had better, I think,” said Juliet, and then they retraced their steps ; came back in the waning light to the shore they had left, to the pile of logs where their boat had been. Spoken in the past tense most advisedly, for the boat was no longer there! A piece of rope was at- tached to the log, but their barque of refuge, freed from all restraint, was floating playfully down the river. Not a human being in sight, no habitation within the reach of their voices, nothing but sky, woods, and water, and they two standing face to face in the fast increasing darkness. For one moment a thrill of elation throbbed his heart. Surely, in such a strait, the barrier between them would of itself dissolve ; in the next, he had seen the convulsive tightening of her lips, the frightened inquiry of her eyes, and then he thought only of rescue. ‘You must not be afraid, Miss Maryon,’’ he said. ‘Somebody will be sure to see us. I will build a fire on the shore, so that they can- not fail to be attracted. In another hour you and Bessie will be laughing over our adven- ture.” Miss Maryon made a mighty effort to look calm, then replied, “I am not at all afraid, for I know they must come tous. I will help you build the fire. I have often done it at picnics. Yes, Bessie will laugh; but 1 do wish she were with us.” : **Yes,”” he answered, with a sudden half- despairing intonation. “It would make it pleasanter for you.”’ How is it, I wonder, that, with all our boasted power to will and to do, when the emergency arrives, some blind instinct leads us from the light? When both had spoken, both felt an instantaneous constraint, and all through the difficult task of kindling into flame the damp twigs and chips around them, the ashes of re- sentment were almost as successfully springing into life. To you, my older friends, it all seems ridicu- lous, I suppose. To stretch a loving hand across the gulf seems the easiest thing imagi- nable, but we who still linger in the blunder- } ing latitude of youth can all realize that, when once the dividing stream has submerged our love, there is an enormous difficulty in a “see- ond crossing the ripples flow.” **That will surely attract them,” said Juliet, as the flames roared up revengefully ; but the blaze died, and was renewed again, and stil no one seemed to be attracted. She grew more diseomposed then—not ac- a

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OLD QUEEN.—A REMINISCENCE. 247 tually afraid, but dreadfully nervous, and so excited that it required all her efforts to repress it, and still, beyond the briefest sentences, neither of them spoke. She stood on a level with the firelight, gazing anxiously through the darkness beyond. He threw himself on the bank beneath her, with a certain artistic rapture over the picture of which she was the central figure. A back ground of pines and dwarfed maples, a sky blue and spangled, the firelizht leaping upward in joyous gusts, the ruddy shadows dividing themselves between the gently advancing water and the proud, pure face beside them—a face which in that magic light took a new beauty in every outline. ‘‘Miss Maryon,”’ he said, at last, ‘“‘have you any idea what a picture you are making? You remind me of a copy from Murillo I saw one time. Its owner claimed it to be original ; but, if so, Murillo had not as good a subject as 1 have at present, were I only able to seize upon it,” She smiled a little absently, still straining her ears to catch the faintest sound; then started anxiously, and replied, “I really was not thinking about it at all; but, surely, surely that is a boat coming now.” He sprung to his feet and listened. Yes, it was the hum of voices, and the measured stroke of oars. His hour had gone by, and the barrier was still upraised. ‘*1¢ is,”’ he answered, shortly. tainly sounds like rescue.’’ “I am so glad!’ Miss Maryon replied, tarn- ing her anxious face towards him, and then and there Mr. Carey lost control of himself. “And 1 am not glad, Juliet,” he said, hotly, and with sudden bitterness. “I am in no haste to shorten my last hour with you; but as it may be the last in which I shall have an opportunity, will you let me confess my weak- ness? let me tell you that, in spite of your studied avoidance of me, in spite of your haughty disregard, I love you? More than that, I have loved you ever since you gave me my congé so deliberately last fall. I am a fool, and mad, and blind, I suppose; but when Georgine Lovell told me you were here, told me also that she had written you that ridicu- lously unfounded story of my engagement, I came to you as fast as I could, for I thought you might want me.” The dull plash of oars became nearer; even Ted’s laugh grew distinguishable. Mr. Carey finished his confession as fiercely as he had begun, looked across the firelight at Juliet, and started at the transfiguration. All the pride had vanished from her shining eyes, all the wistful longing from her tender mouth. Both her hands were interlaced in a sort of rapture as the Juliet of my story found her way back to the old-time appellation, ‘‘O Romeo! I have wanted you so very, very much.” So the guif between them was bridged at **That cer- last, and my duty is over, my pen flags on this last scene. The boat stopping beside them, Ted in a state of placid contentment, Bessie looking forward from them to the dim, dim future, which contains her own story, as yet unwritten, the fire they had raised sinking into ashes, and to the two who had raised it nothing but echoes. “Fairy wedding bells faintly ring for them, Down in their fortunate parallels.” OLD QUEEN.—A REMINISCENCE. BY MRS. ANNA CLARKE ADAMS. I REMEMBER it distinctly ; the tiniest little cottage that in those early years I had ever seen inhabited. It stood on the village green, or public square, as it was called, and in rather close proximity to the then well-protected bury- ing-ground, wherein, from the first settlement of the place, its inhabitants had hidden away their dead. The cottage contained but one room, which served as parlor, bed-room, and kitchen to its solitary occupant, who was an elderly woman, entirely and hopelessly de- mented, and who was known and spoken of throughout the community as ‘‘Old Queen.” She could not have been considered a very dangerous personage at this time, for she was allowed to go about at pleasure, and permitted to occupy her little cottage—according to her fancy—entirely alone. Although she cooked, washed, and ironed for herself, and usually kept her little establishment in the most per- fect order, she had a vast amount of time at her command, in which she visited the public schools, called upon the villagers, and wan- dered about the town on what she called “an inspecting tower.’’ The children of the place were wont to re- gard her with great curiosity and terror; and inany were the stories in private circulation among them—greatly exaggerated, of course— concerning the singular feats she had per- formed, the fearful threats she had uttered, and the mischief she had actually accomplished ; and yet, greatly as they individually professed to fear her, collectively they were drawn to- wards her as by a kind of fascination. Much as children beg for the repetition of stories which, in their first recital, had made their eyes open wide and ‘‘their hair stand on end.” In companies of from five to ten they would occasionally visit her cottage, some one of their number remaining near the door, holding it slightly ajar, so as to expedite a hasty retreat should it become necessary. On these occa- sions they would curiously peer about the room, listen to every word the old lady uttered, and very carefully watch a!l of her movements ; laughing in seeming fearlessness when she laughed or was amusing—which was not sel-

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248 GOD#Y’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. dom—their little hearts beating in delightful terror all of the time. I think her Christian name was Caroline ; but whether such were or were not the case, she imagined herself a queen bearing that name, and that the town in which she resided was her realm. And thus it was she acquired the title of Old Queen. To her face she was usually called Queen Caroline, but was sometimes ad- dressed as Old Queen. Although a woman, this did not offend her; owing, undoubtedly, to her insanity. She considered the word old, as applied to her, but a simple and just ac- knowledgment of the age and grandeur of her family, which is quite a different thing from being one’s self called old. It was one of her theories that a queen should purchase nothing from her subjects, except at regular shops, and what she found elsewhere that she desired, it was her privilege to demand. This she did, and very generally received all that she desired. But occasionally her demands could not properly be complied with, and then it required skilful management to evade or re- fuse her, without provoking her to anger. On one occasion she rushed quite unexpect- edly into a lady’s sitting-room, and commanded its occupant, a young mother, to give to her the beautiful infant then sleeping on her lap. With the exception of a servant. girl, the lady was alone in the house, and consequently was somewhat frightened ; but she very well knew it would not answer to manifest alarm by word or look. She therefore looked up into the old lady’s face with a smile and said :— “What does Queen Caroline want of a baby when she has so much to look after?”’ “Oh, it is such a sweet, pretty little thing, that I want it for my own, and I must have it,”’ answered Old Queen. ‘The queen has a right to command her sub- jects, and they must obey,” returned the lady, ‘unless some of the by-laws by which kings and queens are governed prevent. Now, in the present case, according to the laws, your ma- jesty could not take a child like this into your palace to bring up yourself; it would be an un- heard-of thing, and very much beneath your dignity. It would interfere with the proper government of your people; for it would keep you awake all night with its worrying and screaming, as it does me, and just make you sick, and then what would we all do? But you can call the child yours,’’ she continued, rapidly, seeing her majesty was preparing to speak, ‘‘and get some one to nurse it for you, and of course no one is so suitable as its mother. You know that was what King Pharaoh's daughter did when she took little Moses for her own. I’ll take excellent care of the child, you may depend upon that, Queen Caroline.” “That ’s right, that’s right !’’ returned the old lady, “‘ you can take care of it for me; but I’m exceedingly sorry it is not proper for me to take it with me now; or, rather, I should be if it were not such a cross little thing. I could not stand it to have it crying and screeching around me all night. You’re right, ’twould make me sick or crazy, perhaps both. But,’’ added she, suspiciously, “it’s not crying now, and it’s asleep.’’ **That’s because I’m holding it,” answered the mother; but of course I cannot sit up this way all night. When I give up my whole time to it it is pretty good—in the daytime—I’m happy to say.” ‘*Well, give up your whole time to it; 1 will come often and see if you do, for, remember, it is to be a princess of the blood royal when it is larger. Perhaps though’— **O Queen Caroline! do you know that Mrs. C—— is making preserves to-day ?”’ interrupted the lady, anxious to effect such a diversion of the subject as would lead to the departure of her guest; and knowing that if this could be accomplished, the old queen would not be likely to recur to the subject again soon, if ever. Every one knew that the old lady had a particular fondness for certain kinds of sweet- meats. The ruse was successful. Queen Caro- line’s mind at once seized upon the new sub- ject. “Isshe? What is she making, squinches?” The old lady had a way of her own for pro- nouncing certain words. “Yes, queen, and nice ones, too. They are beautiful.”” Quinces were the old lady’s espe- cial delight. ‘*T must go at once and see about it. If Mrs. C—— is preserviug them now, it is time for me to see about mine. Adieu,’’ and with a majes- tic wave of the hand, she departed, and rapidly made her way to Mrs. C——’s. “I understand that you are preserving squinches to-day, Mrs. C——,’’ she said, ad- dressing that lady, after entering her house quite unceremoniously. ‘‘Have I been cor- rectly informed ?’’ Mrs. C—— assured her that she had. ‘* Well, then,’’ returned her majesty, ‘“‘I am come for my portion, which you know is as many as I choose to require. 1 wish for six of your largest big squinches; I must preserve some for myself right away. I also requirea saucerful of your preserves when they are done, for a sample to make mine by, and I desire of you sufficient sugar—nice sugar, mind you—to cook mine with, like your’s. Do you under- stand me?” ‘* Certainly, Queen Caroline; you shall have all that you have mentioned. Six quinces you say ; will six be enough ?’’ ‘“‘Certingly! How large is my family, do you suppose? and big or little, do you think I’m going to keep it on preserves all the time? not by a good deal! Six good large ones will be enough for my family; but as I may have some nobles to take tea with me some time, you may, ew ctete eects o bh’ _— & &F 4 of ha — — . &«& * . 34

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OLD QUEEN.—A REMINISCENCE. 249 if you wish, put up a couple more while you are about it. I must borrow a basket of you to take them in.’’ One of the public school buildings was situ- ated on the village green, and not very far from the dwelling of this imaginary queen. The school kept in this house it was her par- ticular pleasure, or imagined duty, to visit more frequently than any other. She was usually very peaceable on such occasions, con- tenting herself with addressing the scholars in a formal style, and giving directions to the teacher; but occasionally her mood would be less pacific, and then it would require both skill and prudence on the part of the teacher to keep her from acts of violence, and rid the school of her presence. On one oecasion—I think it was the last visit she ever made to this institution—she walked in to the school-room with a majestic step, a frown on her brow, and long whip in her hand. She had advanced several steps into the room before the teacher observed her, as he was busy with some sums, his back to the door. He turned a little pale, some of his pupils thought, when he perceived her, but immediately stepped forward with his usual smile, and, bowing profoundly, requested her majesty to be seated. ‘*No,”’ she said, she did not wish to be seat- ed; she had business to attend to. She had learned that the first spelling class needed her inspection, and she had come to hear that class spell, and was prepared to punish severely with the rod any and every one who should misspell a word. She then ordered the first spelling class to take their places on the floor. The teacher, by a slight motion, signified to his pupils that they were not to obey—a work of supererogation certainly, as not one of them had the slightest idea of doing so. Many of the children were considerably frightened, and some would gladly have made a hurried exit through the open door, had they not been de- terred by the fear that she might seize upon them before they could effect their escape—as they would be obliged to pass very near to where she was then standing—or consider it her duty to leave all else and follow them. “One word with your majesty, if you please,’’ said the teacher. ‘‘The members of the first spelling class will keep their seats while I converse with the queen. Yow cer- tainly would not wish to annul any of my or- ders or rules, but would much rather assist me in enforcing them, would you not?” “Certingly,’’ replied the old lady, with em- phasis. . “That is as I thought. I was confident of your support. The case, your majesty, is this: That class just now is in disgrace, and I had decided not to permit them to spell again for two days. The next day would be Saturday, when there would be no school in the after- noon, and this class did not spell in the morn- ing, and their exercises for the day were over. I think by that time they will understand the importance of attending to their lessons prop- erly, and of regaining your favor. Then they might be more deserving the honor of your notice ; but, of course, ander present circum- stances, you, a queen, could not condescend to instruct them. Bat, if your highness would just step up to my desk, and look over a few sums for me, that you will find on the large slate, you will greatly oblige and assist me. Will you be so kind ?’’ “Certingly.” And Queen Caroline walked pompously to the desk, laid aside her whip, and took up pencil and slate. “George Howell, Peter Mikes, and Peter Crondale, members of the first Latin class, will remain after school” (these were three of the larger boys). “The remainder of the scholars’’— “ Are dismissed,” interrupted Old Queen, in a majestic tone, looking up from her slate. “And see that every one of you are here in good season to-morrow morning.” **You can go without further ceremony to- night,” added the teacher. ‘The girls first, and then the boys.” It was customary in this school for each pu- pil to bow or courtsey, and bid their teacher good-night, as they left the house. It is hardly necessary to record that most of the children availed themselves of this permission with considerable alacrity. Not long after this, a number of the scholars who had been to the graveyard to inspect a newly made grave, concluded, on their return, to pay the old lady a visit. She received them very pleasantly at first, and, as usual, com- menced entertaining them with stories, but all at once broke off in the midst of a sentence, and ordered the boy who stood by the door, holding it ajar, to close it and join his com- panions. **Come, sonny,” she said, seeing the boy did not come forward. ‘‘Don’t be bashful. Shut the door and come here and see your queen with the rest of them. I shall not cook you to- day.” She closed the sentence with a slight laugh. Her voice while speaking was pleasant, but there was acunning gleam in her eye which was not unobserved. ‘Sonny’ did not think it best to obey, but instead, flung the door wide open and rushed out, his companions fol- lowing his example with the utmost expedition possible. “You little reprobates !’’ screamed the queen, rising quickly from her arm-chair—“‘chair of state,”’ she called it—then seizing a broomstick and following after them: “You think I’m not up to you, maybe; but J see through you. I’ll have you in « dungeon, all of you! Just wait until you come to my house again, and I'll kill every one of you, see if Idon’t! And

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250 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE if I can catch one of you little varmints now, you ll know wonderfully well what a whipping is, be sure of that/” But she didn’t catch one of them, for, once out of doors, they sped like the wind, and by the time she bad followed them half way across the square, they were considerably in advance of her. Just at this point, she ob- served two men approaching, one of whcm wasaconstable. Holding this latter dignitary in especial fear, she turned and fled to her cottage. About this time, I believe, the villagers be- gan to think the old queen quite too dangerous a character to be allowed so much liberty, for not long after, she was removed from the place by some relative, and never returned. By what means she was induced to leave—whether by force, persuasion, or deception—I never knew. In after years I learned her insanity had been occasioned by sore domestic troubie ; that she was the mother of several children, with whom, after her mental alienation, she held but little intercourse, as she suspected them of plotting against her life. She had some means of her own, sufficient for her moderate wants, but was not intrusted with the handling of much of her money. What she wished at the shops, she purchased on credit, and her son settled her bills, which were never unreasonably large. The cottage she occupied gave place to a larger house soon after her departure, in which a numerous family of children were reared. A beautiful cemetery has been added to the pos- sessions and attractions of the town, but the old burying ground is so entirely and generally neglected as to have become a dark blot on the otherwise fair fame of a picturesque and flourishing village. Old Queen must have ‘passed away’ years ago; but was she wholly forgotten? Those of us who knew her, though in our early child- hood, te whom she was at once an object of fear and great interest, will surely hold her in occasional remembrance so long as life and the faculties of memory remains. Peace to her soul! ————- -2-= - —_—__ CENSURE fs most effectual when mixed with praise. So, when a fault is discovered, it is well to look up a virtue to bear it company. THe furnace of affliction is often the means which God uses to purify the soul from the dross of pride and sensuality. FORTUNB.—Fortune has the same power over princes that it has over empires—over nations that it has over private men. Where’s that estate that may not be followed upon the heel with famine and beggary? That dignity which the next moment may not be laid in the dust? That kingdom that is secure from desolation and ruin? A SUMMER IN ARCADIA. BY MRS. MARY B. NEALY. HERE am I, a young and heart-weary widow, aged twenty-eight, in a place which appears to me a perfect Eden of rest. Will it prove as pleasant as the first day’s acquaintance would fain make my heart believe? May 1 here find the rest and peace, and sweet repose, for which my soul so utterly longs? Will I be permitted to wander alone with my books, beside the lovely river yonder, and beneath the grand old trees, with no harsh reprimand for my idle- ness—no prying surveillance over my actions, Can 1 here dream uninterruptedly, and read my fill unchecked? Oh, blessed promise of peace! how my soul has yearned for you with unutterable yearnings. Only for quiet, and peace, and rest. Iask not for love; that dream has faded out of my life, even as the mists floated off this morning from the brow of the mountain across the valley. But to rest and dream—aye, that is bliss enough for one so tired—so tired! So weary with living a false and hypocritical life; of beingobliged to show a semblance of regard where I felt nothing but disgust. Oh, heart of mine! Is there not enough to fill you upon this bounteous earth ? You do not ask for much. You are not extra- vagant in your wishes. If you only had one true friend or sister you could sit and smile in sweet content, in a lovely spot like this, and never, never care to leave it more. But here is my new diary. I will once more, thank God! have the privilege of holding com- munion with myself. I can write my thoughts and see them reflected back into my spirit, with no coarse ;eye to investigate or condemn. Five years have passed, bitter and weary years, since I have dared. to keep a diary ; while even those of my girlhood were not too sacred for prying eye or sneering tongue. I might have kept on, to be sure, but I knew that if I did, my life would be more false than ever; for I should have kept it hidden in self-defense—and I hate secresy. I hate plotting and intrigue, and everything of the kind. And I could not let him read my inner thoughts after I had learned his nature. His interpretation of them would have been worse than that of the miller at the sight of a beautiful cascade, ‘‘What a mill-site !’’ or that of a farmer at sight of a bril- liant sunset, ‘‘ We shall have rain to-morrow.” It would have been that of a coarse man, jealous of everything under the sua, even of my own thoughts ; and he would probably have gnashed his teeth and asked himself, ‘‘Why don’t she talk to me this way? I’m not good enough for her to talk to, I suppose !’’ So, Ilived on insilence. I baked and brewed, and ministered to his physical wants. A!] other life was interdicted, and the rolling years sev- ered my spirit, ever and always, farther and a ila i lil eee ee ek ea ee i i i a i ae aie

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A SUMMERIN ARCADIA. 251 farther away from him and his grovelling life ; till at last I prayed, in my desperation, for death, if this were ali for me upon the earth. He had denied meall of the luxuries and many of the comforts of life, while I knew that his income was entirely sufficient for all the refine- ments demanded by society. 1 thought fora time that it was simple penuriousness ; but was awakened to a knowledge of deep dissipation, of gaming, and finally, of dishonor to myself. I could not bear this, and I told him so. He said, “Well, get a divorce, if you wish; I’m tired of you long ago. No woman ever lasts me a year, till they tire me.”” And these were his very last words tome. He fell inadrunken brawl, and I had no need to get a divorce. If in these years God had given me a child, I should have been much happier. But this fountain was denied me; and Alexander Sel- kirk, on his lonely island, was not more deso- late than I. Bat I will review my early life, briefly, be- fore I begin my diary. It will be well to pass it over now, and to my diary I will confide only the inner thoughts and experiences of the fu- ture, which lies before me, misty, dark, and dim, but holding out to me a promise of peace. My name was Ada Rathbone. I never knew my father; and my poor dear mother lived in the village of Dunmore, when I first remember anything of my life. She was a lady, every inch of her; but was poor, very poor. She was exceedingly sweet looking, with dark-brown eyes and hair, and the tenderest smile I ever saw in a human face; and this smile was the sunlight of my childhood and early girlhood. She sewed for the ladies of the village, doing embroidery and fine sewing, and in this way managed to keep me in the village school. But her teachings were such that I never mingled with the scholars out of school hours. She had a morbid dread of having me come in contact with any one who was the least coarse or ill- bred ; and she was so like a dear sister in her adaptation to my youthful years, that I never felt the need of young company. She so man- aged her own work that we always walked to- gether after our little dinner was over; leaving the clearing-up work to do on our return, when tt was too dark and dewy to remain out-of- doors. Many and many an afternoon have we roamed together over the beautiful hills, and | beside the lovely little creek with its flat, rocky bottom, where the sunbeams and the rippling waters played hide and seek with each other ; where the elms and sugar maples and syca- mores made the most delicious shade, one great old sycamore bending its huge white body al- most across the stream. Here, on the roots of this tree, was our favorite seat, where in my early years my beloved mother told me stories of English fairies, German elves, and Irish witches, till my childish imagination peopled each hill and pool and tree with the children of fancy. And here, in later years, we would take a volume of Scott, or Bulwer, or Dickens, and read to each other alternately, till * The lengthening shadows o'er the mead Prociaimed the close of day.” Oh, those blessed, blessed hours! I shall al- ways be a better woman for their memory, I think the world would be a hundred-fold more happy if all mothers took the trouble to under- stand their children. If young people were only happy in their homes, there would be little wandering from the fold. So the pre- cious days went by, and I never dreamed of any necessity for a change. I think now that I expected them to go on so forever. I was proud of my mother as well as fond of her, and my greatest trouble was that she could not dress as well as other ladies: though for that matter, she always looked the perfect lady. She wore a simple black and white gingham in summer to church, with a straw bonnet, trimmed in black and white ribbon to match. To please me she had of late years added a few tea -rosebuds, and a necktie of the same deli- eate shade. For myself, I knew that I resem- bled her, and nothing delighted me more than to be told of the resemblance. Only I knew that I did not have the same spirituelle look. My health was too robust for that. I had full, rosy cheeks, full figure, and brown hair and eyes. Only once in all these years did lever ask my mother of her early life and about my father, She said that my father was dead, and that his people lived in England, while she had no near relatives living. Iasked her why she did not go to papa’s people and live, so that the would not be obliged to work ; but she looked so dis- tressed and begged me not to talk of it, that I forebore, being sure that one day I should know her reasons. I was now about thirteen, and had progressed rapidly in my studies, my mother having taught me much I could not learn in the village school. She was highly cultivated, and one of our favor- ite recreations in our summer walks had been the study of botany; while in the evening, wrapped in our shawls, she explained to me the wonders of the starry heavens above us. O my angel mother! Your teachings have been most blessed to my life. Through all the bitter trials of the past twelve years, your pre- sence has sustained me. In every flower by the wayside, in every star above me, in all our favorite books, I see you still as of yore, with your tender eyes bent upon me, the one and only darling of your strong mother-heart. Il had never thought of my mother as being in delicate health. She was always pale, but appeared well, and never complained, or ap- peared weary with our walks. Two or three times, I remember, she had stopped, while a spasm of pain seemed to pass over her face; but when questioned, anxiously, she had spoken

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252 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. lightly, as though it were nothing, and I believed her. I think I had faith that we would always live so, together; and 1 used to tell her that in two more years I would be sufficiently advanced to teach, and that then she should work no longer. But one terrible night (why does death al- ways come in the night? especially to the lonely and desolate!) she grasped niy arm and wak- ened me. When I had grtten a light I saw that her face was dreadfully drawn with suf- fering. ‘‘My darling!’’ she exclaimed, ‘I ex- pect I will leave you. Trust in Gog. Read the papers in the little black box.’’ She soon grew speechless from the pain, and I ran to call the people in the next house. I told her I should be back in one moment and I could tell that she understood me. I returned and lifted her head in my arms; but before any one reached us she was dead. Her last look, her last sweet smile, were for me alone. Just at the last the pain seemed gone, and though she could not speak, she knew me and smiled her sad farewell. Oh, the utter grief and desola- tion of that hour. I had never dreamed of such a loss; and now, but for the people I had shunned, I know not what I should have done. But I pass over this dreadful season. I wanted to die, but youth is strong, and cannot die when it would. Mr. Hillard, our old pas- tor, was very kind to me, and visited me after the funeral to consult me upon what I should do. I begged to be allowed to remain in the cottage. I felt as if this were all the world to me. I told him I could teach small children and make enough to live upon. But he said a young girl could not live so, alone; and that I could not make enough to keep any one with me. The boy and girl next door had passed a few nights in the house, for company, but I knew that this could not last. So at last I told the pastor I would do whatever he thought best. He said I must sell the furniture, which would pay the expenses of the funeral and get me a nice suit of mourning; and then go to live with some family, to teach the younger chil- dren, and assist in light housework. By doing this he thought I might save something, and after awhile finish my education sufficiently to get the position of assistant teacher in a large school, with a chance of promotion. Even if I were fully educated now, I could not get a school ; I was too young. He thought he knew of a place that would suit me, and if I were willing, he would inquire. So it was that the battle of life began, and I went to live with Mrs. Harrington. So it was that my young life was tormented by the diso- bedience and faisehoods of the children, and the insolence and arrogance of the mother. I had had such tender training, and possessed such exalted ideas of home, that I seemed in a horrid pandemonium in that house. I verily believe it would have killed me, or made me insane. And so it was that, taking my slender wages in my pocket, I departed for the popu- lous city, without saying a word to a living soul, fearing that good Mr. Hillard would con- demn me for leaving the place he had provided me. There was a Quaker lady in Philadelphia with whom my mother had corresponded at long intervals, and it was to her I made my way, only to ask for the privilege of working formy living. Mrs. Tatem received me kindly, but did not need me at her house. She got me a place, however, with a friend; and so, after toiling, and struggling, and saving, month after month, and year after year, I educated myself, and at last, at the age of twenty-two, I entered Stanmore Seminary as assistant teacher. Here I found congenial employment—labori- ous, but refining; and here I might have re- mained happy, but for the strong necessity of loving and being loved which God has given to every human heart, and which, if meeting a congenial fate, fills the cup of life to the brim. Here in the little sociai circle into which I naturally fell, I met Doctor Hamilton. He was from England, and his manner was very cordial and pleasant, while I fancied him more refined than any gentleman I had ever met. He seemed much pleased with me from the first, and this flattered my vanity. He praised my intellectual endowments, and this seemed, to my untutored heart, the true appreciation of a kindred mind; and I saw in all his actions and words a sympathy in tastes, feelings, and intellect. True, he never conversed of books or authors; but he had such a way of listening and assenting, and seeming to feel just as I did, without expressing much, that, measuring him by the glamor of the hopes and identity of girlhood, he seemed the perfection of manhood. Though not so young in years, I was very much so in experience. Every hour of my life had been devoted to study, and though I had had a couple of warm admirers, they were so utterly unlike my hero that I never gave them a second thought. But it takes a slight foundation upon which to build in the dreamy days of youth. Our eyes are raised upward to the clouds of ideality, and we seldom let them fall upon the practical path of life, with its briars, and stones, and quagmires. We pass on, buoyed up by imagi- nation, and choose our destiny oftentimes be- fore we have gone far enough to stumble, or be disenchanted. Then, oh, the bitter awaken- ing! the dreadful deception, which often lie as much in ourselves as in those we think our de- ceivers! They never have looked from our mount of transfiguration. They have seen not the idol we have placed upon a pedestal and worshipped. They look upon the physical and animal; we look upon the spiritual and ideal ; and we wonder so many lives are wrecked.

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Few young girls, I think, who read much, are ever contented with the actual man when his true nature is unfolded. To their hopes he is a god, and gods dwell not upon the earth, any more than angels. To their eyes he is strong, and noble, and chivalrous as the knights of old, yet tender and true as a lady in her castle bower. They joy in surrendering to him their lives, their hearts, their hopes. Their faith in him is utter and entire, for he is the god of their idolatry—high, faultless, perfect, as the archangels above. And so the fall is terrible when the pedestal crumbles and the idol comes down. The soul is wrenched from its faith in God and in all humanity, and death itself is not so bitter as the first crushing disappointment of a young and trusting heart. The trust of 4 loving bride in her husband can only be equalled by that cf a child in its mother; and as the passions of womanhood are deeper, even so is the disappointment all the greater. For myself it was all of this, and more, much more! But I will recall no other moment of that terrible time. I will only say that’ he knew of my father’s family in England, and hoped to profit pecuniarily by a marriage with me. My father’s elder brother was supposed to be in a decline, and being childless, Dr. Hamilton knew that there was a possibility of the estate descending to myself. I knew nothing of this. And here, before I close this retrospective life, I will tell the secret of the little box. No great secret either, for that matter; only as my mother could never bear to speak of the past, she had written it down for my instruction. She had suffered so intensely, had loved her husband so devotedly, and had seen him die in actual want, while his father was rolling in wealth, that no wonder she avoided speaking of his relatives, or of the dreadful time of her bereavement. It is a very common story; but the world is filled with sorrow from just the same causes, and the story, though old, is yet forever new. Sir Ralph Rathbone was a very proud man, boasting of an ancestry four hundred years back. And so, when his second and favorite son, while travelling in America, fell in love with a poor ahd untitled Virginia girl, and wrote to ask his father’s permission to bring her home as his wife, stating that she belonged to one of the oldest and best families in Vir- ginia, impoverished by the war, but that she was endowed with all the beauty and virtue that the heart of man could desire, his father replied that, if he married the girl, he need never consider himself his son any longer; that all the wealth of both parents, as well as the title, should go to his elder brother ; but, on the contrary, if he would return and marry to please him, he should have all his mother’s - estate, as well as an additional one inherited VOL. LXXxIx.—17 A SUMMER IN ARCADIA. 253 from his (the father’s) mother. He concluded by saying :— “You know, Edgar, that though your bro- ther Ralph inherits the title and entail, you have always been my favorite son. So I beg ou do not disappoint me in this matter. Iph is too arrogant, obstinate, and fond of low company, ever to become the son of my heart. et, if it must be, I shall place my hopes upon his children if he marries, and try to forget that you were ever born. You have long known my wishes in regard to Lady Cecil rnes. Their estate lies next to my own. No finer ese gee exists in England than these would make joined in one. I have set my heart upon it. It will be useless to make any appeal; so choose your own path, and take the consequences. Your father, RALPH RATHBONE, K. B.” And my father had chosen, and had died in poverty, all for the love of my mother. Yet it is my faith that five years of perfect love was worth more than all the Rathbone estates. I think, with Bailey, that life is not to be counted by years, tut by the moments of hap- piness it contains. And by every word my mother has written here, and by my knowledge of that mother herself, I know that they were happy—that a love as strong as death dwelt with and beautified every moment of their lives. And it was only during the last year, after his health gave out, and he could no longer teach, that they suffered from privation. I have heard physicians say since that many Englishmen suffer from our climate. I met the elocutionist, Bellew, two years since, in Washington, looking well. Yet he lost his health entirely during his short stay. So my father died and my mother lived for her child. But J have no child, no brother or sister, not one left upon the earth, dearer than self, upon whom to pour out the treasure of a loving heart. Yet God is here, and his hand-maiden, Nature. I have my books, my pen, and a sufficient income for my modest wants. My husband having no relatives that I knew of, his little property became mine. So I shall neither be obliged to toil or spin, but, like the lilies of the field, Ican drink in the sunshine and the dew without stint or hin- drance, and possess my soul in peace. To- morrow I shall begin my diary in earnest. And yet, life is so quiet and uneventful here, that I think I shall have little to write of but the glories of nature and my own inner thoughts. But it is sweet to have the privilege of thinking at last, at last! I wear the weeds of a widow, but my heart is sadder to-day for my mother, who died so long ago, than for him so lately gone. How she would have enjoyed wandering with her daughter through this beautiful, beautiful valley! And how the. river would have murmured more sweetly to my ears, and the mountains loomed more grandly to my eyes, in her dear presence! But I will.

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254 GODEHY’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. try and think that she és still with me; that her spirit guides and guards my steps each day. I know I shall be a purer woman and a better Christian for the thought. (To be continued.) Oe ESPERANCE. BY LUTHER G. RIGGS. SwEEtT the hour of hope-born pleasure, In the halis of beauty bright, When no thought hath time to measure Half its picture of delight; And the heart is all a blessing; And each fancy is a star; While we long for the caressing Of the coming joys afar. On the brow are wreaths of roses, Fresh and dewy from the dale- Ah, what innocence reposes In her heart as in the vale; Sleeps the morning in its brightness, Gay the hour when ptre thoughts rise Full of joy and airy lightness— Full of angel melodies! Happy hour! and happy waking— Could we hence more heaveuly live! While above each brow were breaking Dewy stars that fragrance give! Many mourn their meed of joy; Life’s to them a barren isle; All their pleasures grief’s alloy; Sweet is the hour when they smile! What is time to hearts of sorrow ? It but hides itself in flowers! We should charge no grief to-morrow On the Altar of the Hours! What is life when wreathed with beauty? It is but a wealth of joy; And we hail each coming duty, Thanking Heaven for such employ! Shadowy shape of strangest power * Steals away our soulful breath; Hope bids be bold and brave the hour Face foreboding fear and death! Soon speed sweet angels to our side, Beaming bright as morning sun; Robed ia rich raiment of a bride, Hope and Death are joined in one! -— SILK PURSES. Tue impossibilities of life are manifold, and some ef them are manifest; and the peculiar manufacture alluded to in our title is one of them. Silk purses out of sows’ ears? Hardly to be counted as, one of the most flourishing trades! and when the proverb in question was rifest it was even less flourishing than at present. For then there was a decided line of demarcation between the silken purse of the high-born noble and the coarse pigskin pouch of the unlettered churl, and no one could cver- step it. Nowadays, when sumptuary laws are not, that line has been brought down to a van- ishing point, and who can say where the class of the noble begins and where that of the churl ends? Hence the difference between purses made of silk and those made of pigs’ ears is less than it used to be; not because the silk is less beautiful than of old, but because the hog- skin is moreso. We talk a good deal about the revolutions that have been and that are now being enacted, and those still more sweeping that areas yet only proposed ; and some among us fling up our hands in terror and despair, and ask ‘‘ What next?”’ and want to be told exactly where our boat will turn up when we have shot Niagara, but nothing that we have compassed in deed or framed in imagination is equal in im- portance to that which has brought the nobility and the trading classes together, which has married court and city, made silk purses and sows’ ears interchangeable commodities, and shown society how the one can become like unto the other by the magic power of a golden gloss on the surface. Yet there are certain kinds of pigskin which can never be made to look like silk, whatever the amount of golden gloss employed. Take for one the naturally dishonest man ; think you that any success in life will make him faithful and honest? that a fair wind and full sails will keep him off the shallows, without good steer- ing to help? that his granulated pigskin will ever be transformed to silken meshes, with the golden store within showing through the clear spaces? No; that is beyond the power of modern magic. Faithless to his word, untrust- worthy in all his dealings, a broken reed piere- ing the hand of him who leans on it in poverty and in prosperity alike, no power on earth can make the naturally dishonest man honest, or teach him the full value of truth. There is no quality of the typical chur! thatis more ingrain, more of the very flesh and substance of the creature, than this of untrustworthiness, which also we name dishonesty. Where the ‘good knight’s” word had the value of an oath, the churl’s oath was not to be believed ; where the knight would have died rather than break his bond, even though it led him to his own disas- ter, the churl would follow his own inclina- tion, no matter how solemnly he had vowed; or, in spite of all promises and pledges, join the master who would pay him best. Where the knight gave largess with both hands, and owed no one anything but courtesy and good will, the churl would take from all and give back to none. It was no dishonor to him to be fed and housed at another's cost, and the pau- perism, which is in the very blood of the class, was not wanting in days which had not the name by which we know the thing. Where the knight was truth incarnate in all his words and deeds, the churl was slippery, false, and two-faced ; and the silken purse of loyalty and worth was never to be made out of such rude ears as these. Soisitat this presenttime. If we have not the broad distinction of knight

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SILK PURSES 255 and churl, noble and villain, the one with his chivalrous honor, the other with his grovelling spirit of self-interest, we have the honesty of the gentleman and the dishonesty of the knave ; and if they differ in name, they mean substan- tially the same thing as was pronounced in the days of chivalry, and which helped to make the proverb. Nor can we by any way make the silken purse of unselfishness out of the pigskin of self-consideration. You see some people who absolutely never think of themselves. The good of others, the work that is to be done, the help that is to be given, or the pleasure be- stowed, these are the points which occupy them—not whether they like such and such a thing or not, whether they will get their ac- count out of this, or what will be the good re- sulting to themselves out of that. It is scarcely possible to teach this thought for others, if not spontaneous, and after a certain time of selfish- ness has been gone through. Nothing seems to crust over the soul more solidly than the vice ef selfishness; and, unless taken early, the habit of self-consideration grows and spreads till no power of generous self-giving is left. Children, as a race, are naturally selfish. It is the instinctive expression of self-defence, self- preservation ; and when they give their cakes or apples to be bitten at by others, they do not know what they do. There is no intentional sacrifice on their parts ; and the very little one who is praised for its generosity and liking to share will yell lustily if taken-at its word, and its pretty-looking offer accepted. This giving of a child may be, and probably is, the begin- ning of the future power of self-sacrifice, inas- much as it is the first expression of liking to see others share in its own pleasures and pos- sessions ; but it is not the perfected quality— virtues, like plants, needing to put out their soft and crumpled cotyledons before they get their solid stems, their blooming flowers, or their wholesome and sustaining fruits. But it can be taught—at least up to a certain point, though not beyond ; for, if uniformity of virtue could be insured by training only, and there were no such disturbing influences as natural bias and inborn qualities, the world would ad- vance very much faster than it does—the evils of humanity arising certainly not for want of dissection and discussion. But in nothing is the traditional pigskin more distinct from the idealized silk purse than in manners — what we call emphatically good breeding. The outside habits and observances of society are easy enough to get at, anda man must be indeed dull, and worse, if he cannot learn to eat peas with a fork, and when to wear white gloves and when black, as if born into the daily use of these mysteries ; though per- haps he has come to the knowledge only quite of late years, and since he made his fortune by a lucky hit in tallow. But, though he can manage the conventional formalities without making his social godfathers and godmothers blush for him, there are certain «sthetic nice- ties which can never be taught unless they are felt—certain ethics of good breeding which are as impossible to the natural churl as eyesight and the joy of rich color to the man born blind, or the love and knowledge of harmony to him congenitally deaf. You see this inner grace of good breeding at times in the poorest hovel. There is the kindly thought for others, the delicate tact which avoids painful subjects, the noble self-suppression which puts the guest in the foremost place of interest and attention, not because he or she is superior in the world’s table of degrees, but because he or she is a guest, and as such entitled to the flower of hos- pitality. The churl does nothing of the kind. The churl may give his arm to the principal guest if she is a lady, or assign to him his wife if he is a gentleman ; he may have champagne on the table, or what wine it is that emblemizes in his mind “doing it handsomely,” and he may be careful that the dinner is according to rule and up to the mark; but this is not the good breeding of the peasant, if the peasant is, as we have said, of the noble order by nature. The formalities may be all gone through with punctilious observance, but the spirit may be absolutely dead as if no such thing as good breeding in the abstract existed anywhere. Fashionable hospitality does not extend itself necessarily to the avoidance of painful topics, to the sentimental enjoyment and well-being of the guests. A dinner in accordance with, or more likely beyond, one’s means, for self-glori- fication, not for good to others, is about the Alpha and Omega of our modern manifestation ofa virtue once held the supremest in the whole hierarchy ; and, this done, there we stop and think we have accomplished all we are bound todo. But, to our way of thinking, hospitality means more than this. Hospitality means es- sentially the exaltation of one’s guest or com- panion, and one’s own self-suppression for his benefit ; the thrusting out of sight all littleness of temper and all unfriendly thoughts, all un- comfortable subjects, all aggressive person- alities, and so ordering one’s self and one’s manners that the intercourse may be one of unmixed pleasantness—not for one’s own pleas- ure, but for his. And in the term good breeding is included all that is meant by modern hospi- tality, and all that it is vitally worth. But no amount of education will make the pig’s ear into a silk purse in this matter if the grain is in him and he has not the tact to hide it. Want of native tact is scarcely ever to be supplied by teaching, for tact springs from a combination of keen observation, ready sympathy, some imagination, and, when of the finest quality— when a virtue and not only a grace—great kind- ness of heart. But in tact, as in everything else, there is the real and make-believe, the

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256 GODEY'S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINZ. highest brand and the second mark, and with unknowing people this one does just as well as the other. Yet some kind of tact, either first or second class, is absolutely necessary for good breeding, as you must have flowers whereof to make a bouquet, and feathers if you are to mount a court plume. Silk purses and sows’ ears—how these two phrases divide the world between them !—with the interlacings—the coarse-grained, ill-meshed silk that looks more like pigskin than the pro- duct of (in one of its stages) a lovely butterfly, and the fine, well-tanned hide, gilded, and beaten, and softened, and tooled, which looks really more Jike silk than like itself, so artisti- cally are its natural deficiencies concealed. This kind of ware, however, is only of the last century; before then the difference between the two materials was kept more distinct, and the interlacings few,and far between. Still, the organic substance remains as distinct as ever, no matter what the appearance ; and not only in manners but in morals, not only in ees- thetics but in heart and soul and character, we come to the two classes, the noble and the churl, the silk purse and the pigskin pouch, the beautiful and the ungainiy, the refined and the coarse. In the same family even you will find both classes. Born and bred under the same influences, they are yet distinct and different ; and while one will be to the highesi d gracious, sweet, refined, and chivalrous, an- other will be rude, coarse, self-assertive, and in all ways ignoble; and the silk and the pig- skin will meet under the same roof tree, bear the same name, and belong to the same parents, and yet be silk and pigskin to the end of the chapter, and never by any possibility of train- ing, circumstance, or endeavor be made any- thing else. thoes >> . THE MOONBEAMS. BY A. W. STEALING softly through the lattice, Playing o’er the oaken floor, Ts a sweet and dancing moonbeam, Brighter than the shining ore. Moonbeam, tell, oh, tell me whither Thou hast come to this cold earth! Wast thou lured by twilight hither, To play around the social hearth ? Wast thou born amid the ether *Round sweet Luna’s crescent pale ? Did she bid thee to come hither And illumine height and vale? Fairest moonbeam, ’twere much fitter Thou shouldst shine around God’s throne, There in beauty e’er to glitter, Lighting angels in their home. Moonbeam, may we like thee ever Strive to be a “shining light,” Till we go to live forever In those heavenly regions bright. MISS FRAZIER’S GRAY SILK. BY LUCY RANDOLPH. ‘Just look! mother, Laura, what the post- man brought me,” I exclaimed, dancing into our sunny dining-room, where my mother and sister were putting away the breakfast things one lovely July morning. ‘‘ Nothing less thana note from Mrs. Hathaway inviting me to spend a fortnight at Elm Hall. Was ever anything more perfectly delightful?” And I displayed the perfumed, creamy-tinted note to the dear eyes that always shone when I was pleased, and I capered about the room with the abandon of eight years instead of eighteen ; utterly forget- ful and regardless of the disordered rooms awaiting my presence up stairs. ‘‘Mrs. Hathaway is very kind, and the visit will be such a pleasant thing for you, Nettie,’’ said mother. ‘Oh, it will be just perfect! And Kate and Lou Withers are sure to be invited too; every- thing at Elm Hall is pleasant.”” And I exe- cuted new pirouettes. Elm Hall was the elegant country-seat of an equally elegant widowed lady, the Mrs. Hath- away before named. She spent her winters, always, in the city, and then the grand old place was. desolate and lonely enough; but with summer came Mrs. Hathaway’s fair face and a host of town friends to spend the ‘‘ heated term”’ in Elm Hall’s hospitable shades. Mrs. Hathaway had no children ; but it was her de- light to gather young people about her, and she had always made a pet of me upon the few occasions we had been thrown together. To spend a day, even a few hours at the Hall was an event in my quiet life. My home was a dear little nest of a place, and we all loved it. Mother, Laura, and I had lived there for nine years, ever since father died. We were not rich, but, as people say, we “‘ were very comfortable.” To be sure, Laura and I had to help about the housework, and make our own dresses, but we counted that no hardship. Our spare chamber was rented to Miss Matilda Frazier, a maiden lady of some fifty summers—I say summers, though no doubt Miss Frazier had had her win- ters, for she was quite alone in the world. She was a sunny, cheery body, and had lived with us so long we were all quite attached to each other. Our home was sweet and bright, but it lacked, of course, the luxurious toys and beautiful ac- cessories which so delighted my eyes, and which wealth only can bring. Elm Hall showed all these things in abundance. 1 loved to sit or walk in its softly-carpeted rooms, to examine its costly curiosities, to touch its sweet-toned piano in those cool, beautifully-shaded rooms, which had always just the right modicum of light admitted. Mrs. Hathaway had an artistic eye—at least J thought so—and knew just where a ray should fall or be shut out. Elm ~~ ae > aesePreee pe

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MISS FRAZIER’S GRAY SILKE. ' 257 Hall meant rides and drives, boating and cro- quet parties, evening dances, and a most de- lightful time generally. And to this “Palace Beautiful’ I was invited for a whole fortnight. No wonder I put on all the counterpanes wrong- side out, and the pillows at the foot of the beds instead of the place custom has allotted to them—though health authorities would bear me out in this. But my good Laura followed my flying steps, and quietly righted my errors after her own kind fashion. “What are you going to wear, Nettie, and take with you?’ asked my sister, after we were at last settled down in the sitting-room. “Take with her? Is Nettie going any- where?”’ queried Miss Frazier, who always came to sit with us when the morning’s work was done. Then we told her about the invitation, and she was as pleased as any one. But Laura’s question was not to be lightly put aside. “Why,” said I, slowly, for the thought that my simple wardrobe, neat and pretty as my dresses were, was uot quite adapted to the state of Elm Hall, began to insert itself like a tiny wedge in my delight. ‘I shall take my piqué and linen suit for the morning, my white or- gandy polonaise and the skirt—oh, I forgot, there ’s a terrible stain on the front flounce; I wore it at that croquet party last week. I’ve tried, but I cannot get it out. There’s my black grenadine—I ’ve nothing else to wear in the evening.”” And I drew a little sigh, for the wedge was getting larger. “If my dresses would only fit you,” said Laura, regretfully ; ‘‘but 1am so much smaller than you.” “Can you not wear the blue barége skirt?" suggested mother. **Oh, dear, no! it’s too faded, and besides it has now a compound fracture pretty well across the front breadth. Pet Benton would put all the kittens in my lap, and they held on with all their claws, each separate claw making a tear peculiar to itself, 1 believe. I shall have to do the best I can with my organdy and grenadine.” “Well, black is always lady-like, and white is so much worn over it now,’’ said mother, comfortingly. “Yes, know. But I did want to look nice at Elm Hall. The girls will all be so dressed.” ‘You always look nice, Nettie,” said Laura. “Everything is becoming to you.” Dear old Laura, I believe she would have ad- mired me in the primitive blanket or sheep- skins. ‘‘l am much obliged to you,” I said, laughing in spite of my perplexity. ‘ But every one don’t think so. If 1 only had a light silk!” ‘But, dear,” said mother, ‘‘ you know I can- not afford to get you a dress just for this occa- sion. You must have a pair of slippers and some-small articles. We will see what can be done with the organdy.”’ ‘ “Well, now, Nettie,” said Miss Frazier, who had been listening intently to all this discus- sion of “old clothes,”’ for she almost always was present at our domestic councils, “If you wouldn’t take it amiss, I’ve got a light silk, you ’re welcome to wear if you will.” **O Miss Frazier, I am very much obliged; but I am afraid—I mean—you are very kind,” I stammered, and looked at mother and Laura. “You are very kind, Miss Matilda,” said mother, looking somewhat perplexed; “but Nettie might injure your dress.”’ “T ain’t afraid of that,” said our boarder, cheerily. “Just let me get it,” and away she trotted up stairs. “Don’t take it, Nettie,” said Laura, quickly, as soon as Miss Frazier was out of hearing. “Of course not, Laurie. I sha’n’t want it; it’s sure to be some old-fashioned thing. But she’s very good-natured to want to help me.’ We could not say more, for Miss Frazier had returned with a bundle in her arms. It was carefully wrapped in a coarse towel, within which was a fine damask one, all smelling strongly of lavender. She removed the wrap- pings and shook out the “light silk’’ before our admiring eyes. It was old-fashioned, perhaps, but not the conspicuous plaid, or wide-striped thing I had imagined, but a lovely silvery gray, with now and then a tiny leaf of a darker shade, which looked just as if it were floating on moon- lit water. We all admired it heartily, to the old lady’s satisfaction, and secretly I coveted it intensely—with blue ribbons it would be so becoming to my clear skin and brown eyes. “Yes,” said Miss Frazier, stroking down the rich folds caressingly, ‘I’ve had it a good while. Of course I don’t wear such things now. I wish it was black, it would do me some good then. You’re welcome to it, Nettie, if you think it’ll do. The waist’s too big for you, but you can take it off if you like, and here,” displaying several uncut lengths, ‘‘is enough to make a flounce or something, I guess. You can fix it up.’ And she laid the dress on my arm, and took up her knitting again. “‘But, Miss Frazier,’ hesitated I, while my hands ached to go to work on the silk, “it’s so handsome, I am afraid I might hurt it in some way.” “Oh, go "long, child! if that’s all. You ain’t obliged to sit on the grass, are you? I never saw you turn your plate into your lap; and I know there’s no kittens in Mrs. Hathaway's parlors.” We all laughed at the emphasis with which our boarder put aside the imaginary dangers which might befall her dress. And at last mother consented that I might wear the dress, but Laura looked somewhat disturbed.

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258 GODEY’'S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. **Don’t wear it, Nettie,’’ she said, when we were alone in omr room that night. ** But, Laura, how can I refuse now without hurting her feelings? Besides, I have ripped it off the waist.” **¥ou can leave it here, and I will put it on the waist again. It ‘will hurt her feelings a great deal more if you injure it. I will do up your organdy myself, and I am sure Mr. Lam- bert will admire you just as much as if-you wore silk.”’ This last a little mischievously, tapping my cheek. ‘‘Now, if you think, Laura Ashley, that I care whether Mr. Lambert admires me or not, you are very much mistaken,’’ I said, and laughed; but I blushed a little, just a very little. For in my heart of hearts I did care, just a wee bit, and the fact that Mr. Charles Lambert would be among the Elm Hall guests did not in the least take from my pleasure. Laura’s arguments on the silk question failed to convince me, and I sewed, and plaited, and folded, and when at last it was done, and I put it on to “‘see how it looked,” and the beauti- ful sheeny folds fell gracefully about me, and the demi train trailed according to the latest GoDEY’s, even Laura’s scruples weakened, and she contented herself with bidding me to ‘‘ be very careful.’’ I had made me a lovely illusion waist, with the palest blue ribbons run in, and my sash was of a corresponding shade. And poor little Miss Frazier seemed to enjoy my new finery as much as I did. Wednesday came, and with it Mrs. Hatha- way and her pony phaeton to take me up to Elm Hall. “‘T shall take good care of your little girl, Mrs. Ashley, and bring her back safely,” she said, as I took my place beside her. Laura whispered to me to “‘ be very careful.” “Is your sister telling you to take care of your heart, Nettie?” said Mrs. Hathaway, in her pleasant yoice. ‘I shall look out for that, Miss Laura, never you fear, though we have some young irresistibles at the Hall;” and away we drove. Those young ladies who look upon a summer sojourn at the seaside, or the mountains, as an established necessity, who, with friends and means abundant, flit about from one place to another, can have small conception of the un- feigned, childish delight this visit to Elm Hall gave me. But in many things I was younger than most girls of my years. Laura was so much older than I that at home I was almost considered a child, and though I had a maiden’s appreciation of myself, I believe there was much artless simplicity in my heart. Elm Hall was full of guests—Mrs. Hathaway’s friends from town, her favored acquaintance from the neighborhood, and—Mr. Lambert was there, too. I had met this gentleman on seve- ral occasions before, and he had called on me once or twice, and at the time of this meeting we were, as I said to myself, very good friends. I shall not describe Charles Lambert, for I would be sure to give the wrong idea of him. Sometimes I thought him very fine looking, and again rather a plain man; but some way, whenever we got into an animated conversa- tion, I came back to my first opinion. I always thought him years and years older than I, and perhaps that was the reason I felt so strangely at ease with him, and not afraid to talk, though he knew so much, so very much more than I. Among the ladies previously unknown to me was Miss Lambert, sister of my new friend. She was like her brother, yet to me strangely unlike, too. Like him, she always knew the right thing to say. Like him, she was always elegant and refined ; but from the first I shrunk from Miss Clara Lambert, without knowing why. She used to make me feel sometimes as David Copperfield did before his friend’s valet, “that I was very young, indeed.” Mrs. Hathaway was a model hostess, as she was a model everything else; and one could do just as one pleased at Elm Hall. There was the cool, pleasant library, and the shaded verandas, wherein one could sit, read, or talk during the nicrning; there were rides and drives for those who wished ; there was a fairy- like shallop for those who wished to go on the lake. And so the days ran on. I could ‘not tell always how it came about, but Mr. Lambert was most frequently my es- cort in the excursions we made, my partner in the evening dance. He was very agreeable ; I was always glad to talk with him; in my sim- plicity I saw no reason to avoid him. I used to feel a little uncomfortable when I caught Miss Clara’s dark eyes often watching us when her brother was talking with me, or when he stood beside the piano while I sang. But Miss Clara’s surveillance was as the merest mote upon my sunshine. My toilet had given me no great uneasiness. The pigué and linen suits were admirably adapted for morning wear, either for the croquet ground, or for a row on the lake; and my other dresses did very nicely for evening. Many of the girls were dressed more than I, and displayed much handsome jewelry. I had none, but I did not much envy them while I could have such beau- tiful flowers as Elm Hall borders and green- house afforded. There was to be a regular party on the last Wednesday night, and most of the guests of my neighborhood would !eave the next day, and I among the number. -I had not taken out the gray silk; I had not really needed it, and was to wear it at the party. I had cast several very affectionate looks at it, as it lay, with its puffed waist and fleecy overskirt, just as Laura’s neat hands had placed it. It was the morning before the party. Mr. Lambert had asked me togo with himon thelake. Such a lovely, lovely morning it was! For awhile 1 t na ee US ee OC Be eee as ve ee CU

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MISS FRAZIER’S GRAY SILKE. 259 we were both silent, as the boat glided along in the shadow of the great elms overhanging the bank. ** (sn’t all this lovely?” I said, at length, for the silence began to be oppressive to me. s “Yes, all,” answered my companion, with something in his voice which made me look up ‘at him, to find that his eyes were not studying ‘the placid, glimmering Jake, nor surrounding green shores, at all; but fixed on me in a way which made me feel uncomfortable, I could | not tell why, and suddenly wish I had not come. Perhaps he noted my flushing cheeks, for he began to tell me of Lake Como, and other beautiful places of his foreign travel, and I grew interested, and forgot all my temporary embarrassment. 1 am sure Ido not know how long we stayed. I know we did not talk very much, and there were long pauses between ; but 1 felt it was very pleasant to be there with him, and it seemed to me there was never so bright a sun, never so soft a breeze. Ah, little foolish me! But at last we turned back, and as he assisted me from the boat, I said, lightly :— “1 have had such a pleasant morning, Mr. Lambert!” “So have I,’’ he said, still retaining my hand, and looking into my face with such a light in his eyes. ‘Nettie, if 1’— *‘Oh, here you are!” exclaimed Kate With- ers, running down the path. “We thought you had drifted away to parts unknown, ‘down to a sunless sea,’ perhaps, utterly for- getful of to-night’s festivities.”’ I know Mr. Lambert made some laughing response to Kate, and that 1 was very busily engaged keeping my dress out of the wet sand, more anxious than I ever knew myself before to prevent a soiled skirt. I did not steal one glance at Mr. Lambert all the way to the house ; but I assured Kate the lake was charming in the morning. But how my little heart was beating! He called me Nettie. What was he going to say? The girls all lay down for a nap to freshen them for the gayeties of the coming evening. I lay down, too; but not to sleep. I could only think of Mr. Lambert’s interrupted words, for which I could find no conclusion. I was glad when it was time to dress. When I took out my silvery silk, it was much admired, and I was pleased to think I should be as hand- sopely dressed as my companions. And a new thought stole into my mind as I adjusted the lace about my shoulders—“ Will he think me fair to-night?”’ “You look like a picture, Net. What makes you smile so?” said Lou Withers; but I only gave her another smile, and she exclaimed, ‘I never saw a girl blush as easily as you can, Nettie Ashley !’’ We were all ready to go down, when a maid- | servant came to me with a bouquet ‘for Miss Ashley.” Idid not ask her who sent it, for I knew. Is it not wonderful how our percep- tions are quickened sometimes? But this isa question for metaphysicians, and has nothing , to do with this simple story. I held the exqui- | Site blossoms for a moment against my lips, | and said softly to myself, ‘‘ They are for Nettie | —not Miss Ashley.’”’ How I loved my own | name then! Mrs Hathaway smiled on me, and told me I looked like ‘‘a maid of the mist.””. And my costume seemed to find favor even in Miss Lambert’s fastidious sight, and the eyes I most longed to please held the morning's glances. But my troubles were brewing, and ere long I began to see the white caps of those rocks on which my little barque of vanity was doomed to founder. It was pleasant enough to hear the rustle of my silken skirts as 1 promenaded ; but when we began to dance, I began to realize that I wore borrowed plumes. How I trem- bled when Lou Withers’ buff tarleton received a fearful rent, lest my own, alas! not my own, flowing drapery should suffer in like manner! How many alarms I had whenever a waiter of refreshments pas fme! I have always felt since that unlit ning the profound- est pity for those brought to grief by “strange clothing ;”’ from with his miserable bargain of Nessus’ Shirt, or that unhappy , Achan, with his fateful Babylonish garment. And the notorious jackdaw suffered quite enough while wearing his borrowed finery, without the ridicule which also befell him. But in my great enjoyment I would now and then quite forget the sword suspended over my head. Alas! it was about to fall. I had just finished a dance with Mr. Lambert, and he had led me to a seat, and went off to secure me an ice. Just as he was about to give it into my hand, a waltzing couple came flying by, struck his arm, and precipitated the ice into my lap. Horror of horrors! it was lemon! I know I did not say anything; I found out afterwards how I looked. I was silent and constrained all the rest of the evening, and was relieved when at last the party broke up, and I could retire to my own room. I had certainly ruined Miss Frazier’s silk. There was a great whitish stain extending from belt to toe, and little spots glimmering here and there like mocking eyes. Why did I not take Laura’s advice and be content with my own clothes? I lay long awake, and when I slept, dreamed I was enveloped in a great gray pall, which drew closer and closer, until I was almost smothered ; then some one rent it away, and Mr, Lambert was smiling on_me. When I awoke from my disturbed slumber, how long 1 thought over the events of my visit! That pleasant holiday seemed all wiped out by the catastrophe of last night. But,

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260 GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. thought I, ‘‘I can pay Miss Frazier some way, perhaps; and I have been so happy!” And then I remembered my bouquet. I must have left it where I was sitting when the unlucky accident occurred. I rose and dressed quietly, lest I should dis- turb the girls in the next room, and stole down stairs. The house was very still; noone seemed yet stirring. 1 went into the dancing hall and searched for my flowers; they were nowhere to be seen. Then I remembered I had gone to a little anteroom, where one of the maids wiped off my dress. I must have left them there. I found them there, and was about to leave, when I heard two persons enter and sit down between me and the outer door. I did not want to see any one, so I shrank back to the window, an innocent eavesdropper. “IT am very sorry you think so, Clara, and am quite sure you are very much mistaken,” said Mr. Lambert’s voice. ‘No, indeed, Charles. I have observed her very closely’’ (I could testify to that) “for I could not but see your interest in her. Per- haps she is rather tvo unsophisticated’’— ‘Not one bit,’”’ interrupted Mr. Lambert. But Miss Clara would not be interrupted. “But still she has least I thought t night. I was positively shocked to see how she ignored the simplest rules of good ng—so little self- control. Why, you know yourself that she turned perfectly white with anger when that ice stained her dress, and was really rude afterwards.”’ ‘‘Now you are certainly wrong there. Miss Ashley was unusually silent, perhaps, but she was not rude; she does not know how to be that. If she did not put on the wretchedly inane smile young ladies try to assume ona like occasion, she did not give utterance toa single word of vexation.’’ “There is no doubt in my mind, brother, that you are quite fascinated,’’ said Miss Clara, with a little murmuring laugh. “I only hope you may not be mistaken, or have not advanced too far to retreat.” “‘T have no desire to retreat, as you call it. Neither have I any guarantee that I may advance,” said Mr. Lambert, very coolly. ‘Nonsense! As if you could make me be- lieve you cannot see’’— What followed I do not know. The window where I stood was low, and I sprang out, I ran down the still, shady walks, until 1 was quite out of breath. I had a wild, dazed feel- ing that I must run from something, my whirl- ing brain could hardly tell what. At last I paused before a little summer house, half hid- den_in the shrubbery. Here I threw myself on little rustic seat, and burst into a passion of tears. I held my poor withered flowers against my face. My timid, fluttering happi- ness of yesterday had perished just as they. I forgot the words uttered in my defence, I only remembered one was endeavoring to lower me in the opinion I most prized, and the blood rushed in burning waves over my face, as I could not doubt the conclusion of those last. words. ‘He will despise me, he will despise me ; I didn’t know, I didn’t know,’’ 1 moaned to.my- self over and over again. I had no thought now for the hateful, ruined silk; that which had looked so great was a very small trouble now. I pressed my lips to the flowers all wet now with my tears, and said aloud, ‘“‘I can keep you, poor things, nobody will ever know ; oh, if I had never, never come here!’ Ihushed, and almost held my breath; somebody was close to me ; some one took my hand and spoke, oh, so tenderly. I shall not relate all that was said that morn- ing in the summer-house ; it is quite enough to say that when we turned towards the house I had almost become oblivious of the existence of borrowed silks or Miss Lambert in the world. Fortunately the greater part of the guests still lingered on their pillows, and at the very late breakfast Mrs. Hathaway complimented me on my fresh cheeks, saying, ‘‘late hours did not at all impair my roses.’’ Miss Lambert looked at me a little curiously, but made no remark, though I hardly believe that keen- sighted lady’s visions were rose-colored. I have long ago forgiven her from the bottom of my heart, but I certainly did not love her very much that morning. Mrs. Hathaway took me home that afternoon ; she would not yield her place to a very impor- tunate cavalier who would willingly have saved her the trouble. ‘I brought Nettie away,” she said, “‘and I cannot consent to any one else taking her back.”’ Mother, Laura, and Miss Frazier (at sight of whom I felt a twinge) greeted me as if I had been awayamonth. Mrs. Hathaway told them she believed I had enjoyed myself very much ; she wore a quizzical little smile, and when she went away kissed me twice, and whispered, “T understand it all;’’ which was not so, for she knew nothing of the gray silk. I could not summon courage to unpack my things that evening, and Laura was “afraid Nettie has dissipated too much, she was so quiet. ” But the next morning Mr. Lambert came and had a long talk, shut in the sitting-room, with mother ; and just before he went away we had a very little talk together, and he put a ring”on my hand. When he was gone mother called Laura, and we all three cried over each other, after the manner of women from time immemo- rial. And when we came to our senses again, I declared I really had not spoken a word to Miss Frazier, so Iran to her room. She wel- comed me in her usual kind way, with an in- quiring look on her face, however, and I sat —_ 6 = ets ws fS, a. 6 &- &t oe fw & ~~ =m

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THREE DAYS. 261 down on the floor with my head in her lap and told her all; and the kind soul kissed me and cried over me just as mother and Laura had done. “You mustn’t bother one mite about the dress,” she said. ‘‘I was going to give it to you some time, anyhow. I wa’n’t as young as you, child, when I got it; but I had the same feeling in my heart that you’ve got now. I made that dress, honey, but I never wore it but once; 3h, me!’’ I did not speak, my voice was too full of tears ; I only kissed her, but I knew there had some time been a sad, sad winter in the dear old heart. But she did wear the handsome black silk Charles and I gave her, and wears it still whenever she comes to pay us a visit. Sh ee THE SUMMER SHOWER. BY JAMES RISTINE. THE noonday lustre quivering lay On clover-field and fallow, The thin, bright rivulet, faint in song, Slid over stone and shallow; The mossy cool of forest aisles But one lone warbler woke, As earth lay panting under heat That harmed with fiery stroke. When toward the north, a sombre cloud In stillness veiled the sky, And winds with sudden, gusty force, Swept bold and angered by; And flowers bent low, and oak trees torn Yielded a hollow mvan; And lightnings on the purple cloud In blinding flashes shone. And then the thunders through the vales In awful echoes sounded, And showers, in mist and whirling torrent, Through breezy tumult bounded ; Till blue rifts spread, and from the west A rosy effluence streamed On pearl-bespangled leaves, and rilis Of turbid fulness gleamed. At once the glad earth smiled, and birds From every bough sang blithe— The robin, sweet, oracular-voiced, The wren, alert and lithe; And as the stars stole tremulous out A hush as if of prayer, Settied on all the freshened scene And filled the slumberous air. —————__ —- ae TEMPTATION brings ruin to one, and strength to another ; not by its innate power, but by sim- ply evolving the character that is tried. Youturun minds, like the pliant wax, are susceptible of the most lasting impressions ; and the good or evil bias they then receive is seldom if ever eradicated. No man is so foolish but he may give another good counsel sometimes, and no man s0 wise but he may easily err, if he take no other coun- sel than his own. He that was taught only by himself had a fool for a master. THREE DAYS. BY 8. ANNIE FROST. FIRST DAY. “Miss HAMLYN, the box has come from New York, and there is one letter.’ Alma Hamlyn rose from the low chair near the window where she had been indulging in happy reverie, anf took the letter from the maid’s hand. Following the girl was a man carrying a long box, which he put carefully upon a lounge, and left the room. “Shall I open the box, ma'am?” the girl asked. “All impatience to see the wedding dress, Fannie,” her mistress said, smiling. ‘ Yes, open it. This letter is of no consequence,” she added, glancing at it and thrusting it in her pocket. ‘I can read it after awhile.”’ She stood near the girl as she uncorded the box, a tall, graceful woman of two and twenty, with a face of rare beauty, and a manner always marked by dignified repose. Alma Hamlyn never meant to be either haughty or patroniz- ing, yet there was, unconsciously, an air of superiority in her bearing, that caused the en- vious to say: ‘‘Miss Hamlyn is proud of her position and her wealth.” The heiress of Hamlyn Hall and the wealth left with it by her uncle—Alma had no recol- lection of father or mother, but a most vivid memory of this loving uncle only three years dead. A widow lady, Mrs. Courtenay, was the paid companion of the young heiress, and had gladly consented to remain at Hamlyn Hall as housekeeper after the marriage of Alma with Oscar Huntingdon, an event only three days off on the morning when Fannie uncorded the box from the New York importers, and went into eestasies of delight over the Paris-made wed- ding dress. It was a marvel of beauty, lace and orange- blossoms over snowy, glistening satin, and with it the lace veil, slippers, wreath, every article for the full bridal dress, to the fan and bouquet holder. “Try iton! Oh, Miss Alma, do try it on!’ urged Fannie. “‘T suppose I must, as it must be altered if it does not fit. But not now, Fannie. Put the box, just as it is, into the room with the other finery. Mrs. Courtenay is there, and will tell you what to do with it. What is it, James?” for a bowing man servant stood in the open doorway. ‘A bouquet, if you please, miss. Mr. Hunt ingdon’s compliments !’’ A few minutes later, once more alone, and | seated in the low, easy chair, inhaling the fra- | grance of her flowers, with a smile of utter | happiness upon her lovely face, Alma thought | of her letter. She took it from her pocket and | looked attentively at the superseription. An

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262 GODEY'S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. unknown hand, and an uneducated one, the letters of her name sprawling far apart in some places, in others jostling against each other. A begging epistle no doubt, Alma thought, as she opened it with leisurely touch, the loving, tender smile the flowers had brought into her eyes and upon her lips still hovering there, as she unfolded the coarse sheet. Carelessly she read the first few lines, and into the soft blue eyes sprang a look of horror unutterable. Ra- pidly she mastered the entire contents of the missive, her face paling to a deadly whiteness, her eyes dilating with the fearful, frightened look of a child to whom some tale of horrible import is told. When the last line was read, the rigid clasp of her hands upon the paper relaxed, her head fell back heavily upon the back of her chair, and her appearance was that of a fainting wo- man, while mentally her whole nature was throbbing with merciless activity. She never knew how the time passed while she sat there, but she was roused by Fannie’s entrance and ery of alarm. “Are you sick, Miss Alma?” In a second she was herself again. “It may be a lie to extort money,”’ she murmured, “it can’t be true!’ then aloud. “Fannie, can I catch the 11.30 train?” “It'll be a hurry for it, miss. I didn’t know you meant to go to New York to-day.’’ “T have unexpected business. Get my hat and dress. Order the carriage first, Fannie. Tell James I must catch the train.’’ It was some relief to be moving, and her pre- parations were speedily made. Just in time, she reached the station as the 11.30 train came in, and two minutes later was whirling to New York. A heavy veil hid her face from her fel- low passengers, and still kept it concealed as she entered the private office of Mr. Jerrold Thomas, her uncle’s lawyer, her own friend from infancy. He was a man past fifty, with iron-gray hair, keen gray eyes, and a face that masked every emotion under a cold reserve. Yet there were warm tender spots in the old lawyer’s heart, and one of these responded quickly to the sight of Alma Hamlyn’s face, as she put aside her veil, and took the chair he offered. She could not speak. The sudden blow she had received had stunned her, spurred her on to her sudden journey, and now left her dumb and trembling before the friend she had come to consult. With her eyes full of piteous, mute entreaty, she placed the letter in his hand, and watched his face while he read it. Not a mus- cle betrayed the consternation in the old law- yer’s heart, as he read every word on the sheet before him. Folding:-it carefully, he put it upon his table, and leaning over his client said, gently: ‘*This has been a sore blow to you, Alma. I see that in your face.’’ He had not calculated upon the effect of his words. The wild hope that she was merely the victim of an attempted fraud, died in Alma’s heart, and with a sharp cry of “True! it is true then!’’ she sank upon the floor in a heap, crouching as if she would bury herself from sight, tearless yet, but actually writhing in her agony. She was a proud woman, not purse- proud, not one to parade her wealth or position, but with the God-given pride of a noble nature, a clear conscience, and upright life. And her pride was humbled in the dust as she crouched at the old lawyer’s feet. “Oh, that I could die!’’ she moaned; “Oh, why was I kept in ignorance all these years, to hear this now?”’ ‘Rise, Alma!’’ Mr. Thomas said, in a stern tone it was hard even for him to assume, ‘this is unworthy of you.” He lifted heras he spoke, and put her gently in a chair, placing a glass of water to her lips. ‘You knew it!’’ she said, looking with hag- gard eyes into his face, “you knew it, and never told me.”’ **I was obliged to know it when I drew up your uncle’s will. He meant it to remain a secret from you forever, because we calculated upon the life penalty being exacted. Such a contingency as this did not occur to him, and he bound me by an oath to keep the secret from every living soul. But for this,’’ and he touched the letter, “‘I should have carried my silence to the grave.”’ “What can I do?” It was the question the lawyer was busily turning over in his own mind, finding no an- swer. ‘You must let me settle with him. He gives you an address, where J can find him.” “Does my guardian know? Does,” her parched lips almost refused to speak the name, “does Mr. Huntingdon know ?” ‘‘Upon his deathbed, your uncle assured me he had kept the secret from all. He had seen your guardian before he saw me, leaving him such dying charges as his love for you suggest- ed, but hours later he told me noone living had heard the secret of your birth but myself.” “Tell me all,” Alma said; “this letter only informed me that my father, my father,” she repeated in a tone of such sharp agony that it brought tears to the lawyer’s hard eyes, ‘‘has been pardoned out of Sing Sing after being sen- tenced for life, and looks to me for the means of living. Can he make me share his life? O God pity me! I do not mean to be an unnat- ural daughter! I will gladly give my wealth to him, but how can I give hima child’s respect oraffection. Every line of that letter is a threag. He does not ask me to care for him because is my father, poor and forsaken ; he only threat- ens to expose our wretched secret to the world ; threatens to tell my promised husband I am a convict’s daughter, if I will not send him money. How can I love him? How can I respect him?

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THREE DAYS. 263 How can I call him father?’’ She ceased the rapid, passionate words, covering her face with her hands, shaken by tearless sobs. You are, right, Alma,’’ Mr. Thomas said, **the letter, written under the circumstances is simply brutal, and you are not called upon to fill a daughter’s place to the father who could write it. Money is all he asks; money he shall have as long as he refrains from molesting you. The day he forces himself into your presence, his money supply will cease. You cannot give him a large sum, Alma, your uncle’s will pre- vents that, but you can, if you will, give him an allowance out of your income, Will you let me be the judge of how much you should send him?” **T leave it all with you. Only keep me here. Let me stay with Mrs. Thomas until I can de- cide what todo. I cannot face Osear to-day.” “You know how welcome you .are to us, Alma. I will tell Mrs. Thomas you have had bad news, and you need tell her no more unless you wish.”’ “How,” said Alma, after a long silence, “how did this man meet my mother?’’ *“Texpected that question. It was from your uncle I heard the story, and it would seem un- real if such contradictions did not occur every day. Your mother was very young, only six- teen, with a large fortune from her dead father, that would become her’s upon her marriage or coming of age. She was still a school girl when her mother engaged a man named Robinson as coachman. He was a man of no education above his station, could barely read and write, but your uncle said, a man of wonderful per- sonal attraction, handsome in the full vigor of youthful manhood, with a face of great beauty. Your mother was a mere child, and her wealth was no secret ; so this Robinson won her affec- tions, took advantage of her youth, and finally persuaded her to elope with him. They were married six months before the scoundrel pre- sented himself to demand his wife’s fortune. For his wife’s sake he was received, and an effort made to mould him into a man fit to associate with your grandmother’s friends. Every kindness was extended to both; but when you were three years old, your father abandoned wife and child, taking with him the bulk of your mother’s fortune. The blow broke her heart ; for, strange as it may seem, her love had outlived respect, and in spite of many acts of positive brutality she grieved for the man to whom she had given her girlish affections. Mortification at his desertion of her, sorrow over her wasted happiness, and fears for your future preyed «pon her mind until she became a wretched invalid, rarely leaving the house. Four years after deserting her, Robinson re- turned, absolutely beggared, and wringing money from your uncle, who gave it to spare his sister. Lower and lower the wretched man sank in his life of dissipation and crime, until— | oh, child! I would spare you if I could!—he | committed a brutal, deliberate murder, after | highway robbery upon his victim. He was tried and sentenced to be hung. Money, lav- | ishly spent, won a second trial, and the sen- | tence was altered to imprisonment for life. | Your mother was mercifully taken from this | world before the second trial, and you wére quietly removed to another city in good care. ‘When you were fourteen years old your uncle bronght you home, and it was supposed you were a brother’s child, since you bore his own name. Still, in order to make his will legal, if the truth ever came to light, he was forced to tell me the whole truth. Your father, too, knows well that there were but two chil- dren, your uncle and your mother, and your uncle never married. So he writes, sure that he addresses the child he has deserted and dis- graced.’’ ' “Yet,” the poor girl said, with parched lips and a face like death, ‘‘he is my father. Give him money, and—if—I—can—do him any good ! if you think my love or influence can save him from further crime, I will see him, I will—oh, I am choking! Give me air!’ and the long strain ended in insensibility. When consciousness returned, Alma found herself, not in the office, but in Mr. Thomas’s parlor above, and the old lawyer's wife bathing her face, and tenderly watching her. ‘“‘ There, dear !”’ the old lady said, gently, ‘‘do not try to talk. I know what has prostrated you, and your secret is safe with me. Mr. Thomas has gone to see what it is best to do, and you are to lie quiet. We have telegraphed to Mrs. Courtenay that you are here, so no one will be uneasy about you. That’s right!’’ as Alma threw her arms around her and found relief in tears at last, ‘‘cry. It will do you good.” So, wrapped in kind, motherly arms, com- forted by loving words, Alma saw the sun set upon the day whose dawn had promised only happiness. SECOND DAY. Wovu Lp it ever come! Would the long, long night ever end! Hour after hour passed, and Mr. Thomas was still away when the sunrise at last greeted Alma’s weary, watchful eyes. No tidings had come to either of the women when they rose from a@ scarcely-tasted breakfast, and an un- spoken dread kept both silent. Had the con- vict been rendered desperate by the refusal of the lawyer to comply with some unreasonable demand for money, added a further act of vio- lence to his life of crime? It was impossible to rest quietly in waiting, and hour after hour crept by in anxious watching till nearly noon, when a carriage drove rapidly to the door, with ,

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264 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. a man inside, who handed in a letter for Mrs. Thomas. Only a page torn from a note-book :— “Come at once with the bearer, and brin Alma. There is no danger. Your escort is one of the police force in plain elothes,”’ It took but a few minutes for preparation, and they were soon seated in the carriage, facing a powerfully built man, in quiet dress, who responded gravely to Mrs. Thomas's ques- tions. Briefly told, his story was this :— The afternoon before, Mr. Thomas had ap- plied at the police court for an escort to one of the most dangerous localities in the city, and three men had been detailed to accompany him. They had instructions to fiud Walter Robinson, a convict recently pardoned from Sing Sing, and they found him desperately wounded in a fight with some of his former companions. A surgeon had been summoned, and had remained in Mr. Thomas’s company beside the injured man. There had been a hope for his life until about eleven o’clock in the morning, when a fatal hemorrhage had ended the frail chance of existence. The nar- rator had then received orders to take a carriage and bring the ladies to the dying man. “And here we are!” he said, in conclusion. “The courtway is too narrow for a carriage, and we must walk a little.” The cool autumn air revived Alma as she mechanically followed Mrs. Thomas from the carriage, to find a second man waiting to ac- company them. Scarcely conscious of her own footsteps, she was led up a narrow court, where high, narrow tenement houses, swarming with coarse men, dirty women, and screaming chil- dren, were huddled together. More than one abusive taunt greeted the appearance of two well-dressed ladies in the stifling, crowded court ; but Alma heard nothing, saw nothing, till after threading their way through a large building the men entered a small room on aa upper floor, and the daughter was brought face to face with her dying father. She was vaguely conscious of severai people surrounding a nar- row iron bedstead, upon which was stretched a gasping, struggling form. Mr. Thomas met his wife at the door. “Tamafraid youare too late,”’ he whispered. **We have had a clergyman here, and a magis- trate to take the ante-mortem statement, and the effort has brought on spasms. The doctor says an hour will end the struggle. I would have spared you this, Alma, but he asked for you.” A grave man stepped from the bedside. “The convulsions are over,” he said, in a low tone. “Ts he conscious?” **Yes. We will leave you alone with him.” “Courage, Alma, courage!” the old lawyer whispered, seeing an ashy whiteness gathering around her lips. ‘‘Do not faint.” “Do not fear,’’ she replied, gaining her self- control by a strong effort of will; and taking one long breath, she went steadily to the bed- side. Outside there was a confused murmuring noise, but in the room the silence was so pro- found that the gasping breath of the dying man could be distinctly heard. Mr. and Mrs. Thomas stood near the window, and alone Alma stood by her father. All fear, all ab- horrence left her as she looked at the pallid face, already refined by the shadow of the death angel’s wings. The olden beauty that had made his face attractive in youth struggled above the stamp of a life of brutality, and the ashy whiteness made the dark hair and heavy eyelashes doubly conspicuous. His eyes were closed, his fingers moving nervously. All Alma’s calmness, all the gentle nobility of her soul, came back to her as she looked upon the set white face. “Father!” she said, putting her hand upon the cold, clammy forehead. The great dark eyes sprang open at once. “You came!’ he gasped, looking intently into the lovely face. “ You—youare like your mother! I—to see—you—forgive—dying— sorry—trouble !” The broken, incoherent words came pain- fully, but the dark eyes pleaded pitifully. Alma bent lower and lower to catch the faint utterances. ‘Pardon! forgive!’ That was the plea that rose most frequently to the quiver- ing lips. Suddenly he made a great effort. “Let me tell your mother you forgive me!’’ he said, “T have nothing to forgive,” Alma said, softly. ‘May God hear my prayers for you!” she said again, as the lips still moved, making no sound ; and she knelt and prayed fervently for the departing soul. Wistfully the dying man watched her until a gray shadow crossed his face, a spasm passed like a shudder through his form, and the gasp- ing breath ceased. Even while his daughter prayed, the crime-laden soul passed away. Tender hands lifted Alma from the bedside and led her back to the old lawyer’s home, where all gentle sympathy and tenderness comforted her. The second day closed, finding her mercifully asleep, under the influence of a powerful nareotic. THIRD DAY. Ir dawned clear and bright, one of the au- tumn days that smile at winter’s approach, and brought uppermost in Alma’s tortured mind the memory she had crushed back with an iron hand since reading her father’s letter. Oscar! No longer could she remain passive where her lover was concerned. He knew only that she was detained in New York ; but to-day, her wedding day, he must know more. sfonwcrt> eo >> 4 me.r:e@eannet @we eee me se-s+a«adgd4@e@eereh ooo a

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THREE DAYS, 265 Uh, if only she could plead sickness, delirium, to postpone the explanation that must come! It was no part of Alma Hamlyn’s nature to put aside a duty, no matter how painful it was, and she rose with a resolve to write to Osear atonce. Long before the family were stirring, the fateful letter lay completed upon the dress- ing-table in Alma’s room. It had cost her bit- ter tears. More than once she had been forced to stop and pray for strength to finish it; but it was written, sealed, and directed while the day was still young. Mr. Thomas had ap- pointed an interview with Mr. Huntingdon by telegram, for an early hour in the forenoon, and Alma had prepared the letter to meet him. In brief language, making no weak moans over her own grief, Alma told the story of her birth, and released her lover from his promise. She pleaded her own ignorance in extenuation of her silence, and in maidenly words she told her lover of the pain it caused her to break her promise to him. In her happy ignorance she had plighted her faith to him, loving him truly, but she could not stand at the altar with him with a secret in her heart, or ask him to love a convict’s child. So tenderly she released him, praying for his happiness. When Mrs. Thomas came to call her to break- fast, Alma put the letter into her hand, begging that she might remain alone until the interview between her lover and her old friend was over. Pitying her pale face, her evidently forced composure, her hostess left her, and again the tortured heart and brain lived over the past two days. Oniy a few hours more, and the whole circle of her friends would be talking over the broken engagement. They had been bidden to a wedding in the evening, and they must be sent away with courteous excuses. Alma saw the surprise, heard the comments, as she reviewed in imagination the coming scene at Hamlyn Hall, where Mrs. Courteney waited for the bridal party. Then shereverted with a shudder to the deathbed scene, and wondered at her own ability to think of any- thing but that, already misty and unreal to her. The morning wore by slowly, till a servant handed her a card—Osear’s card—and under- neath the name one line, begging to see her. It would have been but natural to stop a mo- ment before the mirror, to see if the quiet gray travelling dress needed any arranging; if the hair, quickly twisted, was smooth and becom- ing; but Alma’s heart was too full, even to remember her dress. White as death, but very calm, she came into the drawing-room, to find not only her lover, but Mr. and Mrs. Thomas, awaiting her. Her eyes grew dim, as the tall, erect figure of the man to whom she had given the whole love of her heart came to meet her. There was no aversion in his eyes, only a grave tenderness, as he took her hand in a close clasp, and led her toa seat beside Mrs. Thomas. ‘‘T have asked our kind friends to be here, Alma,”’ he said, in a low voice, but with every word clear and distinct, ‘‘that they may hear my resolve never to give you up, unless I have lost your love by some unworthy act of my own. I have read your letter, and, dearly as 1 loved you before, I love you now with a deeper affection. You have been the noblest of women to me, Alma, ever since I knew you; but your generous candor, your thought for me in this trial I hoped would be spared you, have made my respect almost worship.”’ “You hoped would be spared me!’’ she fal- tered. ‘When your uncle died, Alma, he left with your guardian a sealed letter, that was to be given, unopened, to any man you honored by loving. I received it when I sought your guar- dian’s consent to our marriage. Dearest, in that letter, your uncle told me the shadow that rested upon your life, holding me by every tie of honor to secresy, if my love was too weak to stand this test, and imploring me to guard you from the painful truth, if I still loved and married you. Alma, have I not respected your uncle’s wishes? All the painful story you have just learned I knew a year ago; but my love is unshaken, You will not now send me away?’’ She could not speak, She could only submit as he drew her into a close embrace, lifting her tear-iaden eyes to his face, feeling that the devotion of her life could never repay his generous silence and love. Mr. Thomas blew his nose violently, and cleared his eyes, mut- tering something about a cold, while his wife made no secret of wiping away her tears. There was a silence of some moments, and then Oscar spoke again :— *T have a proposition to make, Alma, that will startle you at first, but which has the hearty sanction of our friends here. The se- cret you have learned so lately is known only to us, and it is desirable to keep it still a secret from the world. You will have still some trial to undergo, though we will spare you all we can. Give me, darling, a husband’s right to help you bear your sorrow. This was to have been our wedding day ; iet it be so still.’’ “O Oscar! how can 1? How can I stand before all my friends in bridal finery, while my father lies’— She ceased, trembling vio- lently. **It will be painful, Alma; but it is best so. We have telegraphed Mrs. Courtenay to send the carriage to the three o’clock train to meet us all. It will be but a few moments, dear. Mrs. Thomas will welcome our friends, and we will leave again on the 9.30 train to-night. A few days in New York will give me the oppor- tunity to make ali necessary arrangements for your father’s funeral, and we avoid the sur- mise and speculation any postponement of the wedding would surely cause.” ‘But my dress,”” Alma urged.

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266 GODEY’S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. “You cannot mourn, Alma. Your wearing black would be but a mockery. Be guided by us, dear. Surely you can trust your oldest friends and your promised husband, Alma.” But it took much more loving arguments to win Alma’s consent. Her noble, sensitive na- ture revolted against wedding festivities at such a time, and she pleaded with tears against this speedy marriage. But, while. she had nerved herself to bear Oscar’s contempt and desertion, she could not withstand his loving, tender entreaties, and finally gave a reluctant consent to his proposal, feeling that his generous conduct called for some sacrifice upon her own part. So by the afternoon train the party returned to Hamlyn Hall, Mrs. Thomas sparing Alma all explanations, Mrs. Courtenay’s surprise, even Fannie’s comments upon her pale face. In her own room the bride was dressed by her loving old friend, and the ceremony was pur- posely delayed, so that congratulations were necessarily brief, to ensure a punctual arrival at the evening train to New York. The guests scarcely knew when the bride slipped away to don her travelling dress, and step into the car- riage in waiting, to be whirled away to the train. But, tenderly guarded, with loving hopes for happiness, Oscar’s voice assuring her of his life-long devotion, Oscar’s hand clasping hers, Oscar’s eye watching her, Alma, with a heart full 6f gratitude and prayerful hope, saw the shadows of night gather upon the closing of the third day. —— >> THE LAND OF REST. BY THOMAS G. GENTRY. THERE is a land of rest, supremely bright and blest, Where souls in happy converse ever love to blend ; Where visions pure, refined, for aye, illume the mind, Where sorrows are unknown and pleasures never end. Beyond the starry skies it calmly, sweetly lies, A paradise of love unparalleled by this; Where the Eternal One, its matchless, kingly sun, Sends flowing through the land a ceaseless tide of bliss. Beside its golden gates a sentry grimly waits To usher to the bright and happy fields above, The pure and undefiled, the simple, faithful child, Blood-purchased by a Saviour’s never dying love. There busy thought and care, and deep and dark despair, Shall ne’er upon the brow their cruel figures trace ; For in that land of bloom, beyond the silent tomb, The flowers of love and joy the soul shall ever grace. Around the dazzling throne of gorgeous emerald stone, A ceaseless flood of song voluminous shall roll ; Praise shall employ each tongue among the happy throng, And holy rapture fill each joy-elated soul. A “PINY WOODS” WEDDING. BY J. B. 8. WHEN I was a merry lass of some ten or twelve happy summers, my incomparable Un- cle Edward was elected justice of peace in our county. We were all at grandpa’s, spending one of those delightful quarterly visits, when, on Saturday night after the Tuesday’s election, as the hands of grandpa’s old chronometer told the-hour of eleven, there came a loud “‘halloo!”’ from the front gate. It was some one who wanted the “young ‘squire’ to come and marry a couple over in the mountains. Then we had a lively time getting Uncle Edward off. **Don’t do like the ’squire at Polly Peablos- som’s wedding,” suggested one. “You had better read over the ceremony, Edward, or take a copy,” said grandpa. But he got off at last, and some of us sat up till the ‘‘ wee hours of morning,” talking about the fun of going to marry people so near the mid hour of « dark, stormy night, for the rain had been pouring in torrents since dark, and keeping the fire bright for our favorite’s return. When he came home, he had so much to tell of the wedding—the couple, an angular old maid, and a youth of nineteen or twenty ; of the bride’s dress (this, of course, by hard ques- tioning on the part of the fair sex); of the supper—the great trays of tea-cakes and honey, pans of chicken pies, piles of potato custards, and other good, wholesome articles, served in a similar bountiful style. And he described so humorously the wofully leaky house, and the dodging of the guests in search of dry cor- ners; then the run through the rain to the kitchen, where the supper was laid, that a de- sire to attend a wedding like this sprang up within me, so strong that I couldn’t be satisfied, till, some months later, I gained grandpa’s consent to go with Uncle Edward when his official presence was again required. This is the one of which I am going to tell you. A very excellent young man, who lived on my grandpa’s place, was to be married to the daughter of an honest, respectable ‘“ Piny Woods” farmer, and Uncle Edward was to perform the ceremony. It was mid-winter. The night intensely cold, and so dark that I tried the favorite childish experiment of putting my hand before my face; but, strain my eyes as I might, not the faintest shadow of it could I see. If you have ever travelled through the pine woods of Middle Georgia, it is needless to say how many bogs and gullies we drove into; how many logs and clay roots we had to go around, or how many stumps we ran against and over in our ride through the darkness. The wind, wailing and sobbing in the tall tree tops, and the occasional barking of dogs in the distance, were the only sounds which relieved the dreari- hie, iii ae i. an: -~- mes Seoosoadgwo totes ee ae« emma

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A ‘*PINY WOODS’ WHDDING.' 267

ness of our surroundings, except the few frag- mentary sentences that the jolting and the cold wind in our teeth permitted us to address to each other. But through the tall pines _ there came to us after a while. beautiful long lines of red light. The barking of the dogs was nearer, and we could hear sounds of merry laughter and song. The ruddy lines widened and brightened. The sombre foliage of the trees and their great rough trunks were lit up with a warm, cheerful glow, and we drove into the midst of huge lightwood fires, which were built all around the spacious, clean- swept yard, in honor of the occasion, The house was just such as you may find any where in a Georgia or South Carolina region of this class. <A large log body, with a piazza, and small shed-room in front, two shed-rooms and a little entry in the rear, little pigeon-hole windows, about one to each room, and a great hospitable chimney in the principal apartment. The piazza was hung with strings of bright searlet and yellow peppers, and a crowd of young men and boys sat on the banister and some benches, laughing, joking, and chewing tobacco. The large room into which we were ushered was probably twenty by thirty-five or forty feet. An immense heap of hickory logs and great pine Knots glowed and crackled in the wide-mouthed fireplace, bathing the rough walls and uncovered rafters with a warm, healthy sight, and putting to shame the few tallow candles that were placed on the shelves around the room. Yards of strung ‘‘ Bachelors’ buttons,’”’ red and white, were festooned upon the walls, side by side with neatly-linked hanks of white, blue, yellow, and “‘clouded”’ cotton thread of home manufacture. There were two beds in the room, displaying the good house- wife’s pride—some heavy woollen coverlids, dark blue and white, of the famous “sixteen of snowballs,” and ‘“‘magnolia”’ patterns, and little winsy pillows, with white homespun cases, trimmed with knit lace. Long strings of purple and yellow ‘‘popeorn” hung from the joists, with little checked bags of water- melon and pumpkin seed, and great, graceful heads of sorghum seed, and long, round tails of horse-millet. There was a picture over the door, probably the work of the “genius of the family’’—a pastoral scene. The greenest of fields ; a shepherdess in a bright crimson dress, blue bodice, white apron, and flaming yellow flat, trimmed with a wreath of flowers; a youth, in equally as gay attire; a flock of sheep, and a tree, very similar to those of wooden toy boxes, all standing in bold relief against an ultramarine sky. Several wood-ctits, magazine fashion plates, newspaper and circus pictures, were disposed about the apartment, and on the present ocea- sion decorated with wreaths or sprays of cedar, whitened with flour. There were a few books

and papers on the mantle, and a tall eight-day clock on a shelf near by. The floor was rough and uncarpeted, but clean as lye and sand could make it, and the oaken chairs were white with recent scrubbing. There was quite a crowd of maidens assem- bled when we arrived, and, as a murmur ran through the house, “The ’squire’s come,’ the men came in from the yard and piazza, and the matrons and babies from the kitchen. Fora few moments not a sound was heard above the crackling of the fire. Then a brisk-looking little man stepped up to Uncle Edward, with considerable nervousness in his manner, handed him a paper, and escorted him to his proper place, then stepped out. Now a bustle at the front door, and all eyes were turned in that direction, eagerly expect- aut; the bridal train was coming. First came two lanky misses of fourteen, or thereabouts, dressed in dark worsted skirts, and long, loose, bright-colored sacques, their straight elf locks hanging down, and each bearing a Japanned candlestick, with a lighted tallow candle. They stationed themselves on each side of ‘‘ the *squire,’’ holding their candles a la “‘ present arms’’ in military tactics. They were evidently determined that the pair should not make ‘‘a leap in the dark.’’ Next came two couples of attendants. The first bridesmaid wore a pretty dotted Swiss dress—low necked, short sleeved, and quite short in the skirt. Her hair was combed smoothly down on the sides of her face, and plaited in two tight plaits at the back, each finished with a bow of pink ribbon. The second maid (and a beautiful girl) wore a blue muslin—pink belt, with large buckle, and black gloves. The front of her luxuriant raven hair was curled in exquisite ringlets; but the back was twisted tightly into what we called a “Miss Nancy knot,’’ and over that she wore a colored zephyr headdress. There was nothing at all noticeable about the men, except, perhaps, their larded and plastered hair. Last came the bridal pair. The groom was a very good-looking young man. He was dressed with the utmost neat- ness and care, in a suit of broadcloth, which fit him very like the old tights of our grandparents’ young days. The pants lacked several inches of being long enough, but he wore boots, pol- ished to the last degree, which made up the deficiency. A white stiffly-starched cravat and well-oiled locks completed his attire. His knees trembled a good deal, and he seemed quite frightened about something, but he held firmly to his bride. She was a young, childish-looking creature, dressed in white cross-barred muslin, enormous crinoline (as were most of her young frieuds), new morocco shoes, and a great abundance of gilt and glass jewelry. Her hair was combed plainly and smoothly back, and tightly plaited. She wore a wreath of coarse white artificial flow-

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268 GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. ers; no veil, but white tarletane strings a few inches in width suspended above each ear. None but the second maid wore gloves ; and the bride held her head bashfully one-sided during the ceremony, which was made quite as short as possible by a magistrate who had two tallow candles smoking nearly under his nose. With- out waiting for congratulations, the train ab- ruptly left the room, and in a few minutes returned; each of the girls having allowed herself the comfortable privilege of donning a flowered calico sacque. Supper was announced, and we proceeded at once to the kitchen where the festal board was laid. There was a long table, fairly groaning under its bountiful weight of good cheer; yet you could scarcely suppress a smile at the quaint notions of taste displayed. A wooden sconce, trimmed with curled newspaper, and holding four tallow candles, occupied the cen- tral position. A great mountain of whitish winter butter stood on each side, while from their conical summits waved long sprays of snowy cedar. There were three or four uncut cakes, roughly iced, hill and valley fashion, and decorated with sugar-plums, and sprigs of cedar sticking upright, like trees. There were great heaps of sweet-potato custards, and fried peach puffs, pyramids of biscuits, tea-cakes, . “meonshines,’’ and gingerbread. There were - chickens, sausages, turkey, and pork in differ- ent styles of the culinary art; and bowls of clear amber honey just bursting from its snowy comb. We had scarcely more than time to look at the table, when the blue-dressed bridemaid handed us what she called ‘‘quits.”” I had never heard of them before, but found that these little cakes (cut with a thimble from the square or round ones called ‘“moonshines’’), are handed as a gentle hint to the guests that they have been at table long enough, and must make room for others. Now began the plays. The house was too small for “‘Snap,”’ they thought, so they went out in the yard by the lightwood fires. Bride, bridegroom, and all mingled in the game. Then they went into the house and had “ Puss, give me your corner?” “ Hiog-drovers,”’ “‘Old man of the house,” and ‘“Gin-around,’”’ one after another, until the men grew tired and began to slip out to the piazza, and some drew up near the fire. “Why don’t you young folks keep on a play- in’?” asked a kindly old man. ‘“‘When I was young, like you all, I never let my sperits gin out at a weddiyp’.’’ “We don’t want to play any more, right now,” they said, and they wouldn’t, either; so the good dames talked about their ways of “set- tin’ black dye in cotton; the trouble they had in learnin’ Mary or Susan how to take up the cross in warpin’ of her par’s winter clothes ;” and how one of them had “sech a beautiful lot of bleached hanks sp’ilt in tryin’ to “cloud” ’em, because Sarah Jane did not tie the shucks on tight enough.” And the farmers discussed the crops of the past season ; the weather, and price of shoes, tobacco, and coffee. Thete was a Floridian in the party; and, when the fair sex had waited for their back- ward gallants to reecommence the games, till their patience was well nigh exhausted, the two bridemaids bethought them of a plan to awaken them from their drowsiness. So, em- bracing each other, they began walking up and down the floor, as I had seen them before, sing- ing, with emphasis :— “Them Georgy boys, they ain't the fellows; They don’t know how for to court those girls: They hang the’r heads and hide the’r faces, And that ain’t the way, oh, my boys! ‘*But them Floridy boys, they are the fellows— They know how for to court those girls ; They hug ’em, and kiss 'em, and call ’em honey, And that is the way, oh, my boys!’’ But the “Floridy boy”’ only tilted his chair and laughed awkwardly at the compliment to his powers of love making, and the “Georgy boys’’ minded it as little. So the baffled maid- ens began again with much spirit :— “Cone on all ye Georgy girls, and listen to my noise, And mind how ye marry them Floridy boys; For if you do, the truth will be, That Johnny cake and venison’s all youll see— That Johnny cake and venison’s all you'll see. “When a boy goes a courtin’, I tell you how he'll dress— Old leather huntin’ suit—that’s his very best Old straw hat—more brim than crown— Old buckskin shoes, at both heels down— Old buckskin shoes, at both heels down. * When he steps in, you’!l slide him up a chair, The first word he says is—* Daddy’s shot a deer!’ The next word he says, when he sets down— ‘Young ladies, the Johnny cake’s a bakin’ too brown— Young ladies, the Johury cake’s a bakin’ too brown!’ “He'll take you to a pine knot hill, And there youll live against your will; And then you 'll see, the truth will be That Johnny cake and venison’s all youll see— That Jobnay cake and venison’s all you’! see.” This shaft was an effectual one. The Geor- gians laughed heartily, and joined the play at once, while Florida cackled nervously, and sought hima partner. There was an ugly man there, who interested me very much. Tall, gaunt, loose-jointed, and hatchet-faced; but he had the most self-satisfied, welkpleased ex- pression youever saw. I noticed that he stood off in a corner, and watched the plays with eager interest, but did not join them. “Who is that, uncle?’ I asked, softly ; but before he had time to tell me, up stepped a trig little woman with a baby in herarms, who said, dropping a courtesy, and smiling :— ** My name’s Patience Wilson, and he’s a widder !”” I wanted to see how the “widder” would Cee rersrerwgag pre? = °. a — a] a = ed tt - -_ ee oF ae aa 6 ie ee. Oe, ee ek ae at oe oe Oo ee ee Bf Bn Oe

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SORAPS. fw 269 look “chasing the squirrel,” or playing “hurly burly,’’ so, when they commenced singing— “Here ’s a young man set down to think,” etc. I whispered to one of the young girls near me: “‘Miss Matilda, when it comes your turn to sit in that chair do ask Mr. Jenks to take it. He seems so interested, and no one has chosen him for a partner yet.” “Very well,” she said. So sure enough, when it came her turn, she chose him. Now, Ihad not the remotest idea that any one but Miss Matilda heard what I said; so, imagine my surprise, when Mr. Jenks came stalking across the floor, stretching out his long bony hand, smiling his most bewitching smile, and saying, as he advanced, loud enough for every one to hear :— “Sence you ‘res’ anxious fur me to set in that cheer, s’pose you go set in thar yourself.’’ I did not go, and I had nothing more to do with Mr. Jenks, except to laugh at him one more time. They played “Cross Purposes,’’ and when the question was asked :— “Mr. Jenks, what has been give to you?” “They give me Miss Joanna Smith, she bein’ present,’’ he said, ogling at her; and they toid me to make a wife of her, and I hope the com- pany will help me to ’suade her!” We left them singing their songs, and appa- rently enjoying themselves intensely ; while we pursued our homeward way over the boggy, stumpy road. oo CHEERFULNESS IN CHILDHOOD. I May be permitted, for a moment, to urge upon mothers the high importance of preserv- ing in children a cheerful and happy state of temper, by indulging them in the various pleas- ures and diversions suited to their years. Those who are themselves, either from age or temper- ament, grave and serious, will not unfrequently attempt to cultivatea similar disposition in chil- dren. Such, however, is in manifest violation of the laws of the youthful constitution. Each period of life has its distinctive character and enjoyments ; and gravity and sedateness, which fond parents commonly cal! manliness, appear to me quite as inconsistent and unbecoming in the character of childhood as puerile levity in that of age. The young, if unwisely restrained in their appropriate amusements, or too much confined to the society of what are termed seri- ous people, may experience, in consequence, such a dejection of spirits as to occasion a sen- sible injury to their health. And it should, furthermore, be considered that the sports and gayeties of happy childhood call forth those various muscular actions, as laughing, shout- ing, running, jumping, etc., which are, in early life, so absolutely essential to the healthful development of the different bodily organs, Again, children, when exposed to neglect and VOL. LXxxrx.— 18 unkind treatment (for to such they are far more sensible than we are prone to suspect), will not unusually grow sad and spiritless, their sto- mach and nervous system becoming enfeebled and deranged; and various other painful in- firmities, and even premature decay, may some- times owe their origin to such an unhappy source. —Sweetser. lO TIME. Ir waits for no man; it travels onward with an even, uninterrupted, inexorabie step, with- out accommodating itself to the delays of mor- tals. The restiess hours pursue their course ; moments press after moments ; day treads upon day; year rolls after year. Does man loiter, procrastinate? Is he listless or indolent? Be- hold the days, and months, and years, unmind- ful of his delay, are never sluggish, but march forward in siient and solemn procession. Our labors and toils, our ideas and feelings, may be suspended by sleep; darkness, and silence, and death may reign around us, but Time is beyond the power of any human being, besides Omnipotence. The clock may cease to strike, the sun to shine ; but the busy hours pass on. The months and years must continue to move forward. ——_- eo __ TRUE BENEVOLENCE. TRUE benevolence inspires with the love of justice, and prompts him in whose bosom it glows neither to oppress the weak, to impose on the ignorant, nor to overreach the unwary, but to give every man his due, and with steady and undeviating steps to walk in the hallowed path of equity. Deceit and dissimulation, fraud and falsehood, are far from the humble wor- shipper of God; integrity is enthroned in his heart, truth dwells on his lips, and an enlight- ened sense of duty regulates the whole of his conduct. He faithfully performs every pro- mise, and fulfils every engagement. Others respect and trust his word because he respects and holds it sacred himself. His life is charac- terized by the simplicity of truth and the dig- nity of virtue; and, in dealing with him, they who have an opportunity of knowing his cha- racter place unbounded confidence in his justice and faithfulness. —oo GENERAL love is like a mitten, which fits all hands alike, but none closely ; true affection is like a glove, which fits one hand only, but fits closely to that one. CHRISTIAN graces are like perfumes—the more they are pressed the sweeter they smell ; like stars that shine brightest in the dark ; like trees, the more they are shaken the deeper root they take, and the more fruit they bear.

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bo a1 2 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. WORK DEPARTMENT. CROCHET BOLSTER CUSHION COVER. THE material chosen in the original is gray wool of two shades, with which four stripes twenty-three inches long is worked in a kind of raised crochet. Two stripes are worked of the darker, and two of the lighter shade. Cro- chet along a chain of 16 stitches as follows: 1st row. Miss 1, 1 double in every stitch, 1 chain. 2d and 3d. 1 double in both parts of every stitch, 1 chain at the end of each row. 4th. * 3 dou- ble, 1 spot in the upper part of the next stitch of the second row. The spot is made by wind- ing the thread around the needle, and drawing it through the above-named stitch as a loop ‘3 ne Hoy as Le WwW NS NN W est © “SERS, _* ~ ¢, = half an inch long, this is repeated four times, then 1 slip stitch in the next stitch of the 3d row. Theslip stitch must hold together all the loops and the working threads, repeat twice from *, then 3 double. 5th. double crochet. 6th. 5 double, 1 spot in the next stitch of the 4th row, and 1 slip stitch in the next stitch of the 5th row, 3 double, 1 spot, and slip stitch as before, 5 double, repeat the?3d to the 6th rows 26 times, then 1 row double crochet. Now edge Fig. 2. each stripe with a row of double crochet, tak- ing in alternately first 1 and then 2 of the mar- ginal stitches. The stripes are joined together with a row of double crochet of black single Berlin wool, and ornamented by flowers and Jeaves arranged in sprays, and worked in single wool. The flowers which are arranged on the dark stripes in groups of three are crocheted as follows: Make a chain of yellow wool, close into a circle, and crochet 4 rounds of double crochet, increasing as required by the shape. Cut off and fasten the thread. Then take a length of white wool. 5th round. *1 slip stitch in the upper front part of the next double; 6 chain, going back along these 6 chain 1 double in the 2d, 5 double, 1 slip stitch where the last stitch was worked, repeat from *. 6th. Like the 5th, only the stitches must be worked in the upper back parts of the same stitches of the 4th row, and the leaves must be lengthened by one stitch each ; the wrong side of the work is the right side of the flower, see Fig. 2. The flowers and leaves on the paler stripes are cro- cheted partly in scarlet, partly in violet, and partly in green (3 shades grass, and 2 olive green) wool. 1st petal. 8 chain, 1 double in Fig. 3. the first chain stitch, then for the following 4 petals 4 times alternately 7 chain, 1 double where the first double was worked ; the wrong side and whi 1do 5 or simi forn seve of 7 longs treb treb The way cha acct and The ster Fig

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WORK DEPARTMENT. 271 side of the crochet is the right side of the flower ; and the centre is finished by 1 knotted stitch of white wool. On the wrong side of the flower, 1 double of green wool in the first chain, then. 5 or 6 chain to form the stem. There are nine similar flowers in each spray, and two more are formed into buds by crocheting around them several treble stitches of green wool (see Fig. 3). For the leaves crochet back along a chain of 20 stitches, as follows: miss 1, 1 treble, 2 long treble, 4 double long treble, 3 treble long treble, 4 double long treble, 7 long treble, 1 treble, 1 double, 1 slip stitch, then 1 chain. The other half of the leaf is worked in the same way along the other side of the foundation chain. Then arrange the flowers and leaves according to Fig. 3. The violet with the olive, and the scarlet with the grass green leaves. The cover is then fitted on to a horse-hair bol- ster, and finished with a cord and tassel, see Fig. 1. -_— >>> DIFFERENT METHODS OF MENDING STOCKINGS. Fie. 1 shows the ordinary way, which con- sists of simple darning. Fig. 2 gives another method which imitates the stitch of the stocking, so as to make the repairs scarcely perceptible. First, cut care- fully along the whole till you have a straight margin on all sides, then fill up the space with Fig. 1. manele drawn across in a straight line from side to side. Thread a sewing or darning needle, let the thread lie to the left, put the needle in the lowest of the crosswise threads, and draw it up carefully till it has made a half stitch; continue till the upper edge of the opening is reached ; then turn the work, pass the needle through the next upper stitch, let the thread lie to the right, put the needle in the next crosswise thread and draw it to a loop, which completes the first stitch ; continue till the opening is filled up. Fig. 3.—This is only another way of working this stitch, as the repair is only perceptible the wrong side. Prepare the opening as before, then draw the threads across from the upper to the lower edge, on the wrong side of the stocking, and continue then for about four stitches beyond the opening; then turn the stocking, and fill up across and across. Great care is required in the transition from the firm edge to the opening itself. Fig. 3 a J ¥, li | Fig. 4 shows how the sound stitches of the margin are joined to the repairing thread. Fig. 4. ] TUNIS IRIN AINA iV Crave TATA SA Als NAVAN NANA NY Wie a 7A A MMT hr Ni TNT ANNA ANN ny NUAVAGA A RAN AN if NAY AN NAN AN AY Lastly, the stocking is turned, ‘the turned down edges of the opening are carefully cut away, and the threads are cut off. ————-“.,.-e_____ CHILD’S KNITTED CAP. Cast on 7 stitches, close them into a circle, and knit as follows: 1st rownd. Knitted. 2d. Alternately cotton forward, knit 1. 3d. Knit- Fig. 1. ted. All the rounds with uneven numbers up to 57 (inclusive) are knitted plain. 4¢h. Alter- nately cotton forward, knit 2 together. 6th, 8th, 10th, and 12th are like the 4th, only the

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272 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. number of knitted stitches is increased by 1in | twice 46¢2 and 48th rounds, and once again the each round. 14th. * Cotton forward, knit 1, | 46¢2,; then pass the first 36 stitches on toa fresh cotton forward, knit 4, knit 2 together; repeat. | needle to form the back of the cap, and knit 16th. * Twice alternately cotton forward, knit | backwards and forwards along the remaining 3, then knit 2 together. 182, * Cotton for- | stitches as follows: 1 row purled, 62 rows in the ward, knit 5, cotton forward, knit 2, knit 2 to- | same pattern as the square just knitted, only gether. 20th. * Cotton forward, knit 2, knit 2 | that the rows with uneven numbers must now together, cotton forward, knit 3, cottton for- | be purled instead of knitted, and two stitches ward, knit 1, knit 2 together. 22d. * Cotton | must be knitted at the beginning of each pat- forward, knit 2, twice alternately knit 2 to- | tern row. Then take up the side marginal gether, cotton forward, then knit 3, cotton | stitches on to needles, and knit in the round, forward, knit 2 together. 24th. * Twice alter- with the 36 stitches for the back, as follows: 4 nately cotton forward, knit 1, then 3 times | rounds purled, then 1 round twice cotton for- alternately knit 2 together, cotton forward, | ward, knit 3 together. In the following round then knit 2, knit 2 together. 26th. * Cotton knit off the made stitches as 1 knitted, 1 purled, forward, knit 3, cotton forward, knit 2, twice | and 1 knitted stitch, then 3 rounds purleu, and alternately knit 2 together, cotton forward, ; cast off. For the knitted edging cast on 8 then knit 2, knit 2 together. 28th. * Cotton | stitches, and knit a plain row. Then, 1st row. forward, knit 5, cotton forward, knit 1, twice | Slip 1, knit 1, twice cotton forward, knit 6. 2d. alternately knit 2 together, cotton forward, | Slip 1, purl 4, knit 2, purl 1, knit 2. 3d. Slip 1, then knit 2, knit 2 together. 30t/. * Cotton | knit 8. 4th. Slip1, purl 4, knit 5. 5th. Slip 1, forward, knit 2, knit 2 together. 32d. * Cotton | knit 1, twice cotton forward, knit 2 together, forward, knit 9, cotton forward, knit 1, knit 2 | twice cotton forward, knit 6. 6th. Slip 1, purl i together, cotton forward, knit 2, knit 2together. | 4, twice alternately knit 2, purl 1, then knit 2. 34th. * Cotton forward, knit 11, cotton forward, | 7th. Slip 1, knit 12. 8th. Cast off 5, knit 7. Re- knit 4, knit2together. 36h. * Cotton forward, | peat till the required length has been obtained, knit 13, cotten forward, knit 3, knit 2 together. | and then sew the edging to the cap. 38th. * Cotton forward, knit 15, cotton forward, knit 2, knit 2together. 40th. * Cotton forward, knit 17, cotton forward, knit 1, knit 2 together. 42d. * Cotton forward, knit 19, cotton forward, knit 2 together. 44¢2. * Cotton forward, knit 21, cotton forward, knit 1. 46th. Now consult Fig. 2, which represents in the original size a part of the square ; * knit 2, 4 times alternately cotton forward, knit 2 together, then knit 1, cotton forward, knit 1, cotton forward, 5 times knit 2 together, cotton forward, knit 1, cotton forward ; repeat from * 6 times. At the end of the round knit 2, twice alternately cotton forward, knit 2 together, then knit 1. 48th. * Knit 1, 4 times alternately knit 2 together, cot- \ 7 ‘ ” 7 Wands Wig? So t> WL Ad . yi 4 x \ " EMBROIDERED PEN-WIPER. THE central part is of black cloth, around | which are twelve separate pieces, six scarlet Fig. 1. Cit Ao Fig. 2.—Detail of Cap. ton forward, then knit 2, cotton forward, knit 3, cotton forward, knit 2 together, knit 3 to- gether, cotton forward, knit 3, cotton forward ; repeat from *6 times. At the end of the round knit 1, twice alternately knit 2 together, knit 2 | and six black, cut from the pattern given in together, cotton forward, then knit 2. Repeat | Figs. 2 or 3. Each of these pieces is embroid- cc pl bl:

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WORK DEPARTMENT. 273

= Mihi ih ul) i it a < 1 v,! ; Ht = itll le HS ‘i ie

Fig. 3. shi Se us ered in point russe, with purse silk of various colors; they are then joined together on the wrong side with overcast stitches, and held in place by a strip of cloth ornamented with gold braid and beads. The strip and the separate

att vals. The strips of canvas are embroidered with brown single Berlin wool in point russe. Fig. 2 gives the original size of this embroidery ; the cover is lined with brown oil baize, and bound with sarsnet ribbon to match. Fig. L pieces are vandyked, and the latter are arranged around the black cloth centre in alternate colors of black and scarlet. vv. oa ere aver? COVER FOR DINING TABLE. Tats cover is worked on canvas, into which black cane has been woven at regular inter-

SERMON CASE.—BRAIDWORK. (See Colored Engraving in Front of Book.) SILK velvet to suit the taste, and gold or sil- ver cord. Letters embroidered with siik. The other side of sermon case to be em- broidered with the outer pattern.

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274 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. Receipts, Etc. DINNER SeRVIETTES. (For General Directions, see Receipt Department, October number, 1873.) THE CARDINAL’S HAT SERVIETTE. For this design the serviette should be half as long again as it is broad; if, however, your serviette is Fig. 1. square, fold under one-third of it. Fold the topdown three inches, then fold the edges upwards {one inch, and again another fold upwards, to within half an inch of the top (see Fig. 1). Turn the serviette over, and crease down the corners. according to the broken black lines (Fig. 1). Fold the bottom edge three inches upwards, downwards one inch, and again half Fig. 3. an inch in the same direction (see Fig. 2). Fold the lower half of the serviette upwards to within an inch of the top (see Fig. 3). Crease the corners down- wards, as in Fig. 4. Fold the bottom of the serviette upwards, to form the band of the hat; hold with both hands (see Fig. 5), form the band around, and tuck the right end into the folds of the band. Open the hat to make it stand firmly. MISCELLANEOUS COOKING. To Boil Hels.—The small ones are best. Do them ina small quantity of water, with a good deal of pars- Fig. 2 ley, which should be served up with them and the liquor. Serve chopped parsley and butter for sauce. Time required, from ten to fifteen minutes. To Fry Eels.—If small, should be curled round and fried, being first dipped into egg and crums of bread. If large they should be skinned and cut into lengths, after which they are treated like the small ones. Fig. 4. HH Séssssbiiticeee $3353 To Coliar Eels.—Bone a large eel, but do not skin it; mix pepper, salt, mace, allspice, and a clove or two, in the finest powder, and rub over the whole in- side ; roll it tight and bind with a coarse tape; boil in salt and water till done, then add vinegar, and 35285 mmawnmaeansewenenmea 4 SOA Se Ye Ul Oe ew erwaewaedgenmereours2 ete =e2 6

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RECEIPTS. 275 when cold keep the collar in pickle. Serve it either who'e or in slices. Chopped sage, parsley, and a little thyme, knotted marjoram, and savory, mixed with the spices, greatly improve the taste. To Stew EHels.—Cut them in short pieces; fry them a@ little, then put them in a stewpan and season with salt, pepper,gand nutmeg; just cover with gravy, then put in one onion stuck with eight cloves, some mace, lemon-peel, and a little horseradish; when half done add a handful of parsley cut small, a quarter of a pint of port-wine, and a quarter of a pound of fresh butter. Turnip Soup.—Take off a knuckle of veal all the meat that can be made into cut- lets, etc., and set the remain- der on to stew with an onion, a bunch of herbs, a blade of mace, and five pints of water ; cover it close, and let it stew on a slow fire four or five hours. Strain and set it up till next day, then take the fat and sediment from it, and simmer it witk turnips cut into small dice till tender, seasoning it with salt and pepper. Before serving, rub down half aspoonful of flour, with half a pint of good cream, and the size of a wal- nut of butter. Let a small roll simmer: in the soup till soaked through, and serve this with it. It should be as thick as middling cream. To Hash Beef or Mutton.— Cut the meat into small thin slices, put two tablespoon- fuls of flour into a dish, with a teaspoonful of pepper ; mix them together, and rub the slices 01 meat with it; place in a large and shallow stew- pan a piece of butter the size of a walnut (and if liked, three small onions cut in small pieces); put it on the fire till the onion is browned, then add the meat. which warm on one side, and turn over. When warmed through pour over it a pint of hot water, and two pickled gher- kins cut in slices, and a ta- blespoonful of the vinegar from the pickle, alse a table- spoonful of walnut ketchup; boil up and serve with sip- pets of toasted bread. Savory Omelet.— Make a batter of eggs and milk and a very little flour; put to it chopped parsley, green onions, or chives (the latter are best), or a very small quantity of shalot, a little pepper, salt, and a scrape or twoof nutmeg. Makesome butter, boil in a small fryingpan, and pour the above batter into it; when one side is of a fine yellow-brown, turn it and do the other. Double it when served. Some scraped lean ham, or grated tongue, put in at first, is a very pleas- ant addition. Four eggs will make a pretty-sized omelet; but many cooks will use eight or ten. A small proportion of flour should be used. If the taste be approved, a /ittle tarragon gives a fine flavor. A good deal of parsiey should be used. French Soup (very good and cheap).—A sheep's head and pluck boiled gently in a gallon of water till reduced to half the quantity, a small teacupful of pearl-barley, six large onions, one turnip, one carrot. a bunch of sweet herbs, and a few cloves and pepper- eorns. Add a little mushroom ketchup, and thicken with some flour rolled in a lump of butter. It is bet- ter to boil it the day before it is wanted. Cut the meat off the head in slices as for hashed calf's head (taking it out for this purpose as soon as it is suffi- ciently tender), and then into small squares, which must be put into the soup again when it is warmed Fig. 6.—SERVIETTE COMPLETE. up for use. Finish it up with forcemeat and little egg-balls, and a teacupful of white wine, which, with the addition of a little sugar, makes it nearly equal to mock-turtle. Mock- Turtle Soup.—Halve a calf’s head, take out the brains, and put as much water as you wish to make soup, with sweet herbs, parsley, a few onions, and some lemon-peel. Stew it gently until the meat is tender ; then take it out and let it get cold ; thicken the soup with a little flour and butter, and strain it through a sieve. Add sherry wine, a little walnut and mushroom ketchup, pounded mace, and Cay- enne. Take the brains and beat them up with a

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276 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. little flour and two eggs into a light batter, adding pepper and salt, and some parsley chopped very fine; then take the yelks of two eggs and beat them up; make them into as many portionsas you please, tying each in a bit of muslin, and boil them in little round balls; the batter made with the brains is-to be fried into cakes a light brown. When the head is cold it must be cut into small pieces and laid in the gravy, the cakes and eggs, with some forcemeat balls, to be laid on the top of the soup just before it is sent to table. Every particle of fat must be removed from the surface before warming the soup for the table. PANCAKES, OR FRITTERS. Pancakes are made by forming a common batter, and then frying this ina thin layer. When of a large size they are called pancakes; and when so small as to allow of several being fried in the same pan, they are called fritters. These are often mixed with ap- ples, currants, ete. Omelets are made jn a similar way, the ingredients being slightly different, and being also fried in thicker layers as to substance. There is a little art in turning the pancake, which, by a clever cook, is “tossed” in the air and caught again as it falls; but this is not by any means neces- sary, as with the aid of a common fork the edge may easily be raised, and the whole turned over. To Beat Hogs.—The following excellent remarks on the proper mode of effecting this apparently sim- ple operation are extracted from Miss Leslie’s book on Cookery: “*Those who do not know the right way, complain much of the fatigue of beating eggs, and therefore leave off too soon. There will be no fatigue if they are beaten with the proper stroke, and with wooden rods, and in a shallow, flat-bottomed earthen pan. The coldness of a tin pan retards the lightness of the eggs. For the same reason do not use a metal egg-beater. In beating them do not move the elbow, but keep it close to the side. Move only the hand at the wrist, and let the stroke be quick, short, and horizontal; putting the egg-beater always down to the bottom of the pan, which should therefore be shallow. Do not leave off as soon as the eggs are in a foam; they are then only beginning to be light. But persist till after the foaming has ceased, and the bubbles have all disappeared. Continue till the surface is smmoth as a mirror, and the beaten egg as thick as a rich boiled custard ; for till then it will not be really light. It is seldom necessary to beat the whites and yelks separately, if they are afterwards to be put together. The article will be quite as light, when cooked, if the whites and yelks are beaten together, and there will then be no dan- ger of their going in streaks when baked. When white of egg is to be used without any yelk (as for macaroons, meringues, icing, etc.), it should be beaten till it stands alone on the rods, not falling when held up.” Common Pancakes,—Make a light batter of three spoonfuls of flour, three eggs well beaten, and half a pint of milk, some of which, with the eggs, is to be mixed with the flour; tg the other part, put a quarter of a pound of butter melted. Then mix altogether, and put into the frying-pan in a very thin layer. Fry with lard or dripping; but do not put any butter into the pan to fry them after the first frying, as they will give out enough afterwards to keep up the stock, Sugar and lemon should be served to eat with them. Or, when eggs are scarce, make the batter with flour, small beer, ginger, ete. Or, clean snow with flour, and very little milk will serve, but not nearly as well as eggs. Rich Pancakes, Fried without Butter or Lard.— Beat six fresh eggs extremely well, and mix when strained with a pint of cream, four ounces of sugar, a glass of wine, half a nutmeg grated, and as much flour as will make it almost as thick as ordinary pan- cake batter, but not quite. Heat the frying-pan tol- erably hot, wipe it with a elean cloth; then pour in the batter to make thin pancakes, and watch them that they do not burn, which is to be prevented by turning them. Rice Pancakes.—Boil half a pound of rice toa jelly in a small quantity of water; when cold mix it with a pint of cream, eight eggs, a bit of salt and nutmeg; stir in eight ounces of butter just warmed, and add as much flour as will make the batter thick enough. Fry in as little lard or dripping as possible. Fritters.—Make them of any of the batters directed for pancakes, by dropping a small quantity into the pan; or make the plainer sort, and put pared-apple sliced and cored into the batter, and fry some of it with each slice. Currants, or sliced lemon as thin as paper, make an agreeable change. Fritters for com- pany should be served ona folded napkin in the dish. Any sort of sweetmeat or ripe fruit may be made into fritters. Spanish Fritters.—Cut the crum of a roll into lengths, as thick as the finger, in any approved shape. Soak in some cream, nutmeg, sugar, and pounded cinnamon, beaten up with an egg. When well soaked, fry of a nice brown, and serve with but- ter, wine, and sugar sauce. Potato Fritters.— Boil two large potatoes, mash them well, beat four yelks and three whites of eggs, and add to the above with one large spoonful of cream, another of sweet wine, a squeeze of lemon, and a little nutmeg. Beat this batter half an hour at least. It will be extremely light. Put a good quan- tity of fine lard in a stewpan, and drop a spoonful of the batter at a time into it. Fry them; and serve with a sauce composed of a glass of white wine, the juice of a lemon, one dessertspoonful of peach-leaf or almond water, and some white sugar warmed to- gether, or the common wine sauce, MISCELLANEOUS. Used Tea Leaves, if put into decanters and tho- roughly shaken about with a little water, will clean and polish the insides. Toast Water.—When you have toasted until brown about half a slice of a wheat loaf, pour over it in a jar or jug about a quart of water. Let it stand an hour and a half, and pour the water clear from the toast into a wine decanter. If a flavor be desired, it can be added to the taste of the individual. To Clean Grease off Gas Shades.—Put a good quan- tity of soda in some water (not very warm), wash the globe in this with a little soap, allow it to stand in the same water for some hours, you will find that on taking it out and rinsing it again the grease marks will have disappeared entirely. Sufficient water should be used to cover the vlobe. Cramp in the Leg.—An effectual method of pre- venting cramp in the calves of the legs, which is so exceedingly painful, is to stretch out the Aeel of the leg as far as possible, at the same time drawing up the toes towards the body. This will frequently stop a fit of the cramp after it has commenced, and any one will, after a little practice, be able generally to prevent the fit coming on, though its approach be be- tween sleeping and waking. Persons subject to this complaint should have a board fixed at the bottom of the bed, against which the foot should be pressed when the pain commences. Chalk Ointment for a Burn.—Mix as much pre- pared chalk as you ean into some lard, so as to form a thick ointment. 60 © 2h oe oe ot A oe. . ek. Oe ee cs ate

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EDITORS’ TABLE. no -1 eS Editors’ Cable. FLOWER MISSIONS IN ENGLAND. One of the must pleasing of the many charities which have come into existence in these latter times is that to which the name of the “ Flower Mission” has been given. It originated, as an organized sys- tem, about five years ago, with some benevolent ladies of Boston. Thence it quickly spread to New York and other cities of the Union, and somewhat later to England. In that country it seems to have found a congenial home, judging from the interest- ing reports which have appeared under the signature of the Secretary of the London Home Mission, Miss Mary Stanley, who seems indefatigable in her exer- tions on behalf of the work. There is good reason why this form of charity should meet with warm ac- ceptance in the old country. Great Britain is a land of large towns. The metropolis is a nation com- pressed intoa city. In London, Liverpool, Manches- ter, Edinburgh, and many other centres of population, there are thousands of sick poor, and of children to whom the sight and fragrance of flowers would be an unaccustomed pleasure. On the other hand, out- side of the cities, England may be styled a land of gardens. The poorest cottage has its flower-plot. The great mansion has its acres of floral beauties and marvels, under the charge of experienced gar- deners, whose pride as well as duty it is to keep up the gorgeous display throughout the greater part of the year. Wildflowers of various kinds, whose names bespangle the verses of British poets, from Chaucer to Jean Ingelow, spring up in every field and wood. This wealth of flowers, intended by Providence, as Mary Howitt reminds us in her charming poem on the subject, “To minister delight to man, To beautify the earth,” is now turned to account, through the active benevo- lence of a few ladies who have taken the work in hand, to an extent never before thought of. They have arranged a system similar to that which was first devised in Boston, of distributing the flowers regularly through the hospitals, infirmaries, and in- fant schools, and in the dwellings of the sick poor of the large cities. Rooms have been taken for the purpose, and appeals have been sent through the country, which have been liberally answered. No less than thirty-five of the fifty counties of Eng- land have already furnished contributions to Lon- don, some of them on a very generous scale, Many of the contributors send a hamper regularly every week or every fortnight. School children gather wildflowers, which the ladies of the neighborhood make up into posies, and send to the city. In one case, at a wedding gathering in Somersetshire, ‘‘an out-door éxcursion was substituted for an evening party, and the thirty guests went out on the Quan- tock Hills, and fell to gathering flowers for the Lon- don poor, speedily filling two large hampers.” If no other good were done by these missions than that of calling forth so much kindly feeling between the rich and poor, the country and the city, one could hardly estimate their value too highly. But, from all accounts, the real usefulness of the work is very great. The flowers, when received, are taken in charge by committees of ladies, who dis- tribute them, either personally, or through the help of district visitors and other assistants, where they will be most acceptable. To invalids, languishing in the hospitals, or in their homes in the squalid re- cesses of the poorer wards of the city, the bouquets of flowers, fresh from the country, are a perpetually new delight. And not merely the flowers, but also the kindly interest and thoughtfulness implied in collecting, preparing, and distributing them, afford at: unexpected pleasure. While the senses are grati- fied, the feelings are touched and soothed. Givers and receivers alike are benefited. In the Edinburgh Infirmary, we are told, “one poor girl, in great agony, looked up at one of the floral visitors who expressed her sorrow for her sufferings, and said, with surprise, ‘Are you? I thought no one cared,’ and from that day she at least learned the sweetness of human sympathy.” And the visitor, we may add, learned a lesson not less valuable. The account of the distribution at an infant school in London, though given with the dry details of an official re- port, has in it something very touching and sug- gestive :— “The distribution, by the kind rector, took place in the infant school on alternate Saturdays. On the first occasion, 95 nosezays were ers afterwards, the numbers varied from 290 to , 309 being the highest. On May 3d, two boxes of primroses and violets were sent from Hitchen espe- cially for children, and 75 were made happy by re- ceiving each a bunch. This raised hopes for the next ‘ Flower Saturday,’ but, alas! there were none for them. We made a collection of all the fallen petals and leaves, and bits of moss, and gave each expectant child a handful in its pinafore orcap. This supplemental distribution was continued through the season, and gave the children much pleasure. Often, as I walked home, I have seen two or three of them sitting on a doorstep arranging and dividing their treasures, as happy as could be. Had it not been for the excellent order maintzined among them by a lady who gave up her whole afternoon to man- aging them, this distribution would have been im- »ssible, and we should have required the aid of she police to keep the street door, the crowd of little ones was so great.” That this charitable work, which the ladies of Bos- ton began, has already spread so widely, and does so much good, is a fact not a little gratifying. We ean hardly doubt that it will soon extend to the con- tinent of Europe, and that before many years every city in every Christian land will have its “floral mission” to cheer the sick room, to charm and in- struct the littie school chidren, and to awaken those gentle feeling$ and innocent tastes, whose office in society, like that of flowers in nature, is to “ minis- ter delight,” and to diffuse loveliness wherever they appear. ‘rmission of the GOOD ENGLISH. NO. iil.* THERE is a curious contrast between the life of Johnson and his published works. If we had only the latter to judge by, how different would have been our impression of the man! Some pedant from Oxford, we should have said, some university profes- sor, who has studied so much Greek and Latin that he has lost the power of writing good English; some man whose work has lain so entirely among words and phrases in a foreign tongue that he has lost sight of the vigorous Saxon which expresses those common wants and feelings that he has well nigh forgotten. * The Sources of Standard English. By T. L K ' Oliphant. McMillan & Co.

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278 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.

In truth, we owe our knowledge of the real Johnson almost entirely to Boswell, who has preserved for us what the doctor said in his very words before the natural salt had disappeared in the tasteless para- phrases of his pen. That a strong, downright man like Johnson, full of homely common sense, and full, also, of English prejudices, should have been the chief promoter of a | Latinized lingo, whose chief object is to say a thing in the most words possible, is a queer contradiction in facts. The explanation probably is that his reason never served him when any strong inclination or aversion had taken possession of his mind. His fondness for the circumlocutions of Sir Thomas Browne had falsified his taste in early youth; and, as was said of Burke in the same generation, he de- fended like a philosopher the belief which he had espoused like a fanatic. Johnson was in his lifetime revered by a tasteless generation as the greatest of all masters of English; his disciples, more especially Gibbon, have still fur- ther Latinized our tongue. The dictator, however, seems in his old age to have felt a lurking conscious- ness that he had gone too far; his last works show a far purer taste than those he wrote at forty. His good, sound, Teutonic talk has often been contrasted with the vicious Latinisms which he penned. How forcible are his compounds, “an unclubbable man,”’ *“ wretched unideaed girls!’ and his verb, “‘I downed him with that.” “While on the subject of Johnson,” peronce Mr. Oliphant, “one cannot help regretting that neither he nor his friends ever knew of the kinsmanship be- tween the tongues of Southern Asia and Europe. Had the great discovery been made thirty years earlier than it was, he and Burke would have had a safer topic for debate than the Rockingham minis- try. How heartily would those lordly minds have welcomed the wondrous revelation that almost all mankind, dwelling between the Ganges and the Shannon, were linked together by the most ne of ties! How warmly would the sages have glowe with wrath or with love, far more warmly than ever before, when talking of Omichund or Nuncomaz, of the Corsican patriot, or the Laird of Coll! From how many blunders in philology would shrewd Par- son Horne have been kept! No such banquet had been set before the wise since the Greeks, four hun- dred years earlier, unfolded their lore first to the Italians, and then to the ey mae Transalpines, It was not in vain that the new lords of Hindostan in- duced the Brahmins to throw open what had been of yore so carefully kept under lock and key. But the main credit of the new feast must be given to others; if the English brought home the game, it was the Germans who cooked it. “ About the time that the aforesaid discovery was made, the English muse was once more soaring on high. Her happlew efforts have mostly been made at the moment when —- knights have been winning their spurs abroad; and this remark is as true of af mcm nage time as of the days of the Black Prince or Raleigh. Nine or ten great Bnglish writers were at work soon after 1800. ott rose aloft over his brethren; but he was dethroned in his own life- time (never had such a thing been known in our literature) by a greater bard than himself. Byron had the good taste to tread in the path followed by his Nortuern rival; both of them in their diction set the simplicity of the early part of the fourteenth century far above all the gewyaws of certain later ages. Now it was that such words as losel and leech awoke after a long sleep. Bishop Percy, although Dr. Johnson laughed, had already led the English back to old wells, streams purer than any known to Pope. Burns had written in his own dialect verses that were prized by the high and the low alike. Coleridge’s great ballad betokened that the public taste was veering round; he also turned the eyes of England to the vast intellectual wealth, which was now being poured into the lap of Germany. Some- what later, Schiller and Manzoni alike felt the Eng- lish spell. Thanks to the poetry of Burns and the prose of Seott, the fine gentlemen of London and Oxford began to see what pith and harmony were lurking in the good old English of the North, “We have in our own day seen many attempts, like those of Mr. Barnes in rset, to bring the va- rious dialects of England before the reading public. How many old words, dropped by our litera- ture since 1500, might be recovered from these sources! If our ish makers set themselves ear- nestly to the task (they have already made a begin- ning), there is good hope that our grandchildren may freely use scores of Chaucer’s words that we ourselves are driven to call obsolete. “Prose has followed in Poetry’s wake. No good author of our time, writing on a subject that is not highty scientific, would dream of abusing language as Gibbon did, when he cleverly, in many passages, elbowed out almost all Teutonic words, except such as his, to, of, and the like. Cobbett roused us from our foreign dantry; and if we do not always reach Tyndale’s bountiful proportion of foreign words in his political tracts, we at least do not fall below the proportion employed by Addison. In proof of this, let any one contrast the diction of our modern English writers or Charles V. with the Latinized style wherein Dr. Robertson revels when handling the same subject. That fine passage in which Mr. Froude sets before us the Armada leaving the Spanish shore, would have been altogether be- yond Hume a hundred years ago. “The change from Latinism back to Teutonism may be seen in speaking, as well as in writing. Of all our Parliament men, none in our day has em- ployed a racier diction than Mr. Bright. He has clearly borrowed much from the great sixteenth century; he sometimes seems to be kindled with the fire of one of those Hebrew prophets, whom Tyndale gad Le friend loved to translate into the soundest of nglish. “Pitt the elder, as we hear, knew nothing well but the Faery Queen; Pitt the younger took for his pat- tern the great speeches in the first book of ‘* Para- dise Lost ;’ Mr. Bright has gone still further back in search of a model. There is nothing pleasanter in our literature than the fond reverence with which each man, who is worth aught, looks back to the great spirits that went before.” With this eloquent paragraph we leave the subject for this month. We hope to recur to it in our con- cluding paper. “OH GENTLY SCAN THY BROTHER MAN.” WHEN we consider the great interest the governing half of mankind has shown in writing, preaching, talking, journalizing for the benefit of woman, how is it that so little has been done, even according to her limited abilities by woman for man? Will the Lapy’s Book allow an attempt, feeble indeed but well meant, to supply this deficiency? All or nearly allof these masculine strictures have been variations upon the same refrain. “Bring up your daughters to be wives and mothers; all other duties are null, all other study superfluous.” Now, it must be admitted that there can be no wives or mothers without husbands and fathers, and the writers upon education have in general strangely for- gotten this. Not a word is said to youths to induce them to cultivate qualities that will make them agree- able to their future wives, and to fit them to be just what is suitable to a sensible and refined lady. Mod- esty, patience, forbearance, girls are told they must have as wives—the very same qualities are indispen- sable to husbands. Pope said:— “Tf to dance all night, and dress allday . Frightened disease or chased old age away, bahar | =a not scorn what household cares pro- nce— Or who would do one earthly thing of use ?”’ Now, it might be said to the jeunesse dorée of the present day, ‘If to play cards all nightand smoke all day,” ete. Young gentlemen, if you wish a sensible | woman to marry you, and if you wish to be happy | with her, eschew tobacco, over indulgence in wine, | life at clubs; cultivate your minds, your hearts: try | the “‘ways of religion and truth,” then the golden | age will begin with you. When you return from the | yaried and interesting career of business, fraught

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EDITORS’ TABLE. 279 with new ideas, new scenes, always present a smil- ing face to the pale, gentle wife, overpowered with the wearying, monotonous cares of a household diffi- cuit to manage; with nerves quivering from the anx- ieties of maternal love. You can make a change in the current of the poor creature’s troubles, your stronger mind and better information can arouse and animate her. Then you will be loved with a love based on unaffected respect and esteem and such happiness as this earth affords will be your lot. A WOMAN’S SUCCESS IN ART. WHEN Rosa Bonheur achieved distinction as a painter of horses and cattle, grooms and ploughboys, she did not a little to perplex the notions of those who fancied that the artistic faculties of women were re- stricted toa narrow and, so to speak, dainty and femi- nine range of subjects, instead of having the whole field of nature and the whole world of imagination open to them. The same class of critics must be still more startled by the success of a picture which has been shown this year at the Royal Academy Exhibi- tion in England. This picture, which had for its sub- ject “Calling the Roll after a Battle in the Crimea,” was of such striking merit as to attract unusual atten- tion. At the annual dinner of the Royal Academy, which was attended by the Prince of Wales, Mr. Dis- raeli, and other celebrities, special mention was made of the picture by the prince in his speech—a very unusual circumstance. It appears that the art- ist, Miss Thompson, had previously painted chiefly for the picture dealers. One of these, unluckily for her, became the owner of the painting before its ex- hibition, at the price of £80. On the day of the open- ing, he was offered £1000 for it, and it is reported subsequently to have become the property of the Prince of Wales at a still higher price. Miss Thompson, who, it is said, is not yet twenty- five years of age, acted as nurse during the Franco- German war, and formed a resolution at that time to paint a battle scene. It is satisfactory to observe, however, that this resolution was not strictly carried out. The picture of a battle sceneis seldom anything but a display of unintelligible turmoil and objectless fury. The subject which Miss Thompson has se- lected, on the contrary, is one which, under the pen- cil of a good artist, should be full of meaning and éffect. It is, after all, a true woman’s choice, which seeks to depict, not the bloodshed and destruction, but the moral and sentiment, of war, A DESCENDANT OF JOHN ALDEN. TuHart first wedding among the Mayflower pilgrims, the marriage of John Alden to the “ Puritan maiden Priscilla,” the subject of Longfellow’s exquisite idyl, is recalled to mind by the announcement that Mrs. Phebe C. Bailey, a great-great-granddaughter of this wedded pair, has lately died in Dover, N. H., at the age of ninety-one. In her youth she must often have spoken with persons who had heard descriptions of this interesting event from some who were present on the occasion and who had seen the blushing bride borne in novel state to her home, through the smiling crowd of friends, when *“ Alden, the thoughtful, the careful, so happy, so proud of Priscilla, Besages out his snow-white steer, obeying the hand Y) its master ; Led by a cord that was tied to an iron ring in its nos- t Covered with crimson cloth, and a cushion placed for a saddle.” We ean see in fancy the snow-white ox, with its fair freight, plodding its patient way through the leafy woods of Plymouth, and we think how little the par- ticipants in this primitive “wedding tour” could have imagined the changed world in which their granddaughter’s granddaughter would pass away— a lesson to be taken to heart in our own speculations about the future. NOTES AND NOTICES. LADY SHAKSPEAREANS.—The increasing study of the great English dramatist has led to the forma- tion of a Shakspeare Society in England. We see it stated that Madame Gervinus, the widow of the dis- tinguished German commentator on Shakspeare, and his intelligent assistant in his labors, has consented to become one of the vice-presidents of the society. The invitation extended to her came becomingly from a country in which the “Shakspeare Concor- dance,’’ the most useful and laborious work perhaps pertaining to the subject of the society’s study, has been given to the world by a lady, Mrs. Cowden Clarke. ADULTERATION OF Foop.—The English Parliament passed, two years ago, an “ Adulteration Act,” to prevent fraudulent practices in regard to various articles of food and drink. There was some doubt on the subject whether the law would be carried out with much practical efficietey. Butit appears by the English papers that it has been vigorously enforced in London, with excellent results. In especial, it has produced a notable reform in the milk trade. If any milk be sold that is mixed with water, no matter how little, the first offence makes the seller liable to a fine of £20, and the second transgression to the publica- tion of his name and conviction in the newspapers of his district, in addition to thgfine. A law of this description in our large cities, if it could be as well enforced, would be a boon to long-suffering house- keepers. XaNnaDvu.—Dr. Bushell, physiciah to the British Legation at Pekin, not long since made a journey through inner. Mongolia to Kalgan, and thence north- westerly to Shangtu, the old northern capital of the Yuan dynasty, described by the great Venetian tra- velle7, Tares Polo. This place was built by the fa- mous Kublai Khan, and is referred to by Coleridge in his well-known lines:— “In Xanadu did Kublai Khan A stately pleasure dome decree.” Dr. Bushell found the site a complete desert, over- grown with rank weeds and grass, the abode of foxes amd owls, which prey on the numerous ep rats and partridges. The walls of the city, built of earth, faced with unhewn stone and brick, are still stand- ing, but are more or less dilapidated, and the inclosed space is strewn with blocks of marble and other re- mains of large temples and palaces, while broken lions, dragons, and the remains of other carved monuments lie about in every direction, half hidden by the thick and tangled overgrowth. A BERLIN correspondent writes :— *“T have learned that the saying ‘ Berlin wird well- stadt’ originated with the Kladderadatch at the time Mrs. Dr.'Hirsehfeld graduated in Philadelphia and returned to Berlin to practice dentistry. Her effort was pronounced an experiment and a humbug that would find no imitators. On the contrary, her suc- cess has been so extraordinary that-since that time, four years ago, she now stands very near the fuifil- ment of her wishes of founding a female college, where the long-neglected duty of proper attention to children’s teeth may be thoroughly studied. Follow- ing Mrs. Hirschfeld’s example, three other ladies have been to America, graduated with the highest honors, and returned to the practice of their profes- sionin Germany. Two were received with the great- est enthusiasm at their homes in East Prussia, and the third fraulein, Dr. Jacoby, is now in partnership with Mrs. Hirschfeld, whose business was larger than she possibly could attend to.”

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3 Health Department. USE OF BATHS. Sea-Bathing, whether hot or cold, is intended to restore the tone of the system when it has been re- duced by any cause, such as fever, or mental anxiety, etc. It does not, however, always produce the de. sired effect, and in some cases more harm is done than good, especially when each act of bathing is con- tinued for too long a time. Medical advice should, in such cases, always be obtained, defining the exact number, temperature, etc. In many cases, after a severe disease, one or two tepid baths should be used before bathing in the sea-water of the natural tem- ‘perature. Hot Baths, ineluding also those called warm baths, which are the lowest of the class in point of tempera- ture, are exceedingly valuable in relieving certain diseases, by producing perspiration, and thus acting Jor the time upon the circulating system. The first effect of a hot bath is to raise the action of the heart to a high degree, producing throbbing of the vessels of the head, and in some cases mischief in the brain. After a time a profuse perspiration breaks out over the whole body; and this may be kept up for some hours by means of plenty of warm blankets. Warm baths seem to soothe the general nervous system, and are of great use in spasms of any kind, as well as in the convulsions of young children, caused by irritation; but, in order to produce the effect, the body must be submitted to the action of warm water for at least fifteen or twenty minutes, and sometimes for half an hour. jn the case of infants, however, more than five or ten minutes will seldom be borne without fainting. Hot baths are by no means a class of agents to be trifled with, and in medical cases where there is time to obtain it, regular advice should be had recourse to before using them. Sometimes, however, in convulsions, there is noe possibility of procuring this at once, and in such case a hot bath is the remedy least likely to be improperly applied. The temperature at which a hot bath should be used varies according to the nature of the disease for which it is employed, and to the peculiarities of the individ. ual. Thus, some people find 100 degrees uncomfort- ably cold, while others can hardly endure this heat. ‘To some a bath at 08 degrees would be quite danger- ous, while others enjoy water at 120 degrees. But, on the average, it will be found that when a soothifig effect is required, either for the skin or for internal organs, the water should be only warm, that is, from 97 degrees to 100 degrees; while, if a violent perspi- ration is wanted, or if spasm or congestion of an in- ternal organ are to be relieved, it should be raised to 102 degrees or to 108 degrees, and the body should be immersed in it for at least half an hour, unless faint- ness is produced before the expiration of that period. After coming out of the bath, if perspiration is not desired, it is better to dress rapidly, clothe rather warmly, and then to take a gentle walk, after which there will be little inclination to break out. But ifa perspiration is the object of the bath, bed is the best place for its development, and a very hot blanket should be wrapped around the naked body, with more on the top, so as to act at once by retaining the heat imbibed in the bath, and, also, that generated by the body, in consequence of the increased action of the heart. After a few hours’ perspiration, it is generally desirable to stop it, and then the blanket may be taken olf, and the night clothing puton. A very good plan is to make up the bath-bed above the usual one, putting on all blankets required for the purpose quite independent of it, so that when the ob-

ject is attained, the night-clothes being slipped on, the ordinary bedding is quite warm from the heat of the body above it, and yet it is preserved dry. The Hip, or Sitz Bath as the hydropathists call it, is a valuable remedy, either hot or cold, according as itis required. When used hot it allays spasm, or irritation about the bladder or lower bowels, or any of the organs within the pelvis, and the body shovid for this purpose be immersed in it for at least, half an hour. When cold, constituting the ordinary sitz bath, itis highly bracing, and should be used only for a very short time, <A very useful form of sitz bath has lately been introduced, consisting in a constant stream of water introduced in the middle by attach- ing a water-pipe, and the superfluous water passing off by a waste-pipe. Shower Baths are constantly used to relieve con- gestion of the brain, which they do partly by causing a shock to the whole of the nervous system, and partly by causing a reaction and consequent in- creased supply of blood to the vessels of the skin of the head and face, by which the brain inside is re- lieved. In severe cases it is better to put the feet in hot water, or sometimes the lower part of the body. It is, however, seldom that invalids are justified in using these means without medical advice. fiterary Aotices.

From J. B. Lipprncort & Co., Philadelphia :— THE SECOND WIFE. A Romance. From the German of E. Marlitt, by Mrs. A. L. Wister. We are pleased to see the better class of foreign literature introduced to American readers. This story advo- cates the dignity of labor and the advancement of woman, yet it is withal exceedingly entertaining as a story, and most unexceptionable in point of morals. HULDA; or, The Deliverer. A Romance. After the German of E. Lewald, by Mrs. A. L. Wister. Mrs. Wister’s selections of German novels for translation are always most judicious. Not only are they intrin- sically excellent, but they are such as meet the public approbation, as the favor with which her translations are always received plainly testifies. The novel be- fore us is an entertaining one, and we recommend it to our readers. From T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philada. :— THE ORPHAN’S TRIALS; or, Alone in a Great City. By Emerson Bennett, author of “Clara More- land, ete.” Mr. Bennett is one of the most pepular of American novelists. This story is most intensely interesting, at the same time that it inculcates the highest moral lessons, and shows how vice is sooner or later sure to meet retribution. THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF EDWARD WORT- LEY MONTAGUE. ° With a Preface by R. Shelton Mackenzie, LL.D. The publishers offer this book again to the public, trusting that the favor which it has hitherto met will not forsake it. THE BRIGAND; or, The Demon of the North (Hans D’Tsiande). By Victor Hugo. This is one of Hugo’s earlier stories, and is a production of which the author of “Les Miserables” and “’93’’ need not be ashamed. SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. A Novel. By Mrs. C. J. Newby. Mrs. Newby’s works are meeting with considerable favor, and this is quite equal to any which has preceded it. From HARPER & BRoTHERS, New York, through CLAXTON, REMSEN, & HAFFELFINGER, Philada. :— UNDER THE TREES. By Samuel Irenzus Prime.

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LITERARY NOTICES. 281 A book written under the trees, and a book to be read under the trees, when all the inspirations of the writer will come to the reader at first hand, and he will find himself not so much reading, as apparently thinking in unison with the book. It is a delightful book, at all events, which will bear reading every- where. COOMASSIE AND MAGDALA: TheStoryof Two British Campaignsin Africa. By Henry M. Stanley, author of “ How I Found Livingstone."” Whatever appertains to Africa, that almost terra inconnu, is sure to interest intelligent men and women. The author visited Abyssinia as special correspondent of the New York Herald, and there had an opportunity of seeing the war which occurred between that coun- try and England a few years ago. OLD WELLS DUG OUT: Being a Third Series of Sermons. By T. De Witt Talmage, author of “Crumbs Swept Up,” ete. The Rev. Mr. Talmage is one of the live mea of the day. He does not feed his spiritual flock on the dry husks of theological dog- mas, but he preaches to them truths fitting into their daily lives, and régarding questions of the hour. We are glad to see his sermons offered for the reading of all, and believe there are none of whatever creed who may not be benefited by them. THE LIVING LINK. A Novel. By James De Mille, author of “‘The Dodge Club,” ete. Mr. De Mille writes with rare power. His story is exceed- ingly sensational in its character, yet there is no clumsiness in dealing with this sensational element. The illustrations by W. L. Shepard are creditably executed. MY MISCELLANIES. By Wilkie Collins. This is a collection of short sketches from the pen of the well-known English novelist, now for the first time gathered together in book form, A fine steel por- trait of Collins faces the title-page. LADY ANNA. A Novel. By Anthony Trollope. SECOND COUSIN SARAH. A Novel. By F. W. Robinson. TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. A Novel. By Miss M. E. Braddon. Three novels by well-known authors, each one of which is well worthy of perusal. MISS MOORE. A Tale for Girls. By Georgiana M. Craik. This little book belongs to the series of “Books for Girls,” edited by the author of “John Halifax, Gentleman.” This announcement isenough to secure it the attention of the public. BARNABY RUDGE. By Charles Dickens. This volime belongs to “The Household Edition” of Dickens's works, now being published by the Messrs. Harper. The illustrations are from designs by F. Bernard, and are very good. HARPER & BROTHERS’ DESCRIPTIVE CATA- LOGUE OF THEIR PUBLICATIONS; with Trade- list Prices. We recommend this volume to the attention of booksellers throughout the country, who will find it exceedingly useful. From D. APPLETON & Co., New York, through J. B. Lipprnoort & Co., Philadelphia :— BROCKLEY MOOR. A Novel. By J. W.L. This is an English story, well told, and with an ingenious plot. It will maintain the readers’ interest to the end. From G. W. CARLETON & Co., New York, through PorTER & COATES, Philadelphia :— SO FAIR, YET FALSE; or, “ Pourquoi?” By Eugene Charette. Translated from the original French by O. Vibeur. This is a characteristic French novel. Its plot is most undeniably original, its morality that of a certain class of society in France, and its style the loveliest. It is not a book for the young, nor can we specially recommend it to older readers, though, if they take it up with the sole desire of being amused and entertained, they will not be disappointed. The Paris correspondent pronounces it, probably not without reason, one of the five best novels published in that city during the past year. “THE FORGIVING KISS;” or, Our Destiny. A Novel. By Moritz Loth. The author of this novel expresses his belief that the soil of America is as favorable to the culture of the novel as that of Europe. He has therefore striven to give us a novel which shall be a correct picture of American life. Singu- larly enough, the reader finds the Young Men's Christian Association and kings and princes bewil- deringly mixed up together, and in a way hardly consistent with our democratic ideas. From L&E & SHEPARD, Boston, through J. B. Lip- PrncoTT & Co., Philadelphia :— LORD OF HIMSELF. A Novel. By Francis I. Underwood. This isa genuine American novel, de- scriptive of life in Kentucky at a period before slavery was abolished. The characters are well de- lineated, and the narrative is well told. From Lorina, Boston :— KING’S COPE. A Novel. LULU’S NOVEL. From the German of Elise Polko. Two novels, weil suited for summer reading. LORUHAMAH. A Novel. By Virginia Durant Covington, of Mississippi. This story was published in the Memphis Daily Register, and the favor which it there received has induced its author to offer it to the public in book form. From BAKER & GOODWIN, New York :— TIM ORTON, and Other Poems. By Luke Re- vere. This pamphlet contains several poems, the publication of which has, no doubt, given their author much satisfaction. ARAGO ANDIRENE. A Dramatic Composition. By Dr. J. BR. Monroe. REVIEWS, PAMPHLETS, ETC. From LEONARD Scott & Co., New York. THE LONDON QUARTERLY REVIEW. April, 1874. THE EDINBURGH REVIEW. April, 1874. THE WESTMINSTER REVIEW. April, 1874. THE BRITISH QUARTERLY REVIEW. April, 1874. The Quarterlies present their usual array of solid articles, some of which entertaining as well. The London is especially good, containing a paper on the “ War between Prussia and Rome,” which takes side with Bismarck, and an articleon Lord Strafford, aim. ing to prove that he was not an apostate from the opposition to the king. The account given here and in the Edinburgh of Dr. Sclliemann’s discoveries in Asia Minor we hope to offer our readers some extracts in our next number. The Westminster contains its usual excellent review of books. By a curious coin- cidence, there are no fewer than four articles in the present number of the London, and in the current number of its great rival, the Zdinburgh, devoted to the same subjects—the religious contest in Prussia, Russian Advances in Central Asia, Schliemann’s Dis- coveries, and Froude’s Ireland. TWENTY-FIFTH ANNUAL ANNOUNCEMENT OF THE WOMAN’S MEDICAL COLLEGE OF PENNSYLVANIA. We noticed, briefly, this medi-

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282 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. cal institution in the Editors’ Table of August, and gave a summary of the Valedictory, now we call at- tention to the college—the very best that this wide world affords for the medical education of women. We give two items:— “Extended Clinical facilities are now open to our students at the Woman’s Hospital, the Pennsylvania Hospital, Wills’ Hospital for Diseases of the Eye, and the ‘Ort hopeedic Hospital and Infirmary for Nervous Diseases.’ ’ “Special encouragement is offered by the college to latties who desire to study modicive with a view to becoming missionaries. e continue to receive gratifying accounts of the valuable and highly ap- preciated services of the pasestes of this college engaged in missionary work abroad.” Send for the Announcement. Address Rachel L. Bodley, A.M., Dean, 1435 North Nineteenth Street, Philadelphia, Penn’a. , Godey’s Arm-Ehair. SEPTEMBER, 1874. EMBELLISHMENTS.—Our sieel plate, ‘‘ The Mother’s Joy,” has a brilliancy and beauty about it that will not fail to please our friends. The artist has pictured - springing joy, A pleasure which no language can express, An ecstasy, that mothers only feel.”’ We commend our colored fashion plate, as one in which taste, elegance, and fashion will be found. On the extension sheet will be found ten full-length dresses—carriage dresses, walking dresses, and even- ing dresses. These, in connection with the colored plate, form a brilliant array for a monthly magazine to present to its subscribers. A wood-cut, “The Mission of Flowers,” is also given, emblematic of the “‘new charity”—the pre- senting of flowers to the sick. There is also given an extra illustration—a design for a braided sermon-case. WE have a goodly array of celebrated writers this month. Marion Harland, H. Vickery Dumont, 8. Annie Frost, Mary E. Nealy, Caroline Orme, Anna Clarke Adams, Lucy Randolph, and the authoress of “The Gin-Around,” in the July number. This number will be appreciated as an intellectual treat. WILL our subscribers please pay attention to the following paragraph on the subject of postage :— Congress at the last session made it obligatory upon all publishers to pay the postage in advance for all works sent to subscribers. This will entail, in our case, an additional expense upon us of about $6000 a year. Now, the only way in which we can be reim- bursed by those who subscribe for 1875, is for them to remit us the amount of postage at the time of sub- scribing. This amount will be small, and will be mentioned in our advertisement for next year. They will save by it, as it will be about half what it was when they had to pay the postage on receipt of the Book, and will save them all trouble. Remember that the publishers of all magazines and newspapers have to do this. No number of any publication will be taken through the post-office until the postage has been paid at the office of mailing. THE ladies will find Ktnesrorp’s OswEGo SILVER- GLoss Starca far superior to all other starches for dressing laces, linens, muslins, and all other fine fabrics. It combines three essential qualities—Uni- formity, Purity, and Strength—the great desiderata in Starch. A Goop Critic.—The editor of the Mnterprise, a very influential paper, published at State Centre, Towa, in noticing the close of our forty-fourth year of publication, says :— “ A venerable age, truly, for a magazine, and that it has flourished for sv long a time, progressing with the times, and becoming brighter and more beauti- ful and excellent with each volume, is a fact that should commend it to every household. Yet there are thousands of persons who do not realize what a vast amount of pleasure and comfort they deprive themselves of by neglecting to become acquainted with this magazine.” New SHEET Music, published by J. Starr Holloway, 811 Spring Garden Street, Philadelphia. Day Dreams Mazourka, by Karl Roden, very pretty, and elegantly illustrated, 50 cents. Starry Night Galop, easy, 20. Prairie Queen Waltz, Crozier, 20. Dimple Waltz, new and pretty, Meason, 30. Fair Lady Schottische, Ettling, 20. Summer Mazourka, beautiful title page, 40. Also, Nellie’s Dream, beautiful song by Wall- worth, 30. When the Roses Bloom Again, last and prettiest of the Hackelton songs, %. Night on the Rippling River, very pretty song. 30. Holloway’s Musicai Monthly for September. A fine number, containing an excellent variety of mu- sic to suit all tastes and capacities. Send 40 cents for a specimen, or $1 for the three latest numbers. Back Numbers.—A few of these still on hand. To close them out, we will send two numbers, free of postage, to any address, on receipt of 50 cents, or five numbers, all different, for $1. Send orders at once, addressed to Mr. Holloway, as above. THERE is a pretty legend connected with the melo- drama, “ Miracle des Roses,” produced in Paris a short time ago:— “St. Elizabeth of Hungary used to love to go se- prey f each day along the steep and narrow paths that led from her castle to the poor cottages of the surrounding hills and valleys, her hands laden with food for the sick and poor. One day when she was speeding along, the skirt of her cloak filled with bread and meat and delicacies, a faithful servin woman following in her footsteps, her husband me her as he was returning from the chase, and, sur- rs og = beyond measure to see her bending beneath his burden, _— open the cloak, which, with its load, she had gathered tightly against her breast, trying tremblingly to hide what she carried. When he had ———- it, there was nothing within it but the most beautiful red and white roses, and then his surprise was greater still, for the season of flowers was passed. is wife stood troubled and confused, and he was about to reasstre her with gentle caresses. when a brilliant light in the form of a cross appear upon her forehead, seeing which, he stepped back reverentially, and, telling her to go on her way, he turned back awe-struck, tightly claspin in his hands one of the roses, whic he kept all his lite THE editor of the Republican, published in Ottawa, Tilinois, like our friend above, of the #nterprise, has excellent judgment as to what a magazine should be. In reviewing a late number, he says that GoprEy’s LaDY’s BOok is all that it claims to be—filled with a fund of knowledge gathered from all sources and re- presenting the peculiarities of the American feminine mind. Asa leader in fashion it has long been at the head. Asan instructor in the domestic and family circles it is without a rival. Its pages abound in stories, poems, general miscellany, receipts, ete., and it deserves the liberal patronage it has so long re- ceived.” P ADVICE TO LADIES.—Have your fare ready on en- tering a Slawson car; much annoyance and incon- venience will be saved. Be careful and not make a display of the contents of your pocketbook. Many losses have occurred through a neglect of this, as thieves are continually on the watch.

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GODHY’S ARM-CHAIR. 283 Opgra StncERS.—A tenor voice is the thing a mod- ern countryman ought to ask Jupiter for, if the god offered to grant any one request he night prefer, as he did Hodge in the fable; for a tenor voice of high quality and a good ear for music confer on their lucky possessor the power to convert all he touches into gold. Perhaps a splendid soprano is even bet- ter. A prima donna will be fought for by rival man- agers—will be implored to go to all parts of the com- pass at once; and, failing this, will spend her year in London, Paris, St. Petersburg, Cairo, and New York. One lady has been receiving £150 a night in London all this season, and is to have £200 a night in New York. The true history of a peasant girl who becomes a prima donna in grand opera would be a very instructive tale; from the day when, a little child, it is found out that she sings Detter than any other child in the village, to the day when she makes her last courtesy before the footlights. Whatastory! The village gossips remark the sweetness of her voice; the parents find a patron who pays for mas- ters; she is discovered by a manager, speculated in, brought out, makes a great success; is followed about from capital to capital by a tribe of pension- ers, including her respectable parents, brothers, sis- ters, uncles, aunts, and cousins to the fiftieth remove, every sort of master she ever had—everybody that can show the least claim to help empty her purse. And they all fawn on her, flatter her, cajole, and deceive her, until she marries the man she loves, who pawns her diamonds, breaks her heart, and dis- sipates twice the income of a princess of the blood at the gaming-table. Though this picture has too often been realized in the history of the lyric stage, it must in fairness be said that there are many happy exceptions in this class of great public favorites, who have found in their husbands better managers of their property and their affairs of Dusiness than any less interested agents possibly could become. WE always take pleasure in noticing the German- town Telegraph, the best weekly published in the United States. As a family paper, the ladies are pleased with it; as an agricultural paper, and for its general news department, it is held in high esteem by the elders of the family. Its contents are high- toned and honest. It has been published by P. R. Freas for nearly forty-six years ; and we have enjoyed it for that length of time. BEHAVIOR IN COMPANY.—On the subject of be- havior in company, Leigh Richmond gives the fol- lowing excellent advice to his daughters :— “Be cheerful, but not gigglers. Be serious, but not dull. Be communicative, but not forward. Be kind, but not servile. Beware of silly, thoughtless speeches; although you may forget them, others will not. Remember that God’s eye is in every lace, and his ear in every company. Beware of evity and familiarity with young men; a modest re- serve, without affectation, is the only safe path. Court and encourage serious conversation with those who are truly serious and conversible, and go not into valuable company without endeavoring to improve by the intercourse sarong Nothing is more unbecoming, when one part of the company is engaged in profitable and interesting conversa- tion, than that another party sheuld be trifling, and talking comparative nonsense to each other. * Tue Detroit Pree Press remarks that it is some- thing unaccountable how sober and sedate old fel- lows, as soon as their families have gone to the country to spend the heated term, commence te wear their Sunday clothes every day, and to argue that four hours’ sleep is all that the human frame requires to be healthy. AN important discovery has recently been made by Mr. J. A. Parker, superintendent of a canal company, engaged in irrigating the Pueblo Viejo Valley, Ari- zona. This valley is described as being sixty miles in length ang about four miles wide. Mr. Parker found the ruins of ancient cities, extending along the valley about a mile apart from each other, and the remains of a large canal, with triangular-shaped reservoirs built of stone, in each of the cities or towns. Pottery, household implements (made of stone), and human bones have been found in the ruins. The dwellings seem to have been destroyed by fire, and are, in some cases, covered up with from ten to forty feet of earth, growing luxurious vegetation. The pottery is deco- rated in colors, the walls of the dwellings are laid in cement, and the interior of a large building supposed to have been a place of worship, had been smoothly plastered. The remains indicate that the inhabit- ants of these cities were far more advanced in civili- zation than the Indians or Mexicans of historic times, and it has been supposed that wanderers through Asia crossed Behrings Strait and made their way down the Pacific coast to the rich valleys of Arizona and New Mexico at least one thousand or fifteen hundred years ago. The Indians have a tradition that the people who lived there went to battle in the South, and were all killed. A thorough investigation of allthe remains might lead toimportant knowledge regarding the history of these and of the South Ame- rican races. ENTERPRISE.—The New York Herald and the London Telegraph have united in organizing an ex- pedition for prosecuting African discovery, the com- mand of which is to be intrusted to Mr. Henry M. Stanley, the discoverer of Livingstone. The object is to complete the work left unfinished by the un- timely death of that great explorer; to investigate the slave trade, and, if possibie, to solve the remain- ing problems of Central African geography. The expedition is to have a first class equipment, and ample resources will be at the disposal of its com- mander for the successful prosecution of the work. Both of our contemporaries announce this, and the energy and enterprise which both display in opening new fields of research give promise of abundant suc- cess in this. In our later day the field of newspaper work has extended beyond the mere record of his- tory, into the making of history itself. POLITENESS PERSONIFIED.—When the assessors came around to fix his tax, and asked Mr. VU’ Dono- hue how to spell his name, he, wishing to be very polite to his neighbor, replied, “Spell iv just as you do your own, Mr. Smith.”—Portland Transcript. THE SNOW PLANT OF THE SIERRAS.—This plant is an inhabitant only of the higher Sierras, being rarely found below an altitude of 4000 feet, and its glorious erimson spike of flowers may be seen early in May forcing itself through the snows which at that period cling about the sides of our pine forests. The por- tion of the plant which is visible above the soilisa bright rosy crimson in color, and presents the very strongest contrast to the dark green of the pines and the shimmer of the snow. Its root is succulent, thick, and abundantly full of moisture, attaching it- self to the roots of other plants, principally to the species of the pine family. Hence it is among those curious members of the vegetable world which are known to botanists as parasites, and is consequently entirely incapable of cultivation. The deer are ex- tremely fond of it, and it is not an uncommon cir- cumstance to find a number of the plants uprooted and robbed of the fleshy part of their underground growth by these animals. ,

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284 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. “MULDOON,” a correspondent of the New York World, in writing to that paper from Rome, zives a somewhat humorous account of that pest of Itaiy— the fea. We give an extract, showing the humor of the man:— “Tn our country there is so much antipathy to the ie, and such wide-spread ignorance concerning his ttributes, moral and physical, that he stands no sort of a chance of coming by his rights. Indeed the mention of his name is prohibited, or is attende with such twistings, gesticulations, and ogeemiogs, as make the repetition of it somewhat undesirabie. so that the humanitarian shall not plead for him aud the lawyer may not defend him—which_ last-men- tioned misfortane probably would not fall to the lot of anything else on earth able to pay for legal as- sistance. Here in Italy it is far otherwise. Here, in some degree, the flea is protected in his inalienable rights, among which may be enumerated liberty and the pursuit and eating of mankind. Here the flea is of some account. He hatha roof to protect his in- telligent head, a bed to sleep in, a carriage for his airiag, horses and dogs to beguile his weary hours, parliaments for his laws, churches for his soul—in short, he is part of Italy, a hefty part, without which your Italian for the most part would be out of em- ployment. “It should be borne in mind that your Roman flea is none of that sort of low, ill-bred creature such as affects mostly the dog and cat of our native land. In size and make-up is like unto the American rabbit; his hind legs are from four to six inches longer than his fore legs, which enables him to jump from corpse to corpse with startling alacrity; his ears, like the rabbit's, are long, and stand erect, ex- cepting when he has drunk deeply of the blood of some newly-arrived American sailor: and so acute is he in respect to his auricular appendages that he can distinguish the gait of a foreigner from a native's at a distance of half a mile. * Nothing could more forcibly illustrate that wise and harmonious relation of things which nature provides for even the humblest of the earth’s species than this last mentioned gift or capeeny of the flea, as itenables him to get together his family for the feast, and relieves him of all liability to bite the Ro- man, which is known to be instant death to the flea. In all other respects the rabbit and the flea are ex- ceedingly unlike each other. The rabbit is herbive- rous; his teeth are unsuited to the mastication of anything harder than clover and soft bark. The flea is carniverous, has teeth like a shark, and would consider a prize-fighter a delicacy. He delights mostly in humana flesh, but will eat dog if put to it. An American boy of fourteen years, if he be in — condition, will make a enpper for four healthy fleas, though six fleas have been known to get away with two boys in one hy The intelligence of the flea far exceeds that of the rabbit or any other non-vptin animal. I am collecting anecdotes illustrative o this characteristic, which I shall put into book form for use in our schools, to be called ‘The Flea Reader, for Boys and Girls.’ “In ancient times he was a perteipant in those prep as, ove bitions given atthe Coliseum. When- ever they found a Christian too tough for the grid- iron, they gave him to the fleas; and whenever a rladiator proved superior to all other men and 2»asts, they made upa match for him with two fleas. In those times two fleas were thought to be just about an even match for a one-armed Roman. But the times have changed. The flea has degenerated, while the man has gone higher up the scale of hu- maunity, until in these times the flea fails to inspire any feeling, either of fear or respect, in the inner man, or any sensation of any kind on the outer per- son of a Roman. “Strangers visiting Rome wonder at the scarcity of stoves and all other kinds of heating apparatus ; their wonderment usually lasts about two minutes and a half. The average supply of fleas to each household is three thousand, and when you consider that one flea will make it warmer for you than fiit cooking-stoves, you can easily see that you woul not freeze, should the mercury glide downwards to eight miles below zero. *Some of the closest and most intimate social con- nections I have formed in Italy have been with the flea of Rome.” Ir is a fraud to borrow what we are not able to repay. EXTRAORDINARY SLEEPER. ~M. Brady, physician to Prince Charles of Lorraine, gives the following particulars of an extraordinary sleeper :— “ A woman, named Elizabeth Alton, of a healthful strong constitution, who had been servant to the curate of St. Guilian, near the town of Mons, about the beginning of the year 1738, when she was about thirty-six years of age, grew extremely restless and melancholy, In the month of Au in the same year, she fell into a sleep whick four days, not- wibstanding all possible endeavors to awake her. At length she awoke naturally, but became more restless and uneasy than before; for six or seven days, however, she resumed her usual employments, hours, From that time to the year 1753, which is fif- teen years, she fell asleep daily about three o'clock in the morning, without waking until about eight or nine at night. In 1754, indeed, her sleep returnes to the natural periods for four months, and, in 1745, a tertian ague meprented her sleeping for three weeks. On February 29, 1755, M. Brady, with a surgeon, went to see her. About five o’clock in the evening, they found her pulse extremely regular; on taking hold of her arm it was so rigid, that it was not bent with- out much trouble. They then attempted to lift up her head, but her neck and back were as stiff as her arms. He hallooed in her ear as loud as his voice could reach: he thrust a needle into her flesh up to the bone; he a a piece of rag to her nose flaming with spirits of wine, and let it burn some time, yet all without being able to disturb her in the least. At length, in about six hours and a half, her limbs began to relax; ineight hours she turned herself in the bed, and then suddenly raised herself up, sat down by the fire, eat heartily, and began to spin. At other times they whipped her till the blood came; the rubbed her back with honey, and then exposed it to the stings of bees: they thrust nails under her finger- nails; and it seems that these triers of experiments consulted mor¢ the tifying their own curiosity than the recovery of the unhappy object of the malady. ANCIENT METHODS OF MEASURING TIME.—In the Grecian courts of justice, lest the length of the speeches of the advocates should weary the patience of the judges, und prevent them from proceeding to other business, they were limited to a certain time, which was measured with an hour-cla8s used with water; and that no fraud might be practised, a per- son was appointee to distribute the water equally to both parties. When the water had run out of the glass, they were to conclude their speeches. But whilst the laws quoted by them were read, or if any other important business intervened, the glass was stopped. “ Let him speak till my water be run out,” was said by an orator, who, having ended his speech before the time allowed him was expired, gave to his adversary the remaining part of it. At Rome it was ordained by the Pompeian law, in imitation of the Greeks, that advocates should speak by an hour- glass. How many hours were to be allowed to each advocate was left to the judges to determine. “You never saw such a happy lot of agg as we had here yesterday,” said a landlady in a town in Indiana to a newly-arrived guest. “There were thirteen couples of them.” “What! thirteen couples just married?” “Oh, no, sir! thirteen couples just divorced.” : We see it stated that the District of Columbia can beat that, there being more divorces granted there than any other place, A WHEELING paper gives the following spicy ex- amination which took place at the United States District Court :— Attorney.—Please state your name, age, residence, and occupation. Witness.—My name is John Reynolds; I reside in Point Pleasant, Mason County, W. V.; my profession for the past two weeks has been that of a lawyer, but previous to that time I was a millwrivht. Attorney.—What were you en in last winter? Witness. (Turning to the Court.) Am I compelled to answer that question? Court.—Yes, you are compelled to answer. Witness.—Well, then, gentlemen, I am sorry to | state I was a member of the Legislature. until she fell asleep again, which continued e prt

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GODEY’S ARM-VUHAIR. 285 GLO SHOES, AND STOCKINGS.—Gloves were worn in England from Anglo-Saxon times. They were all through the middle ages and long after, reserved as ornaments for the rich and noble: although made only of coarse leather and laden with heavy accesso- ries, itis not easy to see how they could have been ornamented. Better gioves came into fashion in the sixteenth century. Queen Elizabeth’s Earl of Oxford is reported to have been the first Englishman who brought perfumed gloves from Italy, and in 1578 a pair which cost sixty shillings, perfumed and gar- nished with embroidery and goldsmith’s work, was os pa to the queen by the University of Cam- ridge. “Her majesty, beholding the beauty of the said gloves,” says the old chronicler, “as in great ad- miration, and in token of her thankful acceptation of the same, held up one of her hands, and, smelling into them, put them half-way upon her hands. Italian gloves soon became fashionable in England, until special skill in their manufacture passed from Italy to France. Fifty thousand or more persons are now employed in glove-making in England, and in addition toall their produce, some nine or ten million pairs, worth nearly £1,000,000, are annually brought over from nee. Rab for the feet are more necessary than coverings for the hands, and we find that shoes and stockings are of more ancient use than gloves; but here also fashion has wrought great changes. The earlier Britons wore coarse bags of hide, made all of one piece, and tied around the ankle, but the Romans introduced daintier foot-gear, and from them. the Anglo-Saxons learned to make both boots and shoes of leather, both being generally of one piece, laced from the toes all the way up with strings, and some. times protected at the sole witha sort of wooden clog. A pair of shoes worn by Bernard, King of Italy, and grandson of Charlemagne, were receutly found in his tomb. “The soles were of wood, and the Speer parts , of red leather,” says an Italian writer. “They were so closely fitted to the feet that the order of the toes, terminating in a Fo at the great toe, might easily be discovered.” ner, neater and greater ornamen- tation came to be employed in later times. Some one with a deformed foot is said to have first had shoes pinched at the toe, and the innovation was so much admired that in spite of the denunciations of monks and priests, it was widely followed by courtiers and gallants of the middle ages. There were scorpion- tail shoes and ram’s-horn shoes ; the long, burly points being stuffed with tow as well as toe. Shoe-toes be- came more natural, but high heels, then called cho- panes, were introduced in Elizabeth’s reign. This ashion also came from Italy, and Coryate reports that in his time the chopine was so common that no one could go withoutit. * Itisa thing made of wood,” he says, “‘and covered with leather of sundry colors, some white, some red, some yellow. Many of them are curiously —a some of them also I have seen fairly gilt. There are many of these chopines of a great eight, even half a yard high; and how much he nobler a woman is, by so much the higher are her chopines. All their gentlewomen, and most of their wives and widows that are of any wealth, are assisted and supported either by men or women when they walk abroad, to the end they may not fall. Cho- ines as absurd as that were not common in England, ut pantofies or high-heeled slippers were worn to proses the daintily-embroidered shoes of courtly olk, found favor, and these pantofles even came to be extravagantly ornamented with silver and gold buckles, costly rosettes and the like. The heels were not more than two or three inches high. The changes of fashion in shoes and boots during the last two or three centuries may be traced in familiar paintings, such as Hogarth’s. Stockings have necessarily varied less in shape and style, though the alteration in material and mode of roduction have had greater influence upon trade. hey were made of coarse cloth, and, in fact, were little other than tight-fitting trouser legs, or gaiters with feet, till early in the sixteenth a when the art of spinning them out of worsted, silk, and other materials was discovered in Scotland, improved upon in France and Spain, and soon adopted in Eng- land. Stubbes, in his ‘‘ Anatomy of Abuses,” in 1596, complains loudly of the innovation. “They have netherstocks,” he says of the spendthrifts of his ony * not of cloth, though never so fine, for that is thou t too base, but of worsted, silk, thread, and such like, or else, at the least, of the finest yarn that can be gor, and so curiously knit, with open seam down the leg, with quirks and clocks about the ankles, and some- times haply interlaced about the ankles, with gold or VOL. LXxXxIx.—19 silver threads, as is wonderful to behold. And to such impudent insolency and shameful outrage is it now grown that every one almost, though otherwise very poor, having scarcely forty shillings wages by the year, wil! not stick to have two or three pair of these silk netherstocks or else of the finest yarn that may be got, though the price of them be twenty shil- lings or more, as commonly itis. The time hath been when one might have clothed all his body well, from pa Fy oe for less than a pair of these netherstocks will cost.’ . The “netherstocks” were at first prodneed by the same process of handwork which is followed by good housewives and country people at the present day ; but to meet the demands of the fashion for knitted stockings, something else was needed. It was sup- paes by William Lee, a native of Woodborough, in ottinghamshire, who, after } egy at St. John’s College, Cambridge, settled down as curate of Cal- verton, very near to his birthplace, about the year 1586. Two pretty stories are told concerning him. The one represents that, while still a student, he courted @ pretty country lass, whose trade was stock- ing-knitting, and that, finding she was always, when he went to visit her, too busy about her work to pay to his love-making all the attention he desired,f{he set his wits to work at finding some expedient by which her stockings might be made more quickly, and she might have more time to talk and walk with him. The other story is to the effect that after leaving col- lege he forfeited his fellowship, that he might marry the maiden, and only found when the deed was done that his curacy did not provide money enough to maintain himself, his wife, and the children who be- gan to come; that, consequently the young wife had to bring out her knitting-needles again and do her share of the bread-winning; and that it was Lee’s distress at seeing her toiling over her work from morning till late at night that led to the inyention of his stocking-frame. th stories are doubtful, but both may be true. Perhaps the invention may have been begun while he was a dreamy lover, but have been left unfinished until he had to fulfil the duties of a praciical husband. It is only certain, however, that in 1589 Lee produced his stocking-frame, in which a row of knitting-needles, kept going by a treadle, did the work very much more quickly and easily than it had before been done by hand; and out of his machine, the principle being the same, but the details very much more complicated, have grown all the devices now in force for the manufacture of stockings, and of every other sort of knitted hosiery as well.—Bourne. How MEN SHOULD TREAT WomeEN.—A Persian poet gives the following instruction on this impor- tant point :— “When thou art married, seek to please thy wife, but listen not to all she says. From man’s right side a rib was taken to form the woman, and never was there seen a rib quite straight; it breaks, but bends not. Since, then, itis plain that crooked are some tempers; forgive her faults, and blame her not, nor let her anger thee, nor correction use, as it is in vain to straighten what is crooked.” ATTAR OF ROsEs.—Lieutenant-Colonel Polier gives a full history of extracting this essential oil, in vol. i. p. 332, of the Asiatic Researches. The roses grow, cultivated near Lucknow, in fields of eleven acres each. The oil is procured by distillation; the pe- tals of the flowers only are used; and in that coun- try no more than a quantity of about two drachms ean be procured from a hundred-weight of rose- leaves, and even thatin a favorable season, and by the process being performed with the utmost care. The oil is by accident of different colors; of a bright yomem, of a reddish hue, and a fine emerald. It is © the mother of Mebrul Nessa Begum, afterwards called Nourjehan, or Light of the World, that the fair sex is indebted for this discovery. On this occa- . sion the emperor of Hindostan rewarded the inven- tress with a string of valuable pearls. Nourjehan Bejum was the favorite wife of Jehangir, and her game the flercest of India. In a hunting party she illed four tigers with a matchlock, from her ele- pent, and her spouse was so delighted at her skill hat he made her a present of a pair of emeral bracelets, valued at a lack of rupees, and bestowed in charity a thousand mohurs. Economy is the easy chair of old age.

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236 GODEHY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. AN AMERICAN CORTAGE. Drawn expressly for Godey’s Lady's Book, by Isaac H. Hosss & Son, Architects, 804 North Eighth Street, Sormerly of 809 and 811 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia. = —_ ~ TN ri aS a mG HiT L | | THE above design is of a Franco. American cottage, It is one of those kind of designs possible with any person building a home and desiring the conve- niences and capacity afforded here. It can be built upon a fifty feet front lot, and not crowd the grounds; is capable of being set back some distance from the front of the lot, and could be placed to good effect from sixteen to thirty-five feet back. The design ean readily be built in the neighborhood of Philadel- ee for $4500. The French roof is so constructed hat a sufficient loft of attic will be above the second FIRST STORY. story rooms, which, by the system of ventilation we adopt, renders them cool and comfortable in sum- mer. French roofs require architectural! proportions more than any other structure we know of: hence the reason of the thousands of failures in this style of architecture; but if properly proportioned, they are very beautiful. Having removed our office to 804 North Eighth St., we are prepared to execute all designs in a prompt manner, and our charges are as follows: For full drawings, 2% per cent. upon the estimated cost; this includes specifications, bill of quantities, and full size details. For ground plans and elevations, with specifications, 1% per cent. Superintendence is always 2% per cent. upon the cost of buildin g, or as per agreement. Hobbs’ Architectural Designs are always on hand, and sent upon the receipt of $3. First Story.—H hall; P partor, 14 feet 6 inches by 15 feet 6 inches; LK living room, 14 feet 6 inches by 17 feet; BR bed-room, 7 feet 6 inches by 15 feet; DR dining-room, 13 by 16 feet; K kitchen, 13 by 13 feet. SECOND STORY. Second Story.—C chamber, 14 feet 6 inches by 16 feet; C chamber, 14 feet 6 inches by 17 feet ; C cham- ber, 13 by 16 feet: BR bed-room, 13 by 13 feet; BR bath-room, 7 feet 6 inches by 11 feet. ONLY £20 reward was advertised in the London Times tor the recovery of the lost Earl of Yarbor- ough, which we take as evidence that his loss did not amount to much amoung his friends. Savyvctres lit 1 i) gresgn an by €0

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GODEY’S ARM-UHAIR. 287 NorMAN Caps.—There is nothing more amusing to. the traveller on the continent, than to observe the ex- traordinary variety of those head-appendages, many of them heir-looms for generations in some families, all more or less prized according to the richness of materials employed upon them, and the peculiarity of shape. There is no article of dr:ss more impor- tant to the Normande, whatever may be her means, than the cap which so jauntily and triumphantly as- serts the dignity of the wearer. The wives of ferm- iéres who can afford such luxuries as expensive lace and trimmings, spend a little income in the decora- tion of their caps. Many cost upwards of three thousand francs for the materials and manufacture ; and these, we have before observed, are handed from mother to daughter through successive years, and are highly prized. In the primitive villages of Normandy, on some holidays, it is a pleasing sight to see the dense army of caps, with flaps fanning the air, and following the gesticulatory movements of their talkative and vola- tile owners. When the weather is doubtful, the cap- wearers take care to be provided with a red umbrella of a clumsy construction, remarkably heavy, and somewhat similar, perhaps, to the original with which Jonas Hanway braved the jeers of a London popuiace in first introducing it. OLD MAIDS. I LOVE old maids, and allers did, And hate the folks as snarls about ’em, And know this strange old airth o’ ourn Could never git along without ’em. I’ve loved ’em ever since I knowd That they was wimin, same as others, Who marry only for a home, And bear the name o’ wives and mothers. But, massy knows! they’re jist as good, And they disarve as Ain Fn honor As she who breaks her neck ter The yoke o’ marriage put upon her. But some folks couldn’t live nor di If *twan’t for pickin’ and for quar’lin’, And so old maids are made ter take A sartin share of all their snarlin’. And bachelors—poor fellers, too! ' They ketch it sharp as Greenland winters, From folks whose souls and tempers are Made mostly up o’ thorns and splinters. But I would jist be pleased to know If they ain’t free ter do their choosin; Ter marry, or ter marry not. Jist as they think it gain or loosin’. If they have loved and they have ost, And there are graves beneath the daisies, Their grief deserves our sympathy, Their constancy deserves our praises. SALLY JERUSHA. CARE IN SPEAKING TO THE DEAF.—It is important to know that in conversing with deaf persons, their ability te hear does not depend so much on the loud- ness with which a person speaks to them, as upon the clearness and distinctness, and also upon the proper musical pitch adopted in speaking to them. Using eare in these points, a conversation may often ve carried on with one hard of hearing, at a very little expenditure of breath and effort; while, if they are disregarded, the voice may have to be exerted greatly, and yet very unsatisfactorily. Indeed, the power of the human voice, even in its softest tones, seems very little appreciated. It is told of the great Lord Chatham that he could make his lowest whis- per heard in every part of the House of Commons; and of Whitfield that the words of a sermon preached by him in the open air were distinctly heard ata eonsiderable distance. A LONDON SNEAK Turer.—" An audacious trick,” says the Court Journal, “ was "ately played » sneak thief at a London club. He ente the hall without attracting the notice of the porter, and pro- ceeded to empty the pockets of the great-coats he found ranged in a corridor. While selecting,a few of the best he was interrupted by a member, ec astonishment, asked him what he was doing. ‘Oh! thisis my regular business!’ hesaid. ‘lam employed to clean the gentlemen's coats in several clubs. take all the —— out of their collars.’ ‘Indeed!’ said the gen’ ro interested, thinking he had got hold of one he could turn to account, ‘How long do ou take?’ ‘Why, I will be back with these in an our.’ ‘Ifso, you may as well take mine!’ said the member—adding his coat to the heap, and escorting the sneak thief past the porter. ‘ What at con- veniences you have in London!’ remarked this coun- try gentleman toa group of his friends. ‘I have just given my coat to a man I found in the corridor, who cleans coats for the club.’ *To whom did you say ?’ cried two or three. ‘The man I found carrying the coats out. Wait! I have his card.’ But the know- ing ones did not wait. They hurried out to find the pockets of some ts empty, and other coats altogether gone! AN error in punctuation will sometimes cause a very remarkable transformation in the meaning of a sentence. The omission of a comma on an epitaph ina Western cemetery causes the inscription to read: “ Erected to the memory of John Ppiill accident- ally shot as a mark of affection by his b er.” A FRENCH editor, anxious to show his knowledge of American history, gives the following account of the battle of Bunker Hill:— “On the 17th of June, 1775, the American volun- teers, commanded by General Artemus Ward, at- tacked and thoroughly beat the British troops near Charlestown, in Massachusets!”’ An American artist tells this story of a fellow-coun- tryman who interviewed him in one of the Italian galleries— * American !—Oh, I am so glad. Let me ask = some questions. I have been buying pictures. n ou tell me whether or not I have n_ cheated ? hey are about so large,” holding his hands in vari- ous positions to indicate the different sizes, “and cost so much,” naming the price of each. “Do you think I paid too much ?” The rey being unwilling to disturb his equanim- ity, replied that it depended a good deal on circum- stances, but he Goss t it most likely he had not paid more than was righ “One more question, mister,” he exclaimed, anx- iously, as the artist was about to resume his work. “Do you think” (leaning over him and speaking in a lower tone), ‘“‘do you really think, mister, that these Bye-tallians put good materials in their pictures}?” ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS. UnpDER this head will be found all information —s with MSS., and answers from the Fashion ditress. In sending an order to the Fashion Editress, the cash must always accompany it, or it will not be at- tended to. All persons requiring answers by. mail must send a post-office stamp; and for all articles that are to be sent by mail, stamps must be sent to pay return postage. Be bogies yy wher writing, to mention the town, county, and State you reside in. Nothing can ve 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. Authors are requested to pay full letter postage on all MSS. Hereafter we will not take any MS. from the post-office when the full postage has not been paid, - Mrs. C. W. W.—-Sent skirt supporters June 20th. W. B. L.—Sent infant’s shirts 20th Mrs. E.—Sent boy’s sailor suit 25th. Mrs. T. R.—Sent rubber gloves 27th. Miss C. L.—Sent zephyr work 30th. J. C.—Sent patterns July 2d. C. T.—Sent skirt supporters 3d. ,

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8 8 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE Mrs. J. L.—Sent ribbon 6th. Miss R. G.—Sent dress 8th. Mrs. C. W. R.—Sent patterns 15th. Mrs. 8.—Sent pattern 17th. Mrs. H. J. 8.—Sent netting needle 20th. M. G. R.—Sent are rter 21st. Mrs. E. D. P., J. M. McL., M. A. B.—Sent stocking and skirt supporters 2lst. “To a—,"’ declined. “ Violet,” declined. Maria.—Hannah More died September 7, 1833. . B. R.—The burning of Moscow occurred on Sat- urday, Sept. 15, 1812. Victoria.—Faded flowers may be generally restored by immersing them half-way up their stems in by | hot water, and allowing them te remain in it until it cools, or they have recovered. They must then be removed, the coddled portion of the stems cut off, and placed in clean cold water. Joseph D.—The best cosmetic is clean linen, and plenty of it. Mrs. aS ee the finger-ends in some bitter tincture will genera Y, preyers children putting them totheir mouth; but if this fails, each finger-end ought to be encased in a stall until the habit is eradicated. “Valerie Kent’s Pride,” declined. “The Brook,” accepted. * Lines,” by J. R., accepted “The Myst e Change,” accepted. Miss W. M., Newark, N. J., answered rome letter ; but it has been returned by post-office department ; could not find you. Cora.—Certainly, it is true. * Homeless Now,” declined. ‘*The Missing Curl,” declined. W. B. R.—We are not purchasing. If you send stamps will return. a a ushions. NOTICE To LADY SUBSCRIBERS. HAVING had frequent applications for the purchase of jewelry, millinery, etc., 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 2 ges y for the time and research required. 8 vie | and autumn bonnets, materials for dresses, tows ry, envelopes, hair-work, worsteds, children’s wardro mantil- 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. rders, accom ad by checks for the pro: ad expenditure, to addressed to the care of A. Godey, Esq. No order will be attended to unless the money is first received. Neitherthe Editor nor the Publisher par accountable for losses that may occur in re- mitting. When goods are ordered, the fashions that prevail here govera the purchase ; therefore, no articles will be taken back. When the goodsare 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 the Lapy’s Book, the Fashion Editress does not know. Instructions to be as minute as ible, accompa- nied by a note of the height, complexion, and general style of the person, on which much depends in choice. DESCRIPTION OF STEEL FASHION PLATE. Fig. 1.—House dress of pale green silk, made with two skirts and basque bodice. The underskirt is trimmed with a ruffle and puffs; the overskirt is plaited in kilt plaits; the bodice is trimmed with folds of the silk. Fig. 2.—Walking dress of violet silk and Cashmere. The underskirt is of the silk, trimmed with length- wise puffs; the polonaise is of the Cashmere corded with silk: flaring collar of the material with ruff of lace inside. Bonnet of straw, trimmed with velvet, lace, feather, and pink roses. + Fig. 3—Evening dress of white silk, with an over- dress of tulle, trimmed with long garlands of roses and foliage; low bodice, with fraise of tulle all around the neck. Flowers in hair to correspond with those on dress. Fig. 4.—Visiting dress of two shades of blue silk. The underskirt and sleeves are of the lighter shade, trimmed with the darker; the polonaise is of the darker silk. Bonnet of the two shades of silk; it is trimmed with feathers and flowers inside the brim. Fig, 5.—Dinner dress of two shades of brown silk ; the front breadth is made of kilt plaits of the darker shade, as is also the sleeveless basque; the rest of the dress is of the lighter silk ; neck cut surplice with standing collar and muslin ruche inside. Fig. 6.—Suit for boy of six years, of light brown cloth, trimmed with silk braid of a darker shade. Straw or felt hat, trimmed with brown velvet. DESCRIPTION OF EXTENSION SHEET. FIRST SIDE. Fig. 1.—Carriage dress of two shades of gray silk. The underskirt is plain in the back ; the front breadth trimmed with narrow ruffles and lengthwise puffs ; the overdress and basque waist are trimmed with lace. Bonnet of silk of the two shades, trimmed with feathers, and lace, and ribbon. Fig. 2.—Walking dress of brown silk, made with one skirt, apron front, and basque waist; the skirt is trimmed with ruffles up the back, puffs in frent, and pouf in the back ; the basque and apron overskirt are cut in deep seallops, bound. Bonnet of straw of color of dress, trimmed with silk and flowers. Fig. 3—Walking dress of black silk. The under- skirt, trimmed with narrow ruffles, and apron over- skirt ; mantle of Cashmere heavily braided, trimmed with ribbon bows and guipure lace. Black lace bon- net, trimmed with blue feather and ribbon. Fig. 4.— Walking dress of blue silk, made with two skirts, trimmed with narrow ruffles; sleeveless basque of silk of a darker shade embroidered and trimmed with lace. Hat of white straw, trimmed with velvet and flowers. Fig. 5.—Dress for girl of ten years, made of gray Cashmere, trimmed with folds of silk and narrow braiding. Hat of gray straw, trimmed with gray velvet and scarlet wing. Fig. 6.—Kilt suit for boy of four years, made of dark green Cashmere. Hat of same color, with scar- let wing at side. Fig. 7.—Dress for girl of eight years, made of lilac and white silk; the back breadths are formed of kilt plaits to the waist; the front breadths are trimmed with folds; basque bodice. White hat, trimmed with lilac velvet and feather. Fig. 8—Walking dress of dark green silk, made with two skirts, trimmed with plaitings; casaque of the silk, trimmed with lace and passementerie orna- ments. Hat of black straw, trimmed with velvet and pink roses. Fig. 9.—Dress of dove-colored silk, made with one skirt; the front breadth is trimmed with lengthwise puffs, the side breadths with ruffles and bands, the back breadths are plain; basque bodice, cut surplice at the throat, with rolling collar and fraise in the back. Bonnet of silk to match dress. Fig. 10.—Evening dress of two shades of green silk. The underskirt is of pale green; the court train, apron overdress, and bodice are of the darker silk faced with the lighter. Hair arranged in finger puffs all over the head. Fig. 11.—Hat of white straw, trimmed with brown velvet, and feathers, and flowers. B03 ms | ee sy mot way wat nou a fa enti cost on | flow wit! wai sett tom thei sani we

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FASHIONS. 289 Fig. 12.—Bonnet of black straw, trimmed with black velvet, flowers inside of brim. Fig. 13.—Bonnet of gray silk, trimmed with velvet, lace, and pink roses. Fig. 14.—Hat of black chip, trimmed with crimson roses, velvet, and black feather. Fig. 15.—Hat of black straw, trimmed with green and blue plaid silk, feather, and flowers. Fig. 16.—Black velvet belt, with oxidized clasp. Fig. 17.—Umbrella holder of oxidized silver. Fig. 18—Jet dagger for the hair. SECOND SIDE. Fig. 1.—Casaque of Cashmere, trimmed with silk, fringe, and yak lace. This garment can be made to match the dress or as an over garment. Figs. 2 and 3.—Front and back view of morning wrapper, made of plain gray Cashmere, and trimmed with bands of blue or crimson silk, and buttons and silk cord. A serviceable wrapper can be made of black Cashmere, trimmed with bright blue Cashmere. Figs. 4 and 5.—Front and back view of casaque, made of heavy black silk, trimmed with black vel- vet, lace, frog buttons, and cords, Fig. 6.—Gold flower for the hair. Fig. 7.—Pendant for the neck, made of bright- colored bugs mounted on heavy French gilt, velvet around the throat. Figs. 8and 9.—Front and back of lace fichu, trimmed with rows of lace and colored ribbon bows. This can be made of either white or black lace. Fig. 10.—Robe dress for a child one year old, made of blue lawn; the front is puffed, divided by narrow bands of white, which also trims the skirt; low, square neck, short sleeves. Figs. 11 and 12.—Morning collar and cuff of fine linen. Fig. 13.—Dress for little girl, of white piqué, trimmed with braid; it has the appearance of being open at the side, which is ornamented with colored ribbon bows. Figs. 14 and 15.—Front and back view of dress for boy of three years, made of pigué, and trimmed with braid. Fig. 16.—Sacque for little girl, made of white cloth, trimmed with silk braid. Fig. 17.—Child’s chemise, made of fine muslin, trimmed with worked edging. Figs. 18 and 19.—Scotch suit for boy of four years, made of dark blue flannel, and trimmed with gilt buttons. CHITCHAT ON FASHIONS FOR SEPTEMBER. ALTHOUGH we have reached the first autumn month, we have as yet but little to chronicle in the way of fall fashions, the weather having been too warm to allow many fashions to appear, or to make any change to heavy clothing necessary. It i8 an- nounced, but as yet we cannot positively assert it as a fact, that both polonaises and overskirts are to be entirely dispensed with, in the making up of winter costumes. The skirt is to be plain, without any pouf, and a basque waist plaited behind, extending on the sides in two rather long square tabs; half flowing sleeves, with very complicated cuffs, trimmed with ruches, arranged in the shape of a fan; high waists, or opening with revers over a small chemi- sette. The skirts will be trimmed around the bot- tom, and on the front breadths. Such will be the theme on which the future fashions will play a thou- sand varieties. Whether overskirts will be entirely banished, we will have to patiently wait and see; we ourselves hardly think they will entirely disap. «pear; they are much too convenient, for some styles of dress, to be discarded. Still, fashion requires implicit conformity to her rules, and we will have to patiently wait and see if her rules are enforced. There is one consolation, and that is that in so many fashions you can wear almost anything, and not be so much out of the prevailing style. The fabrics for the coming winter, it is said, whe- ther wool, silk, or mixed, will all be striped. The stripes will be of all sizes; the broadest—and some are four inches wide—will, it is reputed, be the most elegant. For travelling wraps, very fine Scotch plaids, with large black and green squares, will be much worn, arranged in scarf fashion, with the right end draped across the bust, and fastened on the left shoulder with the aid of a large and massive oxi- dized silver brooch, representing the Scotch thistle, an arrow, or a horseshoe. , One of the most original styles of making up striped goods is to make it have the appearance of being three different fabrics in one dress. Take a fabric having exceedingly broad stripes, say blue and gray, the skirt is made without either overskirt or trim- ming; the back breadth is plaited almost from the top to the bottom, each plait being exactly the width of the dark blue stripe that comes at the top. The plaits are not fastened at the bottom, and conse- quently spread apart and widen as they descend. The side breadths are plaited in the same way, only in these it is the gray stripe which forms the top of ] each plait. Lastly, the front breadtlis plain, and it is there alone, in the front of the dress, that the two stripes, light and dark, are apparent at the same time. The cuirass corsage is plain, like the front breadth. The sleeves are plaited like the side breadths, that is, from top to bottom, in such a man- ner that the light stripe forms the top of each plait. For a wrapping, or rather a pretty addition to this dress, a China crape scarf, of the same shade as the blue, is thrown across the shoulders, with the left end falling straight, and the right end draped across the bust, and fastened on the left shoulder with a large oxidized silver brooch. An infinite variety of fichus, chemisettes, and col. larettes are worn, as well as viviéres of jet, and gray and blue steel beads. One of the present novelties is the aiguillette necklace, made of three rouleaux of pink, cherry, blue, or mauve faille to match the dress, arranged in three graduated rows, and fas- tened on each side of the neck under a flat bow. These rouleaux trim the front of the waist in a simi- lar manner to the large necklaces of great beads that were worn a few years ago graduated over the bust ; they are still worn, but now they are composed of small beads of coral, black or white jet, and blue or gray steel, arranged in a great number of rows, which form a sort of cuirass over the front of the waist. Blue steel beads are lavishly employed for decorating dresses. Black silk dresses still continue the favorite cos- tume, and a large number are made up, as a sort of intermediate dress, this month. They are mostly made with a basque bodice, long apron, and skirt trimmed with Marguerite plaitings. These plait- ings are cut straight across the silk, hemmed on the lower edge by hand, and turned in at the top. The deep apron reaches alinost to the toe; it is rounded upwards to the waist, where it meets and fastens with long wide loops and sash ends. This apron is edged either with jet fringe or jetted lace, and is of- ten composed of alternate stripes of guipure inser- tion, or jet galoon with silk. For coiffures the great point of novelty consists in the double plait of hair which hangs down the back and is tied with a large bow of ribbon. It is the

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290 ° GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. headdress of the elégantes, worn in the reign of Louis XVL., and now arranged to suit more modern tastes. The bow of ribbon is generally black, and has a blue steel buckle in the centre. Sometimes Marguerites of blue steel are fastened to the side of the headdress. A large thick curl is occasionally added to the tress. We have been asked for information about ladies’ underclothing. There are such large quantities of imported underclothing, and machine-made of home manufacture, that it is only those who really are fond of such work who take the trouble to manu- facture garments at home. We think they can be much more neatly made, and of better material, at home, with the exception, perhaps, of those which come from countries where labor is cheap, and are brought over unlaundried, just as they came from the hands of the French peasant women. Imported garments are made of peréales, and French muslins of firm quality, but soft and undressed, the brands of which are not found in this market. For domes- tie made garments, Wamsutta muslin stands first; New York mills is somewhat heavier, and is by many preferred; Lonsdale cambric is used for skirts and night-dresses. Chemises of American make have wide bands, and much tucking, puffing, and inser- tion in rows below the band. The bodies are made with long gores, and the sleeves are usually puffed, although many ladies prefer the plain sleeve. French chemises are saeque shape, with either a band or a drawing string around the neck. Above all else, embroidery wrought on the garment is the substan- tial and favorite trimming. When lace is employed, it is strong Valenciennes, and is arranged in length- wise rows of insertion and wide edging, instead of the frail medallions formerly used. Instead of the closed drawers buttoned on the side, the preference now is for those fastened behind. These are usually trimmed to match the chemises with which they are worn. The most popular night-dress is that with a sacque front and double yoke back. The fronts are formed of tucks in clusters, either with or without insertion between. Shirt sleeves with square cuffs, and col- lars in the English shape standing behind, and broken points in front, are most worn. The most elegant imported gowns for treusseaus have a square pompadour yoke of tucks, insertion, and lace. Petti- coats are made with more fullness at the top, now that ladies have left off wearing tournures. The back breadth is full, without any sloping at the top. Tucks in clusters or bias are very much used around the bottom of skirts, as is also side-plaited ruffies and fiuted ones. Dressing sacques are very elabo- rately trimmed ; in fact, many are so beautiful as to be worn by ladies for the house in warm weather until dressed for dinner. Some are simply hemmed around the bottom, and have rows of insertion and tucks up the front. They are made of French nan- sook muslin. From the numerous questions we have on the sub- ject, it seems a dificult problem with mothers to know how to dress youths who are not yet men, nor are they small boys. For these the Chesterfield suit is most desirable; it is made of dark fine cloth, bound with galloon. The coat has a short skirt, and copies the styles fashionable for gentlemen. Smaller boys wear knee pantaloons until they are ten years old. Sailor suits now so much in vogue have a double-breasted jacket, or reefing sack, with a sailor collar. The blouse sailor shirt is still worn. The prettiest are of light cream color and white flannel, with blue anchors for ornament, The regular pea jacket is also worn by these little fellows. Ordinary every-day suits are made of the serviceable gray cas- simere that washes as well as linen; these suits are made with double-breasted skeleton blouses and knee pantaloons. Large boys wear the stiff English hats of felt in dark gray, green, brown, or black ; these have high crowns and closely curled brims. Many ladies are also using this shape hat for horse- back riding. For small boys, the hats have tapering crowns, rolled turban brims, and are trimmed with a velvet band. For the little fellows, the sailor hats with wide brims are must worn. One of the most elegant nov€lties for ladies is the scarf of fine Valenciennes worn tied around the neck, with loose hanging loopsandends. It is made of Valenciennes insertion, with lace on the sides and ends. This is more simple and dressy-looking than the long black lace scarfs so universally worn. These black lace scarfs are made of either plain black or figured net, and are trimmed all around with a lace edge; they are usuaily from three-eighths to half a yard in width, according to the depth of the lace trimming it, and from two and a half to four yards in length. The fashionable belt for black dresses worn alike, with basquesand polonaises, is entirely covered with jet beads as if made of solid jet; a fringe of jet hangs from the lower edge. New black sashes are of gros grain ribbon, embroidered with jet clusters in each end and richly fringed. With plain morning suits a belt ribbon is worn, and a square bow with short ends is made of narrow gros grain ribbon, and fast- ened on the left side or else directly in front. Velvet sashes and watered ribbon ones are also popular. Very low slippers for morning are more worn than the high Marie Antoinette shape. They are lightly trimmed with ribbon and lace instead of the heavy velvet rosettes formerly used. With these are worn écru Balbrigan stockings of the darkest shades, that have a silky look. Fancy hoisery of all kinds is still very fashionable; many ladies still prefer the plain hose, but they are by no means the majority. All kinds, styles, and colors are worn by children espe- cially; it isa rare exception now to see a child wear- ing white stockings; as the season advances the plain scarlet, brown, and blue, so much worn last winter, will again be popular. The latest importation in millinery is a large and picturesque bonnet called the “Chapeau Greuze,” because it is modelled after one in a famous picture painted by that artist. It has a high, soft crown, with a plaiting falling around the face, and drooping cape behind similar to the Charlotte Corday. Its characteristic feature is the handkerchief or scarf, which it was the fashion of the time to wear knotted around the arm or the bonnet, and in this case is wound around the crown. An elegant one is of pale blue silk, with a silk plaiting around it, under which is a crimped and plaited frill of white crépe lisse. Tied around the crown is a bias scarf of soft twilled silk of palest écru tint, with darker brown blocks in its pointed ends; two light blue ostrich tips and some pale Provence roses complete the trimming. Such a hatis, of course, meant for dress occasions only. The same designis carried out in black beaded tulle, with quantities of hawthorn blossoms for trimming. All kinds of headdresses, breakfast caps, dinner coiffures for middle-aged ladies, etc., are still perched on the top of the head. A fancy headdress for the mornings called the “ Madras,” is, in fact, the Madras handkerchief tied in the creole fashion, but knotted to save trouble, instead of being tied afresh every time it is put on. These handkerchiefs are often rolled around a foundation of white muslin. This turban is only a morning headdress, neverthe- less it ts one of the most graceful novelties of the season, FasHION. 6 aa, iC =" = a Le =~ & | | wee eoem |

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GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK ADVERTISER. CASHMERE BOUQUET Perfume, CASHMERE BOUQUET Toilet Powder. CASHMERE BOUQUET Toilet Soap.. $57 6 AGENT’S PROFITS PER WEEK. & Will prove it or forfeit $500. New CH ANNE rage. Ladies, ask your dealer forthem. A dark articles just patented. Samples sent freetoall. Ad- dress W. H. CHIDESTER, Broadway, New York. line around the sole near the edge shows where the channel is cut, They cost no more, and wear longer. RAGGED SOLES are never seen in ENGLISH CHANNEL SHOES. These shoes are all the Diadame F'oy’s CORSET SKIRT SUPPORTER, 4 For Health, Comfort, and Style, Is acknowledged THE BEST ARTICLE of the kind ever made. Numerous Testimo- mials in its favor are being re- ceived from all parts of the United States. LADY AGENTS WANTED. FOoY & HARMON, Sole Manufacturers, yuariate Gationers, Wows Agents, Tak iggs’ Crystal Marking Pen + Combin aa ie a ae tion, 75¢., postpaid. Canvassers wanted. ARNOLD & BANNING, New York, Agents, STODDARD & CO., Northampton, Mass. VACANT PLACES In the dental ranks will never occur if Fragrant SOZODONT is regularly used. It has become the standard tooth wash of the age, and has distanced all competition. Discolored teeth are rendered white by its use. The breath derives fragrance from its aroma. It prevents and arrests dental decay, and the gums become rosier and harder under its operation. To avoid all necessity for false teeth, use SOZODONT daily to preserve and beautify the natural ones. It is literally a specific for every blemish that disfigures the teeth, while it whitens them without endangering the enamel. RSE | SOLD BY ALL DRUGGISTS. LADIES! Sold —= D $5e. r ° rdayathome, Terms Free. Address $5 8 $20 Exo. STINSON & Co., Portland, Maine. By sending me ten (10) cents, I will send you a cut paper pattern of the latest style of a SACQUE, JACKET, WAIST, $2 for First-class Pianos, sent on trial. Circulars free. U.S. P1ano Co., 810 Broadway, N. Y. or a pattern of anything for Ladies’ wear. .Send BEAUTY UNDER A CLOUD stamp for Ey > May be relieved from any blemish caused by ordi. , ATI"S oom eruptio oe as pimples, dry exfoliations, LADIES’ FASHION JOURNAL. cold sores, scur}, or what is called muddiness of the (Sent free.) complezion, by a course of Stafford’s Iron and ‘ Sulphur Powders. They act upon these disfig- Address GEO. W. HYATT, urements and discolorations in the venous blood— 27 East 14th Street, New York City. $20 to sell the IMPROVED “HOME SHUTTLE” SEWING MACHINE, the only practical, low-priced ‘Lock Stitch” Sewing Machine ever invented. Address JOHNSON, CLARK & Co., Boston, Mass.; New York City; Pittsburgh, Pa.; Chicago, Ill.; Louisville, Ky., or St. Louis, Mo. their operation being exactly reverse of the su pte ve washes and lotions, all of which are more or less dan- gerous. Instead of driving the impurities back into the —_ to reappear in other parts of the body and in other and more virulent forms, the Powders cause them to be exhaled through the pores. Sold by Druggists. 1 Package, 12 Powders, $1; 6 Packages, 72 Powders, $5. Mailed free. HALL & RUCKEL, 218 Greenwich St., N. Y. BVEBRYT LADY SHOULD HAVE A SET OF GOODRICH'S révretis HEMMERS Consisting of Four Widths and a Dress Binder, Sent by Mail on Receipt of aa-Priee, Only One Dowar--ea} HW. Gs GOODRICH, {ica ns tom st; PHULADELPHIA. Pa. Imwentor of The Goodrich Tuck Marker.

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GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK ADVERTISER. LOOK AT OUR CLUB ARRANGEMENT. Can any other Magazine offer such inducements to the getters- up of Clubs in the way of Premiums ? The following ts the Last :— TRUE TO NATURE. A $5 Chromo. THE OLD MILL. Another $5 Chromo. THE SINGING LESSON. A $3 Chromo. MY PET. A $3 Chromo.

Read the Advertisement on second page of Cover, and there see the Terms on which these Chromos can be procured.

—~ _— > -- <a BXZTRA NOTICE. Having a few copies remaining on hand of those popular Chromos “ OUR DARLING,” “THE OFFER,” and “ THE ACCEPTANCE,” we will give to any one remitting us in ad- vance for the Lady's Book for 1874 a choice of either of them in place of “ True to Nature.” PENNSYLVANIA RATLROAD THE GREAT TRUNK LINE UNITED STATES MAIL ROUTE BETWEEN THE ATLANTIC AND PACIFIC OCEANS. The most sehatidy equip and best constructed Railway Line in the World. It is Double Track and Stone Ballasted, and is laid with Solid Sleepers and heavy Steel Rails throughout, between New York and Pittsburg. The Bridges are built of Iron and Stone, and all material used in construction is subjected to the closest inspection and highest tests. The Westinghouse Air Brake is attached to all nger trains, and the system of safety _ — is perfect. Pullman Dep wing. Room Sleeping, and Parlor Cars are run on all Express Trains from New York and Piifladelphia to Chicago, Cincinnatl, Louisville, Indianapolis and St. Louis without chan The scenery on this route, for grandeur, beauty, and variety, is unsurpassed in the World. All who contem a Trip Across the Continent, should travel over this famous Line. Through Tickets for sale at the Lowest Rates, at all the principal ticket offices of the Company. A. J. CASSATT, GENn’L MANAGER. D. M. BOYD, Jn, GEN’L Pass. AGEv?,

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To Advertisers.—The LADY’ S BOOK as an advertising medium is superior to any other periodical or paper published. The reason is that its circulation extends to every town, village, and hamlet in the United States. Cloth Stuck. TAMES ——T) E John Thornton, SOLE AGENT SMITEL & SEWING | MACHINE NEEDLES. 44 WHITE STREET, NEW YORK, & 211-213 CHURCH STREET, PHILADELPHIA, United States. CRANE, DREVET, & CO., Commission Merchants, 54 Faubourg Poissonniere., PARIS, FRANCE, All Orders will receive prompt and careful attention. oe & Co., ” Jessup & Moore, Philadelphia. L. A. Godey, x) Hon. M. MeMichael, “ x Johnson & Thompson, Boston. a Converse & Stanwood, = ” S. R. Spaulding & Sons, “ Calf Skins, Bronzes, Fancy Paper, Perfumery, Toothand Hair Brushes, China-ware, Paris Dolls and Toys, Artificial Flowers, and all Articles known as Paris Articles. Messrs. Hasper & Brothers, New York. “ R. : “ “ WOoOMmMeENnN’s MEDICAL COLLEGE OF PENNSYLVANIA, North College Avenue and 22d St., Philadelphia, The Twenty-fifth Annual Session will open on Thursday, October 1, 1874, and will continue twenty- two weeks. For particulars, address RACHEL L. BODLEY, A. M., DEAN. BOSOM FORM, Standard Lotta Bustle. Imperfect Cut. This BOSOM FORM, soft and pliable, unique and perfect, gives to the dress graceful curving, beauty of form, and ——— pees. Na- ture and Art are here combined. 1€ various pre vious attempts have been so — that this is really a new article, and admits of no comparison or com- petition. The BUSTLE cut is a new size of the Lotta, whose principles have won a distinction so great that its sales have been larger than any half dozen of its competitors ; it is highly prized as a skirt supporter. Patentee ind Wholesale Manufacturer, 91 White St., N. Y.; and 801 Race St., Phila, \ END 25c. to G. P. ROWELL & CO., New York, for Book of 100 pages, showing cost of advertising. J. Fr. CAMP, soo Chestnut, and G1O Jayne Street. LITHOGRAPHIC ENGRAVING, PRINTING, ETC, IN ALL [ITS BRANCHES. PHOTO-LITHOGRAPHY A SPECIALTY. HARLES MAGARGE & CO., Wholesale Dealers in Paper, Rags, &c., Nos. 30, 32, and 34 South Sixth Street. Manufacturers of Fine Book, News, and Tinted Papers at their Wissahickon and Hanwell Mills. BREBAN’S INTEREST TABLES. ‘A copy will be sent on receipt of @. Address L. A. GODEY, N.#. Oor. Sixth and Chestnut Sts., Philadelphia. BUY THE ILSON SEWING MACHINE CO.’S CELEBRATED SEWING MACHINES. (PRICE $50.) THE BEST IN THE WORLD. Call and see them, or send for an Illustrated Catalogue and Sample Work. Salesroom in Philadelphia, 1309 Chestnut Street; 707 Broad ¥ New Orleans; 197 State Street, Chicago, Ill.; Albany, N. Y.; and Street, St. Louis, Mo.; 189 Canal Street, way, New York: 610 South Fourth Cieveland, Ohio.’ And for sale iv every city in the United States and Europe. AGENTS WANTED. 3

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IF THE ~ STOMACH IS WRONG ALL IS WRONG. WHILE ACTING AS A CORRECTIVE UPON THAT ORGAN, GENTLY EXPELS ALL MORBID MATTER FROM THE ALIMENTARY CANAL, AND IMPARTS A HEALTHY ACTIVITY TO THE SLUGGISH LIVER. FOR SALE BY THE WHOLE DRUG TRADE. GARRETT & SON, (BWstabliahed 8380 Years.) MANUFACTURERS RARARALAL AI - evevercege OF SUPERIOR | Silber Plated Gare, 2d Floor, Artizan Hall, No. 618 Chestnut Street, PHILADELPHIA, All our wares, whether intended for Private or Hotel use, Wedding, Holiday, or Birthday Presents, we guarantee will be found unsur- passed for beauty and durability. Every article warranted quadruple plate, onthe finest metal. A SPECIALTY IN Speens & Werke. Old wares repaired, replated, and made equal to new. All orders yam | filled, and sent safely by express to any destination. Orders solicited from the trade and from private parties. Address Chestnut St., Philad’ a. =A a es - | = ©& rd Pm a i— THI tiimi tli ia*an* . Pia Li _— £ = al (om | rer — = PTT TT TTT —_—a (iat ra a & = 2 1 . ft — s j= = —_ - (AUUERERSUREEURSREEBEME® GRE o GS | _ all al te [2 r Lg a ZA i= r —_s e ‘ kre loa = Mca rr rer ag a § — « YY eee Yj) #/ PP” a | REF ATHINS ON | {ae | as